A Review
by Bob Hicok
Trapped among squarish buildings, the Gehry
in Roanoke looks stupid, like a wing
wearing a galosh, whereas the Gehry
in L.A. is alone on a hill
and the museum I want to be when I want
to be a bird.
There’s no perspective
on the Gehry in Roanoke, no way to gauge
the breath it’s trying to draw.
Imagine “Sunday Afternoon on the Island
of La Grand Jatte“
were stapled to your face.
You back up and it backs up.
You sneeze and the running dog sneezes.
On a ladder to look at clouds,
I imagine the Gehry in Roanoke
in the sky, a museum of the mind
as it sees itself when it sees itself
as a three-masted ship or says
the word gallop.
How do you hold a gate open
for a museum to run away?
So far, I’ve stolen a cover plate
from an outlet in a bathroom of the Gehry
in Roanoke and taken it to a mountain
and looked at the mountain
while thinking of the cover plate
as a seed.
Grow, cover plate, grow.
I need bigger pockets.
I need to believe we can make buildings
trees would look at if their leaves
were eyes.
The forest
just blinked, the museum
of green.
Tear the Gehry in Roanoke down
or tear Roanoke down
and leave the Gehry.
Only then will we know if life
is worth living.
