Today's poem is by Daniel Groves
The monkey is the only producer of pictures who imitates
nothing . . . and recognises only the unadulterated pleasure
of the disruptive mark.
That old scene monkey see and monkey do
is done. That organizing grind, the grid,
is barred. Guerilla movements must exclude
such cagey, simian similitude,
banana republic exhibitions rid
the colony of artists. It's a zoo.
Or New World Order? Pleased to trace our line
from theirs, the prim revere a primitive
wrenching, illuminating by Ape X.
Abstract expression climbing toward its apex?
Creation thus evolving to outlive
our monkish copying? A monkeyshine?
We draw on our background (animals instinct
with second nature God, the strain), that dark
age of which we continent, prehensile
detailers, great apologists, with stencil
and rule make light, for this disruptive mark,
to miss it, feeling, in the missing, linked.
Featuring the complete line of Canon copiers
Outside the window, sheets of rain, the garden;
inside, the earth-toned ceiling sprouts a patch
of sprinklers, all aligned like silver flowers
to spray the cloud-gray tiled floor with showers
(the copier, alone, may strike a match).
Temps vanish, gone to smoke. I beg their pardon.
Reflecting in a depthless black, I smack
the next original against the glass,
face down, and shut the lid a blinding light
its spitting image spits right up, upright.
Dual echoes, out of Catechism class,
reprove me now, my hand laid on the stack:
Salvation in the Information Age?
Or just mass reproduction? This debate
repeats itself, subsides CLEAR PAPER JAM
(these damn contraptions). I am that I am;
a copy copies, but cannot translate
the space beyond the margins of each page.
Copyright © 2010 Daniel Groves All rights reserved
from The Lost Boys
The University of Georgia Press
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission
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