On Argus, Tucson Cutsogeorge

Scanning through renditions of the

performance, there is found to be a

startling lack

of Argus. Not that he fails

to materialize in our purview, but rather

a complete bleaching, his body

doused under chemical cleaner so that

his eyes shall not open.

Those eyes are instead inserted

into cattle,

sometimes human, sometimes not,

who stare into us like

You-Know-What-Is-Going-To-Happen.

In older renderings of the myth

his eyes adorn him like pustules,

onyx jewels of biotics,

sclera adorning his skin like

fabric among buttons, a

patch-work man.

In another,

a gift – draped in satin,

or cotton,

a piece of him is offered.

A spoil of war, an exotic mantlepiece,

a marble to be placed among

one hundred more,

plucked

from sockets and skin

nude

(a bird without feathers,

a man without eyes).

The reason for this becomes

less than a speck on the horizon,

violence foregrounded.

I think of how undesirable it is

to look upon one who looks upon.

If he were to have retained his sight,

they would be pointed anywhere, everywhere else.