Poetry, Karen Walker

Roof Manifesto as read atop 4402 Zurich St E on July 14 2026

Tomorrow, everyone will be talking about our art. Will be looking up.

Terribly simple the art. The word. 

Roof. 

Three letters on four walls. 

Art expects trouble:

“authorities” broadcasting, “Come down immediately,”

know-it-all pigeons (warning: they’ve actually read the roof literature we said we did) cooing rooftop psychology about why we don’t and therefore write

about rooftop bourgeoisie

: infinity pools, potted palms, spiced chicken lettuce cups. 

Roof Viktoria and Roof Allison, that’s why we’re up here. 

Never ever take the shining corrupting elevator, Roof Akiel. 

Fire escape escape. 

Roof revolution, Roof Michelle and Sherri and

others barely in favour of ourselves. 

So repeat after me: 

Roof, roof, roof. 

Roo roo, roo, 

Oo, oo, oo 

then just f. F this, F that far, far below.

F everything heavy and rotting, sticky or not worth the $29.99. 

Go mad. Up here, lose consciousness but carefully.  

Roof is where world soul goes to get away. 

In the question of aesthetics, height is key.  

I shall now dispense with gravity. 

Float hand in hand Roof Joe and Roof Kamal.  

Blow away, risky Roof Rosa.  

In the question of connections, key is how the roof sits on the building and hangs from the sky. 

Dispense with convention to free the o to fool and roam, to meow and moan as if in the throes:

yoof  

moof  

yoof di moof

Roof is where it ends and begins. 

poof

boof 

goof 

boof boof

spoof 

proof.