Saturday, March 19, 2016

Self-portrait of the Artist, Notes for a Movie Based on a Poem


Listen, it's about a dream within a dream
About the white-hearted nothingness of art.
I hear the Producer groan. I will be the first convex mirror
In her Malibu townhouse to be covered with black scarves.
There's a small chip in my rain-colored eye, sinister
As a Sunday's blood-freckled yolk––which, according to focus groups
Portends nuclear warheads, Japanese candy, and a junkie bard's panama hat
Trimmed with red feathers. It's about going crazy for the true products
Of our own hysteria, and the crafting of a thing so invisibly pure
We resurrect nations inside its theater. I can already see myself sitting alone
In the incoherent darkness of the plot, worshipping not just the shadows strutting
On screen, or the patterns of light, but the screen itself like the embryonic
Spotlight of the page! Like every movie that's based on a poem
It's about the author mistaking his own nonexistence
For an egg-shaped hole in the universe.

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