A A R O N W E L D O N painting writing film.


Smooth Boy, On Kurfürsten she will pass you a seashell. It's solid gold and made to melt, to slip through your fingers to drip through your floorboards to fill all holes and to worship in the cracks. And outside as the leaves turn velvet and the sky turns pink and the mountains catch fire in the fall, you will watch the whole world peel off. This thin skin almost full and that thick white porcelain into which the whole wide world has been said to tap its ash. You ask for the time Smooth boy I am the time. In yellow sheets she curls the lips of pages, turns smooth stones young, turns smooth boys old.



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There are old laws unwritten like gravity into stone or the loom outside a table cloth the trees outside the table legs and outside her hands an old fabric sweet mandarin unpeeling what taste unsaid? what knots undone? What gentle fray