A writer walks through a suburb of a desert city. He finds that art
[http://www.curatormagazine.com/charles-carman/scottsdale-at-dusk-art-district/]
,souvenirs , tradition
[http://www.curatormagazine.com/charles-carman/scottsdale-tradition/], memory
[http://www.curatormagazine.com/
A writer walks through a suburb of a desert city. He finds that art, souvenirs
[http://www.curatormagazine.com/charles-carman/scottsdale-souvenirs/], tradition
[http://www.curatormagazine.com/charles-carman/scottsdale-tradition/], memory
[http://www.curatormagazine.com/
It was the second intermission at Lincoln Center’s David H. Koch Theatre and the
suspicion was audible in the second row. “Am I going to like this?” a fur-clad
matron asked a
see the black boy
made of wood,
a pleated ass,
a curve –
see where fingers
gnaw
him a smeared color.
gouts rooting,
teeth
scratching the bone.
he stands, once a tree –
diced limbs,
A few weeks ago the music industry celebrated the Grammys, that sacrosanct
annual self-congratulatory ceremony second only to the Oscars, for which I could
not be paid to give to licks about. I
