Landschaft (Mit Gerhard Richter)

took a photograph of sunday night then blew it all onto a wall in paint something stirs in the brittle light - almost like your first vacation's abrupt denoument; studio sounds erupt into white (the power's down) this wasn't scripted neither were your forearms' shudders - closing in on abstract stalks that make a silhouette in green a single figure walks on your microscopic moon but he's a fake the painting's done in someone else's living room now on corsica perhaps in a sun room or brightening the concrete day ... alone at last in a private church where guardrails keep the volk at bay or catalogue this desperate silence that makes photorealistic snow swept the candles gutted or a chair pushed back like a lock of black & white hair; poised for an ironic pose jackie onassis is becoming bored reading newsprint on the freshly-plastered walls ... inside an album sleevenotes keep their peace; & revolutions occur on a momentary basis swinging on chandeliers borrowed from the cast (we all need to eat) in this essay at last the landscape is given its due & sleighbells ring out like broadway tunes or stolen dogs & here at last stands gerhard richter

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