On Walking Out of 'The Counterfeiters'

Thickly meshed and complicated fluffs and shreds
of nothing petrify into impenetrable clod, like bullies
fossilizing in a sensless prehistoric war. Fight to find
some evidence in it of God: concoct a poem to forgive –
to sieve, alleviate the alloy of its bald recidivistic reflex
to clump, grumpy, into stubborn and insentient lump.
I left a movie everybody said was good: I found it

dense and unforgivable as wood. Maybe Germany
should not make films about the Holocaust. Forcibly
accosting squirmy guilt: squeezing “art” from soul
and blood too madly and unfathomably spilt: some
absolutely crucial point is missed. Or am I just a wuss?
Every time I venture into politics – which this
ungovernably is – those complicated fluffs and shreds

of nothing petrifying into clod – I’m lost: not to mention
cannot find much evidence of God. Perhaps
one seeks a moral compass by default, reacting to
some visceral essential hunger in the vault
of skull and cortex, limbic system and synaptic spasm:
something to make fleeting sense of this wild stabbing
flight of life into the chasm. Serenity and passion:

freely come to, un-withheld, a grace and lightness
melding into vivid clarity: not petrified – but live,
and breathing with the full capacity to laugh. Couldn’t
find that in this movie, not by half. Maybe it’s the bee
of me exasperated by the limits of its hive. Apparently
I will not rest until I find a way to keep some freely
breeding consciousness of infinite particularity alive.


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