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From: Reneetheduckwoman
Date: 04 Jun 2004
Time: 10:05:24 -0500
Remote Name: 172.147.96.230
The tambourine catbird announces the return of a one eyed feline assassin. A motley white cat with more scar tissue than tail streaks through the yards. The newly fledged treetops go up in the tinder of foot rhythms through a shadowy volcanic path in the wood: liquid thrushes, crepitating vines, hairy poison ivy like a bouncers arms, a splotch of red and drumming in the dead birches. I am thinking as I strike out over the fields at 5 a.m, of Chihuly in Venice watching his architect hanging a chandelier all colours of pale shifting Caribe blues, blue as death row eyes, clouds in windshield stoplights, or of of that beautiful black haired, oyster eyed boy in Amsterdam eating vanilla ice cream. And yes, I love Paris --but I would take Italy over Paris at least on this day as we watch blown orbs like psychedelic Japanese fisherman's floats launching with a pleasing ploonk into the canal, enormous teardrops, torqued sausages, christened in the foul brown holy water of Venice and the gondola passes underneath silent as a switchblade full of openmouthed tourists.// I think of Chihulys devotee apprentices twirling eighty pounds of molten glass with the deceptive ease of honey on a spoon... and the melons, the underwater fans ripen, torque, lace, festoon, metamorphose into echinoderm. You would think that after all those years the pirate would have lost his heart and eyes many times --but the fact that he lost his eye traveling through a windshield is one of the god's great ironies.// Someone has left a gear bag among a field of three foot dandelion planets, and it looks like a body. The rabbits go off in jittery clots, my, the Herculean silver dog runs ahead, drinking dew. The spiders geometry is revealed like someones innermost thoughts. A peregrine chases a crow away from its territory, opening the sky into a golden box like one of Nicks or Cornells. In my museum, in my pocket I have horizontal light and I bring it out to reverse a painting that I have seen too many times and see anew: patterns in the staggery grass full of prisms. And more than a man walking down a road with a mirror, we are the novel. When he isnt having too much fun N. is watching: his creatures having lost control of all of us and our ongoing Pandoras. I brought back one meadowlark feather for you, and that is enough.