Walking Theory #42

In memoriam, Steve Lacy

Go trembling up into elegy this day's

Sad calling: no one ever said the roll

Would stop rolling that who ever it is

Wander this planet, this love, this green thing

An itch on the foot continuous to celebrate

Loss is no mean thing: I've charmed you,

Left you, embraced, the continuum, the

Line fragmented, tortured or an ecstatic

Release rushes the heart woelessly, yet

Who, what, one circles in & out over &

Over again: we strange ones, so familiar.

 


Walking Theory #43

Wed the water

Wire the fire

Hug the mud

Put wind in her whistle

Music in your buns.

 


Walking Theory #44

for Fairfield Porter

Put a double mirror in each of your paintings

The glass unfolds a green towel, another a blue

A man in middle age, a rose pink robe

An island briefly off the eastern coast

A poet as his guest, the pigment applied

Thick, proportionate & radiant, a City face

Puzzled, relieved at the border trees, summer shrubs:

The lemonade at noon, perhaps a touch of something else,

There is a certain kind of history that is vacuous,

Nothing adamant coming or going, the bare tuck,

a gentle breeze on the starboard cheek:

One man's loneliness is another to paint

One lives on gratuities, angels in the tender brush.

 

blog: http://stephenvincent.durationpress.com

 

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