Poem Four (Musée
Picasso)
I remember crying
in the reflection of
the mirror
I remember
I despise hats. There
were many hatted women
in paintings I liked,
(I remember)
three women
at their toilet, an
interesting choice of words.
(I would, I remember,
have translated it differently).
I remember a black
boot, very clearly,
then a reflection of
memorable blue.
A vase of flowers,
universally designed.
The clay wore pajamas
fashioned from maps, its language UnEnglished,
its continents blurry.
It’s not, but my memory is,
blurry – disfocused.
Small Asian child doing poses, that to her
are not poses, are not
even
the memories of yoga, I
suppose.
I remember the light
and how much less
yellow
it was when I left the
room.
Because of the blue,
because of the difference in translation, I remember.
Different, yet again,
because
of the distance.
My memory takes notes
as if this were a test,
I ember
in memory a
remembrance,
a glow
I wish had been only
Picasso,
but was instead
Rosenberg, Apollinaire,
mute, Google-proof.
Three from When
Jazz Was The Capital of Alaska
The device would like
you to wait.
The device would like
you to continue waiting.
The device now has
information for you.
Sometimes you wish
for something lighter
than sad maroon
or
the subatomic black
of
matte glint finish,
the suicide,
the infanticide,
the affliction
This is where objects
sit
and await their
destinies;
they are calm, almost
stately,
with a feeling of quiet
insanity permeating them,
unable to perish
without nature’s permission
The edges fray first
Like there’s any
connection
between good posture
and moral rectitude.
A certain fractal
that colors as it
turns, the pinwheel, the matter, the coming together
He uses one font for
expressions, another for speech
Only his eyes are
smiling
You don't want
what I'm hiding,
says the mother bird
as the fox draws near
What we
wanted
to find
wanted
to be found
Each time you spoke,
a document was created
The present is nothing
more than anagrams of history
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