From Poem Bitten By a Man Brian Teare (bio) Keywords poetry, Brian, Teare, disability poetry, handwriting, poetics, arrows, drawing Little shrine or altar— box of papers, worship's structure— the notebook bound to household gods. There's some ceremony in opening it, adjacency to the sacred. Ephemeral, local divinities preside inside, a charged atmosphere my hand enacts at home here no single thought my thought some are found, some given, others bribed. Whether accident, intention, or opportunity, all gods require offerings, their acute narcissism a place in which I can hide—until my failures accumulate weight on the wrong side of favor autobiography one thing after another, seasons, weather, friends, awareness of existence & mortality. Agnes the god of empty forms, of transcendence, a personable classical impersonality. Johns the god of the given world, of assemblage, an austere romantic modernism. R the trickier intimacy, the failure of representation. Other gods come & go, trailing ions that elicit thought, neural cascades. Chronic aesthete I do love what I've found the possibility the privilege of being here, suffering the mortal together. [End Page 611] In the archives of abstraction I hold pages of Agnes' handwriting—on lined paper, her school-girl cursive round & very neat. I love artist's writings the way I love handwriting, its adjacency to drawing. Sincere open loops like her ruddy cheeks, her manuscript has the look of dictation, it bears so few corrections. Johns in his sketchbooks truly tries things out, betraying proximity to his own embodied life where events occur without permission. Though finished artworks try to hide it, "finish" is often predicated upon denying the interdependence of the object & the artist's body. For a long time I lie in pain on the doctor's examination table's awkward paper, afraid to rip it, to move my body/to move my mouth/to move the words/to leave a trace shifting the object drives form in a certain way 2 systems figure ground irregular [End Page 612] The way painters summon a color through touch, a feeling gathers in my gut, continuous gesture a little closer to yellow, each thought not a long brushstroke but rough, interrupted, moving toward fragment, notation, parataxis. A feeling of being cold from inside my body. Thoraco-lumbar core ache areas of red, y, blue ? fill (?) thespace loosely. I want a theory of embodied life that is also a poetics, "a personal technique for communicating that does not lead to violation of the central self." What I too often leave out: three part-time jobs, two side hustles, unpredictable pay. "You can't make life or art," R says, "You have to work in the gap between." Then I what. Begin with the possibilities of the materials & let them do what they can do → Space everywhere (objects, no objects) M O V E M E N T to accommodate the actual Depositing $185 from a freelance gig I'm still overdrawn. -$2.58 for the week's groceries. To finish the job I'd left everything else unfinished to be exact, I'd left everything in writing unfinished. At the ATM debt settles in again. Chronic shift at my center of gravity. Money resides in my body next to illness. Low-income art. Symptomatic art. Everything connected below the surface. [End Page 613] I break language at an angle to ordinary life, a little awkward, the way one leg of this thrift store chair is shorter than the others. The words rock as I write. My father a book that has slipped into the grass, I search for it everywhere: Agnes with her hand-drawn grids, the appropriated commonplaces of early Johns. What I'm looking for isn't parental, it's directional. Tactically adjectival, queer like when her grid's messy at its edges, like when his canvas incorporates domestic objects the image arrives what does it displace what does it bring this summer of the word quotidian its index of particulars, poetic or tragic murmurings, all the daily drama of the body, oil & charcoal on canvas with objects. Of illness there still remains little record in the literature: appearing to us as lost to us, its abstract states...