To look, just once, for 30 seconds, into the eyes of Marion Cotillard


Philip Hammial



Bang on a can get her attention. Get

real! Get real? That time I crossed a hare

with Dale Evans, a fox with Roy Rogers, was that

real? If only you could hear them – the instruments

of an orchestra as they float through air, the musicians

dead & buried six years ago: 2005, the year

of the Kitchen Sing, the walls of which

were covered with pelts, nailed. Over

the oven the one with the horn

symbolizes hirt (just for fun I’ve spelled

hurt hirt; in German it’s shepherd). The hunter

with his game bag; in the other hand (right)

he holds a palette – greens, reds, browns, yellows:

A Unicorn’s Death. A glut

of vision, am I right? Or is this just the sentiment

of a vegetarian (recent convert)? Is that

a wolf’s heart? And the hand

that’s holding it up for us to see, whose

is it? A hirt’s? Poor wolf. Poor

hungry wolf. If you’ve come in sheep’s wool

you’ll get an injection, truth serum, no

exceptions (as such we come, as such & go). So what

do you want – a pope’s benediction – for the evil

you’ve done unto yourself (never mind the others,

they had it coming: you pay your money

you enter the fray – you’re either a Josh

or a slide barrel). Rolled/lived as what, an Israelite

when the sea parted that orchestra we heard, what

if it was just a marriage of trombones, & that horn

it could have been a rhino’s? And, more to the point:

those walls covered with ex-votos, pinned. Might as well

bang on a pillow, get her attention – Marie Antoinette’s.



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