Following the Blueprint
When my father died, I took photos from his wallet, among which, one of his dead sister.
we are all
not in these words
A girl's sailor suit
Posing in a cardboard stall
On a boardwalk in Coney Island talking to a hand
Dressed as a puppet
I had carried it since his death--
A picture of a sister, now
Somewhere under Pittsburgh
Zeta, my father's sister.
at the outpost
-a little girl conversing with a hand
-just as dead as weight to a Galileo
-in cornerstone cited for demolition
da Vinci spent 20 years somewhere I'm told
and accomplished nothing
you buried in that suit with your
You weren't even smiling yet your brother
Always talked of buying a stone
The puppet is not the painted hand
The stall is gone
da Vinci carried off the Mona Lisa to France
The brother carried the face with him then I with me
If it moves it's alive!
If it moves shoot it!
If it moves eat it!
If it moves
I am never asked these days about art. But if I were, I would speak: Each artisan worth his salt should have a vision of what is to come and a better working knowledge of what has been. So in the artisan, a certain ability to set stage, juxtapose those things primary, prepare a facility, find the answer to the critical. But above all a personal anger, which, if worthy, become an beacon to the soul.
vision of puppets is not enough
but knowing which paradigm
one is currently lavishing is of more value
I would not ask if the hand is alive or no
why do I think that it is not
says: It is space.
I say: It is velocity.
Thales says: Know thyself.
I say: Careful of the industrial norm.
Aristotle says: It's alive.
I know: The world is not complex.
And where does an artisan set his bearings, ahead or behind? If I were learning quickly, very quickly, I would take bearing
on what is rapidly receding, grow splendid in the longer recurrences, and discard prudently.
And the post-moderns? They are not talking to the hand. They know only raiment. We have been in the grip of the Phoebus
for ninety or more years. It is too long. Even for the intellectual: that little indiscretion, that sidestep, then that wild
momentary gallop for the girl. And that monotonous prick couldn't quite do it;...so, when he found a couple a raunchy ones
and set 'em on the crack in Delphi to smell rotten eggs.... we all realized from then on it would be like tossing coins.
...and so what is to be said about post-modernism and its long awaited demise?
|I say we can no
be cynical and whimsical;
view the world as contradictory,
seek a new allegiance with nature;
assume the role of sophisticate;
crave the public coffers;
transform the commonplace with ulterior imagination;
confuse the novel with the dernier cri;
time dilation==> slower decay==> elixir of life==>
mind for technology==> standard operating procedure==>
polyps==> monads==> toids==> turds==>
and fractals: in love with a designer measurement?
So what's wrong with the white lines on this blue field? Where I trace her through its grid, waiting to be excavated? I got the blueprint and it's mine. I'll resurrect the subjunctive case, the passive voice; and, maybe I'll add a room at the back.
My favorite mistress?
The one who on her own occasion
crawls up my throat
to my anterior commissure
where she shouts from a bridge she cannot cross?
This city is new! This city gleams! She has her tomb!
am I by default that diseased girl
who would return to the painted hand
when the folk of her history begin
to ready themselves for that great Diaspora.
...and this the hand could sign:
there will be few
who maneuver amid jetsam,
and then leave
like Dionysus or Mr. J. Appleseed
to rename metropoles.
from Drei Gesänge-
Kaselsl, spring 1997