Wednesday, April 24, 2013



Now that is what I’d call
a real chair, the fragrance
of chairness billowing out
marvelously from beneath
the armrests. This chair
is definitively there, we
agree on the space it takes
to exist. Place it in a meadow,
and yellow butterflies will
land along its frame, when
you scoot the chair away,
yellow wings will remain,
floating, twitching, an outline
of a chair so convincing
someone would try to sit.
Do not talk to me about
reupholstery. Sacrilege.
Anyone sitting here, you
ask. Passel of butterflies
trumpets in tinny, quivering
chorus, you!


  1. The way this moves from a satiric take on all those object poems of 50-100 years ago to a quite poignant piece of found art -- let us be as we are without the mind, please -- seems to hover (like a butterfly) around the word "reupholstery" - indicating its uselessness even for a Duchampian object purpose. Or maybe i'm reading too much into it; perhaps due to your odd title, which I take to be a hybrid of phenomenology (the study of consciousness) and alology (interest in new ideas). At any rate, you bring spring-time death alive without showing any springs!

  2. Really enjoyed this imagery today. I love to read unique pieces like these.

  3. Witty and profound at the same time. I especially like the line about reupholstery.

  4. That opening, about the fragrance...some things are not authentic without a certain olfactory trait. "Passel" is a new word for me, excellent.

    Insects forming objects, like Popeye versus the termites...

  5. "the fragrance of chariness" So perfectly perfect.


The Storialist. All rights reserved. © Maira Gall.