i want not
do not want what you give me
to think about
there are no consequences
no conclusions
the white, the black, the pattern
of love, the colors...
the longing
why do we forget?

the soprano down on 12th street unleashed the firestorm.

she sucked all the oxygen from the room

filled with despondent artists seeking redemption

from self denigration, despair, uncertainty and chaos.

you must look into her eyes, hold that gaze

and do not waver.

the turbulence unbearable,

the intensity, the burn

of years confessing all but love

that sat in an unopened box

waiting to be claimed.

we were fearless companions in the name of art,

excess and social justice.

oh but for the night of splendor when we touched

the hunger fathoms deep as if we would die of starvation

when our plates were full

the curtain of torrential rain

as the wind shear strengthened

fire whirls exploding, darting about

aimlessly.

compensation for obliteration

of all things known and unknown.

do not look back, do not turn around to see the carnage.

that is what we told ourselves

because it seemed we could not bear

the loss as we watched the dissolution,

as if we would lose everything,

lose it all.

our lives, our loves, our freedom, our history

as confidantes in a reckless and morally incomprehensible world.

we watched as it all burned up

and found

among the charred remains

the box.

They never tunnel to the surface

and if they do, you don’t hear them grunt

and slither back through the soil drum 

heavy mounding

nomadic

obsessive-compulsive ravenous

bio-mass eaters,

pheromonal.

Can’t get rid of the bloody things

wrecking fantasies about art and risk,

about timelessness

and real intention.

There's nowhere to go

when you realize you've already been there before.

the hat?
it seems ridiculous.
to love your head impossible.
what's a torso but a stand to hang your hat on?
what's a stand but a cause that is ignored?
what's a hat when you can hang yourself?
what's a head when there is not a thought?

for the love of a new world,

ensemble.

we impart nothing,

understand less,

thirst for more

and in the twilight, retreat.

 

where are we?

wondering or not,

wandering in pursuit of happiness.

nothing’s changed

so why does it feel different?

 

this place

a space unrecognizable.

familiar enough to get used to it.

this place

no place you or I belong

but for the sake of it, we accept.

 

eternity an every day thing to navigate

and then the abyss of total recognition.

how we swim to keep up.

how we hope to swim

with or without,

defenseless.

with or without a compass,

with or without

and then….

 

 

 

                                                                                                                                                MM

            11/20/09

 

 

 

 

you stand there wondering why you're
staring at a canvas wondering,
staring at a feeling
at a thought
at an angle
wondering.

why do they stand there staring
at a painting
at a color
at a brushstroke
wondering why they have to buy a couch
a car
a vacation house
when they can't buy a painting?

you sit there wondering why you're
staring at a page wondering,
at a dream
at a phrase
at a point of view
wondering.

why do they sit there staring
at a manuscript
at a plot
at a narrator
at a word
wondering why they have to be so literary when they'd rather buy
a mystery
a thriller
an airport book.

wondering why we do it...
 

Multicultural, modern, historical, diverse, the city of Montreal is a writer's paradise. Infused with the heady aromas of the Mediterranean, Asia and the Middle East, the colorful and vibrant outdoor markets and restaurants with that native ambiance exacerbate my fixation on the culinary arts when I should be paying attention to the soul of the city, her people. Always stimulated by the Musee d'Art Contemporain, Christine Davis and her multimedia installation of choreographer Loie Fuller, an 1800s modern dancer who attempted to patent her use of the elements - electricity and fire -in dance is juxtaposed with Mallarme's poetry and Euclid's geometry. True genius. Betty Goodwin's retrospective was amazing - her abstractions on tarpaulins, tracing paper, vellum, steel...puts the expressionism in art.

She knew it all but we all knew she didn't. She could lift the Empire State building with one hand. She could let it fall and not look back to see where it landed. Where is she now? When he died his spirit left his body, a shell, nothing left. When she died she never left but now i can't find her.