The Death of Ignatz (audio only)
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It was hardly a high-tech operation, stealing The Scream. That we know for certain, and what was left behind-- a store-bought ladder, a broken window, and fifty-one seconds of videotape, abstract as an overture. And the rest? We don't know. But we can envision moonlight coming in through the broken window, casting a bright shape over everything--the paintings, the floor tiles, the velvet ropes: a single, sharp-edged pattern; the figure's fixed hysteria rendered suddenly ironic by the fact of something happening; houses clapping a thousand shingle hands to shocked cheeks along the road from Oslo to Asgardstrand; the guards rushing in--too late!--greeted only by the gap-toothed smirk of the museum walls; and dangling from the picture wire like a baited hook, a postcard: "Thanks for the poor security." The policemen, lost as tourists, stand whispering in the galleries: ". . .but what does it all mean?" Someone has the answers, someone who, grasping the frame, saw his sun-red face reflected in that familiar boiling sky.
Click the icon above to listen to this audio poem.
Click the icon above to listen to this audio poem.
To section off
is to intensify,
to deaden.
Some surfaces
cannot be salvaged.
Leave them
to lose function,
to persist only
as armature,
holding in place
those radiant
squares
of sensation—
the body a dichotomy
of flesh and
blood. Wait here
in the trellised
garden you
are becoming.
Soon you’ll know
that the strictures
have themselves
become superfluous,
but at that point
you’ll also know
that ungridded
you could no longer survive.