Poetry Crawling the Walls

Three Exhibitions at MOCA Tucson

And Those Ashen Heaps That Cantilevered Vase of Moonlight

This morning, standing over myself
as one does
A kind of poverty to be born from nothing
I got you some images.
I got you some images.
Reading the backside of one of them
Like the raw to nourish,
you have to feed it something toRice actually,
or rice, not rice, raw and war
As the cross session before me left,
one seemed to know
as one whose use the mass
and smoke less ash
alters in close strips
strip us in sass, Lee,Numerous as the feed dad
numerous is the dad.
Numerous is the dead from his forms,
shadows pass,
and of that great crowd
rearrange the thrush and thrift
and Edelweiss, a sheep‘s garment
in the change of seasons,

hazards formless
against the trembling,
like the lifting
of a veil in the hour
of distribution of the balancing
of accounts, and those who fight
through the smiling air,
pick your self off.

Seven times nine is 63 angels with you
counter culturally bamboozled
I’ve sent you swinging pure
moon of the doorway.
Zero in the diagrams
of the coffers edge, only a chain
which Reynolds and resounds and us
as bells through the chairs and —

for in the meantime —

poverty there being no good and evil
Through wood and worm
before the breathless be
that incandescent the total of this should be
strokes a tip and quivering
just a little wooden horse,
blue sword leaves, born onward, newborn
tongue struggles with its mortal advances.


Pictures from the Exhibition

Lynn Xu, poet & installation artist

I read to my phone the poetry hanging on the wall. The texts by César Vallejo, Federico Garcia Lorca, and Charles Baudelaire, were broken up into tablets hanging from the ceiling or lites on their garage doors or text in paths across the floor. The words were large, easy to read and object-like, but no longer a flowing poem. Breaking them into pieces they were fun like an aphorism – a penny spent is a penny earned – or profound like – Be Here Now – or maybe like a Google Ad headline – Thirteen Art Hotspots | Visit Tucson.

I reconnected the work into one poem by reading to my phone. I read several panels, some from the front, others from behind. The translucent paper make the words or even just the letters look like objects. The voice recorder on my phone added another layer of abstraction hearing words that were not part of the original poems and with hardly any work on my part, the above poem appeared. My tongue snuggled with its technological advances.

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