Anna Rabinowitz

My soul is not itself, A loud jargogle invades the plague of contingency. Of course, I often delicate in a state of confusion, Especially when I wildly corrade detritus with illusion. Many collages create mayhem, but these days folks Giggle and kench, hosting bitter tears in their eyes. No one seeks the mockery or scorn of ludibrious games. Our ailing world is dedicated to erase sanguinolency. Hence the decline of bloodshed in our current wars. Drones, our best-to-date grade A, silent, unmanned aerial vehicles, our sleek UAVs, aces of launch and leave, Save lives. SAVE LIVES. Hip, hip, hooray, yippee!? Remote control: surf the Web, site define In its prime: eye on the screen, eye in the sky. Get it down cold in comfy seats at safe old Creech. Skill the scan, learn the drill and clinch their cease. The shift is done, a setting sun, and home To ground round patties on the grill, a jog with the dog, A kiss for kids, drowsy, and wiped, hitting the sheets, Plus shades down for a fuck, a hug, and a good night's sleep. We've navigated a boundless longinquity. Life is luculent. War is kind.

. . . some days ago I saw the picture of an Angel who, in making the Annunciation, seemed to be trying to chase Mary out of her room with movements showing the sort of attack one might make on some hated enemy; and Mary, as if desperate, seemed to be trying to throw herself out of the window. Do not fall into errors like these. — Leonardo da Vinci It is time to speak of the lies of images, omissions, insertions — imitations of reality, but whose reality, Leonardo? For you she’s in nature — you’ve lavished so much attention on rock formations along your raised horizon varieties of grass in the lawn cloud convocations and the shadow the archangel casts obliterating most of what’s imagined growing there and she, lovely, composed —“ great grace of shadows and of lights is added to the faces of those who sit” beside the darkness of brown plasterwork — her right arm almost deformed, too far forward, reaching out at an impossible angle— FOR WHAT — Botticelli, Campin, van Eyck — for you she’s indoors all decked out in luscious silk and satin, surrounded by finery — tied-back drapery, carved benches, a rug or tiled floor, loggias and archways beyond her wildest ken windows revealing hortus conclusi and winding paths slogging toward the sea And what of all those blues and golds, so rife with wealth in her life there’s only red from madder juice and yellow from kaolin clay and a linen shift all frayed The truth also is a small opening high up on the wall A floor that’s hard-packed dirt And beyond the room, villagers working the fields, donkeys dragging threshing boards over newly harvested wheat AND EVERYWHERE, INSIDE AND OUT,WORLD-MOTHETING DUST For all of you this is an event reduced to a book she cannot read a lily she does not smell a lectern she never owned She might as well comb her hair with a stiletto heel Make of her body a cloud of white tulle Carry a watering can and wear shapely wooden clogs Fake glamour in a black bare-back gown Crouch on the ground flipping coins Pop a pogo stick between her legs and levitate SHE COULD BE ANYONE            ANYWHERE             ANYTIME She could be sitting in her slip, bored, bored to death, the intercom image appearing out of nowhere, announcing a stranger (prima materia, take a deep breath (for divinity to enter the world, your mystery must be experienced Her eyes will go wide, not expecting this Her ears have encountered only silence and the soft moan of a dove (OOOOOOOOOOOOOOO The trees thin The cumulus sky crackles ever so quietly Somewhere a rainbow breaks too loud now too strident He’s gotten in Hail comes in pellets (heavy hitters She will be patient and hear him out though what she really wants is to get back under the covers that are damask, but a lie— (rough-hewn flax is what she’d have) Or she could be blending a batch of myrrh and roses to deodorize the foul stench of the room that opens out not on a vista of budding poplars but on sewage, piles of it come to rot at the side of the road just there, in front of her door where broken planks of wood lean and bleating sheep wait to be herded up the hill But here’s this guy breezing in (Titan, El Greco paint his feet unplanted on the ground (is he preparing for a quick getaway or must he be higher on the picture plane (Tintoretto catches him in mid-flight, a show-off, he (Martini and Crivelli force him to his knees The breeze may be the whisper of something she is in danger of losing (the breeze may be her destiny or his feathers could begin to moult (transaction of feathers, (light as a feather in the face of all that dust she can’t escape or she could cringe at wings, voracious, unfurled, trying to scoop her up, knock her down, drown her in their soft pile, snuff out any NO she stashes in her mind, or the wind could whip his feathers and blow the townsfolk quickly to her side (Today, she knows no one will arrive in time . . . ) Certainly not those people tending their gardens, (as if anyone had topiary trees as Rogier van der Weyden (possibly Memling) shows (read fields of barley and wheat and plows, plenty of plows In his eyes, pools of light map no pollution, only flame In hers, no flecks, no threads mar the cobalt calm until his hail scumbles their surface What is she to make of it Her lids lower Chrysalises, her eyes close on their private dusk (she’s already seen her share of Roman crucifixions (perhaps the future is there and her eyes seek the great above where son and mother will be united (perhaps she conjugates the months— (nine is real— (a number done on her (perhaps she dabbles with using rue to end the thing SHE’S GOT A CHOICE AFTER ALL For the child she will have boundless love For posterity the memory of being For her life no proper translation

That which installs itself in the mind embraces sound Rebounding, rounding the fecund earth Birth, as in what is not, as in one makes one, is a mighty absence to understand (and there are those who fail to get their lessons done) Dun is the color of submission Unfledged, she leafs through what has been nothing never Never to be what she is/ or could /or hope to be Bewitched by dictions (fictions) on the surface — Face naming that which she must save, polished like an apple — Apple of the eye,amour of town and street, apple of the cheek Eaten with a dab of honey for a sweet year Ear to who am I in the suddenly-arriving what-comes-next Next to being, next to delivery, next to undergone Gone parenthetical but now revived as her eye Spies the sudden trespass of his unexpected welcome — Succumbing, coming unto him in full sun this morning Mourning what she need not beguile or lie beside

We Had Stalked the Doe Commerce. Production. Consumption. Who makes? Who takes? It's useless to give up cashmere shawls, gold armatures, SUVs, furs and silks to achieve cross-cultural pollination or transcendence. Since we've ceased to celebrate works-in-progress or cutting-edge sound bites, we photo commodities to provide a permanent record of desire in the grass and under the elms. Turkey on the chairlift. Rooster in the coop. Testimony is a cryptic relic deformed by the violence of authority. We recall the limited palette of ashen tones when we drove through Eastern Europe. Billboards, even in Estonia, summoned up fascinations with dieting, alcoholism and psychotherapy. Should we have eaten those salads of language? Should we have risked teased hairstyles and gained weight? Should we have giggled amidst severest woe? Mimicry, idolatry, fanaticism, greed. Oh, fervid tangled brushwork, what can we do to hold you at bay? I am old. I am old. The good day grows cold.

Baby is unique untainted, original We know she is special Every baby is She arrives without baggage to hamper her way through tunnels or time but she demands attention AND HOW Baby means to survive aims to be fed, changed, bathed resorting to no more than a cry a squirm I observe Baby now that she breathes on her own I swear I’ll keep copious notes I’ll invite her for dinner or lunch for a glug of lukewarm milk I vow to take good care          I WILL Why, then, does she bathe in the sink No one, not a single one, close by to lift her out Why, then, does she not grow Neglected Baby Pauvre Enfant I have asked Baby to forgive me Baby, Baby stay          Baby, Baby stay Do not become a stab in my brain a chronic ache a shrouded shout a question mark laid out in the morgue daily vivisection vapor-spiral woe going mad beyond control though the venue is small and it doesn’t matter where one sleeps There is evil in the world It awaits Baby Sins                              even Sloth fiesta through hills and vales each time she is born Morals and meanings stumble but Sins know how to tango and tap They make nimble partners on the ballroom floor Like tigers they stalk their prey Lead, follow, tight embrace Baby in a frame, a pose in a box Tricky moves l a n g u i d               obambulations warm morning          sunny day One, two, three, four         one, two, three, four We touch, we part We yearn for tender mores Baby beware Baby be quick Jump for the sky Match to your flame Watch the flares fly Baby, there’s scorch here

HOW TO SUCCEED IN TORTURE WITHOUT REALLY TRYING 1. FIRST THINGS FIRST: Surprise, catch your source off balance when he least expects it: At the moment he opens his eyes in the morning While he shits on the can. Detain and confine, quickly, quickly cut him off from the known. Plunge your source into the strange, the invisible wells gone dry in his bones Drained by his eyes He’s in occupied territory— he could walk a long time and find nowhere, nothing, nada no doors, no tunnels, windows 2. KEEP IT SIMPLE: Familiar clothing reinforces identity. Replace the source