Paul Hoover
Sixteen Jackies
The facts
are dressed
in large
format hats
to keep
love famous
in the
context of
a death.
The paint
always leads
with a
paint can
in its
hand, its
accent never
random nor
its far-
fetched plan,
a deadpan
mass blunted
by a
brush at
the next
exhibition. No
good news
is good
news now.
We watch
with one
eye open
the shapes
in pictures
beguiling and
divine as
a “faux
wit genre.”
Many dubious
relics of
the real
world die,
but this
is artifice
dented like
a man.
Where are
we now,
in habit
or in
stance? Each
painting’s window
frames money
cleanly. Gifted
with sameness,
the artist
installs an
ordinary flower
in man-
made space.
There is
no impression
worth your
keeping, nothing
you can
say ever
floats away.
We make
a white
shadow around
the ripped
object, which
hardly knows
it’s legible
space, but
nothing’s out
of place
even in
its throwing —
a wall
of Jackies
in that
famous suit
with its
blood decoration.
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