'To Cut' - A Poem By Kaila Rose

Posted by Yi Gallery on

 This poem was written in celebration of Victoria Borisova's solo exhibition "Transformation of a Pattern".

 

Kaila Rose poetry reading to cut Yi Gallery New York Borisova opening 

 

To Cut

Kaila Rose

 

 

The world was whole.

Pangea.

Pre pan-Asia,

Pre pan-Europe,

Non Continental.

 

 

Pre-pentatonic sounds detected,

But post catastrophic

Explosion of the deafening bang. 

 

It was the biggest, and no one heard it.

 

 

Pre human.

Pre language.

Pre apocalyptic knowledge.

 

Life was the re-assembly of an atomic boom;

Particles momentarily suspended;

Matter re-positioned.

 

T’was pre philosophical conundrums,

Pre piecing together letters, 

Pre post. Pre cards.

No blinking, fleeting frames

Of our disconnected communication,

Now virtual. 

Physicality virtualized.

 

 

Pre speaking into the illuminated screen

To be isolated in a million pixels

Never re-composed. 

Decomposed.

 

 

Pre the composure of oneself

In drops of pen ink,

Or the fade into greys of lead pencil #2.

 

 

Pre fingers and movement:

The visible output of our brain.

Pre pixels and pigments 

All to be dispersed.

 

 

Pre image. Pre imagination. Or to imagine our birth,

Or figure,

Or feeling.

 

 

Oh! But now we know.

Now we know what it means to be here. 

Means to be scarred and disassembled.

Dislocated in reconfiguration.

 

 

DNA spliced ––

CRISPR Cas-9 improved ––

To prove the genetic modification

Of the pre embryonic race.

“Futurity.”

 

 

Splicing to re-stitch the commonly uncommon ground.

 

 

Once was the fall of man

Which, falling gave rise to domain:

A hyperextension of a noble cause:

Borne for this erasure of life.

 

 

But, Times they are 

Uh––changing?

“Time,” the constructed fallacy

To order ideologies

And fabricate idolatry

Worshiping the idols of

Self-intolerability.

 

 

“Change.”

The hatred of the masses

There for biting our own asses.

That bite to pass time; 

That loss to save mine,

 

 

And in saving wallow. 

Wallowing to waste

With the fact we don’t matter 

Yet our matter will be left behind.

 

 

So, what to do?

Where to cut?

How to piece together

Pre-historic pieces left with us?

 

 

With or without us

Somehow.

 

 

Pull it together, maybe.

Reel it in so hard,

So hard that the pressure

Returns to that deep absence.

 

 

The deepest implosion of all things

Returning to the explosion of all.

 

 

Cut down to find

The whole world.

Before we can see, name, or call it

A beautiful life.


 

 

 -

About the Poet Kaila Rose

 
Born and raised in the foothills of the Oregon Cascades, Kaila Rose arrived in New York City in the Spring of 2015. From palette to palate, hospitality and all things food and wine have long partnered the art and academia that inform her professional career and her personal passions. An independent scholar and Byronist, a painter, a past teacher, lady of wine and current restaurant-runner, Rose has a historical tendency to have her hands in as many pots as possible. Fortunately, Rose found her bricolagic home when she melted into the pot of this glorious–if not sometimes boiling–city.

 

 

 


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