Jose-Luis Moctezuma
The Fall of Icarus
after Brueghel
this is a repeated attempt
at something provisional
a theory of life concealed
in the bush like a corpse
what we see is tiered as
a spectacle of the ordinary:
(a ground for labor)
(a plateau for leisure)
(a medium for parallax):
at some point there is
voiceover and maybe a
montage of attractions
someone falling from
a crisis another fishing
for the son of man
an undying impotence
in couplets that play at
ekphrasis or in the sound
off the coast in filmic
recoil and phased out
like a pilgrim who stops
to gaze at a sky vacant
of myth and coronation
his ears blown out by wind
the wax of time melts
surreptitiously in the
groove of someone’s
worst imagined fear
the loss of a child
or the loss of sight a
second before impact
on a dry doddering day
occasionally interrupted
by seagull or wavecrash
where there is flight
there is fancy thinks the
sweaty calloused man
as he turns and makes
the volta in the ground
of the poem that seeds
the ground of the painting
what is also the ground
of a labyrinthine mind
distracted by sunlight
startled by something
offscreen his death no
little death no minor
release no exhalation
just silence just a simple
cut
this is a repeated attempt
at something provisional
a theory of life concealed
in the bush like a corpse
what we see is tiered as
a spectacle of the ordinary:
(a ground for labor)
(a plateau for leisure)
(a medium for parallax):
at some point there is
voiceover and maybe a
montage of attractions
someone falling from
a crisis another fishing
for the son of man
an undying impotence
in couplets that play at
ekphrasis or in the sound
off the coast in filmic
recoil and phased out
like a pilgrim who stops
to gaze at a sky vacant
of myth and coronation
his ears blown out by wind
the wax of time melts
surreptitiously in the
groove of someone’s
worst imagined fear
the loss of a child
or the loss of sight a
second before impact
on a dry doddering day
occasionally interrupted
by seagull or wavecrash
where there is flight
there is fancy thinks the
sweaty calloused man
as he turns and makes
the volta in the ground
of the poem that seeds
the ground of the painting
what is also the ground
of a labyrinthine mind
distracted by sunlight
startled by something
offscreen his death no
little death no minor
release no exhalation
just silence just a simple
cut
Red Desert
after Michelangelo Antonioni
the future hides out of focus in reams of industrial yellow smoke
the redhaired woman in the green coat thinks about life on mars
a diagonal splits the landscape like a telescope in disguise
a man in a trenchcoat is governed by facades of sexual decorum
on planet mars shipyards purr in the fog like felines in heat
a swingers party and jazz records aren’t enough to ward off the eclipse
factory architecture renders eros sick from lack of climax
she bathes in a rosy beach in sardinia and hears crimson come alive
i will tell you a story about solitude but please close your eyes
buenos aires on the edge of civilization promises the best barbers
except this time there’s a nest of radios we can dial in to
for example you are nuclear power when you touch and flip me on
the skittish roseate lady meets the trenchcoat for the last time
a sweaty din of combustion and caterwaul keep me up at night
when the vapor hits your face try to open your eyes even if it hurts
someone here is desiring somebody’s spouse but staying silent
are you into topping hydroskimming and deep conversion cause i am
carmine emerald sienna everything sings all the colors were singing
the future hides out of focus in reams of industrial yellow smoke
the redhaired woman in the green coat thinks about life on mars
a diagonal splits the landscape like a telescope in disguise
a man in a trenchcoat is governed by facades of sexual decorum
on planet mars shipyards purr in the fog like felines in heat
a swingers party and jazz records aren’t enough to ward off the eclipse
factory architecture renders eros sick from lack of climax
she bathes in a rosy beach in sardinia and hears crimson come alive
i will tell you a story about solitude but please close your eyes
buenos aires on the edge of civilization promises the best barbers
except this time there’s a nest of radios we can dial in to
for example you are nuclear power when you touch and flip me on
the skittish roseate lady meets the trenchcoat for the last time
a sweaty din of combustion and caterwaul keep me up at night
when the vapor hits your face try to open your eyes even if it hurts
someone here is desiring somebody’s spouse but staying silent
are you into topping hydroskimming and deep conversion cause i am
carmine emerald sienna everything sings all the colors were singing
--
Jose-Luis Moctezuma is a Xicano poet and professor based in Chicago. He is the author of two books: Place-Discipline (Omnidawn, 2018) and Black Box Syndrome (Omnidawn, 2023). He is an Assistant Professor of Writing at the School of the Art Institute of Chicago (SAIC).
Jose-Luis Moctezuma is a Xicano poet and professor based in Chicago. He is the author of two books: Place-Discipline (Omnidawn, 2018) and Black Box Syndrome (Omnidawn, 2023). He is an Assistant Professor of Writing at the School of the Art Institute of Chicago (SAIC).