Are they famous.
The poets not among poets writing millennium poems.
But watching Derek Jarman.
Some metonymy for what you lost among them.
At the free film series some will take the liberty of jacking off.
In the back there among them taking liberties.
Having lost.
What are you watching. Angry
I am watching a blue screen
which I must watch to say Point taken.
At a loss and taking the liberty to take a point.
Or jack off.
Where are you among them.
You who chooses your words.
Taking liberties.
At a loss one may choose auto-erotic.
The security guard says Not again.
No loser he.
--
Later our minds on the Brando documentary across the street
positioned to open a documentary
on the Beatles' first trip to America.
Both films also providing for jacking off and almost pictures
trying to have something to do with memory.
But Rod & I prefer Brando for not trying to make history
and for just eating his steak for the camera.
The Beatles are camera-shy and chat
with precocious child fans and these are
the memories we're left with.
Missing in the complete picture.
--
Among us
Buck is foraging off U Street and finds a box of antique postcards
for which he pays a lump sum for this box containing
images such as cats walking upright
suitable for framing.
Many among us covet this box because we have
a few pictures of dead poets and none of us among them.
The man at Time & Again says people will come in
to choose a surrogate family from antique photos.
Mostly they will pick mother father sister brother
but the other day somebody came in and wanted
an entire family of aunts.
There were spinster aunts standing in front of
a teaching college or topiary
and dowager aunts with lapdogs
and aunts who could easily have been
mothers or sisters and none of them related
but to the custumer they were a family of aunts and
he bought them all.
Which brings to mind androids getting too smart
for their circuitry and figuring out the photos
surrounding them are not family portraits at all
but engineered at the android plant
so then Harrison Ford has to kill off the androids.
Harrison Ford who will not allow them their surrogate
memory.
But will play the same role again and again
in different clothing.
Flawed warrior on the side of some sense of justice
under the pleasure dome.
In Hans Solo, raider, Amish,
futuristic hitman, or fugitive clothing.
No loser he.
--
And not the poet losing it.
In a photo from Las Cruces.
Whatever is in the midwife's tonic
the midwife who doubles as a doctor.
The poet full of poison brought to the midwife.
And in the photo the poet and the tonic.
Which the midwife calls green chile and a second opinion calls
peyote.
But there's no time for second opinions
the poet full of poison.
Now full of peyote.
And all along in the photo looking like green chile
but is it authentic.
And the only poet in the complete picture of poets
sweating off peyote and not dying and not the dead
poet in the complete picture of poets.
Among us in the landscape as I see it.
And whom you can't convince to go to the movies.
Liquid sky and all for quaintness.
But will trot out the photo of the tonic for second opinions.
The photo with a seat at the table.
You sitting down with the pathology of the photo.
As Wim Wenders and the pathology of the image.
The period films of the future in
Technicolor dreamtime.
Wenders and his ensemble casts obsessed.
Film after film
with sickness.
Tho' it is the sickness of images parading.
Clara was obsessed with her own dreams
tho' it was an obsession with watching her dreams on a handheld TV.
Printing them off this digital TV as photos.
Photos of dreams.
Where are you among them.
Dreaming off peyote in a photo you dream.
And Wim Wenders crossing over
referencing Edward Hopper and at a loss.
Don't let this tonic leave Las Cruces
in a mason jar it wasn't traveling and so a photo.
Cutting boundaries
for second opinions.
On a metastory of Hopper
in a metastory of
the career of Wim Wenders.
--
Where are we among him.
In the pathology of poets.
And hard living.
Traveling.
Which is poetry.
And not famous.
As if to cut boundaries that are not photos.
In the landscape as I see it.
Despite a return of the tableau.
Hal Hartley too with his ensemble.
Concerned with different combinations of people
at different times
in the same places.
Often the bathroom.
In period films before their time literally.
As if you are on a Tour of Homes but
really the tour is a coffeetable book
showing rooms but the same rooms.
So you think you may have lived in those tableau.
And Hal Hartley's poets and grifters and sex offenders could be in your bathroom.
Shills for Hal who's not in the bathroom.
This gift for verisimilitude.
And where are you.
--
Among a Hal Hartley poet.
Engaging in bodily functions slapstick
the tableau slipping
and at a loss.
And now and then auto-erotic but what's in it for you.
In the back of the theater taking points.
Some are confused the blue screen is not the other Blue
in the Blue - White - Red trilogy and point taken.
That that Blue is a narrative of some loss as is Jarman's
but not as blue as Jarman's blue as it is quaint.
And reviewers saying see Blue before seeing Red but which
blue and I am angry taking points and after seeing blue
cannot see Blue.
--
Is it a period film
among spice girls.
In the complete picture of poets
is this the period poem among spice girls.
Baroque and not famous in the complete picture of poets
not to speak of dismemory rather a desire for memories
in the landscape as I see it
and so this picture
is the problem of pictures.
In the complete picture of poets a poet is missing.
And so taken
no image will revive her.
Neither sci-fi nor gothic.
Not fantasy or
someone's sense of justice.
In the period film of the future.
As if to cut a boundary.
Not the landscape as I see it.
Baroque and in tableau.
And is not a cult film.
As John Waters and camp.
Is not cult.
But becomes kitsch.
Camp becoming kitsch.
In the landscape as I see it.
And where are you.
Among them.
Tramps, dykes, dance contest winners, Virgin Mary
fetishists, strippers, junk food addicts, foot fetishists,
macrame artists, thrift store fashion consultants, Divine,
and photographers co-existing under the pleasure dome.
And you can't shake off Valerie Solanas
there in the middle of a John Waters film
who isn't Valerie Solanas in the Waters film
but is the woman who played Valerie Solanas in a non-Waters film
but to you she's Valerie Solanas
there in a Waters film
playing a discoverer of random new photographic talent.
She is the actress whose image
is indelible to the cult of
Valerie bleeding into someone else's film.
As Harrison Ford in Amish clothing
may as well be Hans Solo
bleeding into someone else's film.
Quaint but no cult around him.
Tho' a cult around her
And not quaint.