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The Real is Relinquished
by the Very Excess of its Appearances—
Everything is artifact
mere extras displaced from the scene
fruits, meats, or flowers—
the intractable opacity of Presence—
of an appearance prior to reality
(this mysterious light without origin)
something other than the sun shines on them
a brighter star, without atmosphere, without refraction
their shadows do not move with the sun
they do not grow with the evening
they appear as an inevitable edging
without movement
they suggest a black sun that appears as hallucinated Death
a seizure of scene and space—
Death illuminates these things—
in its privileged position the gaze turns on transgression
The lion’s face is a kingly prerogative
a logos-thanatos object
a fragment like a nucleus of an ephemeral language destiny
The lion’s face is a fatal particle
that shines an instant and disappears
a convergence of every point of view
an expansion of intervals, of pulsations—
The lion’s face is the darkest zones of the sky
as Death’s gaze is an exaltation of one’s own image—
the equal of that of the suicide motels—
where I woke up today, my corpse beside me,
and the mirror showed an ideal mirage of resemblance—
The lion’s face is letter-vomiting
drunk on the entrails of its own body
its own illusion – which is perhaps the illusion of its own death—
enchanted, I take on its desire
I come under the same lion and hunt for vestiginous blue orbs of the sun
I come as a suppliant to the knees of a fire-raked pool
I come to seduce the sea, to make it die, and reconstitute its illusion
as some milk soaked orifice of my dead sister
as anointment on the constellations of my father’s wounds
as animal-psalm, the hands beating the ground like un-tethered hooves—
what comes from their not having a place in the sky

credits

from The Lion's Face, released November 10, 2012
Words: Tim Van Dyke // Music: Brian Howe

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