Sutra of the Shiny Things

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All sparkles beyond price may not suffice,  I vow to get ’em.

Endless constraining modesty, I say Be gone!

Bank accounts beyond measuring, empty ’em.

All beings, get out of my way!

 

 

 

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Boy with the Hood

Bourouissa

This installation at the Barnes Collection in Philadelphia, by the French artist Mohamed Bourousissa, grew out of his time with the Fletcher Street Riding Club, one of the few black, urban stables in the United States. The panels, printed on European car parts, feature the people and scenes in the documentary that accompanies the show. It’s as if the practice of collage had been reborn, with 3D figures advancing on and receding from the viewer’s field of vision, but none of the fields are flat or square, so that images and scenes seem to roll into one another, or perhaps “gallop” is a better word. One wants to see what Bourousissa has done, or will do, working from his native Parisian banlieue.

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Ah, M. Jacob!

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“Come in, we’re open”?

Really, M. Jacob, let’s stick to the old ways,

best ways, ways that match your saddle-bag

brown paint and flaking lettrisme.  I concede

the chandelier in the window and soft drink

machine in the back, but pain de tradition

needs no traduction. Only entrez.

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Must come down

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Must tumble of its own weight, knowledge

so unorganized that its potential

for violence hangs over the imagination

like dynamite evaporating.

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KILLERS IN TUTUS

Killers for UPicture

The best of the poems, photos, and meditations to appear on UPICTURE have now been collected in a book,  KILLERS IN TUTUS, available at Amazon.  Click here.  The cover photo appeared on November 2, 2012 in an essay on Fasching in Ulm, Germany.  The black and white does not do justice to the pink tutus on those guys, but I am working on a color edition that I hope to have out soon.  Below is the back cover blurb:

“How can we rescue and nourish a sense of wonder, especially if we live in chaotic and violent places like Beirut and New York City, which teach us to be skeptical?  This is the conundrum that courses beneath the poems, prose, photos, and art that William Marling composes in his seventh book.  In work that ranges from the Middle East to Middle America, from New York to Eastern Europe, Paris, and painting, Marling alerts us to the fallibility of the senses and the small victories of innocence and wonder.”

 

 

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You never see it coming

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If you could see it coming
there would be no slow
motion in film, no Bernini,
no Grecian Urn for Keats.
Who tells you that, in the
moment, all was slow time,
they are so practiced, like
waterfalls that notice a man
in a barrel cresting their lips,
forgetting that first time,
they never saw him coming.

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We is I, I is We

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Children play in the confessional:

We is I and I is We.  There are

problems with canes and crutches

always, as prostheses discarded

are reclaimed on Mondays.

Nous rendons grace a

But the chantier fund

needs chanting up.

No hymnal, but the choir

which had seemed recorded

was real.  Professional beggars

and a cold sun on Rue St. Jacques.

The suicide’s apartment

has been cleaned up.  The piles

of jouets d’infants  gone le matin

and winter on my tongue.

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“Congress shall make no law”

Palazzo dei Congressi.

 

Of the congressi,  

by the congressi ,  

for the congressi.

You might as well

read a book, people.

The congressi, like

a dormant volcano,

are not coming to

your life.  The congressi

have gone to the lake,

to the bar and the bank,

themselves to consider.

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Giuseppe Penone, at Palazzo della Civilta Italiana, FENDI ROMA

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Pigneto Street Art

A wonderful off-the-beaten-path neighborhood of Rome. This is not graffiti.  These are not taggers. It is organized and, surprise to me,  adds to the community, which is home to a spectrum of socialist through anarchist views.

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