The Aristocracy
I like when the form is kind of stuck-up
even though I’ve got a Southern accent and my place
looks like a graduate student’s. 1. I enjoy
high art but realism swamps me.
2. The material world swamps me.
3. I came to understand
the forms of realism,
the aesthetic phenomenon.
4. You take a random person
from daily life.
5. You take their dependence
on their historical circumstances.
6. You make them
the subject.
7. You see, they operate
the modern.
Things happen ... minutes, hours, days.
The order of life
coming from life itself.
Back to life /
Back to reality (like Soul II Soul).
It is sublime
and grotesque.
8. They make rich forms.
Something steady.
Less manic.
Something real
like a bell
inside the Golden Seahorse Gift Shop.
Don’t take me
on that ride.
I don’t want
to go down.
9. To what degree
are the subjects
taken seriously?
They naturally swim
beneath the icy sheets
and find breathing holes.
They may remember
their arctic homes.
They are one of the park’s
most sociable creatures. I said
enter the water with them.
Graceful imitation of strange
palms and seaflowers. A seaflower
of a thousand colors, aquarium
pigmented. It is my violent
passion for seaflowers, Molly.
I want the entire
underwater palace
built of roaring seaflowers!
Beluga! Beluga! Wither and mow.
The child’s song.
Emerald kayak
and the femme fatale
who sleeps in it, Victorian,
long, frothy hair
and the death drive,
flesh like the statement, “I lost a friend
in the sea garden.”
The notes, staccato, vortex,
paradisiacal, gold bell in a coffin
just in case I wake up. And the way
darkness tunnels
inside a car on its way
to its pinpoint destination.
No one tells you
the moon’s going
to end up like this.
No one. So you just move towards it.
That’s all the moon
ever was. Ding. Ding.