A hundred plus years since Les Champs magnétiques thus a centurian’s sack of tears according honors obscure, begun as frail fond inklings of Breton et DeChamps and the inimitable void Tzara enhanced with Arp the Sharp and picayunish Picabia, perhaps not, yet long before ol heroin addled guntoting shark Burroughs tossed shoeboxes of typescript like oblong confetti down hot Kansas stairwells named for unclothed sunzenith feasts aside flatlands of tan wheat, these nonpareil caffeined cafédwellers met wet westbank streets with absinthe downers and blandvasey flowers every inconsequential shuttered fragment dawn, and yet pressed on through cigarettes and shellack like fuseless bombs designed as reminders of an armless Blaise who sits entrenched alone in old coat cold oblique refutation of elongate rectangle blocks of stone, square mouthed windows and doors aligned like drab platoons in greyblue, proscenium upon proscenium ledge along with little shrub trees as ornament, leafless, stunted sparse, thin explodaze from cement all monuments to excrement of the dead, smooth gray shitcurve of the Might Of Consensus urn, that befuddled sereneless sense of honor that made us turn with glee to run and flee blind dumb awareness of nonsense and spurn barbarous yen of consciousness for heavens that lay beneath all crystalline sea arising from wave and wake like some longlost Atlantis for all to see, hear, caress like Athenians bless the wellstrewn marble rubble ruins beneath the deep blue sky of moons.
