Contraptions: ties (Boyton and Lieberman)

Contraption: ties

This suspended contraption
needs you to winch it
but you have no faith in weight or cleats.
A Ken-doll can’t do it nor a garden stickman
no more than a tomato stake to tie to,
in other words, no wimpy string
tie you wouldn’t wear a tie if they paid you or be tied.

You want to loop up this monster truck motor
in leather straps, declare “You ain’t goin’ nowhere!”
want to choke the motor that looks like a mummy
with steel ties like Frankenstein
or King Kong cables snapped in cross-species desire --
all the monstrous melodrama of ties
and no ties.

Desire’s diesel swings in a hammock of seatbelts
high above your body,
but remember before seatbelts
when your mother and father held out their arms
as they slammed on the brakes,
remember slamming your forehead on
the sharp push buttons of the AM radio?

It is good to be tied and horrible,
your jaw wired shut. After the car-crash
of marriage, they tied up your hands.
You set off alarms til no one came.

In the hospital rehab, you learned to knit.
Now you know it’s the highest good
to enter the knitting machine and be kinked
into someone else’s patterns,
the twin threads of you felted.
Tie yarn around your finger
a fumbled granny knot to hold the weight,
not a too tight tourniquet, not-yet regrets,
but a loose tightrope round a first-class cleat.

artist MARNEY LIEBERMAN & poet VICTORIA BOYNTON

Contraption: ties, collage with paper, color xerox, glue, pencil, colored pencil, watercolor, ink, 9 1/2" x 25"
	Contraption: ties This suspended contraption needs you to winch it but you have no faith in weight or cleats. A Ken-doll can’t do it nor a garden stickman no more than a tomato stake to tie to, in other words, no wimpy string tie you wouldn’t wear a tie if they paid you or be tied. You want to loop up this monster truck motor in leather straps, declare “You ain’t goin’ nowhere!” want to choke the motor that looks like a mummy with steel ties like Frankenstein or King Kong cables snapped in cross-species desire -- all the monstrous melodrama of ties and no ties. Desire’s diesel swings in a hammock of seatbelts high above your body, but remember before seatbelts when your mother and father held out their arms as they slammed on the brakes, remember slamming your forehead on the sharp push buttons of the AM radio? It is good to be tied and horrible, your jaw wired shut. After the car-crash of marriage, they tied up your hands. You set off alarms til no one came. In the hospital rehab, you learned to knit. Now you know it’s the highest good to enter the knitting machine and be kinked into someone else’s patterns, the twin threads of you felted. Tie yarn around your finger a fumbled granny knot to hold the weight, not a too tight tourniquet, not-yet regrets, but a loose tightrope round a first-class cleat.