Hi Frederick,
that Salomé by von Stueck is something, thank you, didn't know him. I
understand your poems,
Anny
> The Sense of Wonder
>
>
> Somewhere I do my job,
> which is, amazingly, poetry,
> but also sowing culture
> across an empire.
> Perhaps my true vehicle
> is that in which I descend
> to new Arts Centers,
> where I read.
> (The form of the craft changes
> annually, like cars.)
> Rotors tilt, we hover,
> the noise is tremendous -
> (and someday, when we achieve
> the silence of antigrav,
> that too will be a sign).
> Our dust coats the Resident
> who dutifully ignores it,
> shaking my hand
> before a local version
> of *Johnson Embracing Ho*
> (Lyndon as ever bearlike,
> Disneyesque, ardent;
> Ho somewhat wolfish - not
> the usual fading wisp).
> We stand, gazing at the sculpture;
> then I shake hands
> with many brown people
> robed in a jumble
> of their clothes and ours,
> their medals and ours,
> beneath our flag -
> the white infinity-sign
> on blue, the broad stripes
> handsome in the wind
> that lifts the wet heat.
> Across the Center grounds
> bamboo bends, and trees
> sway over the streets
> that climb, neon-lit,
> past clinics and temples
> toward hilltop malls.
>
> That night, after the storm
> and my adequate reading,
> I roam, slightly drunk,
> the Resident's park.
> So gentle is the night,
> so stable this province,
> that I'm almost surprised
> when the assassin springs.
> Old man with big sword
> is part of his problem -
> another, his ornate
> costume and scream;
> worse are the skills
> America teaches
> even its poets -
> I disable him with a kick.
> "You tear the son from the father, make
> the daughter rebellious,
> bury truth beneath your mud" -
> I'm not sure that's what he's yelling
> but have heard the like before,
> and have seen the sudden
> age and horror
> that eat his face
> as, under a lamp,
> the guards race up,
> and I loosen my grip
> on the shattered arm
> and swing him to them
> with an odd dance step.
>
>
>
>
> John
>
>
> A visionary cannot be
> a fool. I was aware that everyone
> stank. Had a confused notion
> that even occasional bathing
> would break the "precious unguents" cartel,
> hurt the rich. Moreover, a visionary,
> whether initiating or deconstructing
> a dualism, must see things in terms of the body,
> however constrained the sexuality
> of his time. (And ours was constrained - you have
> no idea. Metaphysical cruising.
> "I'm waiting for someone." "Are you the one?")
>
> Customers came. They felt (and smelled) better.
> It was more therapy than ritual.
> My patter was bullshit
> but I looked into their eyes.
> Any visionary worthy of the name
> must, whatever he thinks he's doing,
> reinvent art, and what turned me on was
> a surprisingly sophisticated graphic
> of my clients here and there in the land -
> black dots among white dots, all
> enlightened, gentled, vaguely renovated .
> (all vision is that of an audience).
>
> But I clung to the thought of That Special
> Someone. To the myth of action,
> the hero distinct from the artist.
> When I saw that no one of the sort was coming,
> that no enabled glance would meet mine,
> I went nuts, pretended it had.
> There were consequences.
> If you're curious about Salomé,
> von Stück's image - manic, liquid,
> not entirely serious - comes closest to her,
> and his view of my head on a platter
> to me.
>
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