The Brooklyn Rail

By the Love of Those Unloved

For Stanley Whitney

Unapologetically gestured in smithereens. Unwavering configurations.
At the beginning there were torsos in the sky.
Lightning quick with wider distribution of form and matter in
The midst of their contentious dispute.

Dapping, swirling, staining, whipping to dripping, tickling colors,
Dispersing with joy and anxiety in post-Albertian optics.
Vascular organs, erratically tremble, calling forth for self-regulation
With endless irregularity, dissimilarity, and everything in-between.

An evocation: Monk’s broken rhythm swinging in restless syncopation.
A reasonable counter-friction to
Munch’s titanic angst, moderating politics of violence at the expense of
The Cold War as we see it returns urgently.

Pacing between each of his chest’s autonomous region, the urge of
Contemplation was inevitable. Rising temperature, saturation of light,
Apollo in his magnificent chariot suspending in mid-day, while
Clytie watching in vain. Occasional transparency is universally treasured.

Countless hours of arbitration, imperfect squares, rectangles, lines, edges,
Like all despondencies to be freed from the
Golden Rule’s formidable tyranny. Melted grid, shifting tonalities,
Intervallic motion, chromaticism, all in synchroneity.

How light in August splendidly governs his internal plight from
Here onwards. Gravity is well tempered by a mysterious meteorologist
Who sees the world bathed in perpetual summer, luminously in
Midday sun, free as the wind that breezes through the heavens.