This is a new series attempting to explain my misunderstanding of perhaps the most important 20th century philosopher, at least to artists and other weirdos
I’ve just seen a face but perhaps
that was my error, a fault in my perception
of space, a void that undoes itself
by consuming a confluence of unrelated
fuss and buzz, everything one might
think of stuffed into the cracks and crevasses
so that it becomes a foil for those who look
and those who design what’s looked upon.
It was my error to see in you my mother
or the cop who chased me barefoot
through the broken glass so that
faces cut into my callused soles
would stay a while and greet me sharply
when I walked. A postcard of Mount
Rushmore peers through the appetite
of the baby king who wants his visage there
never thinking they are dead things
collecting by association what he pretends
to be, while we wait patiently for his
form to become an inert geologic substance