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<eyebeam><blast> Art Lover

        Art. I married her a long time ago. We make love everyday. She
is She is the bodies that no place holds back. She is the planet which
gets me going. She has lots of shapes, names, forms, styles, countries,
languages. We do it,  we do 'it' the sex love thing no matter. Words
don't count with Her. Ask her friend Michaelangelo. She is female-male
and both and both; she is both/and not either/or or... Her names Are
A.L.P and H.C.E. One thing for sure:She tells me; Poet I hate the media.
But she is Medias Res. In the middle of things. Like the grass. She was
born before the 19th. century. But she loves the 19th. century. She
loves mistakes because they are like necessity.
        Meanwhile our machine desires mingle. We speak as we see...
'What a mistake to have ever said the id' Everywhere it is machines.
Real ones.' Sometimes we fight. She always wins. I lose to her arms of
beauty and expression. I am happy to lose to this foe of centuries and
worlds. She ravishes me. She beats me down and by surrendering I win. In
Art Loser Wins. There's no sucess like failure. No ambition to victory
except achievement. A  victory is silent. Then spreads later. When No
one is looking. Nobody.
        Art is a Lady. I married her a long time ago. Perhaps she is
your Man. All genders slide in this set. Married her a long time ago. 
And all her bodies. And all her forms. We make love everyday. She is all
sexes all beds. She is spinning round. Her hands greet me at every
angle. She is not poor but very rich. I might be poor at times, but she
isn't. She is rich, infinitely wealthy. She scorns cheap lovers. Spurns
poverty. A painter wil give his body up for Art and live forever. Like
eyes which stare into space forever finding the Gaze. A painter. Each
day she makes love to Art. It is her  lover. Some time ago she was
walking through the 19th. century and found a painting by a man whose
ear was cut off. Then she found a  painting where the light blazed right
through the wall. Museum without Walls. Infinite museum without walls.
No more walls because the art flows everywhere and clearly the theory of
a practioner cannot be the same as those who theorize for other
reasons.  But it breaks/ruptures/schizz-flows. Makes the mouth hover
over the infinite possibilities of change, desire and bodies. Art is not
Just. Or justice. But Art is Just and Wise and Sober, as still as
Norwegian Lakes. The wound that gives birth to Art can kill the subject.
Who is the subject when she is not home? Is she the object which moves
from Objectivity to Objectivity? causing the dialectical flows to pass
through the inertia of the practico-inert? Of the line up at the
bus-stop where the reified selves stand each day only wishing the other
would disappear, because the other is always 'de trop?'

        I make Love with Art each day. She has a shapely body.
Sometimes. Other times she is a boudoir, at other times a brothel. She
flings the line of flight past the viewer and invites the Gaze back to
speak. To her me you and the Others. O Other of Beauty and Expression. O
Depressives and neurotics who fear your own fantasms. She has no class
distinctions. Although she's the classy lady going. Going downtown and
uptown. She laughs a lot too. Remember that. She laughs. At You. At You
and You. Me and Her. And Us and Them. Because she has no borders.

        She waves her hand to me and says come back to 1802 and look at
Baudelaire writing about the Impressionists. Make love to their light no
matter what sex they 'have'; Make sex have with the paintings you cannot
see. As you wander past Renoir and Monet and Pissaro. And others. The
one who looks like Reuben in the 19th century. O Shaman of desire
paintings which drip like honey  past the sex of canvas. Is it male or
female? No matter art is the brothel where the bodies slide past the
signifier splitting open the sexes and freeing the partial objects to
sex-text all the movemments of the eyes. The hands which shiver touch
the oil and linseed and photocopier that makes the dust which makes the
picture and the Painter stands back laughing. She has sex with her
thousand paintings. And the painting recouperates the moment of time's
passing. En Recherche of Time Lost. The  schizo Analogue as it mounts
the canvas and the male viewer is swerved in that correcting stream
where the installion and the painting make head and tails as the oiled
brush burnishes the canvas.
        There is no place like this one. Its oneness splinters into a
thousand parts. Of the multiplicity of playgrounds. Where  pieces make
the difference. And the gaze stands before me a Image from her heap. A
heap of broken bones. Narcotic substances as the words of the painting
flood my eyes. I trespass I transgress over the other side. I am the
shaman of her beauty. Like any slave I make passes and fail. Always,
it's inevitable. How can one defeat what is the substance and source of
one's being?
        Art has no time for dates. The dates shift past the Art being as
she splits her sides laughing.
        She reminds me that somebody cut their ear off. So I will cut my
head off. Better to see. To see. Without a head.  Without a face. No
face like the No Face. Without a head. Like some knight  who has lost
his head passing through the brilliant streams of castles in her
paintings. As the bodies hover in the distance which is always turning.
        Because she has any shape no shape like any koan past a headless
lover warrior. The speed of Kleist and Modigliani. The temperature of
Arp and Hoch. The fuzziness and vibratos of Lichtenberg's Eurydices'.
The pace movement, the stillness intensity of Kahlo.

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