The little park downtown – where we went once,
remember?
– has been torn down, replaced with apartments.
The mural on the wall abutting it
is obviously gone, replaced by brick, a door
that yawns into some inscrutable, blank
emptiness, presumably some windows. Art
has always tried and failed to out-
maneuver “progress,” as it’s named.
– But no.
I wrote this earlier and now I’ve changed
my mind, or rather realized that what
I’ve been writing, all this re: Art, is bunk.
I liked the mural, yes, and I wish that
it was still there, but there’s a chance
of art on the new wall. Or if not that,
when it’s torn down, eventually, there will
be another chance to reimagine it.
– has been torn down, replaced with apartments.
The mural on the wall abutting it
is obviously gone, replaced by brick, a door
that yawns into some inscrutable, blank
emptiness, presumably some windows. Art
has always tried and failed to out-
maneuver “progress,” as it’s named.
– But no.
I wrote this earlier and now I’ve changed
my mind, or rather realized that what
I’ve been writing, all this re: Art, is bunk.
I liked the mural, yes, and I wish that
it was still there, but there’s a chance
of art on the new wall. Or if not that,
when it’s torn down, eventually, there will
be another chance to reimagine it.
The park’s still there, at least, and
though
there is no longer art upon the walls
there is the promise of it, later on.
We can’t imagine it because we’re stuck
in our time, our place, on the ground, crawling
along not knowing where we are, truly,
’til much later. We can’t describe ourselves.
there is no longer art upon the walls
there is the promise of it, later on.
We can’t imagine it because we’re stuck
in our time, our place, on the ground, crawling
along not knowing where we are, truly,
’til much later. We can’t describe ourselves.