Made in China, the upset vase, in disgrace, hides its fragile face and its sorrow from cut glass eggs that will not hatch in nests of wire and pewter fish with ruby eyes that cannot swim in tattered lace.
Yesterday, a hundred billion years ago, patterns started there, Amiga. Contemplation seems self-indulgent. We're caught up in a rush. Parasites, a series of false selves, color our behavior. We're caught in patterns. In open spaces, we find ourselves calling resistance achievement. Fear is the impulse to deny patterns. Caught in confusion, in this circular spinning, the ancients are family.
Critics won't die from explication, though the burden of their explicating is to arrest what others stargazed and recognize the pizzeria is the Promised Land. Past the unkennelled gastropod whose earthly remains encourage turf wars between beggars, through the soup kitchen of the lollygagging ritualist, around the vocational school of the hidden water cooler-- unacknowledged and unwanted by all but headstrong stigmatists who thrive between waterworks and scuttlebutt, here, now and forever-- in this condensation of complete single-mindedness (costing not less than everlastingness) illusion and allusion suffice; all mankind's thimblerigs suffice when bits of bone and flakes of stone decoupage can be crafted into regal knockoffs to be studied by freaks and fools; fine art and the Rorschach test are one.