Monday, December 25, 2006
Jim Harrison has been on my mind all day. For a guy who boozes like the best of us and stuffs his stomach till he can't see his own dick anymore - as he himself puts it - , he can express with ecstatic surprise how such a one can dissolve whilst smelling like a lily. This poem here, from The Shape of the Journey: New and Collected Poems, reminds me of Werner Herzog's pan of the windmills on that Greek Island. Or when I was on my way to my Grandmother's for Christmas dinner last night, and I locked a gaze on a park bench - Or rather, it's siren's call went straight to my legs. I wanted to reside on it till my Hugo Boss frayed and the Prada cologne dissolved - along with my mind.
My left eye is nearly blind.
No words have ever been read with it.
Not that the eye is virgin – thirty years ago
it was punctured by glass. In everything
it sees a pastel mist. The poster of Chief Joseph
could be King Kong, Hong Kong, or a naked lady riding
a donkey into Salinas, Kansas. A war atrocity.
This eye is the perfect art critic. This eye
is a perfect lover saying bodies don’t matter,
it is the voice. This eye can make a light bulb
into the moon when it chooses. Once a year I open
it to the full moon out in the pasture and yell,
white light white light.