A Genie -- Life, Art, Drugs, Death

The idea here is that, like mold
in the lungs or a car wreck filled
with water and reeds,
process plus mutation
equals art. And I might add to this
the unknown first cause --
shaking out the clothes of your
father, an asbestos worker,
releases fibers releases
cancer forty years later;
sunlight flicking on cut glass
releases joy and a slippery foot
releases the brake. Some people
are quite happy as they go
to a quick death. Others bend and break
with their early brilliance easing
out while their children mourn
a still-living mind. It's like my
grandmother said: "Five two,
eyes of blue. Five one, that's
nothing." And so maybe I will
shrink a little and leave
slowly, wasting time, puttering.
But if I'm going to follow those
intellectual giants -- mother,
grandmother, babcia, aunt --
if I'm going to follow them
into a twilight of dullness, let
it be a djin-djin night where
age becomes a perputual
high. Methodone
withdrawl is a harder kick
than heroine. So how does
life itself go down? The idea here
is that, like plaque on the brain,
a process plus mutation equals art
and art is a great drug. And I might
add to this knowledge the unknown
first cause -- how cold is the
Alladin's lamp as we rub it
hoping for a genie.

Copyright Louise Robertson