Ed Ruscha, I Can’t Not Do That.


Unreach the heights,
Unclimb the stairs,
Unwear all your underwears,                                                 

Unjoin the hoard,
Unhear the word,
Go toward the things that are untoward.

Undo the things that you have done,
Unstart the things not yet begun.
Leave all the unthought thoughts unthought
And if they ask say you forgot.

We love the things that we unhate,
Unfind yourself! It's not too late.
(Undress yourself and undulate!)

Unfriend your "friends" quite unexpected
And disappear, quite undetected.
Undescribe the unexplained
And you'll go nowhere, undetained,

But before you get there unarrive.
(Before you click, click unsubscribe.)
And leave all your crimson flags unfurled,
And just take nothing for a whirl.

Why shout speeches best left unsaid.
Unwind yourself in an unmade bed.
The greatest symphonies are left unfinished
The incomplete is not diminished.

If the new religion is about achieving
Add me to the list of the unbelieving. 
A mystery is only a mystery 
If it's unsolved.
(To think otherwise is unevolved.)

I do not wish to be unkind
But this frantic race to the finish line
(With its eureka moments and tidy conclusions)
That this unpoem is now eschewing 
Will lead to Doomsday,
The ultimate undoing.

A final answer is a kind of death
So I'll seek my succor in unrest.
I'll celebrate the socks that are unmatched,
The openist doors are the ones


Paris, Winter, 2013



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