Wednesday, October 1, 2014

Robert Gober's Bone Clocks (My Paranoid Youth Revisited)



to read in the sanctum of kitsch, errh, glitch,
the whole stomach of its readability mute, kaput,


I skid along the carpet and miss the frame
but enter the cool jelly of the image within


the inside of the jelly is the outside of every picture
so there's nothing inside but everything


It's old alchemy
but time is frozen, and Merlin kind


Merlin is a pencil brand
and you know its name and line



you recognize the hand of Mickey Mouse 
but also say 'Thou art that not mine'



but you penetrate the scrim of the fons
or rather you perpetrate the question (quesion)
of its name



for what foolishness is the fountain of fauns
but a scrim for pictures to live in?



This question isn't in any of the books, the books themselves
are the question, and ethos drives their constellation grace
it hovers



literally there are pages in the air
remember Windows, the operating system
before it was invented?



Surely you must respect that what is legible
is the ultimate law,
the penultimate sin



and that as things like that go then that
domesticity reigns the feral
domesticity is the conquering feral camouflaged



see it
the gift boxes
the bright noses
the pyramids



with their sacred doll bodies
that preserve all space and time
in an apposite pointedness



this drawing converges on none of that
for the crane dances on the outside
in the foyer



this isn't any of that
this is the memory, the foundation of that drama



this is that sculpture
you saw unfolding in the rain that day



its engines firing blue within
and sucking the rain from the sky




to make a perfect
and crystalline bolt of water



an orphan pencil
launched back at mother desk



father furniture
sit right down



in instrumentality
and be mind



the blood
lace fears is mine



yours is a fine museum



space and time



let things not change



is misleading
leading