Jerry Gordon 6/25/06

ABC--Adam's Abstract Ass

As Adam began another boring afternoon announcing another bird as another bird and another cat as another bean-brained cat, a big announcement came. As always, the announcement came from the Almighty and all Almighty announcements came in Aramaic, an annoyance as Adam always associated Aramaic as an angelic, but ass-kissy, tongue.

But, after a bit’a contemplation, Adam asked a beast at-hand, “Ah, before’s announcement’s Aramaic, a bit, abnormal?” But, as always, the animal avoided answering Adam and acted as if chewing amaryllis bulbs constituted an acceptable conversation between creatures.

As can be conceived, Adam broke, cried and angrily attacked, berating the beast, “Ask and answer!! Ask and answer!! ‘at’s a conversation, ai?”

Adam beat his chest angrily.

But, after a brief break, Adam conceived of a brilliant alternative. Adam began constructing an abstract companion, and after another break, Adam began creating an actual companion, announcing it as “Adam’s Constructivist Alteration Against A’Communicative Beasts and an Anally Compulsive Almighty.”

As Biblical authorities cite, Adam began creativity as a blasphemous act.

But, after all, consider Adam’s context. An almighty ‘at could create all animals and astronomical bodies couldn’t adjust animals’ aural/oral apparatea about a centimetre and allow beasts conversational acts.? Come again?!! ‘At ain’t brain breakin’.

Anyway, after another afternoon break, Adam began building an actual companion. But, as always, actual creativity comes of abstraction, and Adam began by creating a couple anatomical aspects completely abstract at ‘at age: Breasts and an ass. Adam began by crafting a concrete breast and an animal crap ass.

But critics bemoan, complaining, “An ass ain’t abstract, as Adam ‘ad an ass.” And art criticism is born.

Breasts are accepted as actual abstractions, but Creationist critics always complain against an ass being abstractification by Adam. But, consider Adam’s actual condition. Alone, Adam couldn’t aptly ascertain his own ass’s actual appearance anymore than an ambiguously bumpy backside. Assuredly, Adam created asses as conceptual and abstract art.



Thus This

On this train
with this man holding his case
and this roar rumble
through this dark tunnel
and the universe
All
coming together thus,
I lean out
and kiss your head
to participate in the perfection
like this.



It Asks

"Why are you here?" it asks.
I'm here to drop the bubble of poetry into your vein,
to commit the necessary crimes of shame and grandeur,
to abandon every mask of self I love and therefore fall in hate with,
to set the clock forward and back,
to always be arriving in the chariot of doubt,
to learn how to carry each person into burning buildings,
to film this slow-motion car crash.
I'm here to ride the tattoo ink and build castles of smoke,
to appear,
to drift beyond sanity,
to keep each creek in tune,
to miss the chances others take
and paint a single corridor of mind with soot and prophesy.
I'm here to lose my way and every sense of punishing sureness.
I'm here to be fearless
because what matters is to get hit in the face, to smile in photos
and to encircle my arms with flowers.
My healing and decay ressemble my mirror of pride and envy.
I'm here to touch the surfaces of water,
to ruin what I've worked for and ignore what's important.
I'm here to look into your eyes as you look away,
awaiting your return before I flee into dream bedrooms.
I'm here to lock doors wide open and collect the nails of effects.
I'm here to beg and be betrayed, as is every bastard son's birthrite.
I'm here to breathe and never cease returning.



Old Men

This summer, everywhere I look, I see old men holding onto things, as though the buildings are about to come apart or start tumbling down onto our hats.

Two days ago, walking in an underground mall in Namba, an old man who had wrinkles in his pants which were older than me was leaning with all his leverage against the store fronts, slowly moving from palm-press to palm-press against the wall. Lean hard to the wall. Long pause. Move. Lean hard. Long pause. . .

The rest of us flowed quickly past. At one point while I was watching, he came to a window front that he judged wouldn't support his weight, so he "dashed" to the next section of wall before pausing again.

Yesterday, I saw a man in clothes not of this season simply frozen static, both hands up against an apartment building's corner. As I rode by on my bike, he didn't shift or twitch. The morning sun slowly turned his shadow beneath him.

And just now, as I crossed a busy intersection to the east of here, I saw a man draped in a shade of faded green clinging to the grey steel box that controls the traffic signals. His arms were hooked over the far edge of the box as though his boat were about to tip and he knew to lose touch with the thing would set him adrift alone in the seas of change. His grip was locked and scared, perhaps how all of ours should be if we really knew what was what.

For some unreasonable reason, shabbly-dressed old men always make me imagine prophets. Mumbling strange impromptue incantations. Their messages too complex to understand. Too many tongues in their mouthes for even them to fathom, much less for us to get it when they speak or try to write it down on grimy paper or scratch it on the sidewalk. Aware of this impossiblity, I feel somehow urged to leap towards them in imitation, to somehow simply follow their lead without understanding. Someday I might. You might find me there on the railing near the freeway on-ramp, covered in car exhaust soot and clinging to a yellow caution triangle with my fingernails growing long and thick.

You might honk, but I'll be too absorbed in memorizing the stringing loops of truth to nod.