Let's Sing-song for Paper Plate Jesus
|fig 1.) Untitled (song for paper plate Jesus)|
It's as tuneful as it is plain. Hey man, hey that paper plate, the one with Jesus name taped to it. Who did that, who did that Paper Plate Jesus on the wall...This essay with all of its words and sense seems bungled in the jam of its tripped up sentences. It sits there dogeared at the tables edge. Reposant is not very easy man. It's not just any variety of old twinkle twinkle, it reads from the small pages at the back. Reposant, is some very special light indeed. It's an old sofa, it's a stained afghan, and a leaky battery all sitting in the corner of an otherwise white room. It's as though something truly wonderful has established this neat climate; trim and not so boisterous but neat as climates go. It's the final construction of this thing that's slipped the yoke of the authors authorial authority.
When asked about his time in Tunis Michel Foucault is often quoted as, sensible and lean like a simple wage earner finding his pantry empty for the first time. This sounds like Shane, He licks the spittle from the edge of his otherwise dry lips. This sounds like the author of a dozen other westerns has tried a little too hard to be right there. It's made me a little sad and disillusioned to read this. I'm just going to sit here and I'll have a glass of Bordeaux. (Je vais rester ici et je vais avoir un verre de Bordeaux, He said as one to the boy.)
But you're wrong Michel. We do need you. Don't sit alone, stewing. Won't you come home with me? We can reward you for being the center of our glory.
The twilight, indeed the very mystery of the veil is like an old sofa, Michel tells the young boy. It will always have a soft finish and good legs to boot. It's meant for sitting here to appreciate it.
No Michel it's meant for us to watch from a distance, but not to far. It's meant for us to watch as you appreciate it. Same as the legs of the spider known as, simple when it must wither into the seed of itself. This is Tunis no more. This is instead all of us. When your eye's rest then we shall watch over you still.
Go, Michel whispers over his wide glass. Be young and pray you, this room will remain. It's taut and tight for all the weary children to play within despite my absence, despite any of your interest. These after all are walls and walls will stand on their own.
Walls might stand Michel, The boy nods. But names will never stick.
|fig 2.) keep saying it, over and over|