Tuesday, March 26, 2013

Yes, It Is True, Collage Is Messy Like Love

Gris’s collages have their merits
Especially when the ice machine is broken
This is not the collage I expected
I was thinking more along the lines
Of muffled voices behind a door
And somebody’s kid kicking the pop machine
A simpleton in love with bubble wrap and Juan Gris
Who loved collage and paint and wine
Yes, it is true, collage is messy like love
My eyes can hear the paint sing
The song of the paint is a red song
Black is the color of oblivion
Infinity is transparent
Like lacquer on a chest of jewels
And so I wear skin and hair
But who needs clothing in Death Valley?
Here comes Clint Eastwood riding a white stallion
I need more wine, more words, more ink
He mumbles to no one in particular
And swaggers like Jim Morrison
Getting drunk with Michael McClure
You know, peyote knows a lot about the desert
It takes you so far into the night
That the morning star is wrapped in cotton
And the heat of the sun penetrates the skin
Ghosts of the desert dance in the eyes of a lizard
And everywhere there is the strange logic of gold
Cooked in the skulls of the miners
Each skull is a dome of bone
Because it inflates the mind
And wheezes like a sick lung
An iron poem groaning with an iron emotion
The shine of death the hardness of death
Are the very origins of poetry
Whistling and wheezing with molten lava
And a dream of mattress springs
In the soft Louisiana breeze

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