A famously stupid monk
Claimed he could float through thin air
The skeptics replied
He’s no mystic!
He’s no fucking mystic!
His aerial traverses
Are borne of ungracious leaps
Not slow and suspenseful levitation!
But his portrait was painted
Astronauts worship him now
What about the invading air?
For centuries it has crept into
Threatened states of repose
Through open windows
It invades thickly
Reaching down gaped throats
Snores ringing in moonlight
Limbs anchored to the moon
Compressed by gravity
For some of us
There is only sickness or health
There is only horizontal or vertical
Unworked hands further softened
for interfacing with glowing glass
5 days of hot liquids
Leave soft rings on night stands.
Liquid in measures of 75%
Kept in place by the moon
Like sun blinds breakfast tables
Or seeds search warmth
A rich boy was scolded for eating dirt
He opened his mouth for his mother
Who saw the whole universe:
Fire and wind and the birds and the planets.
In flecks of salivated earth
Yes I know that’s fucking impossible.
No one can hold the tether
that binds them to their world
- Written on the occasion of Anna Solal’s exhibition at Une, Une, Une, Perpignan, March 2018