THE ARTIST
for Bruce Conner
THE ARTIST has faces that are nude ladies and feathers.
Women pose in the visage of the whirlpool
raising bare arms and arching bare thighs.
Tentacles of squid sway down among pinions
of African eagles from the artist's beret
and they tangle white hair.
In the blackness of his face, spider webs and lichens,
are matted together making a waterfall that splashes
down to the chin.
His head tilts down, staring into the vision.
The glow of his consciousness
is an aureole.
--A HUGE WHOLE THOUGHT in all of its myriadness
is what he grasps for.
His black velvet beret is a dome of power
in the haunted light of the room.
IT IS ALL OUT THERE.
EVERYTHING IS OUT THERE!
It is superlatively clear.
It will all come together in connected fragments
--oceanic!--floating--everywhere
in the nineteen directions.
He sees it clearly--it is all so endless,
so sensory.
His satin neckband is twisted and knotted
with demon emanations.
His gentle old jacket is awash
with mystic
wrinklings.
The jewel that he wears is a star cluster
carved out of coal.
Horseback rides are engraved in the gold frame,
there are childhood memories of fields of grass
with a mouth on each blade
telling stories
of the origins of pure matter and nothingness.
Foxes circle around it all
and they bark
in honor
of the softness of mulberries.
