by Hedwig Gorski

and salt
laugh     at time.

Has withering conservatism yet forgiven invention
the smell of urine on cement in summer outside MOMA
the sticky soft naked

the temporariness
the stimulation of flesh
the odor of the model
disappearance   departure   silence   invisibility
last seconds of life
changing minuteness into minutes?

omni-trillions disappear into holes transposed into Whole
’tis written in scripture while ’de
rest bickers with action.

Are you true,
are you you?

Could beauty, my Lord, have better commerce than with honesty?
O. hath said, S. writ.

Fear closes eyes ears quicker than new art, H. the glutton writes
devouring words.
Zizek chatters what he calls philosophy                      to secure life.
While we chat, now kill on behalf of those who don’t die, to skewer
honor, one
philosophy of action.

Mud to art,
muses Hand for Eye,
see for sea.

Can they be blamed     those jealous of artists who     spin ugliness
into cloth
or do we too deny beauty
for the sake of comfort?