To Be Conscious of the Self at the Exact Second Its Released
The clouds, this morning, in Albuquerque, muscular, sculptural,
so it was easy to imagine myself as Michelangelo
paring away cumulus to arrive at the perfect imploded cloud-core,
the central inner mass of something
I couldnt help conjuring as art object. Look, I whispered,
and tilted my head back as a black-and-gray contortion,
a Quasimodo launched limping along the sky,
trailed his paralyzed fingers overhead.
And then, I laughed, the disaster-monger projecting her grotesqueries
onto nature, the panoramic Rorschach of my mind
an imagistic counterpointing run amuck, every stark-limbed tree
a gallows, every rain cloud a dark or pathetic or wounded figure
from literature, every squat brick fence encircling soaked emerald grass
an opportunity for mental boundaries to descend, to block
my urge for dissolving. What I crave, finally, is an egoism
in egolessnessbut who can ever achieve that?
To be conscious of the self at the exact second its released
like fragmented white star matter onto a blackened sky
is to become Van Gogh executing his orange sunflower flares
in continuous fits of hypergraphia, in seizures of a channeled ecstasy
that keeps compelling the hand to whip red oils, to fling violet paint
onto a canvas, the primal urge never satisfied.
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