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.
Mary Jo Bang - 1946-
We were going toward nothing all along. Honing the acoustics, heralding the instant shifts, horizontal to vertical, particle to plexus, morning to late, lunch to later yet, instant to over. Done to overdone. And all against a pet-shop cacophony, the roof withstanding its heavy snow load. So, winter. And still, ambition to otherwise and a forest of wishes. Meager the music floating over. The car in the driveway. In the P-lot, or curbside. A building overlooking an estuary, inspired by a lighthouse. Always asking. Has this this been built? Or is it all process? Molecular coherence, a dramatic canopy, cafeteria din, audacious design. Or humble. Saying, We ask only to be compared to the ant- erior cruciate ligament. So simple. So elegant. Animated detail, data from digital. But of course there is also longstanding evil. The spider speaking to the fly, Come in, come in. Overcoming timidity. Overlooking consequence. Finally ending with the future. Take comfort. You were going nowhere. You were not alone. You were one of a body curled on a beach. Near sleep on a balcony. The negative night in a small town or part of an urban abstraction. Looking up at the billboard hummingbird, its enormous beak. There's a song that goes. . . And then the curtain drops.