DONALD MOFFETT Any Fallow Field
MARIANNE BOESKY GALLERY
SEPTEMBER 8 – OCTOBER 15, 2016
Swayed by summer breeze, tinted with transparent ocher, punctured
Asymmetrically with alluring violence,
Symmetrically piercing the other side at will,
Swirling slowly to another unknown space below.
Some of us are reminded of the
Exposed torso of Saint Sebastian.
This is how I see from this bird’s eye view of his unsowed landscapes.
A few miles down the road, a chartreuse diamond for Mondrian
And William Burroughs, to play a sideways game of golf with thirty-six holes,
Suspended three inches from the wall—
I’m obsessed with the invisible five.
I’ve also seen a snowflake, or cake frosting in one configuration—
It was strange and weirdly familiar!
Around the corner, nuts and bolts boisterously fortify
A sign board apparatus with bent nails
Dancing to their own rhythm.
In this neck of the woods, they celebrate cornfield shooting.
Erotic beauty meanwhile exudes from someone’s lower abdomen,
A relaxed yet formidable part of another body.
A celestial body, torrential flow of silky sky into the familiar night.
Democracy at our specific moment prompts the
Haunting desire and something indescribable!
excavation melts, surrenders to the mood of a lazy Sunday afternoon.
Butterscotch candy, naked lunch, caramel cream cake,
Last Year at Marienbad, Paris, Texas, etc.
It is hard to find one’s way through fallow field, amber.
fallow fields, blue 2, a target bombing, downpour like
Operation Rolling Thunder. How can I forget!
flowers shot, seen through a window, glazed with zine white.
The point of convergence is the sublimity of violence
That echos Gran Fury.
Nearby, a hound dog guards the second signpost of
cobalt and pecans in place of Home for Sale signage.
One can’t simply look through the holes
And declare what is durable or what might break.
The vertical vista of an all-over volcanic rupture,
Or the element of contrast in moss green,
Or fallow field and farmhouse,
With perspective or without,
The constituents of the mass ornament reveal a vanishing point.
Yippie yi ooh! Yippie yi yay!
PHONG BUI is the Publisher and Artistic Director of the Brooklyn Rail.