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stork daddy
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Late at night, I watch some pornography;
Afterwards a special on public television
On van gogh.
One is tempted to call it a modern juxtaposition,
But it is no more a juxtaposition than me
Being clothed and naked,
All that has changed is the instantaneousness,
The fluidity of the time lapse in videos against
Still life.
The sower, big wet tits 4,
Both end in reconciliations of a sort:
In one the blurred bright dusk,
The muted intensity of farming and impression
Is overtaken by the sudden vividness
Of a garish blazing ovum sun
That simultaneously pushes and pulls
Thin beams by its center
And is the backdrop of a messianic sower.
In the other, the overt clarity
Of hateful lusting words,
And enlarged (and so reduced), firm instruments
Of realism; fleshy threshers, discarded boots,
Gives way suddenly in the fevered mashing
Of things sold as real and unmediated,
To the faces of the two subjects,
Smeared like sunflowers.
Both come from a sort of destructive distillation,
A sort of awkwardness,
A blessed offering to the sane and desirous
From the desirously insane.
Both a sacrifice to the common, to us,
Who liking both,
Could never make either.
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