The everyday is the status which needs no update. The cold with its wrinkles carves itself into your face, into the internal image, the spiritual form, while promises and hopes can barely be felt, which is evern worse than if they never existed at all. In Hebrew there’s a word ashlaya, which means illusion. Its sound calls to mind things which appear, wink, and then slip away, transparent veils that are never uncovered, crawling like snakes with all the time in the world.
I think artist’s statements should be illegal. In my opinion, they’re a kind of hate speech. Anyone who knowingly places such drivel in the path of naive unsuspecting white-as-the-driven-snow eyeballs such as mine, knowing full well that the visual ingestation of such foul, pestilential verbiage would cause my optic nerve to shrivel up as if it were a penis being plunged into ice water must be of malevolent intent.
Teach me to startle
at the first crow’s caw
to bid farewell
to the bit of snow
along the driveway
to exult in wonder
a schoolbus passes
in return I offer
a word for every thing
in the wide world
Then one of us reached
to where a ruined fruit had fallen,
its heavy coat split and the bitter marrow
bared, then flung it skywards, a little sun
spinning above the skinny elbows of the trees.
So we’ve moved out of the years.
I am finally back upstream
and, but for their holiday grins
on every bookcase, the boys
were never born, it was a dream.