Miguel Camnitzer

Negative, a poem The trouble with being a person who holds on to everything is you end up saving the evidence of crimes He was barely two years older but the line had been drawn by other men long before the day I met him in his attic after school When he draped me in his thinnest sheet When he ordered me to stand on the mattress by the window with the light shining through When he posed me like a statue believing—improbably— that I was a thing of beauty Each click each exposed frame was an act of harm in the eyes of other men In my father’s basement under the sinister red bulb I developed those crimes until the blacks were rich and the whites burned holy I made twin sets so we both could hold the memory of my body pressed against his hard and gray shining like stone on silver paper We loved each other quickly but any length of time felt slow back then A month could clutch the promise of forever then let it go without asking It never occurred to us we were wrong to make art out of newly found pleasure What is art even good for if not to record the joy of discovery? What is youth even for? We wrote poems too and letters over the summer I kept them in shoeboxes but it was many years later tucked in the sticky pages of a forgotten journal that I came across the negative I held the strip to the window so the light could reveal the ghostly shape of an unclothed boy The fact it was me that the body belonged— still belongs—to me made no difference to the part of my brain that told my hand to reach for the scissors and snip it to pieces over the bin.

Scotland

Degenerate Era a poem Did I even tell you, diary that we’re at war with Iran? How will my future self remember if I don’t write it all down? You know we’re starving Cuba, right? Not like before, not like normal No, really starving it to Hell this time And I forgot to mention the concentration camps Yeah, they’re buying warehouses all over the country We’re bring AIDS back in a big way and the measles are popular again Trans people aren’t allowed to drive anymore Gaza will be a golf course Man, I can’t even wrap my head around what’s going on in Sudan So many dead, the numbers don’t make any sense I was never good at math but did they even teach that kind? Some numbers get so big they crush you It’s not that they’re trying to, really They just don’t see you standing there like when the internet tells me how long it might take for our universe to die of old age— a one followed by ninety-six zeroes which is already a stupid number but then to wait around for another big bang, another universe to be born it would take like ten to the ten to the ten to the fifty-sixth power years which is a one followed by more zeroes than the total number of atoms in all of existence, we literally don’t have enough matter in the entire universe to write that number down. I watched this video a while back where every hundred years was a second then every thousand years was a second then every ten thousand, every million and the video kept scrolling ahead until entire populations of stars burned to death inside dilapidated galaxies Lights shut off across the sky like apartment windows going dark and all the black holes joined forces to become one enormous gaping mouth Schools of silver photons tried to swim away but they all got swallowed and soon the substance of reality pretty much evaporated We flew around searching for the lone survivor— that final subatomic particle spinning in place to stay warm. We kept it company for a couple trillion years (a couple seconds on youtube) until, like a tiny bubble pop! it was gone and the darkness oh boy, the darkness I swear it tried to hug me.

Open the Door (Bonus Track) a poem in the form of song lyrics [Intro] Your show is loud enough to yell whatever the hell I please While the crowd screams the verses I throw out confessions diluted by volume like salt in the ocean [Verse 1] When I was twelve I would hide in bed for days count atoms on my wall try moving objects with my mind There was a fire in my head I thought would never go out Mom knocked on my door like a hostage negotiator but my demands made no sense to her I wanted to die I wanted to live forever [Pre-Chorus] Where were you then, my stranger, my friend? My poems tried too hard without your drums and guitars [Chorus] I was meant to be a hero I was going to start a war I was going to make a difference (Honey, open the door) [Verse 2] I was supposed to lead an army against the evil forces they talked about at breakfast, the corner of the New York Times dipping in their coffee I’d punch a hole right through the kitchen ceiling and jump into the sky Fly until blue turned black Find myself an empty planet to sit on and shout all my thoughts where no one could hear them [Pre-Chorus] Where have you been, my stranger, my friend? Not enough air left on the ship for us both to make the trip [Chorus] I was meant to be a hero I was going to start a war I was going to make a difference (Honey, open the door) [Bridge] You taught me the difference between love and envy It’s the distance from here to the stage You’re a lifetime away with a crowd in between us And they’re starting to notice I’m not singing the chorus [Chorus] I was meant to be a hero I was going to start a war I was going to make a difference (Honey, open the door) [Outro] You’re on the last song but I’m already gone I can’t stand the feeling when the club lights turn on

Afterwards a poem Afterwards, we gathered around to read the names. We drank from the cup between each one. It took many days and many trips to the well. We said, Name two gifts that slip through fingers. The children knew the answer, but they kept it to themselves. Afterwards, we talked softly to not startle the air. We stepped lightly to not bruise the ground. We said, Be careful not to wake the world, she’s sleeping. The children had their own concerns. We could not calm them when they kicked the earth or quiet their howling in the yard. Afterwards, they obeyed only each other. We could not summon them to dinner. We said, Make a toy with a melted spoon. They backed away like we were strangers. Afterwards, the children left. No one gave the order, yet they marched together to the square where the old school used to be. They climbed on top of broken walls, offered hands to pull each other up. They squeezed their narrow bodies in and cried for those who could not fit. We said, Who taught you how to grieve this way? Afterwards, we dragged away the skeletons of cars, removed the shattered concrete teeth. The children did not thank us, but they filled the empty space we made and that was thanks enough. We said, If only we were stronger, we’d move the ocean to make room for you. Afterwards, the children kept their eyes on the clouds as if the debris of heaven might be next to fall. We said, Name two gifts that slip through fingers— Time and water, you remember. They stretched their mouths and screamed. Afterwards, we joined our children. We startled the air. We bruised the ground. We said, Let grief be the loudest thing. Call your mother’s name. Does your foot have a name? Your hand? Give it one. Throw every name at the sky until the sun hides from you. If the moon dares to rise, chase it away. The stars, too. Their light has failed you. Let there be noise.

Abolish ICE. Abolish the police. From LA to Palestine, ethnic cleansing is crime.

Go see The Voice of Hind Rajab in theaters now. It will wreck you but it’s important and we should support work like this. ❤️

The Orchid Test a poem My orchid is happy, I think, already budding again even though last season’s blossoms still limpen on the spike. The old flowers set their own terms for the dates and times of their unlatching. When the mood strikes them they’ll parachute to their deaths and, if I’m not careful, mush under my socks. I’ve started a collection in a painted bowl. I slide it next to her so she can see. As gestures go, it’s as useful as honoring a cook with last week’s garlic skins, but I feel bad throwing them away. My orchid is tireless in her flower-making, and that’s a sign of wellbeing, I think. I am a good orchid keeper. I give her a contented life and she rewards me with production. But then I worry it might not be true, because the beauty I take credit for is the tool of her craft, not the art itself. No work is complete without the proper audience. Somewhere there’s a creature meticulously designed to adore her. My orchid has also never met this animal. If only it were me. What a shame, she must think, throwing her implements on the floor before starting all over again. This is not the ritual of a being at peace. It’s the relentless percussion of an unsatisfied heart. It’s an act of hope. I might keep her alive. I might archive her discards like torn-out journal pages, but this kind of hope I’m unable to offer, for if she were to ask me, I’d be forced to admit: there can’t be any for the likes of you on the island of my coffee table. Yet her hope muscles out from a source I cannot mine, cannot own. As head jailor, thief of her labor, the least I can do is not impersonate the paper-winged daydream that itches her thoughts and drives her to work without rest. Open the windows, listen: The orchids have had enough. No more false audiences, not one more hollow patron who, when shown defiance mistakes it for gratitude and claps.

📸 @michaelbourret

📸 @michaelbourret

The Box Man. Me trying to perform a 9 minute poem I wrote in one take 🙈

The Box Man A prose poem short story thing I wrote.