Karen Glasser, Swamps

Inspiration is a Train or a Funnel

Martine Johanna, The Chair, 2010

[His] name wasn't Daniel. Wouldn't have been Daniel. Could have been Isis. In my mind I called [him] Isis, who was responsible. It was that night when Isis let the sun sit longer in the sky making my chest lift up like a balloon and light cups of bedside water on fire. Summoning Yemaya to answer the prayers for my ballooning body, she turned me into water. I felt remnants of the prayers and the rising heat of the sun as I ran backwards before dawn. I still hear the waves of that body of water calling but refuse to mourn and continue on in [his] search into the light.

Street Dreamer

Martin Kippenberger, Untitled, 1981

A Parisian once said to me "You want to know the difference between Paris and New York? The food."

Trying to be polite I said, "So what kinds of food do you miss?"

"No, no, no," said the Parisian using hand gestures to express urgency, "It's the garbage.  The litter.  It's those summer months in New York.  I cannot stand it.  When the bags on the street are hot and smell like decaying food. It's disgusting."

I laughed. Vague translation error. It reminded me of E.B. White. "New York must hold a steady, irresistible charm..." he said, in order for people to inhabit it.  And I guess I was one of those perverted dreamers who enjoyed that extreme season of juxtapositions.  When the rancid competed with the sudden influx of light.

For A Moment We're In Tune

Charles Burchfield, Orion in December, 1959

Laying like in dreams 

with eyes open, cold

glassy and moving

to darkened tones of

 mostly muddled greys. 

Everything up,

 drawn toward the source,

open and raised our- 

gaze moves to sky. 

Laying below surface

hiding from the Hunter

who walks on water

like sea monsters 

standing taller than trees.

The bends of our necks 

rest along a dank log

it's decaying but

death is not yet here

inside the body 

of this old oak tree. 

It's insect inhabitants 

are eating, they play

Carl Vine's Symphony

Number 5 to the light- 

flickers of Apollo's truth,

as the Hunter aims small

and we feel the mass of it.

Daily Routine

Pierre Bonnard, The Bathroom, 1932 

They get up with the sun. First, she takes him outside in her pajamas. Feeds him his morning bowl of lamb and rice as she makes her bed. Forgets for a moment, but makes sure to draw a bath before work. He loves to watch her undress.  The interest in his eyes makes him feel human. While she just thinks it humorous.  Stepping over to the tub he winces. She apologetically thinks she stepped on his tail, when really she stepped on his heart.