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The white caps of the waves
are replicated by the shreds
of clouds floating above the
water. The lower clouds are
solid like the continents
above. Angles of reflection
& refraction insinuate the
painter is lying on his back
to complete the composition;
but if that were so there is no
sign of him. At least, not vis-
ible. He has obviously moved.
This is a record of his journey.
Unable to see out, & sick
of being adorned with
flowers or vines or those
ugly plaques made from
clay that have the faces of
Roman gods embossed
upon them, the trellis has
decided to escape. Donned
disguise & cut it to shape.
Certainly ends up making
it a figure of fun; but it's
fine to breathe through, &
light enough to stride easily
over miles of countryside.
The dance floor is con-
fined by mountains of
ice. The ice is also on the
dance floor but is not
for dancing on, though
some have tried. Have
failed. So badly that
they need to call upon
another of their other
selves who also have
come crashing down. A
lesson learnt. Not even
the fanciest mustache can
improve one's balance.
It's a bleak view of hu-
manity. Facing eco-
logical collapse, Freddo,
plus a whole host of
Cadbury characters, went
beyond science to shine
a spotlight on transgender
issues, using their jittery
art-punk guitar buzz to
offer a frayed life-line to
the most vulnerable people.
The snowoman wonders
what the world offers them
outside of that. An ability
to handle subzero temper-
atures? They have that already.
[originally published in Anti-Heroin Chic]
for Hannah Weiner
No matter how
many times she
opens & closes the
wardrobe door,
the bird behind it
remains dead, part
in, part out of
its ungilded cage.
This could quite easily be the
table of a diabetic, given that
when you Google the individual
components, that's what most of
the responses seem to suggest.
Then change the order, books
in front, & the preservation of
the species leads the way. Not
the human species, not at first.
Push past the jam & conserves
& you come to why sugar is bad
for you, can lead to an early death —
but reading some expensive book
might help you put that off. An-
other permutation, with the bowl
back in, & ceramics from Amazon
loom large. Probably what Magritte
had in mind all along. Who belongs
in the sugar bowl? Why steal Cez-
anne's apples? Where is de Chirico?
Is not a prototype. That came
some years before. The title
suggests it may not be a self-
portrait though of course it is,
even though this time around
we can't rely on the eyes to
confirm it since they can't be
seen — a dove covers a larger
area than an apple. It's the tie
that gives it away, as always
slipped slightly below that
apex of the collar where the
shirt is buttoned. Only the tie's
color changes. The man does
not. The bowler hat follows
what current fashion dictates.
Too late for a taxi, so the
teacher calls in a bell to
take her pupil to her home
out in the countryside.
They've done this before, is
well-rehearsed & dressed
for. The student needs only
to assume a slightly higher
register to become an ear, in
part a kind of signifier, but
also allowing her to hear which
way to go & give directions to
where the best seats are. The
bell keeps time. The ear be-
comes a part of it. The sinking
sun promotes the score, enabling
a different color to be heard.
Now the invisible is rendered
visible. This lesson is complete.
What will she learn next week?
The temperature drops rapidly.
Wind increases the supply of
oxygen. It was the cornice that
I noticed first, crossing wall &
ceiling at a point possibly re-
lated to the golden mean. Only
later did I realize their heads
were swaddled in white cloth.
A procession down the
street. Some dust, but not
enough to hide the images
that the horse-drawn drays
would reflect in the shop
windows should they have
had glass in them. Instead
wooden louvers, in which
the procession draws closer
as it draws away. A trick
of the eye says Magritte. No
more, no less. I paint what
I see, though admit others
may not see the same as me.
What is the grelot thinking
of now that it has finally
come to rest? Has assumed
the position, as it were, the
one that says traveling is
over for the day. Poses
for the painter on a velvet
cushion, inside a wicker chair —
not quite renaissance splendor
but close enough to it, given
the times. Is it thinking &/or
surveying the visible world
in front of it? Is it reflecting
the invisible one? Is this a
programmed move, a simple
act of recuperation? Or has its
power source drained, & the
binary pathways all dried up?
