Panic at John Baldessari’s Kiss

The aftermath always happening like an airplane falling, or a man
midair falling from a horse, and an arrow, a gun, many guns
pointing away, at us, our all bull’s-eye-on-the-mark. This is what he
sees when he sees. Maybe Wrong or not, the appropriation, the film
clip, chase, pressed lips over lips, photo moment on the minute-drawn
breath in, the over, the under, bodies in black and white cut to pose,
the way a kiss can pose, dispose of everything around it for another,
dispose of thinking. It’s like waving good-bye. Mouth to mouth seeing
as saying. Inside. Resuscitation back to the brain saying yes as the mouth
makes an O. Circles for the digital age, colored dots for faces already
made for erasing. Hurry, come, he, 6’7”, sees fifteen minutes from the
Mexican border, cremates his old paintings up close. But the ashes were
kept in a book urn, not so afloat in the ocean with my parents, Above,
On, and Under (with Mermaid) to kiss and kiss, riot in the dark depth
of it. The collision, the kiss, the capture, once in the for-all-we-know
of haunting who comes first. Kiss into kiss and so into kiss. All laws
of gravity leave us. Gender begins in violence and space. Space begins
in gender and violence as all laws of gravity leave us. So, kiss, kiss, kiss!

More Poems by Elena Karina Byrne