poverty porn like lunar silences i only take the photographs/ it’s a grave thing, to take a place, to objectify it/ our sovereign sleeping leaves no cum stains on the sheets/ you get to comfort yourself with the understanding there is a beauty to the thing/ i have seen appalachia from the mountaintops/ i choose to see it from the streets/ as in all things, there’s a choice, there’s always a choice/ my flirtation with poverty porn is acute/ lover to lover, people want to fuck my ass for turning a landscape they worship into a rock i strive to overturn in order to see what insects scatter, what millipedes bury themselves at deeper depths under deeper rocks, what is it about being a lover of a thing and then turning that thing into your subject/ they can’t be both/ but i want them to be both/ they cannot be both/

choose/

it’s about what you can get away with/ which is why i will fiercely defend what i do with this place — would shapes sculpt shadows on a lover’s nakedness, what belly of weeds is place when there are people who live in that place/ i will be accused (it’s always something) of creating poverty porn and i will spit on it/ the idea i am creating/ these things create themselves/ the winter of mythology/ what people really want you to do is find the mythology cold in the woods, give the dust to them in story after story, isn’t that how it has always worked/ i will not tell you a story, that isn’t what i do/ i let the stories tell themselves/