ࡱ> _ hbjbjzz  B\B\`) DDDDD4xxxh$xIp" ooooooo$/rtoD)h " ))oDDpDDD)vDDoD)oDD:I,:J0HOeZ-fI op0IpIRuCu:J:J6uDpJD% # D%X' ooHDv Ip))))u > :  Medium Abby Millager Acknowledgments Agenda (UK): Fata(l) Morgana* Beloit Poetry Journal: fragility of falsehood Cape Henlopen Poets 2008 (anthology): Internal Landscape of a Woman Scorned* Delaware Poetry Review: I'm Not Listening! I Am Flying, Dog in the Meadow, On Folding a Woman (The Art of Origami) Fourteen Hills: Inscription Reads* Goodfoot: Menteuse The Journal: Iris of the Scythian Sea No Place Like Here An Anthology of Southern Delaware Poetry and Prose: The Seventh or Eighth Star, a Woman Kneeling, One Ocean, Two Urns Seattle Review: Knossos Scholars Insist* Southeast Review: My Former Lover, the Ophthalmologic* Terminus: Space Botany Lullaby Lesson 2* Terminus and Verse Daily: I Gorgon* Note: I'm Not Listening! I Am Flying, Dog in the Meadow, Dear Elizabeth and Weatherglass were commissioned by the Delaware Art Museum. *Also appeared in the limited print run chapbook Hairwork. I am especially indebted to the Delaware Division of the Arts, the National Endowment for the Arts, Vermont Studio Center, April Ossmann and the White Clay Poets. Table of Contents Artist Statement 2. Fragility of Falsehood I. Stone 4. I Gorgon 5. Climbing the Steps, Mandalay Hill 6. Knossos Scholars Insist II. Oil 8. Menteuse 9. Iris of the Scythian Sea 10. Space Botany Lullaby Lesson 2 12. Not Yet the Resurrection 13. Weatherglass III. Oil & Paper 16. Dear Elizabeth IV. Paper & Parchment 18. Im Not Listening! I am Flying 19. Dog in the Meadow 20. Rider Tarot: The Star 21. Rider Tarot: The Seventh or Eighth Star, a Woman Kneeling, One Ocean, Two Urns 22. Inscription Reads 23. The Art of Origami V. Film 25. Internal Landscape of a Woman Scorned 26. My Former Lover the Ophthalmologic 27. Fata(1) Morgana VI. Flesh 30. 5% Dextrose in Water 31. What the Tango Wants 32. Two-man Tango 33. El Abrazo 34. Dancing to Oblivion VII. Rubble 36. Schloss Immendorf 37. Kissing the Joy as it Flies Artist Statement fragility of falsehood ars satirica my vision hinges on the postulate that fallacythe unexpected momentary collapse of authenticating mechanismsmight actuate a disturbance of sorts, that the overarching perspective which customarily validates the relational aesthetic between the inventive impulse and the essence of realness so often diminished by the 'thereness' of geometric forms and their corresponding figure/ground relationships would, rather than reflexively abdicating its hierarchical imperative to mediated space, exploit the cross-referentiality between that intuitive realm from which the carnivorous self lays siege to legitimacy, and the restrictive albeit reassuring body-politic of day-to-day understanding. this incursion of graphite into pressed cellulose means to embody the eternal struggle between that which is overtly transparent and that which is eternally opaque. the dry fuzz of obfuscation and claritys glittering razor set up an ber-prophetic resonance whereby the underlying territory of energies (perceptive maxima of optimism and truth mingled with the visceral detritus of fear) implicates the chaotic embrace of self-actuation in the lingering tautology of evil. this phenomenology of disappearance reflects an ontological nexus at exact odds with the preternatural impulse effecting the cartesian mind-body split. as an artist who is concerned with beauty, it is my fervent intention to deconstruct this meta-spiritual fidelity to exact ideas, thus annihilating the mythology of linkages gripping our world in an ambivalent yet viselike embrace. I Stone I Gorgon* quaff the poetion forgetfulness. Lifelong jargon slithers from the experiment of my mind. Polyclot argot corrodes at the terminal logic. I think hard like force-meat, hash in the can, can of worms, I overstuff. Never do seem to mind crush-blind severance, as sushi catatonic bris. In archetypal fashion, I miss my hair or whatever filled these blinking holesmy head now an all-out draughty info sieve. I replace my crocheted cap, strain to wonder how a brain can dry so hard. I press ad nauseum the garlic of ideas. Whatever I expectedswords, mirrors, flying fiends from this, my sea- licked pile of rocks plus why no soul happens byI wish I knew to remember. * pediment, Temple of Artemis, Corfu Climbing the Steps, Mandalay Hill Like lovers you and I have twisted night, have crossed over to palms. Monkways ribbon your hills, mist floats, temples call I may not enter. Untilas my own leavesI strain up from the boiling, Ill steep deeper. Once, faith in your light trail blossomed as a toehold in tall steps; lapping at drizzle, fat dog-gods grin and scratch upon their pedestals. Sometimes we, as the moth-eating nightjar, sleep nestless, in roads. Loosed rattan ball, you gloss across rivulets sharp rains dig into my soul. Knossos scholars insist, 1450 BC the creature on the bull is a boy, say long hair was the style in Crete. I say her breasts face the back of the fresco, shes fourteen, and shes been practicing. you dont go grabbing bulls by horns without working up to it, Saturdays in the pasture: dead tree, spiny prongs, rough forks; skinning your hands, you somersault hard, circle the trunks flaking under-belly, shear off bark. Then you graduate: uncles goat, maybe a cow for the size of it, but after that, mostly, nobody goes for the bull. Sure theyve seen it done, wiry men in traveling shows, but this girls different. The bulls body bowshornstailpricked like a scorpions sting, a glorious breeze and she sprints for the head, flips up. The beast, startled or enchantedhard to say whichtakes off. Her arms scissor his flanks, body arching up and back, wispy legs, feet floattrail like ostrich plumes, barely fluttering shy of that barbarous tail. II Oil Not Yet the Resurrection Game Still Life, Charles Alexander Stuart, ca. 1880-1895 Pegged to a board like a boot swinging from its laces, pheasant, your claws splay stiff as a squawk: Christs birthday in Vienna the time Rosario came and influenced my mother to suspend New Years dinner in the window overlooking the graveyard (Freuds old street) which once coughed up its dead: feathers from a bolster. Sometimes you just want to go home even if youve never been there before like the boxwood near the museum, puzzled still by shells from WW II its the nest you fly to, skin smeary from the plane and exams, free Mozart kugel sticky in your teeth, dangling upside down, as you are, theres nothing you can do snow flecks the world with noise and silence but take your history. Menteuse on a portrait by John Singer Sargent We watch your chin--your mentonas you lie face up to casket, this the long-abated death of Madame X. Powder floats up. We see in your corpse the thrill of unbecoming. Still pink cheek no less painted than before. Rose thorns cannily eyebrow-plucked as your talent for putting up. Your memory pounds our skulls. Wanders these high-hatched domes, birdless and mete as peasant under glass. Visions we must attend to: swoop of calf, black boning, diamond-strewn strap ready to slip. You fly now between twin slates: night and sea. Your wings skim layers, points vanishing as we, your lovers, hasten to curry a new wind that will not ice us over, crack our trunks, lay open our pith. Iris of the Scythian Sea on van Goghs irises Slick-folded as well-stirred oils or the still blue flame in the crank belly of the oysteryour pulse deflects a dry surrounding, blunt joinery: stone and sand, hardy, though lacking in particulars, in any obvious pathno poor X puckers in wait for the chisel to jimmy this gem. We must melt our way, liquefy, harden under insidious pressure, link as diamonds to re-suspend gardens of delight, which shine today like ice, like happenstance ill fortune rips frozen from a drive-by lilac. So be it. May exhales its fledged leaf cloud, autumn breathes a spotted ripeness, ragged rot, as summers fired loop old-fashions endless nets around melons, timid but primed for release to gray-green cliffs blown distance, trajectories sweet grinding breakers citric tears impossible to calculate as water, in a country whose finest images attest to grave pains and whose leaders speak in chime, walk untroubled as mere someones who have weathered no worse a waste than beauty. Thus, [new stanza] the passing song flown under carpet unburies as an icecaps pate. We hurtle to picket the world but the usual white noise wags its wavering through the frequented space. Space Botany Lullaby Lesson 2 on Kandinskys Several Circles The fruit of the moon is partially eaten, shines pale in the rhapsody of its true self, a third, high eye blessd in the skys pinched forehead, simple as an unripe apricot or peachno pit, no stem beyond sounds the living flee, that face a noiseless jittery fuzz more akin to static than fluffinside your hand a kind of fluorescence common to souls that burn even in Silvadine and overtake, at the rate of drag, bodies matted as bitten wolves atwist in jaw-packed undergrowth. So eat it! This fruit never drips gelatinous, but strings out fine in its desire to be plucked. Never shamed by sieves it is bland at first, later strikes tones loose in echoing droplets underground. On the palateas petal is to leafmold is to winemoonfruit provides no nourishment. Does not fill the belly democratic, which blasts, shrinks, grates out oaths, tortures its rebellious gears. This fruit is built of tiny microbes like enlarged electrons, as Pluto is from here a mere speck of legend slapped on the farce of distance like a stencil, half its bits positive, bipolar balance playing for itself. Narcissus at the spit- shined tent pole drools, but holds it up long enough for at least this one lieutenant to empty her sand and so my darling, my itty bitty, now sleep. Weatherglass on Mary Page Evans Weather Vane Sea and sky lie down together in 48 beds. Each miniature sky-seas a pillow, a dream, a flower in the making. To awaken the dream is to unfurl desires48 of them, contiguous. Every moment breeds a panel. They enact as shards raining up from fire, each facet, a single point of view. They reflect like fly eyes the multiplicity of mirrors our world cries at or admires itself in. So many shrill opinions lift and weigh. I hear my own voice in the chattering foule, muddle through a downpour of imaginings. Sometimes they coalesce. Could I always bend my mind to water, what brilliance then, what eternity! As it is, shadow chunks tack oblongs to a wallthought-confetti susceptible to gusts. Searchlights find them in gutters and crevices, chatting up earwigs and cigarette butts. Stained and twisted as they are, I take my thoughts back. Edges have been alteredtheir collective story will never walk again. This is the fate of ideas in a world of force. Nonetheless, [new stanza] I hang my small purposes back on the wall like so many oceans, as if they might still mean something. As if you might still care. III Oil & Paper Dear Elizabeth on portraits of Elizabeth Siddal by Dante Gabriel Rossetti and Leonard Baskin Im confounded: two mens renderings which one loved you more? All Rosetti saw: your hair, its coaxing dream poppy-colored coastline every passing ship must slip into and those lips, silenced bees drowsing at the blossom end winterized fruit. But Baskin having stripped the paint away to save you from all that beauty, your white nose and chin hackling over your death etched your teeth. IV Paper & Parchment Im Not Listening! I Am Flying. on Leonard Baskins portrait of Wm Blake A perilous path divides his face: the public side, its lucid pupil, its respectable shading and the Othernight river gushing from the Galaxy of Un-Reason. Yes, this eye is blindoverexposed, a burn, a Peephole to the Infinite. God is every Man, Blakes voices say. One thought, fills immensity. I search my own head, find Pastries, Paradoxes, Orchestrations by Angels of Hell Worlds at stake, Powers, Energies dragging their prey through sharp grass, clouds boiling down the harsh declines of Judgments shoulders. Exuberance is Beauty; I uncover Racks, Blades, Buckets, Fires Scaffolds to swing fromI can take the rope! But I cant smash past those smeary windows you people hold me to. The soul of sweet delight, can never be defild. Gluttonize! Fornicate! stop stopping me! You dont know what God wants.  Dog in the Meadow on the woodcut by Leonard Baskin Dog, you are melting down, having pricked your nose on a spindle of milkweed. A hundred-year tangle has twisted up. Good dog, you never bit or worried. Moments of glory: Leap Day Sundays, dragging turkey buzzard carcasses, unpunctured, from swamps. You were young then, and in love with yourself and the Mardi Gras dancer who bound your torn dew claw in her dresser scarf. Everything was food or not food. But, as with marriage, sometimes nothing kills a dog. One day, you slip climbing out of the pond. You neglect to fetch. Birds stop minding you. Your tail grows into an artificial limb. Everything tastes like metal. How your head lowers, where you bury your bones, how you go soft in a meadow, immune to familiar: brick house, cat with the velvet throat memorys litter, now motes in the skeleton light at rest in the arms of the bramble. Rider Tarot: The Star all thats left after the Tower burns I want to believe in you oh my star but you are so far so far and the taste of your vein in my head breeds a terrible laughter hills trembling after-bath of quake lava burbling up from broken earth fear rising bilge in a drowning ship I want to believe in you oh my salvation but your spit like a lie sticks in my throat and your hair a flaming magma pops its coals like heartbeats baby communiqus pumping the shying sea you would have me sail into you as if your light years (all that sparking and not a single tongue of heat) your galactic cold could freeze my glutinous multi-celled past snap its hearty pseudopod hurl that carcass through space Rider Tarot: The Seventh or Eighth Star, a Woman Kneeling, One Ocean, Two Urns This world drags you out of yourself, spatters you onto its barren body. Nights, you give up, turn your face to the floor. The urns are empty until one exact star rises, spouts tendrils like water. The rind sealing your self from your desires peels away. As ripe fruit, you feel everything: wingbeats, ants, the fresh shoot, the sprawling cave. Earth still swallows without promise, but all water smacks of hope, inviting your life to open itself as a galaxy spreading its spiral steps. By the Daughter of the Firmament, Dweller Between the Waters: your own falling is the cape you climb to the one hospitable star. You slip away like hours, nestle in slopes of runaway beds. And the Woman laughs putting her faith in the sea to give back fishes, putting her faith in the land to crack its seedsthey open as eyelids. Inscription reads: Come the albatross Come the metal in shining Legend memorys desirethis maze of coffee into which as mendicants we flow, sink unshadowed heads in saffron, Meskal flowering as a flown politics to which no known may be ascribed. Amharic plume scrapes vastness into telling: Saba Solomon Axums obelisk angle as twigs growing up from the parchment. Mine, not mine. No right to it, even less than colonial. One childs bargain with place: jacarandas, night breeze, salt fishing boats, Lake Turkana. Jewels my father brings bright tiny beads in rancid leather. I try them on naked: I am a ghost at 8,000 feet. Big Rains catatonate on corrugated tin, chew macadams edges, sop cattles humps, spread red dirt until the slow starved herds happen at last upon green fields, straight away turn to bleating. Foundering turves nab hooves and marrow-suck all recall of piked walls, shammas, chicken coops, breakless taxis, soaked eucalyptus fires. Bars in the nightfall gate stripe raucous staggerers from the tej beit. Alternate thunk, pole ends in hollowed logs, women pounding teff. Waggle of a bald dogs teat: I panic measuring days, not knowing whats going missing hard as I hold it all back. The Art of Origami on folding a woman the face should be perpendicular the eyes should plead you sane this biology of acts thrills as innocence lost in little shames crack the knob the south ring finger sheaves open explode each oblivious darling unrolling its sleeves the deed is done V Celluloid Internal Landscape of a Woman Scorned as might be played by Joan Crawford Losing their heads, bees fly inward. How wily, how vile to come fast like this, to come far as a fortress in aftersong, forbidden as hells green orchards of gloom. Such dark is here. Incite the moon. Take up and fling those birds our mothers hinted we must break, hands bright as carryings on. Go, go, but with such delicacy, no wire ocean ever. Fata(l) Morgana on the neverending docudrama War Suns last shrapnel savages trees, steel twists as leaves. I try to shake it off but you stay altitudes away, grains of desert sand lain end to end. I search for you in the humming rocks. They pulse against the outer facts of their shells, against the trill of your bright armament. Sun glint ejects from the muzzles strobe, sniffs its prey, turns to fata(l) morgana. Illusion, mirage. Gravel catches my chest, travels an undone road. How long can you breathe in insurgent water? Flanks fray. Froth creeps up the ripped rivers clear and present fingers pressing oblivion against your throat. Let me be your moss helmet, your forest charm, your perpetual coat. And you [new stanza] you be immortal, you song, you rhythm, tides highexpanding you salt sea rain always comes back to. My former lover the ophthalmologic surgeon shows me his enlargement Angkor Wat. A hand-hewn temple strangling in its root coiffure. He shows me another. They look the same. One is more exposed, Im supposed to say which. He dresses me in Marx Brothers glasses, causes me to dance, gown stretched up over my head but Ive planned for thisthe pink striped union suit is scratchy but capacious and thick. He snaps me with his instamaticthe tripod hogs back at Hopkins. Now, his smiling mother proffers cake. His father lurks at unclosed doors. Anesthesia never hurts: I eat three pieces, watch the doctor work to reattach his babys coveralls. Wonder if hes better at retinas. VI Flesh 5% Dextrose in Water on the art of venipuncture Now I know how to hurt you and you know how to hurt me we have stuck each other with twenty- eight-gouge needles, loosed the plastic thumb screws, let the D5W drip. What the Tango Wants Do I just want to be held tonight Do you need the touch of another human being Do you want to test your prowess Do I feel like flinging a boleo Do you want to go fast Do I want to test my exquisite reaction time Have you been working very hard on your milonga Do I just want to dance to Pugliese Am I looking for romance Are you looking to get laid Am I looking for a meal ticket Are you hoping to find that special someone Are you tired of only holding your wife Am I dead in my husbands arms Do you want to feel my tits against your chest Do I want to press my chest against you Did you need someone to fill your empty house Am I looking to get laid Is it that I am young and lovely, and you used to be Or that I really miss my daddy Are we hoping to feel young again Do you just want to hold a woman in your arms Do I just crave the arms of a man Is that enough The Two-man Tango Two men tango on a dock in moonlight, darting and circling, quick to slow from a distance, youd think it was a knife-fight. Women are scarce, Saturday or any night in nineteen twenties Buenos Aires, so two men tango on a dock, in moonlight. Tophats drive ladies on avenues bright as spit. No chance for a poor Porteo from a distance, youd think it was a knife-fight. But maybe at a milonga, despite everythingif you put on a show two men tango on a dock in moonlight, shadowy panthers padding a low tight- rope, perfecting the tender embrace, flow from a distance, youd think it was a knife-fight. And after the dance, smoking in bed, each man figuresif he could just nail that enrosque, better his postura, save up for a swankier suit, next time, some woman might meet his eye and accept the cabeceo. Two men tango on a dock in moonlight, tangled in sweat, battling for the right to just hold a woman, against the status quo. Two men tango on a dock in moonlight from a distance, youd think it was a knife-fight. El Abrazo the embrace little bit of sin singe, along a limb gesture awakening pose just next to, juxtaposition unhinged ikebana house of cards precarious proxy wind and sail side-saddle ritual orbital magnets burning both ends hawks around a single antenna Dancing to Oblivion Urban Tango Trio plays Astor Piazzolla Strings slide into the infinite o of longingecstasy beyond fulfillment. His are the arms, yours, the legs weightless music to move rocks and rivers and just below the throat not sound but breath spirals up: a vine, a lifeline fruit dangling, stems slicing your hands. Play the necks nape, the grooves between ribs, the hip pendulum. You want to die here with him, this danceforever an unbreaking wave dusking the universe, the last high note, his pulse, your vein, no mind, no memory because breath apart from music is nothing. VII Rubble Schloss Immendorf 1945: a castle in which many artworks are stashed, including Klimts Lda, is torched by retreating SS troops If I am an immolation, one of Gustavs nudes like Lda, I can come back any time, any nakedness art, that bright parapet, lends itself. Far pigments reanneal, each figment a nidus for rain in the roadside ditch, a drip behind one ear of the Freedom Fighter once more ripped from his brothers throat, one more step from revolution. Mata Hari said a jealous man sliced off her nipples. Shed let no eye pry beneath that breastplate. But in truth as well as being Dutch, she had no chest. As in art, fact is never the obstacle. Hills tip gaily forward as back, perspective, like inheritance, a matter of line, convergence and antiquity. Klimt, no aristocrat, only liked some things flat. Flesh cresting up through the underwire. Eva Peron understood, as Eva Braun gummed a black cherry comfit, bobbled on her white ash beam, smacked chalk from her hands and kipped about the unevens like a swastika. Kissing the Joy as it Flies But he who kisses the joy as it flies Lives in Eternitys sun rise. Wm. Blake Northfield Chateau, it is only in fact that you are doomed. Ruin is not loss, but dis-inhibition, fracture a kind of insurrection. Transience seduces, Dear Razed Chateau. Lift me up, kiss me as I fly. See the turrets and birds, they are one, flyingturn to the vapor and trees, to the whisperings and mossy streams, pines bending, lichen beds waiting to be kissed by you and the power of forgetting. This joy as it flies is nothing but mirrors and reflecting breath an ecstasy of reason, fever, loneliness and the dreaming self my body claims. Your ground, your nails, your wood dance the unhinged ability. 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