Table of |
The past remains unmarked and the future must wait its turn.
The present alone presents its pulsing face
as the impatient world stamps its collective foot.
Now I can no longer see circling hands descending then rising again.
I miss my analog watch.
I miss the clock face, that round table of numbers
those champion knights of the passing hours.
I've searched all my dressers for my old timepiece but can't find it.
Its slow, steady hands
are like the arms of the elderly Chinese gentleman
doing Tai-Chi in the park,
how each morning his body gracefully unwinds,
and his hands move in wide steady circles
The routine is strict, the concentration total, eyes tightly focused inward,
and yet he pauses from time to time, just for a moment,
to peek at a passing bird.
THE PROPER DISPOSAL OF CLUTTER
Yes the Pieta was within the marble all along,
and Michelangelo was a magician with his chisel,
but beneath master and masterpiece
lay the talus and scree of a thousand stillborn Pietas.
And legions of unborn Hamlets
were aborted on crumpled paper tossed into Shakespeare's trash.
Even grade Z meat chucked from Emeril's Cajun kitchen
can be seasoned and stewed for gourmet tastes.
These maestros of shards, orts, and leavings,
these discerning demiurges of odds from ends,
these dumpster craftsmen, junk heap artisans,
prestidigitators of factory seconds,
who fashion aesthetics out of ashes,
we should all be in awe on their rag-picker genius.
And so each time you spring-clean worn-out possessions,
don't haggle them away on flea market tables,
but leave those castoffs on the curbs
where soon to be discovered unknown artists
prowl skid row streets for inspiration.