OUT OF PHASE, DOUBLED
I am in waves,
clapping hands,
art in/art out
of phase, the distinct
ghostshipshapeliness
of abstract lines,
appealing, revealing,
reviling, unveiling.
So much for rhyme.
Whatever comes next
came next-to-last,
whipping up wirestorms
of fountainhood,
revelling in the tines
of forking pathways,
expectantly gravid
or barren, the void
wherein, without which
we all surmount
the itchy thrill
of boredom. Why
do you seek sense.
Look around you,
reduce both scene
and unseen to
their primordial recipe
of ideas. I am
here, I am not
where there ought
to be. My camp is
an abstraction of
unobtainable im/perfections,
perhaps the face of,
or out of phase with
our unchoreographic
sensibilities. Look
at yourself. Look
at me. Do you see
the similarity, do
you fake the connection.
You don't question,
I don't accept, neither
of us misses this
infidelity. Welcome
to the modern world.
End of message. Out.
MP 231224