Als Ich Kan
We break up the day Ellsworth Kelly dies
Symmetry diverging Blue-Red
We are not the Flemish Primitives Mixing red and blue into the whites of their eyes Neither Masters nor Meschers
Van Eyck paints to Jesus A message hidden in the frame
His head wrapped in cloth
We brush our teeth side by side
And take turns spitting blood
An old modernist dies His body wrapped in canvas They are precious in His sight
Excursion into Philosophy
The first time you came in me, you laughed
Rolling around the bed like a jinn Still you turned away to wash yourself A smudge behind the shower curtain.
We drove north to nest Chasing Church and Irving It’s just an Old Scratch, you said Leaving me in the grass.
And after all that, still a mystery (like the man that rolls over and has a cigarette) With him there is no variableness Neither shadow of turning
Back to where we came I saw geese flying in reverse and shivered A two pronged jubilee.
I never saw you smoke a cigarette I never saw you.
And what good are all the painters of The Hudson River School When they never got the right person to blow them in Poughkeepsie?
We are made for survival not edification.
I’m watching you brew coffee with a bell around my neck a fortune cat on an unfortunate axis legs tucked and ready to spring to life in the circles you pour in.
In order to discover my axis I fold the way an amphibian crouches covered in trails of rain-like incisions. (Not as furniture screwed up and down with hinges a repetition that doesn’t sweat.)
The squawking on Kenmare interferes with my love-making
but not entirely, I don’t need low chirping I just desire it Like the satisfying crunch of the crickets I’d catch without this jaunty bib.
I leave your apartment, walk around the corner to Spring St throw my fist back see how far gravity spins me. All modern dance is about accepting punches, is about beckoning.