wednesday, november 04, 2015
On Being a Woman Painter or 'Fake Blood'


If only beauty were enough,

if desire were currency,

I could sweat the toil of my trade,

and trade the products of longing for a life.


A lifetime of time and being would be born

complete and viable,

projected, crimson, onto walls

Inside The White Cube of reason;

begetting little cubes. 


Viscera would be cordoned-off and labeled

in Times New Roman,

while unflinching Prudence

pushes pins in,

centers, justifies, edges, frames,

binds blind organisms, birthed--conceived,

in fervid dreams,

with Philosophy's cool surname,

and hands

dollars over fists

to clench it,

make it alright,

set it aright

with right angles.


I would spend every night

and waking day

making this kind of life.


I’d never paint a Crucifixion without tears rolling,

as in Fra Angelico’s face

of Christ, inviolate, radiant with restraint,

deep in his science.


I’d never work without a prayer to make

cadmium drip from my eyes

onto skins, titanium;

bones beneath them, white;

transparent tissues scumbled over yellow fats;

blood vessels threaded like roots,

blue through the zinc,

and umber hairs that shoot

from delicate membranes,

laced with lead,

and places where the white turns red

with feeling

(parasympathetic response),

always just turning red

(rose madder lake),

in perpetuity.

It would be enough for me.


And for beauty alone,

I would live until it was time to die;

fake blood,

love, work,

and never worry

about such moot questions as

‘where are my children?’

Where, my Spouse?’


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