Hullabaloo

Mortensen constructs.
The day laughs.
The thingumbob, the kit and caboodle, the paraphernalia are
   demolished
in which hiccupping parrots lived.
No, we're not talking
about a kind of giant jewel.
No de luxe perron leads up to there.
Mortensen's construction site is something!
The day laughs.
Mortensen has quite demolished
the scar-covered uniforms,
the ce-cedillaists, the aspira-h-ted h's, the dire diaereses
of the School of Fine Arts.
Mortensen constructs
with an entraining unconnected to
the train in training,
the grandfather, the railroad
in which enviable usufructuaries
holding large bouquets in their hands
decline: I sparrow you sparrow he sparrows.
Mortensen destroys obstacles
so that dreams and sparrows may return.
He creates new depths without shadows.
Here at last is a painting, a kind of enormous sky hovers
living and laughing
at our stupid earth from which we shoot at the moon,
a painting in which
height and depth balance
and which sings and laughs
at the stupid earth from which we shoot at the moon.

Dear Mortensen, you do not agree that the earth is stupid,
but you will understand
that I who live on the moon
don't like the moon to be shot at,
and above all I don't want
any pictures taken of the backside of my moon.

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