American Ghost Roses

Kandinsky's Concerning the Spiritual in Art

26 Kandinsky’s฀Concerning฀the฀Spiritual฀in฀Art Barry’s฀father฀worked฀with฀bruise฀as฀Kandinsky฀did฀with฀chalk, ฀ knuckling฀punch over฀punch฀so฀blood฀shone฀through฀his฀mother’s฀skin฀as฀sunlight ฀ through฀stained฀glass. With฀cruelty,฀like฀most฀drugs,฀eventually฀you฀need฀more฀to฀get฀off: ฀ another฀line, the฀needle,฀one฀more฀hit฀to฀frill฀the฀bruise฀like฀red฀wine฀bled ฀ on฀Irish฀doily. In฀shadowed฀sleeve฀he฀worked,฀beneath฀blouse฀or฀skirt฀high ฀ on฀the฀thigh, her฀body฀the฀canvas฀of฀his฀private฀demon.฀His฀priest฀asked฀Barry ฀ to฀beseech the฀Body฀of฀Christ,฀wafer฀of฀peace฀and฀penance,฀to฀bestow ฀ his฀father the฀leaven฀bread฀of฀redemption.฀Instead฀he฀took฀karate฀lessons. ฀ He฀kicked his฀father’s฀not-so-sorry฀ass.฀In฀the฀bruised฀blue฀aftermath, ฀ dad฀packed bottle฀and฀wife฀in฀a฀rusted฀Plymouth฀Duster฀the฀color ฀ of฀split฀lip, valve฀lifters฀tick฀ticking,฀the฀bomb฀headed฀for฀Kentucky ฀ where a฀man฀could฀do฀what฀he฀wanted฀to฀what฀he฀owned, ฀ “Screw฀the฀soul.” Whose฀art฀answers฀that,฀Kandinsky?฀Whose฀apt฀hand฀sketches ฀ the฀“strivings฀of฀the฀soul” 27 you฀spoke฀of,฀just฀before฀the฀war฀to฀end฀all฀wars฀didn’t? ฀ However฀muddled, our฀art฀blushed฀the฀other฀cheek฀with฀booze,฀sink฀light ฀ elbowing its฀low-watt฀corona฀across฀the฀kitchen’s฀paint-by-number ฀ Mt.฀Rushmore. American฀heroes.฀Well,฀one฀of฀us.฀Zit-faced฀and฀shit-faced, ฀ we฀sang฀the฀blues. My฀voice฀cracked฀like฀eagle฀shell฀thinned฀by฀DDT,฀so฀what ฀ burst฀forth wasn’t฀winged฀beauty.฀Barry฀cranked฀up฀his฀Vox฀amp ฀ and฀plucked฀the฀Fender with฀vigor—“Be฀the฀key,”฀he฀pleaded.฀I฀chortled,฀flat ฀ as฀the฀veined฀knobs protruding฀from฀my฀half-human฀neck.฀His฀neighbors’฀pajamas, ฀ armed฀with฀the฀flaming฀torch of฀a฀cop’s฀flashlight,฀turned฀me฀off฀with฀one฀quick฀flipped฀switch: ฀ “Yes,฀officer.” Make฀what฀you฀will฀of฀the฀cops’฀stopping฀my฀wailing฀but฀not฀hers. ฀ Make฀what฀you฀will of฀history’s฀middle฀finger:฀a฀girl’s฀Hiroshima฀shadow,฀her฀teaspoon ฀ of฀dust. Make฀what฀you฀will฀of฀eyes฀where฀ears฀ought฀to฀be,฀toe-jam ฀ in฀tank฀tread. What฀numbers฀paint฀that฀face?฀My฀voice฀can’t฀wake฀the฀dead. ฀ Neither฀will฀oil฀on฀canvas nor฀this฀poem.฀It’s฀spirit฀not฀spire,฀Kandinsky,฀body฀of฀belief ฀ the฀hand฀can’t฀touch. For฀you,฀art฀is฀“the฀child฀of฀its฀time,฀mother฀of฀our฀emotions.” ฀ Put฀a฀fist฀to฀that. Or฀this:฀Barry’s฀mother฀lasted฀five฀years฀in฀a฀Kentucky฀shack. ฀ She฀never฀came฀back. 28 Shack฀rhymes฀with฀back฀and฀so฀with฀smack฀but฀not฀with฀soul. ฀ That฀night we฀learned฀the฀fine฀art฀of฀the฀bruise.฀Vinegar฀with฀oil. ฀ That฀night we฀gulped฀scotch฀from฀Tupperware฀cups.฀Upchuck฀in฀a฀sink. ฀ That฀night฀his฀fist painted฀what฀soul฀he฀could:฀5฀blue,฀3฀green,฀2฀yellow฀2฀yellow, ฀ 1฀black฀eye฀between฀us. ...