Just four black strokes, brusquely run upon
artists’ bond. Long line curving,
straightening then, falling—ending in the
beginning (or hint) of a new curve. Opposite,
the outline of a radio telescope concave
to it, listening to the Pharisees of Love no
matter how far away in the outer darkness, or how
insufferable they were, yakking about the mint,
the dill and the cumin. Was the other line then
the exosphere— blue giving way to indigo
giving way to the gnashing imperceptibly?
Or, was this line the leg of Ana, long, warm,
immovable despite my nouveau riche psycho-
kinesis? But most important, as I defecated that
effervescent afternoon in her Manila mansion,
were the eight or so other strokes beside these
buttocks: p - i - c - c - a - s - o. “Oh,”
Ana said to me after, “No. It’s not a print.”
- first draft, 2007
No comments:
Post a Comment