April Poem

Rauschenberg Monogram



I cannot escape the desert

or a sly sense that I am stuck halfway,

like an ill-used clapper in a

worn out leper’s bell,

bleating a tone meant

to warn, or curse, or clear

a path through the wilderness.


Of course I’m tired,

encircled by the sins of

a whole nation, white-walled

onto my back,

a lime-washed sepulchre standing foursquare

upon a field of grays.


Initially my voice was pure –

Daaa Daaa, Daa Daa, Da Da.

But now I am a singular weight,

straddling the Alpha and Omega,

even as I wait to hear you chant

in flat-brushed whispers

my father’s name.



Robert Rauschenberg, 1955-59






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