spiral staircases might go up inside the curtain columns of the hanging textile faux parthenon
but not many viewers did, the big spot-lights underneath made the metal stairs hot, and when
the lights changed color it made you feel like you were doing bad strychnine bathtub acid
at a cheap trick concert in a small town air force base's officer bar, and someone had set your
crewcut on fire with flaming aqua velva, not viva.
if anybody had got to the top of the columns there was a supercooled breeze up there
and a secret view down into the 'love pit' where swinging beds on chains filled up the naos
like the hovering comatose did in coma. you'd think things like, "with polygamy or polyandry,
we could make more money.." "why would a global superpower ever send soldiers, when it
could just bomb a country, then ignore them, and then enjoy the roman-like splendor of war
being akin to tele-couch-grape-rolling over snidely. the laureled caesar saying something like,
"oh bomb the little wig-makers, i'll keep all the boys for myself, period.."
but nobody goes up there. some people are milling by the bar, and there is a dead rat which is actually smoking. the city around the museum looks like a pile of cardboard boxes someone kicked. just a bunch of boxes laying around and people moving in and out of them for no particular reason, "organic fuelling patterns"
one thinks hopefully.
It is the stern VIVA, or vive, or Veve.
It is that.
And yet, it is infinite silence, played out
on an eternal stage.
The Parthenon hovers like a theatre curtain, or "theature"
It is the crimson velvet dread
that Zeus is a helium balloon
that looks like a caffeine molecule
you take rides on
out over the city
and smoke a joint with a girl named
Eesa
who smells like fresh
shoe polish
like from a shoe shine box.
