Still Life (04) Giorgio Gerardi
Try Things
Try things. (Before it becomes forced or a burden, try everything that “try things” could mean: touch the stone, taste the plum, chew the seeds, yes, but also test things in a spirit that benefits doubt: trial the idea, assay the feelings, answer the curiosity.)
Plan a little, resources permitting, but take things as they come (as they are, before they aren’t).
Love what you can. (Don’t worry about what is “lovable”— what you love is loveable.)
Don’t worry about getting left behind. Getting left behind is a given. Life in the air, at its landings,
may lift another time.
When, not if, you get stuck, consider it luck. Not all luck is good. Even a movable feast is not
forever. Thank god for rest (the forest that breathes with you, both still and moving on).
In the language of game theory, know what can help itself and others. Be kind, forgiving,
provocable, and clear.
Apocalapse
Was the word of the day, where we were, waiting.
In winter warmth (or apricity, from a neologistic meme),
we waited for the next disclosure, next revelation
for the touched. And for all of us touchables,
the next nexus, next tangle, next bind.
I am for the moment watering a plant
that looks in its sunlit-leaves like a naked body
stretching out to take in every angle, every glint.
The spider plant hanging down, ceiling to floor,
with such a density of leaves the darkness hides
in the plain sight of bright shade.
At what point do I say “sic&” instead of “sir,
I won't be following you into the alley”
to see what wares and what gives,
or what wears-in the worn-out sense
that wheels have been spun, perhaps
threads stripped, more than feet walked.
More than anything, continuation doesn’t fault
the closed (touched) circuit. We know this is
how time strikes a bargain, whatever temperature
we feel or can’t feel, for intervals of the day,
skin-deep and hidebound, meaning stretched
to the hull, a little too tight for our own good.
Too light, too, the framework sticking out like
a wreck and a repair service stuck on the phone
without a representative who isn’t an algorithm
playing on our fears. Listening with our fears
perked, piqued minutes and seconds parked
in the delays for which everyone
meaning nobody is sorry.
Nothing ominous in an insincere apology.
Nothing to hear here but a gap in need
of fill, the fulfillment center standing there
like the Coming 2.0 of the slouch toward
more up-bucks for bunker billionaires.
Whatever lasts the evitable thaw, bless its craw.
Whatever this blight can’t take from us, savor that
since saviors won’t, nor howling wind,
nor basking sun through unbroken glass.
And maybe for your signature, leave a “sic,”
lightening nothing but letting levity know
your have your serious eye on the troubles
apparently you in your nigh-powerlessness
fell for self-fulfilling: or else couldn’t curse
well enough alone (in a crowd) (of leaves
angling for a taste of the source).
In an apocalapse of purpose, maybe
de-invent the lurch? Meaning what but
double-check your work? Meaning what works
is a spidery dangle, dream-catcher-like, for the light.
Unfinished Faith
Though the answer may be infinite or yesterday
Though the question may be circular or lost
Though the sound may be suggested
Though bliss can leave a blister
Though the brain is for remainders
Though much will slip through fingers
Though the sky is a semi-permeable membrane
Though this selects the Earth as a cell
Though the Earth is a cello of wavelets
Though you may be a lockpick player
Though your skin is your greatest organ
Though we itch to leave it in the garden
Though the craving may be ancient
Though home is a roaming planet
Though each star is a vacant stare
Though each stare started as a star
Though they really are consanguineous
Though their tendrils may be vascular
Though the oldest root may be strewn
Though the heart contains unknowns
Though we recently discovered plaster
Though we are obsessed with resources
Though we are obsessed with sorcery
Though gods eat men and reciprocally
Though sources vary
Though all particles agree to change
About the author:
Christopher Phelps lives in Santa Fe, New Mexico. He is queer and neurodivergent, a twainbow that underwrites his attempts at creative solvency and steadfascination. His poems have appeared in journals including Beloit Poetry Journal, The Nation, Poetry Magazine, and Does It Have Pockets. Find him in the lost-and-found at www.christopher-phelps.com.
In the artist’s words:
Giorgio Gerardi: What remains when consumption ends? The ‘Still Life – Waste’ series stems from an exploration of the boundary between discard and aesthetics, reinterpreting the classical genre of still life through a paradoxical subject: refuse. In this work, the composition strictly adheres to traditional pictorial conventions—the balance of forms, the wooden support, the dramatic lighting—yet replaces flowers and fruits with the remains of our daily lives: shards, broken plates, and fragments of glass. Created through the integration of Artificial Intelligence processes, the image challenges the viewer’s perception: is it possible to find beauty in decay? ‘Still Life – Waste’ is an invitation to look where we usually avert our gaze, searching for a new meaning in the ‘minor things’ of our present. ‘Still Life – Waste’ is an invitation to look where we usually avert our gaze, seeking a new significance within the archaeology of our contemporary world.