Searching For Michelangelo
I told him we were broken, the way
horses can be, and he galloped through
the sentence like a cowboy, less a
heart. I loosed the biggest word I could
think of – so enormous I felt everything
in me squeeze back as it passed by
and nearly choked as it pushed
its way into the outer world -
and he brushed it aside like
errant dandelion snow.
By then, there were at least
four voices within me, ranting,
and the image of myself throwing
buckets of paint against a wall
was blinking repeatedly in my head.
And still he was talking –
with his hands gesturing, gesturing -
talking about places he’d been
talking about what he thinks himself
passionate about
talking about what he learned
in counseling
and talking
talking,
talking
about
nothing.
When he got to Italy, I stopped him
at Michelangelo, thinking, “here! –
here finally is a scaffold we can
throw ourselves off of”. Thinking
if Einstein’s wardrobe wasn’t enough,
if a scrawny white boy singing
the blues wasn’t either and if the
most interesting thing I said that night
was that I never ever set a clock
to an uneven time (and I hadn’t even
said that yet)… maybe the image of
an artist suspended in air with
his heart pointed to heaven
and the myriad of thoughts
that must have run
like a river through him as he
stood there, arm outstretched,
might trigger something.
But, he had no idea that
Buonarroti was a poet
or that he honestly expected
Moses to speak
to him once freed
from the confines
of stone and of
artist himself,
he said
nothing.
Apparently, he was more
Moses than Michelangelo, and
it was all I could do
not to take
a hammer
to his
knee.
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