Wednesday, March 25, 2009

Spare Is, as, Spare Does.

You let it drop to me.

You spoke of my confessions...

what about yours?

Is it the case that

you and I share the same tendency

to cover our tracks?

One born of preterit hope...

that what cannot be seen,

may not exist...

An ultimate presence and absence

co-mingled in matrixial night,

of the darkest matter?

You mentioned the horrors of war,

seductive cover-ups...

the fashion to obscure the lies

and the drapery

of existence failed.

Your grief,


your fathers standards...

splinters in your soul...

a trail of sorrows,

the lagrima mundi...

of your entire life.

Now the splinters emerge

and come to term,

not the first time,

but again as specter

in the form of paintings

as elegant and minimal

as any judgmental

and discriminating Papa

might expect

from his exquisitely

talented and beautiful


the daughter



amongst the ravage

of horror

and human misery

bound in ecstasy.

And under the cover of cosmic night

you do your Papa proud,

your Papa is undone.

Meanwhile the sheets are set

and the forms

remain clean,

aquiline fine,

with all the glimmer

and spareness

one should want

of a woman desired

yet chaste.

Look Papa!

All of it is there!

Your daughter has

suggested everything,

while revealing nothing!

She has done it




amid your past

and presence

which lay


by her growing power,

her frightful bower,

of intimacy and secrecy.

Papa is there a groom

whom shall marry this bride?

Or a seed

that shall be spilled upon her?

My Lady,

To you

I will reveal

only what is comfortable

for you to bare.

I will spare all

or spare nothing.

Spare is

as spare does,

So shall I be spare

for the sake of thee.

You are my ground,

the point of my discharge

vessel of electric overload,

virgin ground,

And to you it is charged

to remain pure

and to remain active

even after the light passes through,

and the carnal blood is spilled.

My lady

I implore you

The sky is alive

for the ground to receive.