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