By Xi Chen
/ Poetry /
There is nothing about John Ashbery’s
racist poem sadder than the poem
trying to cancel it by the student
who doesn’t get his work but tries
each night to think cursorily also
on the worn edge of sleep. They play
master and apprentice, drinking
under the moon, one reproducing
the other, at least the other, with
whatever bastardizations prolapse
through the pen. Who will fall first
into the leaf-caked waters? Listen
to the sonic difference between copy
and original, the shame of being
ashamed, the stark laughter of the
artist from behind the no-man’s land
of the page. It’s enough to herniate
with admiration, O’Hara’s words
comparing his brother to wistful
Du Fu and he to humble Bai Juyi.
They frolicked through the museum,
pocketing dying lotus blossoms
and dried chrysanthemums while
caressing the other’s balding head,
a riot reveling in its unprecedented
nature. I was there too, standing
before an untitled Rothko, my fist
through its center splintered
against the unpainted wall.