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| untitled 24 x 18 cm collage, acrylic on linen board |
CAN’T
IMAGINE
Can’t
imagine being addicted to cough syrup.
Or living near an abandoned overpass in
Topeka.
Can’t
imagine fathoming the somber pleasure
of a modulated cynicism
even as it
rises like morning fog in Southern Bavaria.
Or not listening to Portishead or J.S. Bach
or Charles Mingus
or watching Rose Lavelle score
against Holland in the World Cup from like
four
teen different camera angles and in slow
motion.
categorically
I cannot imagine reading a word by Dan White.
I could imagine though doing dynamic yoga
in a country where the humidity is roughly
90%
and people
talk earnestly about animus and anima
and colonic irrigation while sweat drips
from their nipples—
but I’m
sure I would hate it.
Attending a
sermon at a megachurch in suburban Houston
would be an enormity I couldn’t possibly imagine.
Ditto going
to a Republican
convention at any time but especially
if Clint Eastwood was there saying stupid
things.
Can’t imagine eating Brussels sprouts. Or climbing
Annapurna.
But walking
numbly through a shopping mall on Black Friday
in Tupelo, Mississippi would really take the
cake—
which I couldn’t
imagine eating or having not even
if offered by someone of exceptional imagination.
