Dorian Rolston



Why, I wonder, should I make art, when I have a list of things to get at Target and the list is getting so long and now includes Christmas tree ornaments, for some reason, in November, tearing off another scrap of paper scratched with Christmas, which, put back together again in different order gives you art sChism, and who knows what else for your everyday anagrammatist but, for now, I’m getting a head, well ahead of myself, going, seatbelt strapped with great-purpose clicking, mapping out the route in my mind’s eye, maybe a shortcut on Speedway and seeing that if you do the same Humpty Dumpty again with Target you get arT, and maybe you should, get Target art, scrabble away in the big-box bin with so many characters from which to choose, you could truly be anything, a mustachioed chicken, for instance, your worst fears, clucking out of you though they may be, disguised by facial hair grown ever so cleverly on the upper lip, or how about a biped but with antlers, this raging extension of your skull unmistakable, and all for the so-low, one-time-only price of $4.99, cheap we know the felt’s floppy, crooked-scissor quality to be and yet, cheapened not in the least, no less sacred than the real deal, more so, even, now our holy inertia at the hypermarket, unable to pull away from it, to push, push the cart, turn the wheels and buy the goods and the self, stuck, rubbernecking up beholds the bright white opening in some faraway ceiling, wider and wider the promise glows, lifting this fast, this full, this future owner.








I love Target. Who, in their right mind, doesn't? I love it most when I'm there loving it with someone else, someone I love. Carlene, I love you: your eyes, they particularize the masses.