Tuesday, November 26, 2013

Scaling Ass Mountain



All art is confession: one can conceal nothing of one’s weakness. -Gaston Lachaise

The first moment he saw it,
he knew it was his destiny
to scale the massive formation
that loomed above him.
Mt. Isabel! Her curves and crevasses
silhouetted against the sky.
And oh, that ass, a planet unto itself,
presenting unlimited vistas of sublime
and unexplored terrain.
He spent his life obsessed with those peaks,
trying to capture them the way
they’d captured him,
to freeze the warm flesh in cold bronze
and marble like a reverse Pygmalion.
Glued to him by his gaze,
she was transformed into an object
and he a slave prostrating before her
like she was a golden calf, albeit one
already endowed with gargantuan udders.
He molded the earth, drove pitons into the rock
in order to immortalize his goddess,
to make sure her flesh would never sag,
would never rot.
We stand before her, marveling at her physiology
wondering what he saw in her
aside from hills and valleys,
wondering if he still would have worshiped her
if they had grown old together, if the memory
of that youthful body would have been enough
when the muse herself was etched with
wrinkles and stretchmarks.
Maybe they were both fortunate
that he died before he could see
that mountain wither and erode.

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