But plasma senses time more keenly
so that this is what forms or resembles.
Filling threads of proteins
wander in the animal nosing under rocks
beside the creek, an oblique snow.
Your evening clothes hang there
from the closet. Subliminal structure
like the idea "the rest of my life."
After waking, past sundown
I find myself
doing voice-overs for the dream I just had.
Using a knife rhythmically in the dim kitchen
talking to myself
I know my life as an inspired forgery.
I brush crumbs from my sleeves
and can't shake deja vu.
How do we ever forgive
Watch the pilot's perfect hand
butter bread as he flies into the mountain
physics tells us is empty space.
If only the holes could match up,
two solid objects
could go right through
without anyone noticing.
The way light goes
through an "I,"
or how lovers vanish.
Of course a painting has electrodes, and waits for multiple lovers
in the same room, brazen as an addict who makes several calls to increase
his odds. The anticipated "scene" is the true raison d'etre. There was a woman
on the west coast who couldn't stop, a painting that ate up decades; everything fell
into the canyon of her canvas – money, slivers of X-rays, her tampons – like a lippy blackhole sharing her bedroom. Soon, she couldn't leave it, nor thoughts of it.
Lovers left her instead. It had multiple strata, was too oddly weighted to stand vertically. Oddly, it became the color of female pudenda. Faced with the work much later (after walls had been cut to retrieve it, a crane enlisted to lift its tonnage)
(after the insignificant death of the artist) one thought of romance, one thought
of the dead Art-Rose laid beside the young girl's labial rose, one sighed.
And one felt, this woman could hold us all, this woman could start a church...
The problem is "Shostakovich is identical."
And rabbit. And Ariel locked out
of the tree, makes a pretty three.
What I heard driving back in the car,
the string quartets
that put klezmer in the graveyards
of the air. He loved Jewish music
but didn't dare until Stalin
died in 1953 (surgical glass.
let the shapes inhumanly wear
the human body. The State Body. Vitruvian.
If this is a sonnet, it will die soon.
A tongue in the higher ear,
tickles my gamuts (resembling rope
the heart nears the winds
the compser must have leaned into. fire's
atheistic fast animal suddenly
carrying stones. The queer
engine of the world is lubricated
by such usury. Such absence of decades
as your bones over mine, glacial
energy clasped in an ammonite. coil.
always an emptier field of musicians
sawing away at the legs
of the gods of history
Hone is "stone" in Old English, ends by falling back
into Sanskrit sisati, "he whets." Yes, I am that gull. All senses
of the word, all hovers of the ocean. We locked for a perfect dance
from wet to whet. All our kind gnomes are afraid of me now.
Scythe whatsoever, I don't care. Theire eyes can't hold a story
this far north of personality, anyway. I shrike through sleep,
growing language. You linger and wallow in coffeehouse haruspices.
I appear (as falcon) in a dream and whisper, "Wasn't it great when
Whistler lost the world, but continued anyway?" The wasp that oviposits
on the paralyzed spider is the supreme artist. Swallowed,
I will draw digestion.
A MOTH'S WING-PATTERN: MOUNTAINS
We are loyal,
whatever it is we are
waiting for. The moth
you were eyeing
takes off, avaunts at a random
flutter that disproves
our will in the world
convincingly as any jetliner
plunging aflame to earth.
The thing with the picture
of the world on its back grows large
as any argosy in language's
sleep, where we twitch
like dog legs. The word
"creature" clutches at me,
and I suddenly feel
how much I am a photograph.
The stickiness of the world.
When did I not become
these voices, when was
I ever alone,
unpracticed in ventriloquy,
not gluing myself
to the image of your silence
clinging to the wall?
You, who are self-sufficient
and unequal to any
image, what's the trick?
© W.B. Keckler 2003