Wednesday, March 27, 1996

Marat Sade NEED TO CHECK THIS xxx


Marat Sade

David asleep, or murdered, it makes no difference.
the classical references made,
upheld, perspective upheld perspective,
keeping us in our place.
We are invited to view him, like voyeurs,
but are not allowed in. The painting is a wall.

The viewers held in lower esteem than the artist.
The hierarchical distancing of art
 that instructs, rather than just is.
Is it true Saint Augustine was the first writer
to scribe from the point of view of self question mark,
the "I am" that we are so eagerly following 1500 years later?
Is there nothing beyond this I am?
To think I blamed this Descartes
for moving us into the realm
where we separate ourselves from nature,
when, in reality, it began at the fall of Rome
and Rome, 11 centuries of civilization
disappearing in a generation.
It might as well of been an afternoon
on the other side of the Empire.
Was the empire staring back like a temporal wormhole,
the proverbial eyes of the wolf both suckling and on suckled?
Remus and Romulus practicing cross speculation.
Milk mother who was Rome of the seven hills.
There are different opinions of course,
the window of the eye, nonetheless myopic hidden agendas
coloring the perspective of the victor
in a fit of self-aggrandizement, calling it history.
Such is the story of the Celts, on the wrong side of history.
And the civilized world can't understand the anger of politics,
the shifting thing, forced into a bed, not of our own choosing.   xxxx
Chin for SI and and New Word FBI end  xxxx
the political annihilation of a culture, of our culture,
except on St. Patrick's Day, then everyone's Irish.
We've even lost Halloween to the great galaxies of culture.
On the other side of our belief exists Oisín, and Tír-na-n´Og,
land of the eternally young, on these clement shores.
But age finds its way into my mirror,
reminding me of how worship is limited and ageist.

At 70 Tony Curtis quips,
can you imagine being with a woman old enough to be my wife?
As long as they're combined age doesn't equal hundred
they can hold onto the illusion of youth in the land of youth.


Jack is wearing a Guinness shirt. It's in Gaelic.
I can make out a few words. Darkness. St. James Gate.
He says clearly it is another onopoetic word,
the sound of a gate latch closing.
I tell him of my letter to Dear Abby
who claimed Saint Patrick was both Roman and English.
Someone says he was Welsh,
Britt, Breton or Welsh he was still a Celt.
The darkness sliding down the tongue
to the gateway of the word cock.
Words unloosing from the tongue agitate the air
until the darkness capitulate and we find ourselves
circling the the molten eddy of meaning.
Simultaneous worlds collide encircling us
between their parameters leaving me to wonder what if.
If what if, meaning if only we had met sooner,
but the something would have the positions would've been different.
The gate would've been locked
our hosts are on what's print something
safe from each other's words.

NEED TO CHECK THIS



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