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95: Self-portrait in landscape Bruce Goodman © 22 July 2020 |
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The landscape’s crumpled undulations stand perhaps as some sort of metaphor. It’s as if when god got to make me a muttering was heard: stuff this, who cares about this one? The blueprint was screwed up and tossed to the ground. You know, you know, people snapshot it, they take pictures of the blueprint as if it’s the beautiful thing, and yet the scene proclaims… (nothing really, it doesn’t matter). The landscape’s crumpled undulations are as green as anything; muddled as anything. There is no old history. There’s nothing to say the place is sacred, this dude is home, this fellow’s holy, this guy is worth half another look. You know, you know, people snapshot it, they take pictures of the blueprint as if it’s the beautiful thing, and yet the scene proclaims… (nothing really, it doesn’t matter). The landscape’s crumpled undulations can be unravelled if anyone cares to loosen; undo the screwed-up-ness, flatten the blueprint out. But it’s munted, the twisted scene’s munted, the blueprint’s screwed-up twice and chucked to the ground. You know, you know, people snapshot it, they take pictures of the blueprint as if it’s the beautiful thing, and yet the scene proclaims… (nothing really, it doesn’t matter). Someday someone might pick up this bit of trash and set it on fire. |