Munar is stolenly Kieferesque—branch, fire, rose garden, guilt: there is a set for every geometry under heaven. How do I compare thee to a kiefer? It means jaw—and pine; to pine after, to kiss, to imitate, to speak. There is a comparison, too, to Canetti: the tongue set free; rescued, saved, salvaged. If we ask after an axiom—ein Gitter—it is to try to see how the paintings may, in burning, reply:
it is the question of an icon and Kiefer’s own asserts, jaundiced with the theorem, that even in that fire must we imagine resurrection. And so I ply myself, stem and all, from the garden of my youth, even as it grows, to envision it—in its overgrowth; “un verdor terrible”: as good as blood from myself, spilt over, with Christ himself lost in the garland roots, inverted:
holiness overturned, which was once an image, or a sign, of the devil. In his hands, cantus firmus, no more than a wishbone; rib and hiprose, my god, to me: a garden or a tomb. There are figures, dark and perching,
grey knives upon the fabric of the gardener. His desire, perhaps, to be a child again, split upon, or against, the icon of the father: the hurt and impossibility of living without him, unknow me; the covenant of his death:
forest robe and habit, Vernicle and eartorch, I cannot cloister you. I sin, again and again, and do not deserve you. Let me, like Caterina, eat of nothing and draw fatal the uneven crown of my head. Instead, a theoremic incest: unready to see myself in difference, I draw what I think I am; fathermine, know me as I have been, like to you, until I make myself as a beetle, awoken in the veilbed of the second birth:
“You’d only do that for love,” he says. And he means: destroy everything. This garden, be my tomb; dormeur du val: hang me, Odinite, upon the tree for which I give my eyes: deux trou rouges.
If we imagine ourselves, elsewise, in the bathtub or in the Atemwendewälder, we hold the stolen branch-ring and ask: why do we appear like others? Or: why do we appear to others at all? The guilt I feel at seeming like someone else; a knot between me and what I am. I ask, justly, how anyone else got here. There is the sense that
Is the problem that, instead, we see a man in a white robe holding a flaming branch? It is the faisceaux, alight; branebundle: reality is a question. I come to the heavendoor and see Him: horror:
a cabinet painted with the shadowcolour of my lifecycle in miniature, with all my distortions, not only preserved, but expanded for the sake of generality, and my insight, geometric, enclosed in a fresco upon the doorhinge of a drawer, given as a gift first to my sister, thence to brother, thence to far, as the gordioner dies, leafless, sans l'épée, and livid with the hourjudgement the unmothered knows now as the province of her genus:
for if he had been a girl, like those three sisters in the moors, who, too, had had un-bairns, had Tycho in the water—sickstars, droppylets of night, “heart is in the system of the Shewolf”—he might not have shown himself in his nudity, but in aspect; parallel form to this: a ghost, who can appear only as once he was; fruit of youth dead upon the ghostree of your yearning. Song: without the mouth. Hearttree, inversion:
spinebranch: hisself had not tempted him but in grovesemane with the sleeping orbs; his almondcount upon the ship, which stirred with the waves as each him to his execeultation, with acid in the crevice of my eyes; know me, with the flowers of the seadead.
Godsong, a forest in the old sense waterover, by an ark; teichmüllered: abc, learn the vowels of your destiny. No-ah. No-bee. No-sea. No-rse. No-more: whose ropes led to the heaven doom beneath. Christ! His child capturing the wilder fire organ; his white blemish, with sleeping figure, in heaven’s iron dome; mädchen, in crenelations, OSsS, dreaming of the last olive she will eat in Jerusalem—
hegelsh