The foot goes forward, yes. Yet there are roots. And a giant orb which focuses its cyclopic eye on a moiré morning. When the microcosm is dry—it's earth; wet—it's water. Water, reeds, electric eel: one possibility. Sun, reeds, dust mote and mite: another. Whatever the elements (it's urban/it's pastoral, it's empty/it's open), the theory says it could always be worse. Until it is. Then theory fails, leaving a tracer mark. From blood you come to blood you go. Sudden things happen inside a frame. A flame is lit. Look at those pathetic wiggly squiggles. Inferno or garden? An immeasurable distance sizzles between them. Watching it all. But taking so little in. Just what will fit on the flat of a glass lens. The ticker is hopeful. Pathetic fallacy. Look at the numbers move. The mystery of ticks. One per second, sixty per Mickey. Four becomes ten, one in six bombs falls in a bushel, a basket, a two o'clock casket. Do you wish to stay connected? The seen blurs into the just heard. A bird outside the wide open window. The warm day of March. It changes. It has all changed. The world as a distracting disaster. MY, what little SENSE you make, said the wolf to Mary Jo. The theory rests on a tipping point. The clock steps in a direction.
Mary Jo Bang - 1946-
Now we sit and play with a tiny toy elephant that travels a taut string. Now we are used and use in turn each other. Our hats unravel and that in itself is tragic. To be lost. To have lost. Verbs like veritable engines pulling the train of thought forward. The hat is over- turned and out comes a rabbit. Out comes a man with a monocle. Out comes a Kaiser. Yikes, it's history, that ceiling comprised of recessed squares, each leg a lifeline, each lie a wife's leg. A pulled velvet cord rings a bell and everyone comes running to watch while a year plummets into the countdown of an open mouth. A loop of razor wire closes around the circumference of a shaken globe of snow. Yellowed newsprint with its watery text, a latticework of shadow thrown onto the clear screen of the prison wall. From a mere idea comes the twine that gives totality its name. What is a theory but a tentacle reaching for a wafer of reason. The inevitable gap tragic. Sure, tragic.