Pittsburgh, PA – Warhol Museum,
Aug. 17, 1997
Dear Connoisseurs and Collectors—
Surprised to discover Warhol had his very own Museum-
mausoleum. That he came from a real place, thought maybe he
was a breech birth from a Campbell’s “Tomato Rice” soup can.
Always hated the way rice grains looked bloody. I didn’t know he’d
been shot again and again: bullet through spleen, stomach, liver,
esophagus, lungs. You will understand my numbering the surgeries
since I left you my childhood x-rays. Maybe you’ve fashioned them
into a magic lantern? He’s a sister, then, of the zig-zag scar. I felt
invited, especially, when I found the screen tests. Warhol’s safe way
to be in the presence of another alien human. I sat and stared at those
slow-motion faces. With the camera set up in another gallery and no
one around, I filmed a screen test. Five long minutes of myself—no
station identification—this doughboy face. The disembodied specter
of my skull.
thumbing
a flip book—
silkscreen of the crash
Not Waiting for My Close Up,
Bob
Judson Evans teaches at Berklee College of Music, and serves as Co-Editor (with Lew Watts ) of Haibun for Frogpond. He has published two collaborative books of poetry: Chalk Song with Susan Berger-Jones & Gale Batchelder (Lily Poetry Press, 2022), and Gear, with the accompanying book of photographs Remote Viewing by Ray Klimek (Meshwork Press, 2023).
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Heavy Feather Review 