Inside:
Airtight rooms shut on fresh thought.
Revolving doors, designed to filter reality out
Of the sanctity of the convention space.
Much digging in shallow earth
For roots of authentic pasts
Much longing for seminal moments, formative facts
Much fury about who influenced who
Little desire to taste the mixed salad of cultures
To acknowledge the human craving for:
The food on the neighbor’s plate
The thirst for water of life
In distant wells of the far-off lands
The exchange, the change
The Heartbeat
The blood in the veins of history
Outside:
A dizzying fall into the black hollow of Mickey’s eyes
The Saint with bright yellow shoes
And the most famous round ears ever known.
On the purple bench facing the lake
Feeling anxiety-sick,
For the sun falling into the artificial lake.
Not sure where to place the breathing palm trees,
Their green branches dancing in real wind.
Or the delightful plump waiters
With heavy accents that contradicts
The overpowering smell of cheese burger and fried onions
Under the plastic ceiling of the purple café
Right out of the world wide web.
And suddenly in St. Petersburg!
In the museum
Hundreds of framed little spaces,
Each stretching the earth a few inches,
Beyond its current shape.
Vast, inviting, surreal moments:
Watches melting, violins draped in the sun
Puzzle pieces, oozing objects, running colors
Overlapping shapes that tease the simplicity of vision
All dancing on the melting surface of time
In Dali’s playful mind.
Still further out
Stiched at the far end to the pink sunset sky
The sea, the real sea
Wave upon wave of blue roaring freedom
At my feet
Empty shells, wet sand, and poetry
Meeting to celebrate the end of another day.
St. Petersburg, Nov.22, 2000