Poetic Responses: Mai-Thu Perret At David Kordansky Gallery

text by Claressinka Anderson Pugliese

 

I have no face –
a target for my blood
or the history of
(candy guns and)
art,
to suck and lick.

My clothes pristine
for this face off –
hold the gun to my head,
march the valley,
cut a diamond
on this wicker warrior.

My body, my work –
the ceramic sheath of it,
the stones that birth
a perfect fight,
are smashed smooth,
crumbled,
reborn beneath
the weight of white.

Stand proud oh
Adam, oh Eve –
pull me up from the well.
You are unheimlich,
incessant,
painting in these
veins of clay.

Follow the way of words,
stepping from letter to letter –
soft to hard,
glazing a wave,
a hole -
fingers in and of
the texture of a sentence.    

You are fired skin
(obliterate)
and polished calf,
you are stones of red, of silver,
of black.

You are sinews woven in a thread of hair,
a handful of clay,
an indentation of bullets,
of fingers.

There is no formalist blanket
in your sky of frothy stars –
you are beauty,
(fighter)
you are guerilla,
(celestial)
you are moon clouds,
(watching)
you are blue, blue, blue.