the is
that makes
art but
the gone that
twines dimension as has the
gold-treated cheap
not by its job to lead us too
but so easily apparent any old
color—as too easily
apparent—and such a color but this
will not
be so
easy color
but the
way he became
a man to wait
there came a man wait
Purchase the full documentary from Ferrini Productions.
“Thus, in a brazen urn, the water’s light / Trembling reflects the sun’s and moon’s bright rays, / And, darting here and there in aimless flight, / Rises aloft, and on the ceiling plays.” Virgil
here the line and air does
perhaps begin its final gasp
clinching couplets in asymmetry
life as genre generates the poem
a poem in the first
the first the first
the first forms of air
do perhaps begin the line
the forms generate breath
the central event divides
form breaks from
soul except equal
in a way ends preceding
with a less emphatic pause
the two lines arranged
bodies with life and air
“Reader!” there it was
bodies symmetrically
“with my skin / Plus this—plus this: / that forever the geography / which leans in / on me” Charles Olson
to grab the reader by the balls to force it to sculpt my bellicose cleavage in the whitespace under the image to demand pedagogy and aloofness had coupled in the unified field and born “THISS” (quoting Olson & Graham) to imply the blue of the sea, or Kings Plaza gray and untouchable, or a wild uninterpretable sidecar tongueing Uigeadail to insist casual, black, non-fear loosening a necktie to guarantee through decay and whitehot kidney stones and vomit-crested cry — bandanaed and ever so scrawny — that yes, yes, I still shred
the ring finger
the palm
ring finger
the palm
preoccupied
father again
wonder again
another
chalice-full of vinegar
strapped to this cluttered table
again
Charles Olson again
pinot noir again
sony again
starbucks again
menu and ravenous tin
the New York Times again
exclude burning past lives
holding the hand of wonder again
pushed into the street again
ring finger, palm
palm, ring finger, palm
suddenly with such speed. morning again.
the brutal dew
crystallized crawling
wonders between heat life
glaze all warm light
this voice
long after death
lost /in/ witness
what sublingual shade
by what bent recollection
under which narrowed who
there of love
concrete of
for c.t., c.o.
“Sculpture fled. And architecture has now run after. And for good reasons: that the round world (which it was their job to lead us to enjoy—to illuminate)—turned to rot. It had been treated cheap, not by these arts but by what makes arts: men.
All the golden things, including the mean, got debased. Then everything blew up, from the inside, from cause.
It is even possible that one has to include line as having suffered, and color. But this will not be so easily apparent, and the point of it can wait.
There came a man who dealt with whiteness. And with space. He was an American. And perhaps his genius lay most in innocence rather than in the candor now necessary. In any case, he was not understood.
What seems clear is, that two dimensions as surface for plastic attack is once more prime. And with all perspective as aid gone, the whole Renaissance. Even line gone. And maybe color—as too easy.”
An excerpt from Charles Olson’s short essay entitled “Cy Twombly” from “Collected Prose Charles Olson”.
This
Brown tooth-quick
Frowning blonde
Blasting across the lava field
Approaches her cool boudoir
Between two red cars
A clean-lined, adventurous
four-door Wrangler
A battered, embarrassed,
gold embellished Caravan
So much depends on which way she turns
(Will she?) Is she
?
my slow westward motion
, in relation
(for Amiri Baraka and Charles Olson)