#535 Confiture de Cheval

#534 Le Monde des Images

The window pane cannot
encompass the setting of the
sun. It cracks — obviously not 
double-glazed. & that image,
not on the floor, camera ob-
scura style, but, in a similar
fashion, trapped at a point 
in its pathway, imprinted on 
the glass. Now, on the floor, 
shards of sunset — clouds, 
reflections on the sea, sun.

Later, after he had initiated 
the shattering of the glass, 
Magritte wrote: If what is at 
least possible should truly hap-
pen one day, I would hope that
a poet or philosopher... would
explain to me what these shards 
of reality are supposed to mean.

I leave that in the inexplicable
basket. But, if there is some-
one out there…I'm listening.

#533 L'Ocean

He gets excited when
he's near the ocean. 

She is more reserved, 
thinks of the scallop 

shell she emerged on, 
wonders where it now 

is. It looks at first like 
an unequal relationship; 

but it seems to work.

#532 La Saveur des larmes (1946)

The stalk broken, perhaps
in preparation for pesto or
some similar condiment. Not


used. The flavor unconducive 
for garnish — too much sad-
ness, tastes too much of tears.

#531 La Veillée

A lighted candle & holder cut
from a music score. Papier 
collé, glued paper, evoking
techniques from some decades
before, invoking thoughts of
his brother, a musician, poet.

Laid beside the candle, eggs
in a nest. Though not known
where they were laid. Nor 
known which came first, the
candle or the eggs. Not that
that matters. Take notice of 

the notes, their similarity to 
DNA, the genetic information 
of the music. & the eggs, the 
ongoing vigil waiting for them 
to hatch, to bring more life in
to the world as we hold the 

candle up to illuminate their 
progress. Note the frisson be-
tween them, candle & eggs, the 
magic imparted by being together, 
the dust of dusk accompanying
them, adding to the mystery.

#530 Le Somnambule

It should have been a one-
pipe problem, Watson, but
my sleep patterns have been
irregular lately, have moved
from the no sleep of cocaine 
use to an ersatz sleepwalking,
full of fear, as if the hound of 
the Baskervilles was hard on 

my heels. I wake, immediately 
reach for another pipe. Have 
lost count of how many I’ve 
smoked in the last few weeks. 
& now I’m having visions, 
will suddenly see an owl in my 
chair, my pipe in its mouth; & 
we have moved from Baker 

Street to somewhere in the 
country. & the owl peers at me
through its saucer eyes, takes
the pipe out of its mouth, looks
down at it & says to me: “This is
not a pipe.” & what it means by
that, Watson, is the problem. Is
beyond my sphere of expertise.

#529 Les Pierreries

So much alike as 
we peer from the
box we could 
pass as brothers. 

But what’s in a 
box is often more 
than just contain-
ment, what reso-

nates can be more 
than beauty is. Gems 
we might some-
times be referred 

to as; but what 
other facets will
be displayed when  
the lid is lifted?

#528 La Joconde (1962)

The slice-of-sky curtain is
center stage — or should
that be center plage? Behind

it are two other curtains, red
this time, ready, when the
bell starts to ring, to move

slightly forward & draw to-
gether to conceal the other &
leave only sand & sea in sight.

#527 Collage (Sur L’Oiseau Mort) (1926)

The silhouette of a man’s
head has the cutout of 
a bilboquet within it. 

Pinions a dead bird, an
image also found in a
painting done the same 

year. A whiff of sadism 
to them — the sparrow
usually emblematic of

fragility but here associ-
ated with a violent death.
Who knows what angst

remained in the painter’s
heart: but ever since, most of
his birds were live & white.

#526 Portrait de Commandant Marius Delsaux (1923)

No need to flee to Canada
to avoid les rigeurs of
military service
                             when you
have artistic ability of such 
an high level that a portrait 

of your commanding officer
promotes you to an alternative
method of serving the 
                                        military —
painting portaits of the remain-
der of the garrison officer corps.

#525 Après le bal

In more modern times it would
be My Fair Lady. “I could have
danced all night, & still come back
for more.” Or maybe not. Naked
on a bed, asleep. Not so much a
bed but a plinth. & she obviously 
worn out, comfort not a consider-
ation. & the curtain that partitions 
now from before drawn back to 
reveal a destruction that has not
necessarily paused, houses on their 
sides, the floor of the room, the out-
side, those hills beyond, all cracked
beyond repair, bilboquets run amok, 
fallen into the grass or still flying 
around. But this is back then, back 
when the phonograph was barely 
invented, & she no untouched Aphro-
dite but fully formed, fully conscious — 
though unconscious — of her surrounds. 
No seashore, no halfshell, no cherubs, 
just somewhere offstage a disenchanted
Pygmalion translating some sheet 
music to an upright piano & singing 
to himself the before of it. “Down fell 
the glass dear, broken, that's all,
just as my heart was after the ball.”