The concealing shroud has shifted from the bedside of a sleeping Georgette & now resembles a bunch of damp towels as it rests on the tiles beside a bath that has no taps, no obvious out- let pipes. Rotate the painting, & stairs appear. & though the chapel at the top of them is set into solid rock, it means only that an exit is behind you. A- void the abyss which is al- ways here- or thereabouts. & beware the imminent arrival of a cascade of water falling from the upturned bath.
The sky comes on little fog feet. It pauses for maximum visual impact before moving on round the corner & then disappearing down the alleyway.
What fundamentalist church do the bilboquets belong to? Is this an awkward preamble in that once-a-year formal meeting at which the offspring are instructed who their lifetime partner will be? Are there other opportunities to encounter members of another gender outside of gospel rallies & church hall meetings? How often do they hold dances? Do they hold dances? Could this be actually a prelude to a dance, both sides uncertain how to proceed to better know one another without yet getting too close? Why is the outside angry? Where are the walls to shut it out. Who defines forever? When will the curtain be drawn?
Instead of a trident he holds a candelabra. Instead of candles it holds apartment buildings — not large ones, just three storeys each. In- stead of residents, they hold stories. For a small fee, the cicerone will recount them. A few cents more, & he'll embellish with special effects.
Maybe it depends upon the country you live in. But instead of images of sunburnt masculinity, a perfume called Summertime in these parts conjures up those several fevers whose vector is mosquitoes. Plus heat. & either humidity, the occasional hurri- cane, lots of rain, or else an infinite dryness that brings only drought, depending on which specific part of the land you live on. The smell of summertime is usually sweat — & where's the poetry in that?
Rodents & small humans
inhabit the tunnel that runs
beneath the clouds. They are
currently extinct, though the
occasional fossil may still be
found. A plucked stalactite
rests against the wall that holds
the outside in. There are four
openings out into a potential
void — hard to be sure, since
each has a screensaver which
is full of clouds — that take it
in turns to show newsreels
of previous wars. The size of
the openings determines what
centuries the newsreels date
from. Screening times will
be written on the blackboard
when the clouds wake up.
I no longer take the homunculus of Frank O'Hara onto the plane with me. Have grown tired of having to place it in the perspex tray along with my lighter, cigarettes, keys, watch, wallet, spectacles – yes, I know there's three-quarters of a racially stereotypical joke in there; but having no desire to irradiate my gonads I have never taken off my testicles to complete the punchline.
The homunculus traveled peacefully enough most times. But every so often, especially when the flight was delayed, he'd be set off by the X-ray machine, would suddenly exclaim "my quietness has a man in it" in a voice that most definitely contradicted the words; & then I'd be up against the wall being searched for stowaways.
Before him I'd taken Bach with me. He'd mainly hum. The machines would gradually pick up the theme & purr along in perfect counterpoint. Caught up by the harmony all around even the security guards would display a courtesy & politeness that was exemplary. Never a problem until the day J.S.B. got asked to remove his periwig & promptly launched into a performance of his Toccata & Fugue in D Minor that shook the terminal. Then came the Brandenburgs, & planes started falling from the sky.
Magritte has been my companion on the last few flights. So far nothing to report. He is the perfect gentleman. Takes off his overcoat & lays it flat on the belt, followed by his bowler hat which he places in such a way it completes the outline of a man. Then we walk through the metal detector together, quietly, each eating an apple picked from a favorite painting.
After his death, the executors
came to take an inventory of
the familiar items. He was there
for most of it, was able to clear
up some of the uncertainties,
took pains to point out that most
of the items here did not exist.
"Can you truly believe that
things found within the various
strata of a painting that contains
a painting that also contains a
painting would have physical
form? The perspective is all wrong
to allow that to happen. I made
them visible only for the length
of time it took me to paint the
painting that surrounds the others.
Now I too have passed; & no one
is left to say if that is a swarm of
locusts in the background, or
smoke coming from a forest fire."
