Six months ago, the Joseph Cornell exhibition was nearby in Salem, but I never made it. Check out the online exhibition.
I would have preferred the name, "His Mining of Far-Flung" (words the curators use in the description), instead of their title "Navigating the Imagination." Grrr, I was a ferry ride away.
jueves, febrero 21, 2008
martes, febrero 12, 2008
Structure: poem in progress
On one hand a news jump cut
from a blown fuse box (a boy
pointing to a burned wall) to
the electrocuted man
(shot of cables in the rain).
On the other I tell my students
the new confessionalism, always
incomplete. Never
complete me. Even the woman
who took her own life
began for me once I knew
it wasn’t me. It wasn’t a matter
of taking my own life. The new
confessionalism is not to be trusted,
like the old. Like the dairy or the meat
or hair coloring. For the first time I’m on
a special diet. The world is what
I can’t eat. And this weekend
what I can’t touch or come close to,
children, pregnant ladies, I can keep
a good 5 feet away from adults.
from a blown fuse box (a boy
pointing to a burned wall) to
the electrocuted man
(shot of cables in the rain).
On the other I tell my students
the new confessionalism, always
incomplete. Never
complete me. Even the woman
who took her own life
began for me once I knew
it wasn’t me. It wasn’t a matter
of taking my own life. The new
confessionalism is not to be trusted,
like the old. Like the dairy or the meat
or hair coloring. For the first time I’m on
a special diet. The world is what
I can’t eat. And this weekend
what I can’t touch or come close to,
children, pregnant ladies, I can keep
a good 5 feet away from adults.
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