Each month, write a new collection.
Pearblossom Highway, David HockneyThis is no one's perspective.Composed as any nature morte,the highway, build block by photographicblock, extends to the horizon, beyond,yet perversely commands us to halt,though we would surely not do thatin life, speeding through this empty stretch, miles from any enforcement.Insistent Joshua trees gesturelike martyrs at the side of the road,the only living things for miles,as the desert erases the asphalt,turning it back to sand.
lovely melody and rhythm in your lines. I especially like the structure of line 4, framing the shattered perspective on both sides.
Love this! Really and truly. Send this to me or another mag!
Thanks J, John! I have fiddled with it a bit. Also again revised the Odysseus and Calypso poem, so I'll email you with the new version.
I thought I knew placeI thought I came from placeI was always in a hurry to get to place.If someone looked at me, I thought I exuded place.But in my sixties, I met JoshuaA scrawny Seuss tree In my sixties I stopped in the desert Harnessed by a haunting moonIn my sixties, not even grandpa Expected to find this place.Joshua shattered my compassJoshua ate my iphoneJoshua penetrated my prayerThen Joshua disappearedLaughing at collage leftThat's when I found placeAnd, no place.
Love the personification of the tree. Wonderfully done!
How Many I ways I can find Myself Absolutely Wrong about HockneyPearblossom Highway, 11th to 18th April 1986 No.2:This is not Cubism and hereis why: the principaltechnique is the manipulation of scale that is pushedinto reproductive multiplicity not the deteritorialization of pointsof view(made to look as if from a single point of view rather than a multiplicity of hinged points of view)—a collaged collapse of myriad scales we know must be temporally displaced by the mechanismof curation but which shows no outwardindex of that fractured time sequence or the collisionof its contractions(a time lapse without motion of principles). She smells goodlike a casino when sheflips her blue-black teased hair and heel-lesscrushes the gas-petalto the floorboards with her fishnetstockings—a pair of dice lashed about her slightankle—every side a viewable snake eye. Multiple domainsare collapsed within the dimensions of a singleart event rendered smoothlike a pile of serialized scapulas. Off camerathe Satsuma is drunk in by the paper basin of a grocerybag on the floor board of a burntorange SuperBee (that smells goodwith a strong in-huffing of Aqua-net). This is not Cubism. In anotherslower life of crab grass and parkbenches I watch her glow—spit outthe imaginary pips pastthe manger of her coda-chrome dressfurled all around us in disarray.
That's wonderful Mouse. Fantastic!
Like it a lot.
MirageLong and straighttornadoes of dust and deadthe oven door was left open too longLonely and quiettornadoes of thoughts and paranoiathis road is no place for the lonelyLiquid and restlesstornadoes of nerves in the stomachthe heat dances off the road like liquidListless and boredtornadoes of nothing for mileseven the oven has become listlessLurking and hauntingtornadoes of desolation in the desertthe road waits there, just lurkingLeading and hopingtornadoes of anticipation fill the caror is it to a mirage, the road is leading?
Love this poem. From one of my favorite art pieces too!