Untitled, Z.Z. Wei
The Impossibility of What We Are Doing While It Is Not Being Done
Mickey Mouse is resting his head on the desk,
gently rocking it side to side, a motion comfortable
to the sphere on which it is based.
He closes his bigger eyes. Real birds
kareech and keratch to the excitement of day’s end.
Mickey Mouse is a copyright of Walt Disney Corporation,
any likeness or manifestation of Mouse
without the express written consent of Corporation
is strictly forbidden, in the house
or in the garden, white lattice
of fragile wood staplegunned together
penetrating lilacs. Mickey Mouse
is rubbing the back of his white glove
against the surface of the desk, wondering
if it will pick up dust. You cannot represent Mickey Mouse,
or depict him or cradle him. His head rocks itself.
Any violation of the registered trademarks or copyrights
of the Disney Corporation or any of its affiliates
in the purposeful distortion, misuse or use
of the likeness of the form of the sphere of
the Constitutionally guaranteed right
of the idea to the generator of the idea,
given to the steam-like mist, you know
where this is going.
Any turn from the course, any knowing or unknowing,
any transgression or worship, any dilution or intensification,
any feeling or hot-pressed paper, ideal for the application of ink,
any breeze through the window
on which the kareeches and keratches.
There is a staplegun in his bundle of papers
tied in a cheesecloth sack hanging from a fly-fishing pole
in his kitchen where he has never tasted food,
he only knows the taste of wind-lines. He is not to be folded
and especially not spindled
because he feels everything
and children breathe his brain into their chests.
He has hidden his address in his shoe
mostly because people are serious.
Review by William Fairbrother
An outer shell of visible reality such as the laws which hold matter together, picked from the sands of a gutted beach suddenly awash.