Nefertiti: College Avenue, September 1996 To the blonde, cigarette dangling from red lips in the blue Chevette— in a past life I courted you in Egypt, we danced, your neck like Nefertiti’s as furiously we made love— lived together, also, in Pompeii, & your volcanic thighs took me sky-high. Now, here you are again, pale cool flat diamond eyed, I am ravishing you, we never think of New Jersey, murder, mortuaries, what’s ugly, fleeting, as the light goes green it is all in the set-ness of your face forever— frissons, fireworks in someone’s mind.
Basement: Philadelphia Museum of Art: Summer 1996 Art, it would seem, is a nice way of saying that everything resides in hell— the pictures are anguish— the negatives, hiding somewhere, ecstasy. Pictures mounted on plain grey walls. Slow viewers puzzle themselves; sashay, bug-like, into corners. I am not, unfortunately, basking in the open glow of abundant creativity, but am thrashed by a sense of impotence. How do I let the images in? The blonde over there: does she do penance by giving head? Fractions, pinpoints of light distill from a low ceiling— footsteps, cacophony of breaths being drawn. Eyes of an artist, mine of a bloodhound. Staid types sniff the walls. Art, it would seem, is a nice way of saying that everyone resides in hell— the people are anguish— the angels, hiding somewhere, ecstasy.