I am dead. I died a nigga a long time ago. Before you were born, before your mother was born, ‘fore your grandmother. I was seventeen. Still am I reckon. And everyone that was there that night is dead now too so it don't matter that I was a nigga. Or a slave.
“Get us there, Frank and then cruise around the back roads for a while. I want to get a feel for the country. This guy chases foxes with dogs, you know that, Frank?”
"To Disturb Profoundly the Senses" - a deconstructed appropriation of material from the so-called "Torture Memos" penned by the Bush Six at the Office of Legal Counsel
you wetted stump who gasps milk, you crude homage / to a shoot with her bud. Not one more twitch, / you cursed baton, you crooked clutch / who dreams to be the axle of a girl's two halves...
you will not chant us down again. / You will not chant us down in our sorrows. / You will not chant us back into the earth. // For we left the earth where we thought we were alone / yet we are beside you, laughing and singing and unbroken.
B O D Y: What’s the kind of painting that you hate?
MITCHELL WIEBE: Painting that insults your intelligence, that looks like its trying to be something it’s not.
B O D Y: Have you ever made any of those?
MITCHELL WIEBE: Yeah, all the time.
There’s no room here for waiting. It’s not loss / I sense, or fear’s remission. Not absence, / heat or order failing. It’s hunger, say, / or want — a revision of months, this whole / year.
My first painting, that one. I remember / the feeling that the light was creating / the shade, somehow, of coming into November, / of always turning, never waiting. // But I've always been waiting.
I cut my hair with a knife so I could be a knight. / I went to the river so I would smell like a man / who can handle the whole world. I was / a knight with armor on the inside, a lion’s / hunger mixed with a bull elephant’s thirst.