Rhythm of Structure Catalogue - A John Sims Project

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this is a art catalogue for the Rhythm of Structure: Mathematics, Art and Poetic Reflection

Transcript of Rhythm of Structure Catalogue - A John Sims Project

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Rhythm of StructureMathematics, Art and Poetic ReflectionBowery and Beyond /A John Sims Project

Published by Selby Gallery, Ringling College of Art and Design, Sarasota Florida, on the occasion of the nine exhibitions of Rhythm of Structure: Mathematics, Art and Poetic Reflection, (September 11, 2009 to August 30, 2010) at the Bowery Poetry Club in New York City and subsequent summary exhibitions curated by John Sims.

The development of this exhibition and catalogue is funded in part by the Sarasota County Tourist Development Tax revenues.

The summary exhibitions:

Selby Gallery, Ringling College of Art and DesignSarasota, Florida February 25 to April 2, 2011

Herndon Gallery, Antioch College, Yellow Springs, Ohio May 18 to November 1, 2011

For more information please visit: www.rhythmofstructure.com

Copyright © 2011 John Sims Projects No part of this book may be reproduced in any form without written permission of the copyright holder.

Poets and Photographers retain copyright on their work.Bowery and Beyond © 2011 by John Sims

Editor/Artistic Director: John SimsCatalogue Design: Douglas HigginsSpecial Assistance: Tara Betts, Aaron Blackall, Ian Dean, Dennie Eagleson, Kristin Prevallet, Ella Miller Toy, Alpa Vaghani, Toni Wynn, and Corine Zimmerle Cover Art/Design: John Sims

Library of Congress Control Number: 2011908317

ISBN: 978-0-615-48847-9

Printed in the United States of America

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Contents

4 Foreword by Kevin Dean 7 Introduction by John Sims 12 Squares and Circles: John Hiigli and Vandorn Hinnant 14 Circular Vibration by Christina Schmitt and The Square Transformed by Christina Schmitt The Digital Organic by Alan Gilbert15 Poemedy Squircular (Excerpt) by Summer Hill Seven 16 Lines and Curves: Paulus Gerdes/John Sims and Ken Hiratsuka 18 Quadrants by Kristin Prevallet20 Images of Devonian Age: Pooh Kaye’s Response to Ken Hiratsuka21 The Curvature of Green by Shanxing Wang

22 The Cartesian MathArt Hive: John Sims/Hive Artists24 Our Days are Numbered! by Robert Fitterman25 Mapping of the Universe by Faybiene Miranda 26 Is Numerology Math by Chris Funkhouser and Where Come Together by Chris Funkhouser27 Alphabetical Mutability by Tatiana Bonch28 One by Marcella Durand

30 You Lie: Paul D. Miller aka DJ Spooky and Dread Scott32 Spam A Lot (Viagra for Joe Wilson) by LaTasha N. Nevada Diggs33 Survey by LaTasha N. Nevada Diggs34 Coolant System by Alan Gilbert 35 Count Me In by Kelly Zen-Yie Tsai 36 The Square Root of Love: Karen Finley and John Sims 38 The Square Root of Love: Calculating the HEART of things by JoAnne Growney 39 Learning To Be My Father’s Son or 16 Things I Could Never Tell My Father by Regie Cabico

40 Selected Infinite Extensions Arbitrarily Constrained: Sol LeWitt and Adrian Piper 42 Sociedad Anonima by Mónica de la Torre43 Two Poems Squared by Bob Holman, Dear Morning Light dear visiwind by Bob Holman 44 Terra Quad by Edwin Torres 45 MathArtPoem: A LeWitt/Piper Response by John Sims/Rhythm of Structure Class/NYU 46 For the Girl Who Was Asked to Write a Poem About Me and, as Usual, Wanted to Write a Poem About Her Heart Instead by Eboni Hogan 47 The Elevator by Mark Strand and Empty by Jon Sands

49 (20, 21, 29): An Assignment: Students of Brooklyn Academy of Science and Environment 50 21 Reasons Why I Hate Math by Shappy Seasholtz51 29 Solutions For Writers, by People Who Know Better Than Me by Cristin O’Keefe Aptowicz

52 Mathematical Graffiti: Fernando Mora, John Sims with Kyle Goen, Mark Turgeon and the Bowery Poetry Club Patrons 54 Mutually Inverse Operations: Mathematical Poetry on the Occasion of the Mathematical Graffiti Wall by Gregory Vincent St. Thomasino55 Proportional Poems by Kaz Maslanka Graffiti Mathemaku by Bob Grumman 56 33 Symmetry Axes x 40 Orthogonal Triples; or, Free Will, Revisited by Stephanie Strickland Who Counts, Counts by Stephanie Strickland 57 Notes on Numbers by Richard Kostelanetz 58 The HyperQuilt: Helen Beamish, Elaine Ellison, Suzanne Gould, John Sims, Ella Toy, Diana Venters, and Paula Wynte59 The Language of Quilts by Tara Betts 60 The Last Time by Adam Falkner and Jeanann Verlee 62 We Come From Farm People by Kate Rushin 63 The Math Poem by Kate Rushin

64 Acknowledgments

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A decade ago John Sims and I began having conversations about the relationship between mathematics and art and the philosophical concerns involving aesthetics, truth and beauty. The end result of our discussions was a 2002 exhibition called ArtMath/MathArt at the Selby Gallery, Ringling College of Art and Design. The objects chosen were categorized by John based on a system that began with simple counting and proceeded through geometry, proportions, topology, modularity, algorithm, symbolism and visual mathematics that included the use of fractals and fourth dimensional space. Another aspect to this unique exhibition was the inclusion of Paulus Gerdes’ work with ethno –mathematics and traditional patterns from Africa.

In subsequent years John Sims continued developing his ideas about the relationship between art and math by curating smaller exhibitions at various locations with the intention of doing a second group show at Selby Gallery that would expand on the original concepts. By 2009, the idea not only expanded, it evolved into something that had never been done before that came to be called Rhythm of Structure: Mathematics, Art and Poetic Reflection. It consisted of nine month-long exhibitions held at poet Bob Holman’s Bowery Poetry Club in New York City that brought together math-based art, documentary film, animation, projections, social issues, music, dance and poets who read their responses to the work shown on the ArtWall at the club. The exhibitions also involved group interactions with the art and concepts presented that included college and high school students as well as the audiences that came to see the closing poetry events. The project was built around three metaphors for social interaction: grids, quilts and hives. It therefore is linked to Sims’ longtime concern with bringing people together to create an atmosphere of cooperation, order and social justice.

The next problem John Sims had to solve was how to combine the nine shows into one touring show. The exhibition had to retain the structures, concepts and group dynamics of the original exhibitions at the Bowery Poetry Club, and still invite group participation and additions from venues and communities at the tour sites. After much thought the solutions were found. The new version of Rhythm of Structure opened at the Selby Gallery on February 25, 2011. Rhythm of Structure will live on after its tour, thanks to designer Douglas Higgins’s catalogue. A special thank you goes to Bob Holman for providing the perfect space for the project to begin.

And thank you to my assistant director, Laura Avery, gallery assistant, Tim Jaeger, and Ringling College’s preparators, Jordan Kelly-Laviolette, Jeff Miller, Trevor Dienes and John McGaharan. We invite you to contemplate and enjoy the Rhythm of Structure.

Kevin DeanDirector, Selby Gallery of ArtRingling College of Art and Design

Foreword

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The genesis of this exhibition began with the MathArt/ArtMath exhibition I co-curated with Kevin Dean at Ringling College of Art and Design in 2002 which aimed to survey the general landscape of mathematics in modern and contemporary art and introduce the visual works of various mathematicians. The shows featured: Josef Albers, Richard Anuszkiewicz, and Max Bill, Mel Bochner, Brent Collins, Agnes Denes, M. C. Escher Helaman Ferguson, Mike Field, Charles Gaines, Paulus Gerdes, John Hiigli, Sol LeWitt, Al Held, Joe Overstreet, Howardena Pindell, Richard Purdy, Tony Robbin, Dorothea Rockburne, Irene Rousseau, Carlo Sequin, Kenneth Snelson, Frank Stella, Roman Verostko, Joan Waltemath and others.

To revisit the curatorial tone that was established with that inaugural exhibition I quote myself from the MathArt/ArtMath brochure:

Mathematics, as a parameter of human consciousness is an indispensable conceptual technology, essential in seeing beyond the retinal and knowing beyond the intuitive. The language and process of mathematics, as elements of and foundational for art, inform an analytic-expressive condition that inspires a visual reckoning for a convergence: from the illustrative to the metaphysical to the poetic. And in the dialectic of visual art call and text-performative response, there is an inter–dimensional conversation where the twisting structures of language, vision, and human ways give birth to the spiritual lattice of a social geometry, a community constructivism-- a place of connections, where emotional calculations meet structured abstraction.

With the diversity and balance in mind and my desire to investigate and classify the structure of mathematical art, the exhibition was organized into eight categories: Counting/Measurement; Proportions; Geometry; Topology; Algorithmic; Modularity; Symbolism; and Visual Mathematics.

This show led to the creation of a series of mathematical art exhibitions, I called the Rhythm of Structure. This series continued with shows in New York at the Fire Patrol No.5 Gallery in Harlem, Wilmer Jennings Gallery in the East Village, a triad of shows in conjunction with Knotting Mathematics and Art: An International Conference of Low Dimensional Topology and Mathematical Art at the University of South Florida, 2007.

However it was much earlier that the seeds of the poetic reflection began to germinate. While in graduate school, at Wesleyan University, Carol Wood (then Chair) and I organized a party for the Mathematics Department, where I invited Kate Rushin to write a poem for the occasion. It was her reading and my later confederate flag exhibition, NYC Hanging: The Poetic Responses at Bowery Poetry Club in 2006 that inspired the missing element of poetry in the mathematical-art dynamic.

This confluence of elements brought forth, Rhythm of Structure: Mathematics, Art and Poetic Reflection, a year long series of nine mathematical art exhibitions curated for the ArtWall at the Bowery Poetry Club in New York City– September 11, 2009 to August 30, 2010. To stimulate a dialogue around the use of structure and promote reflection via the poetic lens, poets were invited to reflect and respond to the work forming the basis of a documentary film and this catalogue, with most of the poets responding with original works. The responses ranged from former U.S. Laureate Mark Strand, dancer Pooh Kaye to Greg Tate’s Burnt Sugar the Arkestra Chamber. The series of nine shows is divided into three sections: geometry, conceptual and social.

Geometry: The first set of shows deals with the use of geometry as visual abstraction, algorithmic process and the basic vocabulary of mathematical art. We opened the series with Squares and Circles as a way to engage the fundamental tension between Art and Mathematics, as illustrated by John Hiigli’s digital version of his transparency painting involving 50 squares and Vandorn Hinnant’s colored pencil drawing of visual root progressions. With Lines and Curves, we explore the idea of the line and the prehistory of human’s capacity to create sculptural rhythms via the line as seen with Ken Hiratsuka’s stone piece space filling never crossing curves and ethnomathematician turned artist Paulus Gerdes whose mirrored celtic, no beginning or ending line curves I interpreted as a rope installation. The desire to examine the space of mathematical art in relation to my piece Square Root of Tree, resulted in The Cartesian MathArt Hive, an installation work featuring: Davide Cervone, Kevin Dean, Agnes Denes, Mike Field, Susan Happersett, John Hiigli, Vandorn Hinnant, Ken Hiratsuka, Howardena Pindell, Dorothea Rockburne, Christina Schmitt, Carlo Sequin, John Sims, Sarah Stengle, Pam Turczyn, Joan Waltemath, Joyce Wellman and Roman Verostko. This installation blurred the boundaries between curator and artist as I sought to invoke the beehive as metaphor for both the complexity of classification and singularity of community.

Conceptual: The second set examines mathematics in a conceptual context with themes ranging from visual mathematics as social marketing via polling, language of love and the metaphysics of space. I challenged political artist Dread Scott and conceptual artist Paul D. Miller aka DJ Spooky to explore and perhaps critique the political dimensions of mathematics as both enabler of post civil rights and vehicle for truth distortion.

Rhythm of Structure: Bowery and Beyond by John Sims

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In You Lie, Dread Scott explores the polling dynamics while on the other hand Miller uses political posters and bar code images to promote the idea of mathematics literacy as weaponry against analog sophism. I invited the performance artist Karen Finley to join me in thinking about how to connect the mathematical process and language in the emotional space of Love. In our show called Square Root of Love, Finley takes a suite of 8 Andre Kostelanetz’s Many Moods of Love albums, creating an audio vertical summation, while I subverted the language of algebra to make equational expressions using the graphic heart symbol for love. For the final part of this section, it was crucial to have Sol LeWitt, who was a foundational leader in the conceptual art movement and who had been in three of my previous shows. For the other part of the duet show I asked the conceptual artist and philosopher Adrian Piper to respond to a Sol LeWitt piece of her choosing, making way for their show, Selected Infinite Extensions Arbitrarily Constrained. She responded to Lewitt’s Wall Drawing #163 - Two lines in a Square (1973) with her Vanishing Point #1, which resulted in a stunning 6 foot square wall deletion. Though simple in their directions of execution the works powerfully comment on the boundary of surface and sub-surface space and the natural tension of the inside and outside, on and below and the elegant balance of adjacency. Piper also designed a special performance work involving 28 participants, for the opening called, One 16 Minute-Long, Thickly Straight Line Running Parallel with the Bowery Poetry Project Floor.

During the time of the LeWitt/Piper show I challenged my NYU Rhythm of Structure Class to create a group response to the show. Each of the 18 students including myself wrote short poetic responses that were mapped into a 2 dimensional binary visualization of Pi as a grid. These poetry embeddings, 19 in all were remapped into the original pi grid, creating the MathArtPoem which was animated and put to music forming a total motion graphic sound piece, which can be seen in the film.

Social: The final section explores the social component of structure creation by process of collaborative installation, graffiti and quilting. To introduce this section I wanted to have students involved. Jennifer Lemish of Brooklyn Academy of Science and Environment so graciously invited me into her high school art class, where I challenged the students to create a visual solution of the equation 20

2+212=29 2, the title of their show. Over the course of the

semester they came up with individually and eventually collectively some rather beautiful designs. The aim of the next show, the Mathematical Graffiti Wall, was to be a public art piece with the only rule being that the wall markings had to be connected to mathematics. To aid the transition from restroom graffiti aesthetic to more of a mural I worked with Ringling graduate and former student Fernando Mora, whose painting brought the wall to the

next level. Later this piece would be modeled in 3D by Scott Toros and made to be interactive as seen in the film. Working first hand with the Sarasota Amish Community making quilts I developed an appreciation for quilting as an American art practice, mechanism for community organizing and ultimately a palatable metaphor for the mathematics and art.

With this in mind, HyperQuilt was slated for the last show to emphasize the idea of all of the nine shows forming a mega-nine-patch quilt. This show consisted of seven mathart quilts incorporated into a wall installation. The featured artists: Helen Beamish, Elaine Ellison, Suzanne Gould, John Sims, Ella Toy, Diana Venters and Paula Winter.

Conclusion A critical element of this installment of the Rhythm of Structure is the voice and vision of the poet, narrating the landscape of the abstract, the personal, the lofty, the metaphysical and comical. And it was at the Bowery Poetry Club where something beautiful happened, something special and historic, where over 30 artists and 40 poets/performers responded to the work, to the essence of a mathematics-art dialectic and its various manifestations, leading us through the field of the Mind, Hand and Heart via the language of Mathematics, Art and Poetry. Master drummer Brother Num, with numerous guest appearances by flutist Yael Acher Mordiano, provided the rhythmic thread that follows through each of the shows. Most of the poets and musicians responded from the heart with new works adding to the freshness and connection as captured both here in the catalogue and in the documentary film.

In summary or perhaps in birth, the spirit of these shows comes together as a single conceptually quilted community of exhibitions that dare to travel beyond the Bowery to other spaces and venues. And it is at the Selby Gallery, Ringling College of Art and Design that it all comes together for the very first time preparing for national travel. As the show moves into the beyond, it will expand or contract making way for new works, connecting to the new environments, new artists and new poets, creating an opportunity for cross-cultural conversations, interdisciplinary dialogue and poetic reflection.

So it is with great honor I invite you to join me, Kevin Dean, Bob Holman and the Rhythm of Structure artists, poets, dancers and musicians on this magical journey beginning with this catalogue as a presentation of the art and the responding poetical text. It is my hope that this project; exhibitions, poetry, film and music may demonstrate and inspire a furtherance of mathematics – art – poetry – music collaborations and the reflection upon the universal voice of nature and its great emissary, The Rhythm of Structure.

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In the beginning there was the breath of Nature Creating a mixing of all things mixable Connecting all things possible that connectsTo the advent of cycles, patterns and organic geometriesWhose role is to map the structure And console the lost soul of randomness And all of its entropic desire for chaos and diffusion

In this cosmic, atomic soup is a probabilistic opportunity For a togetherness that defies logic and intuition For an evolution that promotes success and security For a story with no plot, no reason and no meaning

For a stage To be, to see, to hear, to feel, to think About all that is and was And could beAnd on this fluxing stage is the scriptless performance Of our inverted future and reciprocal past

Nature comes with its own sense of confusion, deliverance and beauty An articulation to be revealed through the brackets and form of energy And cryptic languagesAnd treasure and horror mapsThat guide our senses, motions and thoughts That sermonize a message of magic and mysteries For the Connections and PatternsThat speak to the evolving rhythm of structure That structures our reality with the Infinite and FiniteCircles and SquaresBlacks and Whites Trees and Roots

And in the desire toMaster Plan, Master Build, Master MindThere is a War of Colors, Shapes and SystemsOf Soul and SpiritWhere Roots run wild, Trees sway downCircles get squared, and Squares lose their corners

In this placeThe mind alienatesAnd the senses disconnectFrom the winds of reasonAnd expressionCreating hollow stormsOf silent cries for empty skiesFor empty mindsIn search of entertaining talesOf the empty set

However NatureThe parent of all that is beautiful and uglyReal and AbstractOrdered and DisorderedGigantic and MicroscopicLiving and DeadAnd all that is in betweenExpands and contractsOn the downbeat of atomic tickingCycling for survival and resurrection

In a quilted Space of objects and ideasWe find the Square Roots of NatureTree of LifeCircle of TimeWhere the Irrational communes with the RationalWhere the Analog dances with the DigitalWhere holy Beliefs shares ancient Secrets With counter-intuitive Theorems

In this SpaceWhere the sanctity of balancePredicatesThe Holy Alliance betweenTime and MotionCircles and SquaresTrees and RootsMathematics and Art

We bring the great gift of poetic reflectionTo Celebrate and HonorThe magnificent voice of Nature –And its greatest emissaryThe Rhythm of Structure

* This is text from the theme song for this exhibition.

The SquareRoots: Rhythm of Structure by John Sims

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In this placeThe mind alienatesAnd the senses disconnectFrom the winds of reasonAnd expressionCreating hollow stormsOf silent cries for empty skiesFor empty mindsIn search of entertaining talesOf the empty set

However NatureThe parent of all that is beautiful and uglyReal and AbstractOrdered and DisorderedGigantic and MicroscopicLiving and DeadAnd all that is in betweenExpands and contractsOn the downbeat of atomic tickingCycling for survival and resurrection

In a quilted Space of objects and ideasWe find the Square Roots of NatureTree of LifeCircle of TimeWhere the Irrational communes with the RationalWhere the Analog dances with the DigitalWhere holy Beliefs shares ancient Secrets With counter-intuitive Theorems

In this SpaceWhere the sanctity of balancePredicatesThe Holy Alliance betweenTime and MotionCircles and SquaresTrees and RootsMathematics and Art

We bring the great gift of poetic reflectionTo Celebrate and HonorThe magnificent voice of Nature –And its greatest emissaryThe Rhythm of Structure

* This is text from the theme song for this exhibition.

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Squares and Circles

John Hiigli, Chrome 163, Transparent Oil on Canvas, 56” x 64”

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Vandorn Hinnant, Five Concentric Circles aka “What Euclid intended for us toknow”, 2009, Prismacolor/graphite on layered cotton paper, 38” x 38”

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Circular Vibration For Vandorn Hinnantby Christina L. Schmitt

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See here, centered, a first point imagined. Exploding, ever outward -- from one are born many. Explore fourfold symmetry: Each point’s four petals blossom open, then settle at the next intersection. Point’s circle echoes itself in four directions. Each echo echoes again

in fourfold fashion.This vision has rhythm.

Everywhere, over and over, the same proportion makes itself known. An atom becomes an eye, universal, expanding -- vast sky --

rippling outward, a drum birthing light’s spectrum. Upon a latticework of spheres, orbs vibrate, radiate. Look here:

The point becomes wave, energy flickers into form.

The center is everywhere and nowhere.Who is the watcher, who the watched?

This self-same self is all pervading.

Out of something seeming flat,a multicolored square,space unfolds, unfolds againin layer after layer.

Inwards first, but outwards too,side unfolds to side,one shape yields another shape,and structure is implied.

A tetrahedron yields a cube,then octahedron forms,Somewhere Icosohedron’s drapereveals Platonic norms.

So an image here inscribedwith color and with lineinitiates the infinite,reverberates through time.

The Digital Organic by Alan Gilbert

A landscape without animals is a stainless steel roomhosed down by a trucker pausing during a long-distancehaul. Turpentine in the eye-shadow remover makes mefeel woozy after stumbling over pill bottles scatteredacross the floor in a drunk driving test for combingthe crumbs from your beard.

But the armies will stomp on that too, guided throughthe desert by an irreconcilable angel. We shoot cobwebsfrom a spray can and lean on horns stuck in traffic.The only roadside attractions are the rose sellers,the kids forced to trick or treat between the yellow tapeon TV.

No wonder you crashed a tattered hang glider intoa beach house knocking wet towels off a drying rackand generally ruining the upholstery. Green ivy circlesthe supplicants, trembling slightly to be released of theirburdens, heads bowed low to nothing except lovesoftly massaging neurons around the heart. Thoughtis their false reflection.

It seems like autumn again every time we turn around—the end of rain and beginning of snow, with lines extendingpast a makeshift horizon. So call this a one-page hug.The forms might seem cold, but the colors are warm.The forms are closer to music. Even silence vibratesin the pinks and blues.

This “you” you think you know you are, you too are only (near though far)

the universe itself expressing (itself), bursting into and out of being.

What is the differencebetween what is

inside the mind and what is “out there”?

Only an idea (blind, fair). Only space and time.

These too, in turn, shall disappear.

All disparity is born of being.

Consciousness is contained within unity. Dissolve, now, like this circle, back into its first point .

The Square Transformed For John Hiigli’s ‘Chrome 163’by Christina L. Schmitt

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I.We needn’t be remindedThat public speeches needn’t Have musical accompaniment;Instead they want content, form:With delivery not norm;I promise: you know not I & versa-visa.

II.I prefer my words lifted From a page when I’m onstage.Otherwise you mightn’t get The best and worst of The words for us to engage.Reciting don’t mean you read;Reading don’t mean you can write.

III.Writing don’t mean you reciteBut if Ish is good - fools will Be like “aight, aight”-ting;Whether you are reading or Reciting. Aight, aight! Then:Let us not forget to remember whenShakespeare kicked it squircular:

IV.Grampa’s squircular quincunxNot a lark & not larkingWalking up Lark Street’s dark streets On the steep incline partlyResponsible for the name. Arbor Hill: Never ran nor Never will forget that Sun.

V.Irritating quincunx onOur bronze & un-bathed backs;We move, not connecting with Earth floating, not turning – not Drifting – straight in a line toConnect point A – my location & point B – my streets corner.

VI.Lark St. – on my arrival Becomes the new point A &274 Livingston Ave. becomes the new point B My life is growing straighter I have been on the Siral Tal Mustaqueem the whole time.

VII.My existence: mortal.And now even in my dream State - we return to the first Address I remember thatI would ever remember.I hear Grampa’s laughter as We float up the street and turn.

VIII.The corner into the door – I peek over & see Tex & Torro – twin black labs - dogs Each with a single white mark Marked upon both breast. I’m not One single day older than When I last saw Grampa smile.

IX.Oh, Grampa, Gramp – I cry: Then dive into his warm eyes,Great big ol’ lap. I’m my ageAt my death and Grampa is His age at his death: In eternity time bends Toward irrelevancy:

X.He holds me until he stops. The living don’t understand How to experience this:When he speaks to me – finally He laughs through tears in his eyes He says: I see you one of Those squircular niggas – huh?

XI.I laugh – I know then what I Know now. He is here. Right here.He is my point A and my Point B around which I pass Through or pivot. I’m still here. “I’ve been scarred and batteredMy hopes the wind done scattered

XII.Albany’s snow has frizzed meMiami’s sun has baked meBetween ‘em they’ve tried t’make meStop laughing stop loving stopLiving; but I don’t care I’mLike Langston Hughes I’m STILL HERE.

XIII.Won’t see me on Def PoetryCuz I don’t write much poetryGenerally write PoemedySimilar – but so are me And my sister?I don’t want you to kiss meJust cuz maybe you kissed her.

XIV.‘Lest you ain’t a him – you’re herAin’t told me all ‘bout her pastAin’t gonna put her on blastHere to talk PoemedyFunny: born of povertyFlows best to a melodyToo bad I can’t sing real well. XV.Yet, I’m livin proof that bluesStill will sell real well todayEvery word’a Poemedy’sFrom personal tragedyFlipped to public comedyWhen I say PoemedyPlease feel free to laugh with me.

XVI.POEMEDY SQUIRCULAREven when it’s tragedyYour laughter makes comedy.Sometimes when shit gets absurdIt’s the necessity that Mother’s invention of wordzInventing a word’s easy:

XVII.Easiest thing you ever heardJust open your mouth and goPOEMEDY SQUIRCULARNo results found for squircle:Dictionary SuggestionsSurcle, squirrel, Squirely,Squiggly, Sicle, squigglier.

XVIII.Squillae, squirrely, Sarcle, Squiggol, Circle, squill, squiggled,Squiggles, squilla, Squilgee, Squiggle’s. Squircle: no results found.

The above is an excerpt from

SQUIRCULAR: An Actor’s Tale

by Summer Hill Seven

Poemedy Squircular (Excerpt)by Summer Hill Seven

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Lines and Curves

Left: Paulus Gerdes/John Sims, A Roped Mirrored Curve, 2007 rope and graphite, 84”x 66”

Right: Ken Hiratsuka, Chained Universe, 2002, Stone, 29.5” x 24.5”

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Quadrants by Kristin Prevallet

Because there are patterns that repeat in this poem because poem equals patterns that are conscious of movement, this means this poem loops like patterns you mirror in thinking. It’s in thinking that your mind will repeat in patterns, movements repeat, remind you you’re awake, that mirror patterns already mapped that your thoughts are patterns compelled by ocean to repeat patterns like tides are to orbit, drift, or ebb they are universe there because ecosystems and shorelines are mirrored in there because patterns of life and death are movement are because of patterns that appear, connect, and repeat forever, because because the patterns you hear mirror those already mapped in there, poem in here, where you have been before you are in this loop where your mind is looking for patterns seen before in real life, everyday since the moment that you became conscious, repeat conscious repeat conscious over again repeat over and over again that seeing makes thinking happen in patterns that repeat like dust patterns in light make this turning and falling, blowing the movements are alive this poem like your mind moves, no other meaning there nothing because there are patters that repeat in this poem, because

because poem this in repeat that patterns are there because means this, movement of conscious are that patterns equals poem it’s thinking in mirror you patterns like loops poem this movements, patterns in repeat will mind your that thinking in mapped already patterns mirror that, awake you’re you remind, repeat repeat to ocean by compelled patterns are thoughts your that they ebb or, drift, orbit to are tides like patterns in mirrored are shorelines and ecosystems because there universe are this movement are death and life of patterns because there because, forever repeat and connect, appear, that patterns of because in mapped already those mirror hear you patterns the because you before been have you where, here in poem, there for looking is mind your where loop this in are moment the since everyday, life real in before seen patterns again over conscious repeat conscious repeat, conscious became you that happen thinking makes seeing that again over and over repeat make light in patterns dust like repeat that patterns in this alive are movements the blowing, falling and turning this nothing there meaning other no, moves mind your like poem because, poem this in repeat that patterns are there because

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Because there are patterns that repeat in this poem because poem equals patterns that are conscious of movement, this means this poem loops like patterns you mirror in thinking. It’s in thinking that your mind will repeat in patterns, movements repeat, remind you you’re awake, that mirror patterns already mapped that your thoughts are patterns compelled by ocean to repeat patterns like tides are to orbit, drift, or ebb they are universe there because ecosystems and shorelines are mirrored in there because patterns of life and death are movement are because of patterns that appear, connect, and repeat forever, because because the patterns you hear mirror those already mapped in there, poem in here, where you have been before you are in this loop where your mind is looking for patterns seen before in real life, everyday since the moment that you became conscious, repeat conscious repeat conscious over again repeat over and over again that seeing makes thinking happen in patterns that repeat like dust patterns in light make this turning and falling, blowing the movements are alive this poem like your mind moves, no other meaning there nothing because there are patters that repeat in this poem, because

because poem this in repeat that patterns are there because means this, movement of conscious are that patterns equals poem it’s thinking in mirror you patterns like loops poem this movements, patterns in repeat will mind your that thinking in mapped already patterns mirror that, awake you’re you remind, repeat repeat to ocean by compelled patterns are thoughts your that they ebb or, drift, orbit to are tides like patterns in mirrored are shorelines and ecosystems because there universe are this movement are death and life of patterns because there because, forever repeat and connect, appear, that patterns of because in mapped already those mirror hear you patterns the because you before been have you where, here in poem, there for looking is mind your where loop this in are moment the since everyday, life real in before seen patterns again over conscious repeat conscious repeat, conscious became you that happen thinking makes seeing that again over and over repeat make light in patterns dust like repeat that patterns in this alive are movements the blowing, falling and turning this nothing there meaning other no, moves mind your like poem because, poem this in repeat that patterns are there because

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Images of Devonian Age: Pooh Kaye’s Response to Ken Hiratsuka

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Curvature of Green

We are Chinese capital. We serve the community.

The same as others.

151 years ago right down the block. Not busy.

We respond to feedbacks. We reach out.

Consolidate your debt.

Get lower payments. Pocket the extra cash.

You can pay for everything. Get a new roof.

How about a paint job? Do you need new furniture?

Do you need a new car? Where is your everyday money?

A powerful tool for moving your

money.

Think strength. Think stability.

Think savings.

Lower minimum.

Get back on track. A budget is essential if you want to break the cycle of living

month-to-month. Get ahead of the curve.

Find room to save.

A home around the block or halfway around the world.

Personal now.

Diamond personal now.

Value-plus: Safe box free for life, free checkbook,

free official check, free on-line We have mortgage programs that can help you realize your dream in every stage of your life

5,000 branches. You never lose your money. You are the first one to ask. Longer hours. Coin machine.

Personal loan after three-month relationship. Checking plus. Ready credit.

You can find all that information on our website.

The Curvature of Green by Shanxing Wang

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The Cartesian MathArt Hive: Left by John SimsTop left to right featuring:1. Dorothea Rockburne, Haloed Angel Study: Spark, (1983), water color, 11.5” x 12.5”2. Joyce Wellman, Esau on Globe Crossing, (2009), acrylic on canvass, 18” x 18”3. John Hiigli, Chrome 151: 3 Spheres, (2001), digital print, 18” x 18”4. Agnes Denes, Isometric Systems in Isotropic Space-Map Projection: The Cube, (1980)digital print, 18” x 18”5. John Sims, Square Roots of a Tree, (1999), digital print, 18” x 18”6. Pam Tuczyn, Squaring the Circle: Heaven in Earth, (2009), oil, 18” x 18”7. Roman Verostko, Drawing 13, (2009), digital print, 18” x 18”8. Carlo Sequin, Poincare-double lace, (2009), digital print, 18” x 18”9. Mike Field, Iterations, (2006), digital print, 18” x 18”

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Cartesian MathArt Hive

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The Cartesian MathArt Hive: by John SimsTop left to right featuring:1. Christina Schmitt, Enlightened Vision #10, (2009), acrylic on canvas, 18” x 18”2. Davide Cervone, Kelien-Fountain, 2009, digital print, 18” x 18”3. Vandorn Hinnant, Root Three Fractal SpiralGram (15), 2009, colored pencil, 18” x 18” 4. Kevin Dean, Zero, (2010), chalk on board, 18” x 18”5. John Sims, Tree Root of a Fractal, 1999, digital print, 18” x 18”6. Sol LeWitt, All the Combination of Arcs from the Corners and Straight Lines in Fours Direction, 2002 pencil and ink on paper, 8.5” x 11”7. Susan Happersett, Spheres, 2008, ink on paper, 18” x 18”8. Ken Hiratsuka, Fish, 2002, stone carving, 8”x13”9. Howardena Pindell, Drawn with a Compass, Chopstick and a Pen, 2009, 18” x 18”

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0. Four over four minus four over four = 01. Four over four plus four minus four = 12. Four over four plus four over four = 23. Parenthesis four plus four plus four close parenthesis divided by four = 34. Parenthesis square root of four plus square root of four close parenthesis divided by four = 45. Brackets parenthesis four times four close parenthesis close brackets = 56. Four factorial times four divided four divided by four = 67. Forty-four divided by four minus four = 78. Four to the four over fourth power plus four = 89. Parenthesis four divided by four close parenthesis plus four plus four = 910. Square root of four bracket parenthesis four divided by four end parenthesis plus four close bracket = 1011. Four factorial over the square root of four minus four over four = 1112. Parenthesis four factorial divided by the square root of four close parenthesis times four divided by four = 1213. Parenthesis four factorial times the square root of four plus four divided by four = 1314. The square root of four plus parenthesis the square root of four times four close parenthesis plus four = 1415. Forty four divided by four plus four = 1516. Four plus four plus four plus four = 1617. Parenthesis four times four close parenthesis plus parenthesis four divided by four close parenthesis = 1718. Parenthesis Factorial four minus four close parenthesis minus four plus the square root of four = 1819. Four factorial minus four minus four over four = 1920. The square root of four factorial times the square root of four factorial times four plus four = 20

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Our Days Are Numbered!by Robert Fitterman

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We are not in danger of obsessing with the over mapping of the universeWhere we were many We become as oneWhere we are one We become a variegated chorusHarmonized, sampled in symphonic euphonyCongruent with the sum of all its branchesSo many swollen thoughts explode in still reflections Niagara in its force harvesting our eyes to reap horizons in lucidity of dayAwakened by the elemental beautyIntrinsic in the sacred hive of mortal contemplationWhile graphite dissertations point us towardInfinite parade of prismatic dancing lightThere is equity here shoe laced amid revolving spheresEvidence engraved for all to perceivePrecision in the phases of aLunar cornucopia of promisesVeracity reduced from macro staged conceptionsIlluminated in convergence 9x9x9x9x9x9x9x9x9x9Benign endorsements

From fractal friends seeking kinship in a world of imperfect human beings daring to be kissed by NatureI kiss you NatureImprint me Goddess of the Fertile GridFeed me I am famished for the honey of completionAlarming how we gather for this sweetnessEvoking memories ancestral in soliloquyRemembering our transcendental journeysThrough photonic corridors of corrugated folds and hemispheric alcovesIn figure 8 pursuit of visionary dreamsBetween the silhouette of spatial geo discs and manEnchanted by the choreography of revelationWe seek sacred groundWhere Eshu grants permission for the traveler to pass freely on condition of obedience to the captivating SourceLet’s strip ourselves of borrowed suppositions and step into a world religion of mad men and women who gamble with the tongues of frequency to speak their truth against conspiracy that squanders Quantum timelessnessIn this continuumFind safe haven and a map to free your mindsTo those in conflict with a pregnant dispositionTo deny your place among the moon and starsThrow caution to the wind and toss your reservationDefeating garrisons of conquer and divideYou do not deserve perimeters that frame youOr detain you from the portion of your dreamsPrepare to feed upon this

fractured road called destinyFind refuge in the spreading square root of a treeBeneath a canopy of permutations nourished By arithmetical fluencySo confident in left brain thinkSo right brain and divinely linkedSo effortlesslySo reckless and random in designSo perfectly endowed in vortex congregationLike Fibonacci coded pathways to originsI climb the stairs to find equation for my heartIn you I seeIntention of each fabricated lineUnique in every spiral spinning webCasting shadowed threads obliqueIn every exhalation of galactic breathInfusing architected form of shell and stoneIn every factored invisibility transonically attunedTo you and meI see you in reverie against the Calibrated stop watch of prevailed beliefThe clock is tickingThe clock is tickingTic toc tic tocTic toc tic tocThe clock is ticking and it’s raining cosmic showers through my roofAtomic particles give way to living proofWithin the chambered segments of refractionThat we are bound one to anotherSiblings of an alien Primal Binary MotherAsi en el cieloAsi en la tierraAs it is in heavenSo it is on earthCosmogony unfolding spirit consciousness into Rhythmic contractions deliveringSpiritual Metaphors For creation’s birthWe are not in danger of obsessing with the over mapping of the universeWe have only just arrived to map surveillance

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Mapping of the Universeby Faybiene Miranda

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Where Come Together!by Chris Funkhouser

Where come together! Online and gallery of tessellation, polyhedra, fractals, anamorphic kaleidoscopes, Origami. Showcasing hyperbolic spaces. As long as it has Principal - Top Level image, a paper on tactile geometry, virtual reality diversions. Results for the feedback. Report the offensive image. Exploding! Exploding! explore. What do the sliders do? For all of the sliders, you can change their width as well as their position. To change Welcome Connections Connections designed to introduce Cool lessons, help and practice fractals, polyhedra, tessellations and Projects Activities Ford Singularity knots. Animations generated surface, 2 surface Format Acrobat[ic] Graphics Visualization introduces a series of Sites Free Viewers Latest Update to newest version

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People populate the hive Arithmetic requires, missing letter x

Maraca Natter Thievish Shaman Chart Iterative

Batch Anion Baton Chain

Deviance Drove Cavern Videoed

Sedan Genes Senna Edges

Mallard Durance

Milked Fie Miked File

Batter Inform

Hooch Furthers Turnpikes Hitches Hunker Rustproof

Perhaps Tautness Heat Suppressant

Jig Hi Ho Nil

And Van Ninth Nor Rand Nova Nth Inn

Rankest Haiku Natures Khaki

Banana Edify Mire Mania Brainy Feed

Headpin Lowlander Bard Crook Hereunto Tabooed Chunk Error

Arts Chic Tinsmith Transmit Chi Chits

Oral Quinces Lacquer Ions

Johnisms

Areas Lengths Sages Enthral

Czar My Punt

Mar Trove Nooks Oar Movers Knot

Manta Heat Jowl Wheat Jam Tonal

Cyan Jell Meow Man Cloy Jewel

Is Numerology Math? by Chris Funkhouser

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Transmutable

Computable Inscrutable Suitable Canonical Harmonical Iconical Synchronical Dramatical Emblematical Mathematical Enigmatical Repetitional Traditional Transpositional Definitional

Relativity Sensitivity Subjectivity Impassivity Curiosity Generosity Preciosity Virtuosity Eccentricity Multiplicity Plasticity Periodicity Mutability Availability Desirability Equability

Numerous Multifarious Laborious Victorious

Obscurity Security Festivity Activity

(4!)10 x (2!)2 = 253 613 523 861 504 variants

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Alphabetical Mutability by Tatiana Bonch

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the first bird sings and the dark sky becomes less soimperfect impersonalities everywhere I look immediatelythe person I need to program exists no moreYou can’t use the word “you” when negotiatingkeep arms and legs uncrossed and emit “huh” and “uh-huh”at appropriate intervals determined by online mechanicalsspeech balloons appear and pop but the person I am hating keeps talkingwhere is the schism between what I think and what I want to say?I want to say what I want to say and when I want to say ityou can take my right to want to say when to say it not to say it here’s my gunI’d like to either put it all in or take it all out and apologies JohnI meant the river was drained and what they found was extruded conglomeratein a matrix of lime--with, oh yeah, two feet and ten toesthe composition of asphalt is closely correlatedwith petroleum productsthe doctor prescribed it all wrongit’s getting worsebricks pop outopening to the skyrainingraining on the computerI now understand corrosionpigeons get to itred feet and all

Tesla was never distracted his laboratorycoiled on wheels and swinging lightbulbsturbines and patchwork and row of pamphletsvaulted ceilings formed by massive balloons under concrete

fine rain and finer detailsspecific views and perspectivesreading and distracted from timehow a day seems like an hourhow a day doesn’t correspond to an hourhow time that seemed long seems afterward quite short

time is movement“place is security” and “space is freedom”projects continuepeople trying to contact me and people not trying to contact melonelinesscompanygeography space time and placedoes if and how this relates to ecologyif geography is about me and space is about me and time is about me but ecology is about everything elsedistracted because that’s not really trueor could be very true but then how am I supposed tobe in space time place and “concerned”concerned about the not-me and depriving, or adding

to myself and everything around me, creatinga landscape that is yet not myself and in which I inhabitpressured and obliged indecisive over direction and actionI can’t pay attention right nowfocus is missingconcentration dilute

what “should” be and what I “want”if you want me toshut the window the wind has picked upthinking about the meeting on time managementthe obligation to submit a project briefdescribing a project before the project is donestakeholders, objective, goal and mission, a timelinewhen will the project be done?just as you hand me a bookjust as she hands him a bookjust as they hand her a bookthe only copy of a book“copy” isn’t correct; this is one bookthe one and only bookhow was this one copy of one book printed?was it a “print” instead of a “print job”?this book is not reproduciblebecause what I hold is vulnerableyet indivisiblethere are initials and names on the back and several pages onwhich people have written comments as to what they thinkof this book, and some have written the towns and countriesthey were in when they received and read the book andsometimes even the circumstancesthe paper is from trees or recycled post-consumershould it be zero-emission?is it justified in form, content, and effect? Did I have to driveto find it? It was driven to me? What sort of factorypulped it, peeled it, glued its pages to its backing?chimneys post smoke and workers file in and outto have their tickets chompedplasticine or not, and certainly rust-resistanton that conveyor belt, the book was completedand rubber-ink scent steals over the pins and rollers.the copy editors take a break to check the news.they link to link and link and link, scroll down,then verify AP style and break again, news isrefreshed and reflected upon, a status update:my focus is broken, a factory prism, a prism of foci.

A fracture of light: from window towhite. Spot of rainbow high abovecloud chills above air: water crystallizesinto the forms of God: yes, eachone unique, irreproducible--vulnerable? Wounded.And when land again on earth, warmthconvinces crystalback to liquidvacillation.

One by Marcella Durand

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Paul D. Miller, You Lie, 2010, Four digital prints, 48”x32” each

You Lie

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Dread Scott, Poll Dance, 2010, Interactive installation

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Spam A Lot (Viagra for Joe Wilson) After DJ Spooky’s You Lie The Meany Potion is highly contested. The bar codes an icy rum with pixilated text messages. This Icy Urn is a cookie monster. No Mane in every possible format. The running man came and From time to time No Op for wireless Runny Acme.

Cry Ann; go no now, shed a tear for my networks. the street’s a visual dish

Bombarded, Yin Man laughs at the human voice: “Op Nip we are and even in cyan mire nu cyan” too pinned down the cellular relays a basic print information that is too poi. Now what I did just say? and what about redeemed paranormal flatware – what one might investigate is wretched acne. a nun in this creamy era of ubiquity: incur ye man runic ye man uric numbers can be made to say almost anything urine is fill with mixed messages, vitamin efficient cry Ann, go on now

ion top ion pot ion opt an iron lion simply put my can cranny cranium

my nun miss ann won’t you take me home bama lama

an ital landscape, mum ac bridge between rune yin. ruined numeric are left as traces to synthesize the runny mace rubric, cause mi yin came to a joint session and the ruins aids in my yin. the use of a sound bite in nuance; a miry cranium. Representative Wilson ye run manic and the runny acme sings incur and outbursts and runic yearning impressions ice my rice on thee. rye on my dye sugar exchanged on top of pot and cut through Mr. Nu ya rec mi nun ya rec cumin yuan inn. Cur me in any cur en in any car men; smells like Ensure

Amen Mac yen numeracy. Ton poi not in Iran. I ton mercy. Mine the nine in ya inna text. It’s freely available. Yearn any inane miner cause rainy cum is at a cross-roads. Slap the ream. Inure my nu congressional manix. Ruined cane. The art word’s a mean cream. The racey nacre mirrors and you lied so dang good.

Spam A Lot (Viagra for Joe Wilson) by LaTasha N. Nevada Diggs

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Survey –after Dread Scott

What is your age?a. Under 21b. 21-30c. 31-40d. 41-50e. over 50

What is your gender?a. Maleb. Femalec. Transgender

If you live in a rental apartment, what is your monthly rent?a. Less than $1,000b. $1,000-$1,500c. $2,000-$3,000d. $3,500-$4,000

What do you consider yourself?a. Full-time Artistb. Part-time Artistc. Hobbyist

Do you have health insurance?a. Yesb. No

Do you have student loans? If so, how much are you in debt for?a. 1,000 to 5,000b. 5,000 to 10,000c. 11,000 to 20,000d. 21,000 to 40,000e. 41,000 to 60,000

Do you have hope for the future?a. I do not have hope for the future.b. I have hope for the future.

Do you support Obama’s Health Care Plan?a. I do support Obama’s Health Care Plan.b. I do not support Obama’s Health Care Plan.

Have you ever received financial support for a state or city welfare program?a. Yesb. No

In a recent New York Times interactive chart, New York was shown to have 391,110 welfare recipients as of January 2009 and 2,025,853 New Yorkers receiving Food Stamps due to the rise in unemployment. 18 states have already cut their cash assistance to people in need. Should New York follow their lead?a. Yes b. No

Which comes closer to your views?a. I am a professional artist who has accomplished great success and has received an ample amount of grants and commissions frequent enough to live on and pay off my student loansb. I am a professional artist who has managed to supplement my income with a handful of grants and residencies.c. I am a professional artist living below the poverty level.d. I am professional teaching artist without health insurance.e. I fear getting sick. How many benefits for a fellow artist to raise money for their hospital costs did you attended or were aware of between 2008 and 2009?a. 3 or moreb. 2c. 1d. none

Which comes closer to your views?a. Artists have no interest in topics like health insurance, housing, social security.b. Artists have great interest in topics like health insurance, housing, social security.

Do you ever get a sense that polls are used to reinforce mainstream views in society?a. I feel that polls greatly reinforce mainstream views.b. I do not feel that polls reinforce mainstream views.

Do you think your views are reflective of the views of country as a whole?a. My views are in the majority.b. My views are in the minority.c. No opinion.

Does the government value your life?a. The government values my life.b. The government does not value my life

Surveyby LaTasha N. Nevada Diggs

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It’s not heroic, it’s broken. It’s the silent tripbetween unspokens. We recognize the architecturebut don’t name it. We take a place amid the holesresembling pink dots inside our fathers’ hearts.All the little words don’t even reach the doorbell.

Some people are awake in the middle of the night.Some are at the bathroom sink rinsing and spitting.There’s a PowerPoint presentation for just aboutanything, and a personalized ringtone to alert uswhen the war is calling—it’s the sound of bedsbeing dragged across an orphanage floor.

The next ice age will fill the rivers with antifreeze.It’s the midway point of a sugar packet’s half-life,spoonfed in timelapse with porn made to order.I still briefly pause when I hear an airplane flyinglow. The police helicopters I’m more used to,as an ebbing river of concrete reveals a beachstrewn with Mardi Gras necklaces hurledat the Superdome.

We change the sheets for the next set of guests.We live with contradictions. At a benefitfor eating off of plasma TVs, my gift bag containeda woman’s razor and chocolate-covered pretzels;yours was filled with Play-Doh and a snorkel.Initial programming includes episodes of Pimp My Ridefor self-propelled cyborgs randomly chosenfor modifications after fending off drunks swinginggravy ladles and discounted wife-beater 3-packs.

Donkeys do well in semi-arid desert. Manny orMandy? Who will heal the healers? Someonesmeared a label warning Do Not Ingest. Cloudsmove quickly ahead of the front and a rush to closethe windows. Normally, I’d say it was a good thingwe were home, where worn-out shoes are left curbsidewith the other paper and plastic recycling.

Originally published in First Proof: BOMB’s Literary Supplement, No. 108 (Summer 2009) and Late in the Antenna Fields (Futurepoem, 2011).

Coolant System by Alan Gilbert

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It’s not heroic, it’s broken. It’s the silent tripbetween unspokens. We recognize the architecturebut don’t name it. We take a place amid the holesresembling pink dots inside our fathers’ hearts.All the little words don’t even reach the doorbell.

Some people are awake in the middle of the night.Some are at the bathroom sink rinsing and spitting.There’s a PowerPoint presentation for just aboutanything, and a personalized ringtone to alert uswhen the war is calling—it’s the sound of bedsbeing dragged across an orphanage floor.

The next ice age will fill the rivers with antifreeze.It’s the midway point of a sugar packet’s half-life,spoonfed in timelapse with porn made to order.I still briefly pause when I hear an airplane flyinglow. The police helicopters I’m more used to,as an ebbing river of concrete reveals a beachstrewn with Mardi Gras necklaces hurledat the Superdome.

We change the sheets for the next set of guests.We live with contradictions. At a benefitfor eating off of plasma TVs, my gift bag containeda woman’s razor and chocolate-covered pretzels;yours was filled with Play-Doh and a snorkel.Initial programming includes episodes of Pimp My Ridefor self-propelled cyborgs randomly chosenfor modifications after fending off drunks swinginggravy ladles and discounted wife-beater 3-packs.

Donkeys do well in semi-arid desert. Manny orMandy? Who will heal the healers? Someonesmeared a label warning Do Not Ingest. Cloudsmove quickly ahead of the front and a rush to closethe windows. Normally, I’d say it was a good thingwe were home, where worn-out shoes are left curbsidewith the other paper and plastic recycling.

Originally published in First Proof: BOMB’s Literary Supplement, No. 108 (Summer 2009) and Late in the Antenna Fields (Futurepoem, 2011).

the summer after my senior year in college was a summer that i barely remember. a summer of numbers and letters. i had one damn class left: micro-economics. i don’t remember anything about this class, except that it was at 8 in the morning, and i frequently showed up in pajamas.

i thought i liked microeconomics. i thought i wanted to learn more about money, supply, and demand. the class was full of great big white charts with great big blocks of color. even distributions that didn’t look anything like the drug dealers hanging out in north champaign or the factory workers leaving the kraft plant beyond campustown or the women at the domestic violence shelter where i worked who applied for WIC cards and public transportation stipends. great big white charts. great big blocks of color.

each morning, i spent that hour slightly hung over in my pajamas. skin thirsting for sun outside, green outside, for concrete sidewalks, soft-serve ice cream, and tongue kisses from boys i didn’t know. all until the hour was up.

my father got laid off that spring, so i had four jobs that summer: one as a waste management library assistant, one as a tutor for the bridge transition program, one as a third-shift waitress at perkins, one as a temporary part-time worker for the u.s. census. at the waste management library, i made $5.50 an hour. at the bridge transition program, i made $6.00 an hour. at the perkins, i made about $8.00 or $9.00 an hour in greasy dollars and syrup-sticky quarters. i probably ended up working for the u.s. census the same way i ended up in army rotc for my first year and a half in college – avid bulletin board reading plus curiosity plus sense of civic interest (or was it duty?), and loot that would support my own personal social experiment in this arena.

it started out with a training video in a fluorescent-lit room filled with all ages, races, types of people. i remember the feel of golf pencils in my hand, the scratch of ovals.

my boss was a 24-year-old army vet, a new dad, who lived in a house in champaign. his sandy blonde hair fell crooked over his face. he wore plaid button-down shirts (even though it was summer) with the top buttons undone (scant chest hair poking out). at our first meeting at his house, he pointed out the bullet hole at the top of the stairs. he killed a man who came into rob him earlier that summer.

he said he felt sorry for the guy (i guess this guy’s family also lived in champaign), and it spooked him. but i couldn’t shake the feeling that he was a little proud of it. the bullet hole in the wall remained unpatched. just a perforation between two picture frames absent of blood stains and the slumped body on the floor.

“now, what you’ve got to do,” he said, “is fill out the forms, and return them back to me, and based on the number of forms, that’s how many hours i’ll clock for you.”

“all the forms that i fill out in my own hand?”

“yes,” he said. “the u.s. census estimates that you can finish about 15 forms or so an hour, so for every 15 you get an hour’s worth of pay. so like $12.50.”

“and all i have to do is fill them out and give them to you?”

“yes.”

as per the girl scout in me, i actually went to every address on my list. i knocked doors, rang doorbells, tapped windows. i carried my clipboards of surveys, my handful of golf pencils, and inched through every apartment complex, cul de sac, intersection. i left flyers under storm doors, on lawn ornaments, over unhinged gates. i marked each response or lack of response diligently in my notes.

there’s a short form and a long form. uh, your household has actually been selected for the long form census. how many people were living here on april 1, 2000? starting with the first person in your household, are they of hispanic, latino or spanish origin? okay, yes, then would that be mexican, cuban, puerto rican...

anyone black. anyone latino. anyone asian. would not answer the door. or would answer the door, stretch back, and laugh, “i don’t trust the government” or “i can’t answer those questions” with a shake of the head. one family let me in, mostly, i think, because they felt sorry for me. i sat on a wooden stool eating food from the bowls that they offered me, as they stared at me in a perplexed yet sympathetic way. i remember back in the fluorescent-lit room. the training video voice said, “assure people that no matter what their immigration status is, the u.s. census will be used just for informational purposes, so there is nothing left to fear.”

overall, the census-taking was less than four weeks of work. the census takers moved to the next section of central illinois hiring more temporary part-time staff. leaving us locals high and dry and looking for something else to fill the gap.

most of my friends were making ends meet by tossing pizza dough, cocktailing at the malibu bay lounge strip club, hocking apartment-for-rent flyers on the street dressed in leprachaun costumes, dumping rotten garbage out at the dairy queen, or selling weed from parked cars at the few summer parties around.

after that summer, i could never look at stats the same way again. all the government programs, the “authoritative” findings, the demographic modeling based on brief utterances gleaned from between heavy silences of weariness and distrust. great big white charts. great big blocks of color.

any claim to a national comprehensive knowledge rings false (or at the least foolish) to me – any expectation that the census is more than an aggregate of human mistakes, pencil marks scratching $12.50 an hour in rural areas and $17.00 an hour in urban areas. a kind of reverse lottery ticket in an attempt to buck the arbitrariness of affixing a numerical value on labor, of calculating how much each person’s position is worth.

Count Me In by Kelly Zen-Yie Tsai

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Karen Finley, Many Moods of Love, LP installation- with sound collage, 66” x 66”

The Square Root of Love

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John Sims, Square Root of Love, Installation-vinyl on acrylic, 66” x 66”

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LOVE

THE SQUARE ROOT OF LOVE:

Calculating the HEART of things

JoAnne Growney – 2010

The square root of love is a roof over love

with shelter for the heart of love . . .

To those who say, LOVE is just a word,

I add, LOVE counts -- When we start from A, we find that L is the 12th letter

and O is the 15th letter, V is the 22nd letter and E is the 5th letter.

Some say LOVE is just a word, but the word becomes a number— if we add 12 + 15 + 22 + 5 we have LOVE’s number -- 54. LOVE’s more than a word, -- LOVE is 54. To get to the heart of LOVE, to the self-multiplying center of LOVE we will find the Square Root of LOVE. LOVE is not a simple number.

If LOVE were 4, its square root would be 2. If LOVE were 16, its root would be 4. If LOVE were 25, its root would be 5.

But LOVE’s Square Root is an infinite irregular display. (Still, with the help of wolframalpha.com we can calculate 54 to any precision we choose.) Math people say the Square Root of LOVE is irrational—but who in LOVE admits the loss of reason? LOVE is reason’s ideal!

The Square Root of Love: Calculating the HEART of things by JoAnne Growney

54 7. 34846 92283 49534 29459 18522 24117 67417 58978 42441 97001 03852 98077 70175 28811 32371 94507 96195 78299 31392 07044 . . .

source: www .wolframalpha.com

The Square Root of LOVE begins with 7-- but 7 squared is only 49 so next to 7 we place a decimal point and seek more digits. The next digit is 3

which is the number of a crowd, then 4 which is the number of my children, next 8 which rhymes with “mate” then 4 which counts the seasons, and 6 which is perfect.

Then we have 9 which is like a coconut

and double 2 to bond the lovers. We have 8 which has just eaten and 3 which counts the little kittens or the Billy Goats Gruff.

Next comes 4 for the compass points

and 9 for the circles of hell and 5 for one hand’s fingers and 3—which, in a row, wins Tic-Tac-Toe— then 4 for the number of Gospels.

The next four digits are 2945 — then next comes 9,

the number of planets before Pluto became too small.

We then find 1 and 8 and 5 and a pair of 2s --

we know 1 is the number of God, 8 is the sides to an octagon, 5 is the points to a star 2 is how many opposites, 2 is the number of magnetic poles.

Weary though we are, so far we have only twenty-six digits of the Square Root of LOVE which goes on forever. We could spend our lives on its digits—we must stop, find time for LOVE.

7 . 3 4 8 4 6 9 22 8 3 4 9 5 3 4 2945 9 18522 . . . . . .

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1.you were a carabao lifting rice sacks under the Pangasinan sun a handsome sailor on his way to Greece instead found a Filipino nurse who hummed Elvis tunes she thought America would be a Technicolor beach but arrived during the coldest Baltimore winter surprised by foods like pizza

2.you bought a house with a fireplace it was romantic mom said

3.while mom worked late shifts taking care of crack babies in south east DC you watched basketball the bounce of your belt breaking me when I was three for twisting the controls of the portable tv called me destroyer 4.you fed me the finest adobo, stews of blood garlic, chili peppers when driving me to piano lessons you said you could never eat a piano

5.you could turn so red & jelly you convinced all the neighbors that you should play Santa Claus when you were really hiding a temper that fists thru doors

6.the house you bought is boarded up with too many holes to be sold your belongings strung outside a yard sale for the damned

7.the gorgeous cherry tree you killed with insecticides gone too

8.did you even know what you were doing pisces man lover of seas whose hot spit I felt on my cheek the way my head spilt bloody beaten by the boy across the street you lifted me by the neck told me how you were slapped by Japanese bayonets don’t cry it doesn’t hurt shaking me like a wet umbrella

9.I want to know if you ever saw me dad you hiding behind a hammock and sunglasses saw the boy you made rub your back for a nickel

10.I am tired of growing fat like you know that you’ve become that apathetic sack of rice buried in the fields

11.what can I do to make it worth the miles

12.I want to play a sonata of love for you arpeggios of anger scaling

13.thirty-two years of tears for you metronome clicks for disappointment in you my hands reach out to lift you higher than the volcanoes where gods gave men rice

14.and from the altitudes of angels I am not afraid to say I’ve come home

15.thirty-two years of tears for you metronome clicks for disappointment in you

16.my hands reach out to lift you higher thanthe volcanoes where gods gave men rice and from the altitudes of angels, I am not afraid to say I’ve come home

Learning To Be My Father’s Son Or 16 Things I Could Never Tell My Father by Regie Cabico

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Sol LeWitt, Wall Drawing #163, (1973), Red and black crayon, 6’x 6’

Selected Infinite Extensions Arbitrarily Constrained: Sol LeWitt and Adrian Piper

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Adrian Piper, Vanishing Point #1, (2009), Wall deletion, 6’x 6’41

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A reading in response to Adrian Piper’s Vanishing Point #1 (2009)Remove the 6’ square section of wall itself, so that whatever is behind it (bricks,wooden supports, whatever) is revealed.

Itself a response to Sol LeWitt’s Wall Drawing #163—Two Lines in a Square(1973).Black outlined square with a red horizontal line from the left side and a redvertical line touching at the end of the horizontal line.

Lately I’ve been trying something new,to live without illusionsand cherish what remains[...]The sacred remains:The assault of the real,the dissection of fact,the mystery of unmeaning,the dwindling of self,the release into motion.

—Adrian Piper, from Decide Who You Are #11: Remains, 1992

Now I see them in their second-hand Ford. Someone else sees me seeing them.Someone else sees that guy seeing all the rest. Set County, nestled within all theseacts of observation, three theses of seeing.”

—Mac Wellman, from Linda Perdido

SELF = WALLRemove your self. What do you find?

S O C I E D A D A N O N I M A

Dear friend,

I’d love for you to consider contributing a few pieces for a book I’m doing with a poetry press in Mexico City. The book gathers verbal snapshots or sketches of people, if you will, and is titled Sociedad Anónima. Although the title literally translates into “anonymous society,” it’s a legal term for a type of shareholder-owned corporation. I’ve written many of these sketches already, but in keeping with the nature of the project, I’d like open it up to other people’s voices. I don’t want my voice or perspective to prevail and become the one identifiable subject in the midst of an assembly of anonymous ones.

I thought of you because you’re observant; other people’s personhood seems to intrigue you and, in turn, I’m intrigued by what you perceive. If you were to participate, I’d ask you to send me 1 to 3 portraits of people by Friday, April 9th. I ask that you jot down impressions and not make these artsy or poetic. You can choose to depict people you know or complete strangers, just don’t include their names in the pieces you send to me. Go about portraying them anyway you please. A snippet of dialogue, a fragment of a text message or email, a clothing item—all will suffice. Anything from one word to a whole page per portrait is welcome.

You should know too that in the spirit of the project, I’ll credit everyone in the book’s acknowledgments, but names won’t be attached to individual pieces. I’ll be translating the pieces into Spanish, but I’ll hold on to the originals in case I ever do the book in English as well.

I hope you want to do this! I’d be thrilled.

As ever,Mónica

Sociedad Anonima by Mónica de la Torre

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Two Poems Squared by Bob Holman Two lines don’t make a square Unless two are right angles And connect up on all sides. Two red lines one square you can't make a square out of two lines unless right angles connect. Two black lines, black half lines and your name is Sol LeWitt! Squeezed rectangles make a square, two black fours make six, six Rectangles, one square. A square as in a whole hole in the canvas A hole in the wall A hole that reveals the wall is a square. A square Whole in a square wall. It’s a square Adrian Piper! Geometry rhymes Poetry, John Sims!

Not square in art and poetry cut a hole in the roof the square sky Stares at your square eyes and all along the square the squire stares At the storage container the orange container open the square can

And you get a square lid perhaps you put the square sandwich into that Square can or the sandwich itself is square into a box did I say box?

Two poems Squaredby Bob Holman

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Dear Morning Light dear visiwindby Bob Holman

dear skin singular enveloping us into hellowhat are am I doing you are here helloand whenand when and then and then and when again again

let’s just say, in terms of saying, that someoneis you one and beneath layers of dust music and gargoyle lint little bits of you hello hello keeps callingworld in a footprint helloarm around bod pulled close helloall the above below and below above (hello? hello!) indefatigability-lanced breath all teeth and a light

Dear Morning Light and visiwindDear You who spins and spanningThe me to you factor hug and wait a second lip lipsPlurality theme song, reciprocal love absoluteI can hear you humming somewhere deep withinPulling the covers over and call it skin

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… what do you do … when cataclysm takes its time

for you — … terra non grata … with molten being … drilled into my dna I waited — invisible kingdom, embedded to invisible side

with all of us, therewaiting, from the bordered before

… show yourself… through the wall — our people… stranded in that square

… all of you looking back… all the same … at the edge — terra sin mecca

the salt in my beardthe bees throughout — all the same

underneath a ground — ten thousand times bigger than the one I stand onspitting up dirty tornados in a direct fault-line to who I am

a century’s blind telegram injects into your soil

… there’s only so much a planet can take… only so much — I thought I would have … by now

the mouth disappearsempty as a painting a body a bone

… is this, for anyone who wants it… a frame, a day

… grounded in prehistoric terrapins

… thank you web … but I don’t really need erection pills

orbit sage, omnipresent calliopejesters in funeral gearpoets, poets, poets

… easy to invent a room… if language is what follows you … if all I am

… is something to admire… something to step through … come on planet, your mouth —

a smoke of contradictions releasing debate as healthy spillover our only travel an undercurrent of hidden languageredefining condition as human

telegraphic collisions — terra cum vocatremendous flow of faith, of carnage

… and where to put that… the answer — too private, paleontific

… angularsomewhere in my daily commute once I have nowhere to go — the birds and burns that invigorate my stepwill be the small crimes that stand outonce the big ones have gone

… waiting to be heard… on the other side — this is not … screaming for help

… that happened already a long time ago… in the words, the work… that’s — where it happens

dressed in glyphicssecrets take on long talesimagined — as language and line

… breaks — see, I’m not… asking you about the asking

… just asking the teller to be quiet

… so I can hear … the structure of my output … and glance inside

… using you, dear planet — as … a guide, to just… let go

little orb. terror snort. spooner devil. tempter port. thistle brush. invasion wing. leader wing.

my boy, asleep on the living room coucha tape recording of my voice telling him stories

my love, asleep on our beda recurring dream of us when we were flying

me, asleep in words a poem’s invasion of flight why now — to feel active in the walk to stir up the filtering capacity of the stranded to celebrate the work that does the work the molecules aligned for the gulp

… the air doesn’t warn anymore … just looks me in the eye and says … I’m here — are you?

… show me how your day … moves you moves … through you — takes so much

… to get through a day… to put words into something, approaching … thought

what you must be going through, dearest planetyour processyour disruption — aligned with mine

what can I give youwhen the ground won’t stopwhen a poem functions as both remedyand opening

Terra Quad by Edwin Torres

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MathArtPoem: A LeWitt/Piper Response by John Sims/Rhythm of Structure Class ( NYU): Adrienne Cahill, Audrey Hailes, Allison Semenza, Brittany Beyer, Charley Damski, Daniel Jones, Dorothy

Ahoova Jiji, Daniel Swartz, Ellpetha Tsivicos, Erin Rioux, Iemi Hernandez-Kim, Natalie Peyton, Oliver Lanzenberg, Rachel Naar, Ryan Mellinger, Samuel Wilkes, Steffi Graffis and William Sullivan

MathArtPoem: A LeWitt/Piper Response by John Sims/Rhythm of Structure Class ( NYU)

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I’ll riddle you this.There is a hole, but nothing is missing.Quit shrugging your shoulders.You’re not even trying.

The bricks have always been here.The bricks are not in question.Seriously, lay off the bricks.Just look at you.Your silly head, a storm tossed buoy,bobbing left, right,searching for some law that regulates my empty,sends the red ants marching in flawless formationout, up.

You look like one of those NYU typesthat spent your first semester defendingthe artistic merit of a toilet seat.I can tell by the way you laugh like“why is nobody else laughing?”I can tell by the way you pour yourself into everything,blame it on your parent’s divorce when you spill.

You get me.You’ve just stopped believing in silence.In smooth lines and sharp corners.I’m a simple sort of wonder.

Oh, now you’re frustrated?I’ve had to stare at your unkempt eyebrows for 12 minutes.How do you think that makes me feel?You’ve written 12 words,mostly ones you can’t define,taken 4 cell phone pictures,contemplated grabbing a beer at the bar-It’s noon, kid.You’re life ain’t that bad.

Quit sassin’ me.I didn’t ask to be here anymore than you did.I’m 37 years old.I know what defeat smells like.I know what it is to stand before the flocksas they stare and stare and stare and talk abouthow it makes them feel to stare.I am everything you don’t want to understand these days.

You look like the lonely type.Like you live in an echo.Carve a chunk out of your sternum.Don’t mind the fluttering thing beneath it.It’s overrated.Witness the wondrous acrobatics you are made of.What does your empty look like?Is it anything like mine?Do your angles ever dare you,dare you to stand up straight?

For the Girl Who Was Asked to Write a Poem About Me and, as Usual, Wanted to Write a Poem About Her Heart Instead by Eboni Hogan

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1

The elevator went to the basement. The doors opened.

A man stepped in and asked if I was going up.

“I’m going down,” I said, “I won’t be going up.”

2

The elevator went to the basement. The doors opened.

A man stepped in and asked if I was going up.

“I’m going down,” I said, “I won’t be going up.”

Empty by Jon Sands

Someone just put their Diet Coke on me. Actually they

put it on my absence. I am made of a tunnel. I am made

of a window. Today, Mr. Poet, you are made of a

turquoise sweatshirt. Today, you are made of a headache

because last night you were made of three tequila shots.

Today, I’m made of a Diet Coke bottle. I call it my little

nutrasweetheart. I’m made of brick in here. Sometimes

Mr. Turquoise Poet, I wish your outsides were made of

nothingness so I could see more clearly what you’ve

named your bricks. One is the blue your nephew keeps

in his new eyes. One, the curl your body becomes around

your second pillow on the mornings you no longer enjoy

being single. One, the night your best friends spoke the

language of karaoke and back-flipped laughter into the

walls of each bar in Ft. Greene. My promise to you is to

never stop naming. Move me outside, I’ll name my

skyscrapers. Point me skyward, I’ll name my planets.

Point me at yourself. Please, point me at yourself.

The Elevator by Mark Strand

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20, 21, 29: A Classroom Assignment, 2010, Cotton rope and crayon,Students from Brooklyn Academy of Science and Environment: NaomiBeaubrun, Krystal Duckett,

Chidi Duke, Augustine Fordjourd, Sheneil Johnson, Jackie Jones, Eunice Joseph, Rashawn Lenzy Korabo Mtomboti, Sherika Powell, Brittany St. Rose and Jennifer Lemish – instructor

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1- It’s my worst subject.

2- I failed Algebra in high school.

3- When I retook Algebra in high school during the final exam the principal announced that the space shuttle had just blown up.

4- The space shuttle probably blew up because of a mathematical error.

5- I got terrible scores in math on my ACT’s and my SAT’s thus dooming me to a lifetime of liberal arts.

6- A right angle is 90 degrees. It is 90 degrees outside as I write this and it is hot and miserable. I hate 90 degrees.

7- If a train leaves Philadelphia at 1:45 PM at 55MPH and another train leaves NYC at 1:55PM at 65MPH, then why do I always end up sitting next to a bunch of drunk businessmen drinking 40 ounce cans of Lite Beer talking too loudly about sports?

8- Men from ancient times who created Mathematics slept with little boys.

9- Subtraction means you take something away from someone and nobody likes having their stuff taken unless you are having a tumor removed.

10- Addition means you put something into something and that is why this planet is overpopulated.

11- Money is just a bunch of numbers written on paper and we all pretend it means something.

12- Most people don’t know how to calculate a 15 to 20 percent tip on a credit card tab and just round up to the next highest number. These people should be rounded up and then shot.

13- Math was somehow used to invent computers and the internet which despite how advanced that seems it seems to have somehow made people stupider.

14- Even people who are good at math can’t figure out why their paychecks are so small and their cell phone bills are so big.

15- My girlfriend understands the concept of compound interest when it applies to her 401K but not how it applies to my comic book collection.

16- When you are born, the government assigns you a number. This seems evil to me somehow.

17- There is a lot of talk about how many apples someone has in math problems and it makes me hungry for apples.

18- The same thing happens when someone discusses the concept of “PI”.

19- Math made Russell Crowe go crazy in that one movie.

20- A trapezoid sounds like a really cool monster that Godzilla might fight but it’s really just a stupid looking rectangle thingy.

21- Because 7 ate 9!

21 Reasons Why I Hate Math by Shappy Seasholtz

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29 Solutions For Writers, By People Who Know Better Than Me by Cristin O’Keefe Aptowicz

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1.) “We are all apprentices in a craft where no one ever becomes a master.” —Ernest Hemingway

2.) “Poetry is mostly hunches.” —John Ashberry

3.) “The process of writing will always be trying to repair something that doesn’t exist with tools you have to invent on the spot.” —George Saunders

4.) “Write when there is something that you know; and not before; and not too damned much after.” —Ernest Hemingway

5.) “I always write from my own experiences whether I’ve had them or not.” —Ron Carlson

6.) “You owe reality nothing and the truth about your feelings everything.”—Richard Hugo

7.) “Writing isn’t about applause. It’s about humiliation.” —Steve Almond

8.) “Art hurts. Art urges voyages when it’s easier to stay home.” —Gwendolyn Brooks

9.) “…you can kill characters only once, but you can hurt them everyday.” —Neil LaBute

10.) “When one is highly alert to language, then nearly everything begs to be a poem...” —James Tate

11.) “Remember the old adage about how an infinite number of monkeys typing on an infinite number of typewriters will eventually type something beautiful? Well, the Internet disproves that.” —Kurt Vonnegut

13.) “Always pull back—and see how silly we must look to God.” —Jack Kerouac

14.) “I write for myself and strangers.” —Gertrude Stein

15) “Any writer who knows what he’s doing isn’t doing very much.” —Nelson Algren

16.) “Wanting to meet an author because you like his work is like wanting to meet a duck because you like paté.” —Margaret Atwood

17) “If you’re going to be crazy, you have to get paid for it or else you’re going to be locked up.” —Hunter S. Thompson

18.) “Humor is laughing at what you’ve haven’t got, when you ought to have it.” —Langston Hughes

20) “This autonomy crap? That means you’re off working alone. If you want autonomy, be a poet.” —Michael Eisner (CEO of Disney)

21.) “There’s no money in poetry, but then there’s no poetry in money, either.” —Robert Graves

22.) “Writing a book is an adventure. To begin with, it is a toy and an amusement; then it becomes a mistress, and then it becomes a master, and then a tyrant.” —Winston Churchill

23.) “Perhaps there is another kind of writing, I only know this one: in the night, when fear does not let me sleep.” —Franz Kafka

24.) “And the day came when the risk to remain tight in a bud was more painful than the risk it took to blossom.” —Anaïs Nin

25.) “Once your life is organized so beautifully that there’s a table, and a chair, and a typewriter, that already is an incredible triumph.” —Leonard Cohen

26.) “An intellectual says a simple thing in a hard way. An artist says a hard thing in a simple way.” —Charles Bukowski

27.) “Poets think they are pitchers, but they are really catchers.” —Jack Spicer

28.) “The end of all our exploring will be to arrive when we started and know the place for the first time.” —T.S. Eliot

29.) “If my doctor told me I had only six minutes to live, I wouldn’t brood. I’d type a little faster.” —Isaac Asimov

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So I set myself a task — to work by way of the analogy betweenthe grammatical and the mathematical — and I formulateda definition — the “mathematical poem,” if it is to be, or tocontain, poetry, must have some poetic elements, as well assome formal symbols and operations of math — and I named mymathematical poetry “mutually inverse operations,” and then onthe occasion of the Mathematical Graffiti Event at the BoweryPoetry Club in New York City, I posted a set of examples of mymathematical poetry on the Mathematical Graffiti Wall.

Mutually Inverse Operations:

Change + purse = church.kite + propeller = wing.to + to = too.am = be + Isecrets = ? + whispers

Previous page: Mathematical Graffiti, 2010, Mixed media, 12’ x 16’, Featuring Fernando Mora, John Sims with Kyle Goen, Mark Turgeon

and the Bowery Poetry Club Patrons

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Mutually Inverse Operations: Mathematical Poetry on the Occasion of the Mathematical Graffiti Wallby Gregory Vincent St. Thomasino

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Graffiti Mathemaku by Bob Grumman

Proportional Poems by Kaz Maslanka

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Are you kidding? Quarks, too, can choose? Conway and Kochen, old dragons, well vetted, claim—no—prove, if given a free hand to choose

their gear direction while quizzing quarks with questions, taking their measure, then, too, whim-

driven & not determined, a particle’s response. To be precise—the universe’s response near the particle un-determined by the Whole prior history of World Time & Space.

In fairness, it’s the theory’s “strong” (min, spin, twin) form—could they claim more?

Imagine haranguing electrons, just say no— Imagine addressing zoomers sans apparatus. Up and at it,

again, are you, pairs of them grumble, maybe even hiss; gauging us, too, in their stinging way.

from Vlak 1 no. 1, 2010

Baby and you—and me,we will make three,

but baby-and-me are different: we’re two- who-are-one.

So, together, five—or we were, whenI-was-two-in-one,but

wishing, it was so hot that summer, I was wishing we were two.

You and me, we’ve been twowho were one as well, but nobody thinksthat’s the same, or

a problem. How many of us were there really, when

I-was-two-who-were-one? Was itfive: us-two + we-three?Or three?

Or two. You said, “If it came —God forbid—to that, well then,

justtwo.” You meant, should it come,Godsent, to some crux,

should push come to knife, just

Baby and you.

from True North, U. Notre Dame Press, 1997

33 Symmetry Axes x 40 Orthogonal Triples; or, Free Will, Revisited by Stephanie Strickland

Who Counts, Counts by Stephanie Strickland

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Life is full of numbers that are continually speaking to us in their own language--the

language of numerals. Unless we learn how to read them--how to perceive order and

meaning behind numerical relationships--we are, in certain respects, functionally illiterate.

The arithmetic of whole numbers includes six operations: addition, multiplication, and

involution (also known as “Squaring”), as well as their opposites, which are subtraction,

division and devolution (or extracting the “square root”), all of which are procedures available

to numerical art. Every piece of mine has both a visual form and a numerical form. §Some

numerical structures are simple and instantly understood, while others can be quite complex

and opaque. My own art tends to favor symmetrical and sequential kinds of order over

more obscure forms, as the numerical sets in these works usually articulate an arithmetic

pattern. §Numerical art requires numeracy to be understood, much as poetry depends

upon “literacy”; this is an art for people are are numerate. §My Numbers are primarily

about properties peculiar to numbers; rarely do they attempt to refer to anything outside of

numbers. Nonetheless, they reflect a world that is full of numbers and thus hopefully enhance

our experience of numerable life. §Poetry composed of numbers differs from numerical

fictions, the crucial distinction being that poetry aims to concentrate both image and effect,

while stories create a world of related activity. Thus, most multi-page sequences are fictional,

while one-pagers are usually closer to poetry; yet into a single page can be compressed

material that is essentially more fictional than poetic. §The Pythagoreans assumed that only

through number and form could Man grasp the nature of the universe. §Numbers, unlike

verbal language, can be read both vertically and horizontally; they are also internationally

understood. §Algebraic symbols comprise another mathematical language, consisting

largely of numerical paraphrases, whose grammar often resembles that of numbers. Though

more powerful mathematically, such symbols strike me as less useful artistically, only in

part because the vocabulary of algebra is more esoteric than that of numbers. §It could be

said that arithmetic investigates the mysterious properties and mutual relationships of

common numbers; and so, in its own ways, does ‘numerical ‘art. §Much contemporary art

reveals a concern with the essences of a medium which is, in this case, the language of

numerals. It was my intention to use nothing but numbers, in all their purity. §For all of my

life I have enjoyed the numbers encountered in everyday life. In New York State, where I

live, license plates frequently have a single number followed by a letter and then four more

numerals - something like “5W4925.” Even today, I instinctively divide the four right-hand

digits by the left-hand integer, in addition to noting that the numbers contain the sums of

7 and 5 squared. I hope this art reflects that kind of concern and pleasure. §Though recent

artists have tried to incorporate into their works a wealth of material and. imagery previously

considered sub-artistic, Art has scarcely assimilated the language of numbers; for few of the

numerals appearing in contemporary art (other than my own) are numerically articulate.

Notes on Numbers by Richard Kostelanetz

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The HyperQuilt

The HyperQuilt, 2010, Fiber, Featuring Helen Beamish, Elaine Ellison, Suzanne Gould, John Sims, Ella Miller Toy, Diana Venters, and Paula Wynte

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Ogotomelli spoke this language written in a small circle in the dustthe trajectories and angles of life played out in predictable cycles that still looked familiar in the captive South. It is no wonder how Amish women and the mothers in Gee’s Bend could capturethis life with needle and thread. The cosine and sine of waves undulates in the shaking of quilts laid on beds to heal, promoteconception, swaddle newborns and the dying, or even as maps

telling ancestors to grab the Monkey Wrench and throw, turn themWagon Wheels round as a Dresden Dinner Plate, run to the churchand put on Bow Ties, but walk a Drunken Path so you can’t be foundLook for the Flying Geese, the Log Cabin and always look for Stars like Frederick Douglass peering at the North Star after the whip weighedits heavy redemption against Covey’s back, after the swell of hymns roseinto the peaked beams of churches where stolen people received dictation

on civilization and heard the fable of the infant and his parents followinga bright star to a reluctant innkeeper. The stolen ones lost languages—Hausa, Igbo, Bambara, Lingala, Kikongo, Sangha, Bateke, Yoruba, but no one in the territory of thieves knew that the stolen people carriedthe tongue of stars in their mouth brighter than their teeth in ugly pictures. But the fabric tells tales often washed away by sunbleaching, lye soap, its transformation as batting for new quilts, and other sorts of everyday use.

Each thread soaked like indigo in the quiet proofs and loud fractals that echo cells and villages, and the idea that evil cannot travel in straight lines or at least evil is obsessed with them and counting them to the end, so the stolen ones offered stitches, and the wives offered comfort, steadfast as flesh cradling constellations knitting limbs in their wombs and minds. A comforter holds secrets that must be kept warm and sometimes set free.

The Language of Quiltsby Tara Betts

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The year is 1984. Thriller has the world on padlock. It is the year of the Rat. March 30, 1974. The Ramones play their first New York City show. You are 11 days old. It is the year of the Tiger. It is the last time the Tigers win the world series. The last time your mother can see with solid 20/20 before a single line drive up the third base line kisses her right eye goodnight forever. It is the last time your father shares a room with your mother. The last time your grandmother visits. The last time your brother will be an only child. You are born in a year of last times. Add 14 years: South Broadway thrift store. Blue hair, blue boots, a spiked leather jacket. You buy your first Ramones tee shirt, used. You are tit-flash and Maddog. Crooked-tooth wild. You are gun powder. A smiling minefield. Add 11 years, 1995. The first time you really kiss a girl is the summer before sixth grade. Subtract seven years. 1981. You steal your first kiss from Cheeseman Academy’s first-grade math champ, Jonathan Marks. A cluster of nervous tics and finger-twirl, twitch and chatter, his wizardry with numbers has you in awe. Brenna Mulholland and you disappear into a closet in Russell Petran’s basement while your friends outside eat stale chips, talk shit and pretend to be comfortable. Add 10 years, Jonathan is valedictorian at a private high school and slated for early graduation from Harvard. You sell pot out of your book bag. Spend the money on acid. You’ve seen Rocky Horror Picture Show fifty-seven times. You fumble around in the wonderful, sober darkness, guess where your mouths should land until something clicks. Emerge from that closet like you’ve landed on the moon. You have a secret crush on Adam Loranger. Valedictorian. Mathematical genius. Multiply teen angst. Adam will never speak to you. Adam is terrified. This equation has a last time buried in it. Subtract half a decade, 1990. You are kneeling on the shag carpet

The Last Timeby Adam Falkner and Jeanann Verlee*

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in your best friend’s basement arguing about cardboard bricks and other premium fort-building materials. His fort is twice the size of yours. You tell him you don’t like him. He tells you that you should be nicer to him because, after all, you are in his house playing with his things. You call him a dirty Mexican. Somehow, your mother’s van is in the driveway and she is in the kitchen with her work clothes on. This is the last time you visit Sebastian’s house. Multiply by two. August 10, 2010. The George Washington Bridge calls to you like a ready lover. You’ve reached the bottom of a bottle of Jamesons and the man you’ve loved for the last eight years has left. You’ve always been afraid of drowning. Subtract 46 days. June. He promised you a family. A houseful of living. Add barren. Add rebound. Add stranger-fuck. Add bar hag. Add smoker’s cough. Add spit bath. Add wrinkles. Add sag. You are now. You are old. It is August. It is the Hudson. Your body is a burning building. In 2001, you slouch at the back of your math class, your hand stays locked in your pocket like an unloaded weapon. Numbers float across the page like acrobats. You pretend math is for kids who can’t write. You pretend you write well. You pretend you’d rather be so high you can’t stand up, so high you throw up in a trash can in A Hall during 6th period. Divide by seven. You are five years old. Your father is a hunting knife. A ball-peen hammer. He is dusty work boots and thirty-four of your favorite flavors of ice cream. He’s an engineer. A maker of math. Maker of machines. Bender of steel. He is a mouthful of bourbon on a mountain range; he is stoking a campfire. He is building something new. He is in the shop. Always, the shop. Only your mother knows how numbers drift like they do when you look at them, trade places like a changing of the guard. Add nineteen years. Your father called. He misses you. It is your 36th birthday and he is in New York City. For you. It may be the last time.Add six months. He is in the shop. Building something for the Cannoneers. Your father called. Learned to text. Writes that he misses you. That he built something for the Air Force. Writes, don’t go get yourself depressed. Only your mother tells you, too bad. Just go slow. Figure it out. 26 absences. 14 tardies. 4 meetings with the class principal. $300.00 for tutoring that doesn’t work. This is the last time you are asked to make sense of arithmetic. The last time you step foot in a math class. Not the last time you pretend to be something you’re not. Divide by now. Find the square root of first time. Last time. Pretend.It’s not the last time. 1974 1982 2003 1991 2007 1984 2010 This is not the last time.

(*underlined phrases are shared lines in live readings)

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We Come From Farm PeopleOur People are Farm PeopleOur People Make Things

We Come From Farm PeopleOur People are Farm PeopleOur People Grow Things

We Come From Farm PeopleOur People are Farm PeopleOur People Raise Things

We Come From Farm PeopleOur People are Farm PeopleOur People Take Care

We Come From Farm PeopleOur People are Farm PeopleOur People Hold Out

We Come From Farm PeopleOur People are Farm PeopleOur People Make Up

We Come From Farm PeopleOur People are Farm PeopleOur People Make Do

We Come From Farm PeopleOur People are Farm PeopleOur People Make A Way

We Come From Farm PeopleOur People are Farm PeopleOur People Make Art

We Come From Farm PeopleOur People are Farm PeopleOur People Make Beauty

We Come From Farm PeopleOur People are Farm PeopleOur People Make A Way Out Of No Way

We Come From Farm PeopleOur People are Farm PeopleOur People Make Do

We Come From Farm PeopleOur People are Farm PeopleOur People Hold On

We Come From Farm PeopleOur People are Farm PeopleOur People Fix Things

We Come From Farm PeopleOur People are Farm PeopleOur People Save Things

We Come From Farm People by Kate Rushin

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“The universe is made of stories, not atoms.” Muriel Rukeyser

mathematics < Greek, mathema, to learn

I was never good at math. Words, Stories, English was my territory.Dawn was the smart one in Science.Merwin had the corner on Math.Knowledge was a fixed quantity in our universe. We had the proof.There was plenty of fear, not enough intelligence to go around.

I was never good at Math.It was a fate I accepted as fact, gendergenetics. I ducked, wrenched B’s from my brain. Our teacher cursed us, proclaimed we’d do better, just for spite,up at the good high school rumored to guarantee our future,that infinitely advancing point on a disappearing horizon.The new teachers netted usin the reticules of their eyes.

I was never good at Math. It wasn’t until years later, livinga future I couldn’t have imagined, in a tiny Massachusetts apartmentwith sloping wooden floors,I found myself watching a showabout a clerk named Ramanujan. He had traveled from India to England,Madras to Cambridge, in 1913 to claim his mathematical destiny.There were his scores of notebooks brimming with calculations that had taken him months to do by hand.

I jumped up and yelled at the television.So that’s how you get a formula.That’s what p stands for.Why didn’t anybody let us in on the secret?

Theorems aren’t handed down by some god who favors particular hair, particularskin, private schools, and orthodontia.How were we supposed to remember what we’d never seen or imagined?I scribbled the address tosend for a pamphlet summing up the life of an Indian mathematician.I want to reverse the clock, demand a refund a clean slate. I reach back,grab my teachers by their collarspummel them by rotehold them upside down by their anklesshake until the privileged informationslips loose from their pocketsclatters at my feet.

I was never good at Math,until one day I saw it was all about power, patterns, stories, the world in another tongue.It was all about my actual heart pumping myactual blood through my actual veins.I ride a diesel engine bus, cover these miles, cross this suspension bridge,arrive at land’s end 4:23 pm precisely, sunset, low tide, this season, this hemisphere, this earth.

I never believed I could be good at Mathuntil one day I saw. I could seeit was just one more awestruckmade-up, imaginary language.

This poem was written on the occasion of the Carol Wood/John Sims birthday party hosted by the Mathematics Department at Wesleyan University in the Winter of 1996.

The Math Poem: Along The Learning Curve by Kate Rushin

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Acknowledgments

This project became an unfolding mass of math-art-poetry magic, none of which was possible without the rich probabilities of New York City–a musical instrument humming the physics of a human hive. Starting with a blank wall and hundreds of buzzing conversations we made some history on the Bowery bringing together unlikely allies, telling hidden stories and conspiring to spread the inspiration. Thank you Bowery. Thank you New York City! I would like to thank all the Artists and Poets/Performers for their precious time and voice. I am indebted to Kevin Dean/Selby Gallery and a decade of stimulating discussions starting with our MathArt-ArtMath in 2002; and Bob Holman/Bowery Poetry Club for the opportunity for making this become more than an academic fantasy but an experiential lesson in linking spaces: classroom, studio and art. And much gratitude to Karen Finley/Art and Public Policy Program at NYU and my Rhythm of Structure course for being an important part of LeWitt/Piper response. Jennifer Lemish and her class at Brooklyn Academy of Science and Environment for meeting the challenge. Also Sofie LeWitt for supporting the Sol LeWitt presence in the project. And Adrian Piper for being so giving. Brother Num and Yael Acher-Mordiano for keeping the music flowing. John Hiigli and Vandorn Hinnant for going the extra mile. And the iconic Taylor Meade, my Monday night bar mate, who saw all the shows and whose honest running commentary was a blessing. I must thank Tara Betts, Bob Holman, Cristin O’Keefe Aptowicz and Kristin Prevallet for recommending great poets and Latasha N. Nevada Diggs for the wonderful insight. Special attention to both Summer Hill Seven and Bob Grumman for coming up to NYC from Florida, Tatiana Bonch from Australia and Kaz Maslanka from San Diego, all at their own expense. I want also to thank all those who worked on the film, especially Michele Friedline, Steve Grisé, Ian Dean, Scott Toros, and Nino Pinelli/Jessica Pinelli for collaborating with me on the theme song. Special thanks to Douglas Higgins and his extreme patience for working on the catalogue and Aaron Blackall for the great graphic support. And again Carol Wood for the party that spawned some of this and Ethan M. Coven for his guidance. And special thanks to Ella Miller Toy. I must acknowledge the tech and all around support of Kathy Littman, Tara and Kristin for the proofreading. Also I appreciate the many special people who came out to the events: Naomi Beckwith, Ruth Blake, Carlton Cartwright and Paula Cartwright, Ethan M. Coven, Jennifer Lemish, Mei Li, Donna Harkavy, Karen Hung, Erin McCandless, Aaron Tyson Sims, Kara E. Walker, Flavia Zuniga-West, Pat Kaufman, Marilyn Frankenstein, Kimberli Gant, Marisa Joelson, Nick Katranis, Steven Thrasher, Amy Sherald, and Toni Wynn. Thanks to Sam Lux and Scott Toros for their art assistance.

Again I would like to acknowledge the following:

Featured Artists: Karen Finley, Paulus Gerdes, Sol LeWitt, John Hiigli, Vandorn Hinnant, and Ken Hiratsuka, Paul D. Miller aka DJ Spooky, Dread Scott, and John Sims, Cartesian Hive Artists: Davide Cervone, Kevin Dean, Agnes Denes, Mike Field, Susan Happersett, John Hiigli, Vandorn Hinnant, Ken Hiratsuka, Dorothea Rockburne, Christina Schmitt, Carlo Sequin, John Sims, Sarah Stengle, Pam Turczyn, Joyce Wellman and Roman Verostko. HyperQuilt Artists: Helen Beamish, Elaine Ellison, Suzanne Gould, John Sims and Ella Miller Toy, Diana Venters and Paula Wynte. Mathematical Graffiti Wall Artists: Fernando Mora, Kyle Goen, John Sims and Mark Turgeon Poets/Performers: Derrick Adams, M. Liz Andrews, Cristin O’Keefe Aptowicz, Tara Betts, Tatiana Bonch, Regie Cabico, Chang, Latasha Diggs, Marcella Durand, Adam Falkner, Robert Fitterman, Chris Funkhouser, Alan Gilbert, JoAnne Growney, Bob Grumman, Eboni Hogan, Bob Holman, Nina Ingemann,Pooh Kaye, Richard Kostelanetz, Kaz Maslanka, Faybiene Miranda, Kristin Prevallet, Kate Rushin, Jon Sands, Christina Schmitt, Summer Hill Seven, Shappy Seasholtz, Stephanie Todd, Gregory Vincent St. Thomasino, Mark Strand, Stephanie Strickland, Greg Tate, Monica de la Torre, Edwin Torres, Kelly Zen-Yie Tsai, Jeanann Verlee, and Shanxing Wang.

Bowery Poetry Club: Calvin Alden, Matt Bronshvag, Wendy Cobb, Michael Fabian, Ed Farrell, Scott Hart, Bob Holman, Diane O’Debra Langan, Eliel Lucero, Dave Miller, Nick Nace, Steph Sabelli, Shappy Seasholtz, Diane Wade, and Jonathan Zaragoza and The Lower Eastside Girls Club.

Selby Gallery, Ringling College of Art and Design: Great performances by Bob Holman and Jawole Zollar, Francis Schwartz; and Laura Avery, Kevin Dean, Trevor Dienes, Dari Goggans, Tim Jaeger, John McGaharan, Kristen McGuigan, Jeff Miller, and Jordan Kelly-Laviolette. Herndon Gallery, Antioch College, Yellow Springs, Ohio: Sara Black, Anne Bohlen, Michael Casselli, Willis Bing Davis, Migiwa Orimo and Wayne Russell.

Film Support: Chango Bi, Ian Dean, Michele Friedline, Alysha Grevious, Steve Grisé, Steve Hopkins, Ash Miller, Damen Shaqiri, Toccarra Thomas, Scott Toros, and Robin Laverne Wilson,

Photography Credits: Page 12, Cully McGill; Page 13, Ian Dean; Page 16, Ian Dean; Page 17, Cully McGill;Page 20, Cully McGill; Page 22-23, Ian Dean; Page 30, Ian Dean; Page 31, Dread Scott; Page 40-41, Stephen Smith; page 49, Ian Dean; Page 52-53, Christine Austin; page 58, Jennifer Lemish;Page 65, Ian Dean/John Sims, for Sebly Gallery, Ringling College of Art and Design

Website: www.rhythmofstructure.com

Page 67: Rhythm of Structure Catalogue - A John Sims Project
Page 68: Rhythm of Structure Catalogue - A John Sims Project