Does Man Love Art?
"a golden shovel on Gwendolyn Brooks' 'The Chicago Picasso'"
Art is not a thing that does.
It just sits there, man,
being the fucking thing that cannot love
man, nor art
nor the great burst of begonias from the snoot of man
leaping upon the great white whale that visits
everything in sequence except art
and the bit of art behind, that is the but
making excuses for the fish that squirms
beneath the baffling underwear of art.
If I had an eye like that, Picassos, it would hurt
from every little perspective, stabbing the art
-s in your Potemkins glottals with its urges;
shellacking the village in your last voyages—
and
picking up there like the incontinent donkey with its it
spread upon the universe of is
like a Pollack declaiming the easier
semen scuttling from the chimpanzees to
be easier than rats deserting a sinking Tiresias. Just stay
on the right myth of gender creating at
the midwife’s behest. Thrusting Hansel home
into Gretel’s oven. That’s the mystery of the
the. The great blots that mean so nice
at quaffing beer
gardens festooned with fig leaves and the ready
spasms of existence for the thing itself in
the commonrooms
of dirigibles. Inflate we
with the orange soda belch
that we all love, or
have met for a tryst in the dry red wheelbarrow of deicide. I’m really just one sniff
from the grave where they buried my lonesome chicken with a thousand young, the lights or
memories you’ve just got to scratch
with one long fingernail cultivated for that purpose. Its curls are
a deadly maze with a centaur cruising raw
for bullish appreciation, the value in the genital and/but
appreciative reverse engineering, the child a bloated we
on the elbow of Rodin. I think popping it must
think and therefore spittoons of pus cook
the breakfast of the gospels that is ourselves
protesting the still life that is and
won’t stop like the duck flock stapled to the style
of the lake. Are we not really prepared to protest ourselves
for the belly of the algorithm, where all we are for
is asking Google to make some art?
To make some art that’s who?
The picture of the water buffalo is
aging like a
Dorian Gray on your to-do list that is gazing also into you. Requiring
a 1000-word essay on the water buffalo courtesan
reclining like Olympia. Or the warthog. We
squirm
within the ugliness of dancing about Archimedes. We
have the lever of prose to get to the heart of what the warthogs do
when they displace water, which is what we like to see in paintings, not
the politics of racial exclusion. I think from one perspective what Picasso needs is a hug
there in the
study with the candlestick. It was Professor Lisa, Mona
Plum dyeing each death purple, like Grape Ape charmed by the horn of Simpson, Lisa.
There is only so much referential hugeness we
will tolerate. There may
be a hugeness to the touch
of Tiny Tim upon the ukulele of the Bezos moonshot Katy. Or
maybe appealing nonsense is just not a thing to tolerate
on your bean burger. More seriousness echoes in an
emeritus than has been found in your finger-painting of astounding
Spider-Man lunch boxes. You open one and out pops Mayor Daley with a fountain
of Picassos and police torture. That’s a new album. Be a warrior, or
watch The Terminator. Laura Mulvey says it is a
sameness looking in each other as you trot like a horse-and-rider
watching a rider-and-horse trot into a ditch that looks like Jimmy Stewart at
a HUAC snitchfest. The rider side-eyes the horse, the horse side-eyes the most
rigorous technique and joins another
punk band fronted by AI Greil Marcus wearing the bollocks of a poet’s ear for prose. The lion
in lederhosen. That’s really not something you want to observe
even if you’re Flemish. The white ribbon on the lumpen Chuckie Cheese head of the
smoldering gallery bad boy—look out look out look out! You’re a tall
drink of tragedy out there smoldering on Norman Rockwell’s high cold
modernism. Things waiting for the approval of
other things, but these ones with a
keyboard and cultural validation rising from the depths. Godzilla, you are a flower
that looks nothing like a flower. That is the art which
consumes Mega-Tokyo in the gentle digestion of difficult work in the humanities. Is
Kant getting his single hair done for beauty? The moral imperative is as
determined as the Hardy Boys, and as beautiful, but they are less innocent
since there are two of them, staring in two mirrors, at the heady proliferation of and,
the one mystery that cannot be solved with beefsteak or moral improvement as
the CIA drifts in on febrile clouds of traveling ideologies. Guilty
feelings do not clutch the ass of rhythm as
the glad personal quality of Beatles clutch the meaningful.
What I’m trying to say is that the popular sounds challenge and
sooth like Webern snorting the MAGA flag quietly in the corner. As
if the container ships never left the sparkling imagination of any
large quadruped, fragrant with the methane of the real. And other
-where, civic honor dressed up like a cockroach dreaming it was a flower
-ing of meritocratic customs officials. Don’t bring in
those non-sequiturs. Don’t microdose your dada with the
charm of the bourgeoisie. Instead, just quickdraw that western
six-shooter with all the greatest MacArthur grants. Every genius up standing in the outfield.
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