Irreversible Triptychs
if the mode of my voice is iffy-errant-noise it’s just cause I’m
shirking a 33,333-thing’d flood of storm-spurred supra-thing-
ness drowning museums so as to maybe likely swamp a star painter’s: oeuvre: canvases, lavish, yet innately elusive,
antic; frames: tunnels of stillness, fleeingly-cinched,
stuck-manic; skin: a midpoint form, estranging law from absence...
but if the telos of the tongue is the flood’s very froth
mashed Space may un-self a sumptuous opus while sea-seizing
swoops sweep this old-timey port city at tides’ whims
wielding: pigment: scrap of pure eye, innumerably niched by hue;
impasto: a modern flourish, devoutly inconstant, willful,
thick; teeth: form-full largely so as to functionally enforce form’s
loss... & as the rains spin-toss-spin now I sulk therein as if I’m calm
estranged kin... until, wait, what do I chance upon but the singularpainter’s canal-niched person begging that I (a fan-stranger!) hop in
& salvage: masterpieces: a valuation, plural, evoking an ever more
obsolete capacity for endurance; palette: lucky, apparently,
but hardly worth the risk; painter: ahem, well, now we speak of what’s
urgent... & I though do jump in—disaster sure does have
limbs