"That fiftieth year shall be a jubilee to you.
In it you shall not sow, neither reap that which grows
of itself, nor gather from the undressed vines.” - Lev 25:11
If thy right eye offend thee, put it out!
And I don't just mean out on the porch
'til the cold makes it sorry, makes it wail
'til your tender little heart snaps and you let it back in --
No! you gotta leave that thing out there all night long, let it shiver there
as the moon moves up in the sky, let it quiver alone, thinking: silver dollar. pale button. balloon rising high on the sky's dark face
without a hand to turn light into color, color into form.
Don't mind the tears pooling underneath: this is tough love!
Let it tremble, let it fear things creeping in the trees, let it think
you'll never let it back in, let it think: moon-solitude. sensory deprivation. total loss.
Let it think about life without your face, stuck watching garbage
float by in the cold concrete gutter, adopted in the end
by someone who doesn't go for art, has no use for photography
whose biggest thrill is five hours of Fox News
followed by a trashy romance novel read in poor light, and in the end: death
by terminal eyestrain! Let it watch dawn meander in
and consider just how done
its useful life
really is. Then
stare it down with the good twin.
Let it know that if it's lucky, you might – maybe – let it back in.
