Tuesday, February 14, 2017

#345 Le Palais des Souvenirs


This hotel should be shut down.
Blood keeps dripping on to

the bathroom floor, so much
of it it spills over & stains the

mesa which it rides above. A


man in a car outside our rooms

plays Mexican music at high
volume until well after mid-

night. When I complain, he
brings me funeral flowers.

Wednesday, February 08, 2017

#344 Memory (2)






The apple has
    rolled down the 
        bas-relief & left a 
            stain. Or maybe the 
                sculpture has wept
                    tears of blood &

                    dried them with 
                the apple. I can't 
            recall what really
       happened. Perhaps 
    a sip of water might 
refresh my memory.

Saturday, January 28, 2017

#343 The Revealing of The Present

The present is a house that
has only windows. A thin
roof. No rooms. The sun
is cut in half by a cloud
passing across its face, re-

calling Bunuel. Is that a
pond with flowers in it? I
walk down to pick some,
carry them inside. The past is
a finger testing &/or tasting

the light. Elsewhere a cloud
passes across the moon. The
present is a vase of flowers in-
side a house surrounded by a
garden made foggy by autumn.

Sunday, January 22, 2017

#342 The Finery of the Storm




              Since many of the big 
                     players these days 
                         are using AI to boost 
                         customer loyalty & 
                     subsequent revenue, 
               it's not surprising 

                           that every guitarist, 
                     at some point, has 
                their sound modified 
                by a distortion gen-
                     erated by an area 
                          of machine learning.

Thursday, January 12, 2017

#341 Force of Habit


The sky flies
behind a gilded
bird inside a
cage which sings
imprisoned in
an apple. Und
so weiter
; until
one hits the wall

the painting is
fixated on. &
then the house
outside of which
the painter. No-
thing else is real.

Tuesday, January 03, 2017

#340 The Village of the Mind



is the product of medical
science, manifested in its
purest shape when a disease
is new. This introduction
of a virulent organism has
been depicted as a triangle
consisting of two episodes
of new millennium TV &
a contemporary yet timeless
glass & metal occasional

furniture range that displays
many of the empirical phe-
nomena associated with
predator-prey relationships.
Global extinction forces
languages to change. The
world's population of in-
sect pollinators is nearing a
critical point. Not even time
to lay out the winding sheets.


Tuesday, December 27, 2016

#339 The Domain of Arnheim (2)


It was Ellison who suggested they were prognostic of death.
           Edgar Allan Poe: The Domain of Arnheim

Magritte's love for Poe is
elsewhere evidenced by
a painting titled after the
Imp of the Perverse, &
the appearance of Arthur
Gordon Pym on the mantel-
piece in Not to be Reproduced.

One of each of those; but
this is one of nine variants —
oil or gouache — that has
the same title, painted across
twenty eight years. Not to
mention the guest appearance
of the eagle & its nest in

several other paintings. Some
doubt about the date of this
version. I like to think was done
near the end of the artist's life.
May not be true but there are
clues. A candle to light the way,
& the way the bird is poised as

if for take-off, tearing itself out
of a landscape it does not want
anyone else's hand laid upon.


Thursday, December 22, 2016

#338 La robe de l'aventure

Dermochelys coriacea, the
leatherback turtle, does not 
have a carapace, looks 
like an overgrown okra 
pod with flippers & fins, 
but is the only thing that 
gives this scene the marine
setting it probably is.
                                     Other-
wise is floating in the air, 
above a drowned inconnue 
who is / likewise out of 
water as well as in it, out-
stretched on a beach & 
reaching up with her dancer's 
arms to form the mammal 
shape which has substance
only after passing by them. 

Monday, December 12, 2016

#337 Les objets d'art de René Magritte


a pair of diamante lorgnettes

birds that are birds, that are not birds, that are, sometimes, something else

clouds stolen from the opening of The Simpsons

death masks

Edgar Allan Poe

Fantômas

Georgette. Naked Georgette. Clothed Georgette. Incomplete Georgette. Always
Georgette

horses' bells

inflamed euphoniums

jokes & jockeys

kiss. No, not the rock group but the Rodin sculpture. But not the Rodin sculpture, only
the space it fills

lost worlds

Martin Luther & the King of the Jews

neologism, or at least the attachment of new labels

open-toed boots

pleasure that the girl gets from eating a bird

quantum leaps

rendering the impossible possible

sacks that cover the lovers' heads

this is not an apple, nor a pipe, not even a piece of cheese

using speech to show how speech misleads

victory is what was hoped for in this break in the clouds, even if they turned their backs
on the war & the victory came unseen

what lasts is how the lovers shared a space, not how they looked at one another

x-rays of leaves, the skeletons of trees

"Your dialectics & your Surrealism en plein soleil are threadbare," wrote André Breton.

"Sorry, Breton, but the invisible thread is on your bobbin," replied Magritte

Zeus. Anger. Hubris

Saturday, December 03, 2016

#336 The Postcard





Chère Georgette

The apple is full, & almost ready
for eclipse. But the UV rays it
gives off are intense, & I've been
exposed to an overdose of them,
simply by going out onto the balcony
to see if the eclipse has started yet.

I should be wearing a hat, but
a bowler is not the easiest thing to
have on all the time. Maybe I should
have bought one of those embroidered
baseball caps that Donald Trump gets
around in & brought it with me. With
a different message, though. Nothing
as gauche & inviting hubris as his
hat has. Something simple, apt. Like
"un objet rencontre son image."

Ton mari
René

Saturday, November 26, 2016

#335 A Taste of The Invisible (1927)


In this world of billions, we are
told that the entire global
economy essentially boils down
to just two idealized people, a
buyer & a seller. True theology

is not about the mistaken road
or a cold evening in cardboard
boxes. Think fresh pear, allocate
taste descriptors—sweet, bitter,
ripe, crunchy, peppery—but

any of those terms can equally
be applied to many other unseen
things. Macro or micro, there is a
commonality—once out of sensory
range, all things become invisible.