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