8/5/91

Subjectivity or You Are Here

1.

The culture industry
holds us protectively and
with laughter and high spirits takes us
away on splendid wings.

The sky's dark unbrella.

Slakes your curiosity
with an unwholesome diet
of pasteurized emotions.
But to overpersonalize such emotions-
childish confusion.
But the child!
Let her run! Yet the
whispers afterward-
(They rhapsodized over
skies and seas).
A remembrance
Unnaturally far
Yet a family resemblance
A real cat, not one on t.v.

Visits the museum.

The things we share.
Whereas the idifference-
Still, a little bit more,
A little bit less than the same.
Indivisible, invisible,
sparks, watchful eyes,
yearning watchfulness,
transcendent, serene
You heard it right
Already past
Can anyone get used to
such quickness-
Speaking of the moon-
Thickness.
Mortified.
Floating, coating-
lyrical asides-
Bright obligattoes-
Tides.
A commercial break to remind us
Not to get too serious-
Or, it's a handicap, not
to feel such passion for possessions,
Color on the checks
(Too precious)
Twirls, swirls, she circles us,
Smiling, beckoning-
I still don't understand
How to stop spilling how I feel
But, is it dangerous?
Kind of a come-on,
A chart buster
By now all the media have it
(Artificial sequences of sea sounds
on the background tracks.)

A library, in silver,
in cellophane, in taffeta
in green. The screen
Memorized it also,
Drops of glistening water,
Trance sessions recorded for the
silver screen.
Small horses attached to a circular wooden platform,
An organ grinder,
two parents and a child.
(Forgotten wildness of the sea,
the tape running backwards
in small shrieks like
gulls on the beach.)
Volumes of indeterminacy
scheduled into the 19th century waltzes
with thickened texture
(A slight reference to
diagrammatic drawings
of a mechanical torso
needles pushed thru them
on grid of wires and a pedestal.)
The constellations reflected across this
and a greying pastel
a piece of sheet music lying
next to a purple vase,
and a delicate hand,
the hand of a musician of the piano-
French, naturally
American music, don't be so angry with us-
The bombs bursting in air
and all through the night
Wolfgang Amadeum Mozart
with a little gun
and a fishing pole.