Self Portrait, as in Divisible
Passing a book on Feng Shui in the mirrored hallway
I instead open another on the paintings of Botero
where the purity of deformed spheres seems
to both mock and praise reality’s
obesity, while attempting to stir
an argument on the multiplicities
of life: that we are only alike as
the likeness of some original.
Ocelot, my cat,
is a woolsucker. His large yellow-chipped green eyes
slandering, splintering, muscles contracting orgasmically
as he grips the riverrock-colored afghan
and draws out the empty milk of a memory, and is fed by it.
He has learned this from no one.
He folds up and sleeps in the opulence of brain.
Is he an occurrence of form
or its ghost? Seeming both the pattern
and the thing itself, he is even more
than that, being also an idea, which survives
within me, snatched however briefly from extinction.
This is how we are changed and made new.
We are the idea of ourselves driven into being.
Our bodies fit to form as we create the patterns.
All mirrors are wrong. There is no such thing as imitation.
© 2007 Joe Millar / Brooklyn Arts Press