#406 The Rights of Man

You have the right to remain stationary & not promenade along
the promenade that runs along the edge of the sea.

You have the right to rest against the meteorite that lives there.

You have the right to allow your euphonium to catch on fire
&
you have the rights to any poems that might be found in the ashes.

You have the right to believe your euphonium could possibly
be a phoenix & thus rise up entire from the ashes.

You have the right to be embarrassed by your pattern baldness
& to carry an olive leaf to disguise it should anyone come along &

wish to talk to you.

You have the right to a cast iron street lamp provided it doesn't
have a bulb that works in it.

You have the right to a cloak to wrap around your shoulders
as protection against the storm that may be blowing in over the sea.

You have the right to a single glass of water. Sip it wisely.

You have the right to an attorney should you be arrested for loitering
with intent. If you can't afford one, one will be provided for you.

You have the right to personalize the name of that warning
by changing Miranda to Magritte.

#405 La reconnaissance infinie

He stands on a globe
of sheet music to draw
closer to those lips. The
globe plays up like a
pianola, starts tinkling

beneath his feet as they
stir it to life. The song
that emerges is repetitive—
rock my heart it goes, over
& over. Then the lips open

& invite an even closer
approach. It's a siren song;
but he recognizes that too
late as he is swallowed up
in to the dried-blood sky.

#404 La Belle Promenade

Never one
of my strong
suits, eloquence. Think
of a fence. Either bricks
or blocks, laid
square, or wooden
palings, up & down.
Nailed. Cemented.
Everything in its
pre-planned place. Not
like that for me. I look
for stones, with shapes
that match & inter-
act when placed
contiguous or even
at a distance from.
Something to run
your hand across & feel
irregularities, perhaps
seen smooth at distance
but up close catch
the breath, cut the
fingers with their rough-
hewn balance. Strong
enough to bind,
to keep the dogs
from running
on the road.

#403 Architecture au clair de lune

Some place in — is it? —
North Africa or southern
Italy, where, in the physical
absence of Giorgio de Chirico —
though his influence is every-
where — the moon is over-
seeing a game of pétanque.

A great play is made, but
only the stairs rise up to
applaud. No one else is here
to see it: the mannequins
& bilboquets have all gone
off to bed. Where they toss
& turn, the moon too bright.

#402 The Idol

Position is everything.
That's why this stone
bird can only fly above
a stony landscape. Place
it over water & it would
fall & sink. Is shown in an-
other painting that it's birds
made from the air which
have all the advantages.

#401 The Quandary of Painting

You have blank walls. I have
four baby turtles with painted
backs that arrived at Dulles
International Airport earlier
this month. So, let's start with
room use. As in: "What do you want
to use the space for?" &: "What
do you want it to say about you?"

Three poems from Series Magritte at Youtube

via The Continental Review





Read by Miia Toivio & with graphics by Marko Niemi

#400 La victoire

The topiary of doorways
renders them ambiguous.

A surfeit of entrances. Few
ways out. Enter, & risk

entrapment. Otherwise?
Follow the line. It may end

in sunlight or continue on
until night captures it. There is

a difference between mazes
& labyrinths. A pattern

to one, the other full of
doors that are not closed

until you try to open them.
A passage is the space

between two doors. The space
is hope. The doors despair.

#399 Collage (1966) (2)

In the narrows the sun
wests. Alligators hotfeet it
for the nearest spa. The delta
stretches, rolls over onto
its back to burn its belly
& better hear the zydeco
band that bubbles by. We
spoke of foodchains, &
whether it was the
resumption of whaling
that had driven the cliff-
dwellers out of the pueblos.
He paused, pleasured by
a point he'd made, & pride
blind-sided him. The
peristaltic erudition of a
passing manatee swallowed
him up in easy pieces. Mean-
while the moon blooms
miserly in the yellows.

#398 The Night Owl

#397 Le Voyageur

Botticelli lives in the ground-
floor flat. Most of the time
you hardly know he's there
except for those days when
Venus emerges, pauses, poses
on the welcome mat & a host
of classical gods & dryads &
nymphs & cherubim come
gathering around. Which, of
course, brings a crowd of mere
mortals. Half of whom continue
to gaze, & half of those think
something nefarious is going on,
& half of those think it might be
a porn video being made, & half
of them contact the police, & half
of those . . .& half . . . & ha . . . &
somewhere in the madding crowd
is a dude who's catching it all on
cell phone & dreaming of a You-
Tube video called Proving Zeno's
Paradox, & is busy looking round
for a tortoise to give that touch of
authenticity & frisson to the piece.