The Bump (I–VIII)
Walking out of the pharmacy
I felt the bones in my daughter’s hand,
fragile as a bird’s
as that small owl dead on the road
by Chip’s Garage
I took him home for a decent burial
and after asking permission
from the Lord of the Birds
to keep his beautiful feet
with their fishhook talons and delicate feathering
hoping he would not need them in his next incarnation
I lopped them off with a sharp axe
and laid him down
in that corner of the backyard
where the evening light falls
like grace on the goldenrod
(that’s just the first bit, but it kills me because I too have guiltily stolen the feet of a sleeping bird before wrapping it in white paper like a present, a shroud, placed it in the top of the otto bin hoping to forget but not)
my sense of direction: it took over a month of living here to realise that the Upper East Side is to the RIGHT of the park and the Upper West Side is to the LEFT of the park
People say “it’s boring” — as if that were a final standard of appeal, and no work of art had the right to bore us. But most of the interesting art of our time is boring.
Jasper Johns is boring. Beckett is boring, Robbe-Grillet is boring. Etc. Etc.
Maybe art has to be boring, now. (This doesn’t mean that boring art is necessarily good — obviously.) We should not expect art to entertain or divert anymore. At least, not high art. Boredom is a function of attention. We are learning new modes of attention — say, favoring the ear more than the eye — but so long as we work within the old attention-frame we find X boring … e.g. listening for sense rather than sound (being too message-oriented)."
sometimes if you tell the first flakes of snow at dusk to fuck OFF it works try it