ALEX SCHMIDT
Self-Portrait as Introversion Spelunker among the flesh
I am drenched in bodily fluids waiting for the next form like moon reflected in moving stream. Then I am the deep stench of lumber in the carpenter’s hands. And now he hunts for dinner with a 22 and night vision in the bronchial forest.
There is no stench deep in the breath of the robot hound he suddenly becomes. Then the cracking branch from the grey feathered bird who flies away into the next form like it’s its job. This bird will hit, then fall, then go on to hit the next
until it is burned out. And taking over the mafia does their hitting. From Armani dressed forearm to forearm the job becomes blows, then bruises
like the spread of lightning becoming thunder inside the camera inside the photo booth
inside my face in which I now dive. My little eyes like sacred beads searched out by some spooky looking jungle tribe. They dance around the oils inside my cocky nose. They summon the futuristic warlock.
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