Chimera Song Mosaic
Monday, January 19, 2004
There is the pause that measures the perfect balance
of a real life dedication to consequence: Does she love him?
Will she abort or not? She just told him she is pregnant
he just said I have brain cancer or that’s lovely or again?
or it’s not mine or goody! let’s have sex again. 1001
cinematic responses to her declaration & this is # 607.
Silence. His response is surgically removed & replaced
by just the right measure of surrogate silence. Then moment.
That onscreen kiss—the perfect one that happens when he is wet
& waiting in the rain—we must wait w/him, too, the precise
amount of time, anxious in our seats, twitching with bitterness—
then she appears & she is on his chest & then their lips meet
& they are kissing they kiss just long enough for longing then
the scene shifts. That is the joke that is not outlasted. The buildup
of romance is the ratio of mundane & magnificent. The scissors
& the finer instruments must clip, clip, snip away
the soured moments & the outlong series of explosion
not succumbing to censor or to sentiment.
