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That causes me to recall the last page of Henry Miller’s Big Sur
and the Oranges of Hieronymus Bosch, which has a black-line rectangle containing white space. Inside is only the sentence “This is a Kandinsky.”
To me, that’s like: “This assertion is false.”
What is “this”?
The asserting is a Kandinsky work?
The abstract expressionist would gladly reply
“Maybe.”
Yet, Wassily Kandinsky didn’t write that, so
would he approve anyway?
Jacques Derrida welcomed questions of the copy
or derivative. Are quote marks part of assertion?
If not, what’s the act of quoting? .......“This” is?
And reading: Is this reincarnation of shared appreciability?
Is here the place of immortality?: twigs for leaving.
Anyway, one’s called to reflecting surfaces, the act,
representation as such, living here. A writer
faces space of herself before words that’re likely
throwaways in consumerist airs, where cramming a message into 140 marks
validates ephemerality of attention, as well as moment of writing.
Knowing a tree anymore requires too much attention
that readily feels uncanny, u kno, 4 n-sdrs btw n wtf lol brb.
So, finding fullness to cherish in simplicity, as if
something grandly archetyped may design itself
in leafless branches echoing seasons, clarity,
promise of warm play, isn’t trivial.
You’ve heard a stutterer whose expressing flows
when she sings. Or an old trembler who disappears
in dancing. Performing oneself shows what there
is.
Who I am is the question. Or perhaps I’m just
oranges.
All dies, but not yet: I’m still budding.
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