Man In Boat, 1998

It’s unbearable to shadowdrift along the seabed. It’s unbearable to grieve when sleeping is more important. The boat is a hammock without strings. As the body is a sleeve not strung to the soul. The boat is chained to the shadow; when the shadow drifts, the boat drifts too. Is it at sea? Or is it just in air? Can a boat live on air alone? The man’s back bleeds. This is all expected of creatures who sacrifice their nudity for solitude and immortality. The flesh is eager to float, fully captivated by the impulse to preserve an array of stillness. The horizon is not skirring and nothing can move on that river made of air. This boat. This boat. This boat that the horizon can’t coat with its own monolithic entreaty. The man bathes in all blemishes of the moon. The man’s body can take imperfection, as he feels complete. His white-grey hair is a type of condensed cloud he can rest his head on. If he must commit suicide, he knows he will rest on a very comfortable pillow, one that he grows from the ovoid base of his skull. It’s good to get all the hard work done first and then unbutton one’s corporeal flesh calmly before the undiluted enterprise of air. His penis is one finger pointing to the line that separates his thighs. Everything is hidden deliciously inside his pituitary gland.