"Flaming in the installation"

Flaming in the installation
museum the one with the
mattresses on the walls and
the big pink puffy bed and
pillows and the art of dark-
nesses and they say minim-
alism can’t be beat unless
you try. The number of
Russian artists trying not
to make a statement out
numbers the number of
everyone else. Three steps
forward into the polka
dot turns you into a cat.
These are the muumuus
you wear for yourself
and these are the ones
you wear for someone
else and this is how you
put on your glasses the
wrong way so everyone
knows you know what
you’re saying. The ones
deep inside the café wear
the best overalls patted
over all with abstract tulips
sakura daffodils buttercups
and other common spring
wearing flowers. Political
statements you can truly
sink your nose into, like
an installation on the very
top floor you walked miles
to get here together and
the guards watch you watch-
ing their phones. You could
really get into this if you didn’t
have to be somewhere else
soon. Everyone is talking
around you about how they
don’t know what they’re
doing. The tiny white socks
someone took time to sew
individually covered in beads
they look like little penis
covers or maybe hoods
tiny ones. You want to
take a picture of these
ladies in their large match-
ing print wear that could be
from Finland but isn’t. It’s
from here. The sick sock
sculptures represent the
Catholic church and their
abuses. Ties to ropes from
the ceiling dangle them
at your knees and shoulders
at first sight looking like a
bunch of bowed head flow-
erring classic rock cloths,
at last reading themselves
into the century light, blue
light, red corners, white mid-
dles. The note at the end of
the line explains everything.