Emerge Gallery
—for Robert Langdon
Empire’s last hurrah lost in the paint. Art
Manifestos of the past now read like gibberish.
Entire knowledge systems gone in a few brushstrokes.
Reality eating itself into abstraction to be beautiful again.
Great revolutions dead in museums. New revolutions
Evolving into sights & sounds faster than theories.
Galleries guarantee nothing but friendship.
All we can do, such weak creatures of flesh & blood:
Laugh & lament &
Laugh again & lunge after
Every last chance to be sparklers, burning &
Ready with a brush to paint ourselves a new day,
Yellow & blue & yelling a fresh mess on the canvas.
Exit 20
Extinction, yes, the evil we commit, but not at this exit. Triple-
X porn, no thanks, we prefer all the new flavors of ice cream.
iPhones, give it a rest. The world may verge on collapse, but
Together let’s sit under a willow by the Esposus & watch
2 & then 3 kayakers paddle by, leaving the digital world of 1s &
0s behind. Skimming the water, dragonflies keep counting the joys.
Opus 40
—for Harvey Fite
O, Planet Earth, you rock-ribbed soul, you weathered face of stone,
Place your faith in a headstrong sculptor stacking rock in a forgotten quarry
Under the illusion ancient earth gods still need help. From a riverbed he hauls a
Stone monolith to stand like a nine-ton finger to steer shadows for the sun & moon.
40 years spent stacking this reverie stone by stone by stone.
0 days of doubt, this monument to your molten heart.
Rocky the Owl
Rocky, not Balboa the boxer, but the Saw-whet, the Mini-Me of an owl
On Good Morning America, celebrated free rider with a milk-saucer face
Cleared from the Rockefeller Center Christmas Tree &
Kicked back upstate to rehab & return to the wild, O, Rocky,
You’ve eaten mice all your life, did you try fine Manhattan dining?
The goat cheese mouse? The escargot? The tabloids dubbed you “Rocky,”
Herald of hope, a nobody, a punk pitted against the champ.
Ever hear of him? Or are you just who you are?
Owl who naps all day & listens all night for rustling in the grass.
We’ve anointed you our town icon for this summer of redemption.
Let the parking meters blossom into sculptures of saintly owls.
Will Nixon is the author of the poetry collections, My Late Mother as a Ruffed Grouse and Love in the City of Grudges. With Michael Perkins, he is the co-author of Walking Woodstock: Journeys into the Wild Heart of America’s Most Famous Small Town. He has also written “The Pocket Guide to Woodstock.” He now lives in Kingston.
Wonderful, wonderful, wonderful