Apollinaire's death

the Seated Man might have been concealed,
yet his presence was felt
in the rough texture of a simple paradox:

Picasso's self-portrait, another deep enigma, or both.

but the simple seat had barely a leg or two, 
and a hat or none at all.

his flat presence like a carpenter's square
was full of angles and the sharp thin lines of construction.

many faces or none?

working at Montrouge just before 1919,
the chair master tossed his cubes onto the icy white.

He,  the ultimate magician
with a proud brow and curving smile,
spoke to his friend before the coughing
death in a Paris apartment where poets came to pray.

It was 202, boulevard Saint-Germain-des-Pres at 5PM
when the final silence descended, pulling the unfinished copy
over Apollinaire's head.

He was 38 when he died.

Breton was already at his door, defending the avant-garde.

Cocteau was already on his way out, although he didn't know it.

and upon feeling the sad news when a widow's black veil
touched his cheek, Picasso went to his bathroom mirror and
began to draw.

he drew a lonely man.

nothing was as synthetic as it seemed.

Pictures At An Exhibition

I heard Pictures at an Exhibition: 

no price was charged 

or admission ticket required

no stub 

or membership rules posted. 

i felt the moving mystery!

it gathered all the straining ears

along a horned path 

with vibrating strings 

playing the famous Mussorgsky song in four parts 

of ethereal lighter-than-air 

loudness 

and diminishing softly,

the tidal wave moodily sweeping water spray sound

around

& then a quick flair for the flamboyant:

the kettle drum and French horn; 

keys with flutes attached, 

and a sustained trombone blast and some elfish piccolos; 

a large section of bass, deeply humming in tune. 

incessant rock knock and pound surround,

The Kingdom

of finest woven lace 

weaving notes of orchestral tempest. 

and those brilliant escaping images, 

fleeing from practiced instruments,

kept moodily circling 

with fingers of humankind grandly being toyed about.

Salvadore and Gala Dali

a razor sliced into an eyeball
and

blood came rushing out:
his boyfriend was the target
& several neighbors' heard him shout!

into his celebrated strangeness,
a unique woman appeared:
her pleasure, a Spanish nightmare,
much crazier than he feared.

while painting on a canvas,
hands melting over time,
they wrapped their arms in questions,
answering sublime.

dancing with Surrealists,
caution spinning in the air,
they climbed upward toward delirium
and found a future there.

the kiss of Tosca!

this is the kiss of Tosca!

they were all dead by 3 o'clock on a fine afternoon 

no one expected so many to be gone so soon 

in the early dawn children at breakfast a mother busy with her knife in hand: 

silent Enola Gay high above in her silver chariot drunk on hot jazz 

heavenly wine stored deep inside her belly 

her horses pulling onward into the great wide open 

Morta listened for a cry from the singing diva 

wailing above the home of 100,000 deaths like Roosevelt

fatherly in his easy chair

rationalizing

behind a somber podium 

the great white hall silent behind his back 

his skinny hard tires black 

and rolling 

towards the Manhattan Project not in New York City anymore

then Truman with his hand on the pen 

writing the white lie which would open the box of hell 

and offer howling ghosts 

screaming in full throat 

in mushroom cloudy smoke

the balled fist reaching ever upwards

hot exhaust on the crisp desert air 

Trinity 

like a horrible nightmare 

burning every migrating butterfly into a dream shadow

blooming cactus flowers falling to desert sand

the barbs remaining sharp

and ashes like dusty tears  

and the experimental little boy of all big bombs falling indiscriminate 

targeting and tumbling and preparing to explode over a huddled mass

soft people awake or asleep, restless or comforted

their suddenly revealed skeletons boiled and basted and bombed 

the troubled disbelief 

a sudden cry

thinking the unthinkable 

and to Gods or spirits they called and begged in anguished Japanese, 

moaned on the currents of flaming air

staggering beyond the city limits

past the graves of dead gardens,

what? 

why did we have to die? great Earth were we not great, too? 

will there be a second chance? any chance? 

what do i do? 

am i the butterfly or the flower? 

or a passing memory or a missing hour?

Roosevelt, Churchill, Stalin

Roosevelt, Churchill, Stalin,

Potsdam, Yalta, Tokyo and Berlin 

South Korea and Mao and for the other guys somehow 

this is important 

with the atomic bomb & with the Marshall Plan 

and the German wall

before the fall 

Seoul overrun by Kim with a quick plan for victory to Pusan 

foiled

& the Great March forward somehow spoiled 

by stiff US resistance and blood and guts and honor

and then Truman, McArthur and the Yalu 

long after Hiroshima & Nagasaki but who really knew 

what Eisenhower was about to reveal?

yes, the military industrial complex was designed to steal 

what even the CIA didn't understand 

or the KGB as they used to say 

back in the Cold War day 

alongside Fidel Castro (but now he's dead, too) as is the Shah

and Ayatollah Khomeini,

who didn't understand containment so said let the revolution begin 

with Iran 

and Venezuela and Hezbollah 

the oil flows spelled Mister Moolah in a brave new world 

with Huxley golf courses with Lucy in the sky and 

the fervent Taliban who hate women, 

who want control more than sex. 

Man is the new T-Rex!

not the ladies in flames or whatever else remains 

beyond Marines in central Baghdad or the Chinese in Senegal 

they're unlucky enough to want it all: 

prayer flags flutter in a Himalayan wind;

the soul of Tibet, the Dalai Lama, without a safe bed

in his native-born country said, 

Peace on Earth (at the very least) 

save us from this killing beast!

Putin readjusted his tie

it's no laughing matter:

Russians are everywhere,
as crazy as the Mad Hatter
but not nearly as much fun!

at the pinnacle of his power 
& capitalizing on his Olympic success,
Putin decided that very hour
it was time for his very own Gold medal.

so, he lit a big victory cigar,
& took a deep Stalin-style grip 

on the bare throat 

of the Russian military machine.

he determined to make it an instant media star
inside of the modern day Crimea.

he personally did not invade

(he was too preoccupied with his Italian tailors),

but his soldiers stood unmarked and masked
on the territory of Ukraine 

on a special operation,
while he choreographed their dance.

when he learned of his success,
he readjusted his tie,
readied himself for international phone calls,

but as soon as he spoke the first word, it was a lie!

it's what he does for a living.

Kurt Vonnegut

On a snowy night near the end of December,
Kurt Vonnegut
climbed into my room
with heavy heart and a deep sigh.
i was sitting on my folding chair,
close to a wood fire,
watching my empty cup.
i had expected him before seven,
and it was now eleven,
but his mustache told me he was
running late.

so it goes,
he said.

he had been trapped inside a woman's wall
where there is usually no escape,
unless one is an author
with a quick wit and an even quicker pen.

he settled easily on the floor,
and turned to face me before he spoke.
his first words softly whispered were
"Hocus Pocus."

his white hands were cautiously folded in prayer.
i noticed a small atomic bomb on one index finger.
i told him i dreamed of time travel.
he wished me good luck,
no matter how bad things got.

i asked him about his wounded knee,
since i saw him limp.
he told me about Dresden,
and in a voice filled with ghosts,
said "It was a crematorium."

we both fell silent.

i watched Hamlet

i watched Hamlet. 

before his death he wondered how to be or not to be! 

Claudius killed Hamlet's father, 

then he married the widowed mother, ex-wife of his brother. 

and i wondered if there were no other plots possible for Shakespeare?

or did all these events appear clearly delineated as he was walking along the Avon river?

later, i watched the Dali Lama announce he would resign,

take up writing stage plays in a well-worn orange robe with his baby smile.

he wondered aloud if he could lock himself away in his private room for days on end,

crafting a human interest fable on his family heirloom table?

he said he had an initial story idea about a maid named Mable who wears a small white apron, serves a human skull on a small white tray for her employer named Hamlet, but on the very first rehearsal day, Hamlet dies tragically after a brief sword fight.

the maid, according to the Lama, eventually needs to serve herself or not herself.

But, no!  That wouldn't do.

so, the Dali Lama wondered aloud about running for President of the United States during which time he'd chase feral dogs around the Lincoln Memorial during a campaign stop.

Lincoln wouldn't mind, he said.

he also said he heard in his sleep the dogs of war crying Havoc! 

in his dream, an old gravedigger dropped a noisy shovel while burying Ophelia in nearby Arlington National Cemetery.

everyone nearby stopped to pray except for the Lama, 

who couldn't hear the eulogy and what they might have to say or not to say!

it's a Shakespeare thing, said the Lama, imagining a walk along the Avon river.

it's been awhile

it's been awhile

long faces in the night

an occasional smile

and it's almost summer

the playground is empty

just another bummer

there's no one in the alley

but mud flows in the street

a Lily of the Valley

keeping up with her beat

la la la la humming

fast forward drumming

guitar players strumming

who's that i hear a'coming?

it's a sweeper:

he's a real grim reaper!

la la la la humming

la la la la humming

where has that decade gone?

millions of hippies on the lawn

smoke fills the air

Ohio State University there

down by the corner

above the tree line

the last forest

no longer doing fine

toe tapping time

looking for a friend of mine

and here comes Sweet Jane

the heavy ball and chain

holding her back

just like Tom Thumb blues

for a fateful encore

there's so much more

heartbreak

artificial icing on the birthday cake

no, nothing fake

waiting on the corner

like a funeral mourner

holding flowers and a loaded gun

waiting for the high noon sun

it's been awhile

long faces in the night

an occasional smile

and it's almost summer

the playground is empty

just another bummer

there's no one in the alley

but mud flows in the street

a Lily of the Valley

keeping up with her beat

la la la la humming

fast forward drumming

guitar players strumming

who's that i hear a'coming?

it's a sweeper:

he's a real grim reaper!

la la la la humming

la la la la humming

Waldman and Ginsberg

Anne, I wonder where you are?

Last I heard
You were in Colorado as an artistic director,

Teaching especially creative writing.
It's where young people watch your every move,
Take notes.  Play notes.  Become notes.
They love being near the mountains.
I knew Allen, your very gracious friend Allen, visited several times and talked to a group of listeners.
Many in attendance would dance and sing Buddhist songs, humming in a
Spiritual way to center themselves inside the Universe.
You were much younger at that time, almost fully covered
With beads and bangles and hair.
Allen had lots of hair then, too.
He has since died, while you travel onward.
Your creative writers know the score:
They allow their thoughts often to have an
Easterly drift, even to New York City.
Allen loved that city, even when it tried to beat him down.
He talked to the sidewalks with his feet and used his eyes to scrub

The worldly windshield.

His heart was open as he spoke, driven with inspiration.
I can sometimes hear him call your name!
I wonder why you don't write him more often?

Where was Einstein?

When Daniel Ellsberg
went looking for his bus,
he saw the war,
felt the sun turn cold 

and ugly 

with political lies
falling from a deceitful sky
like incendiary bombs over North Vietnam,
spilling onto the streets in front of the White House.

near central Saigon on Tu Do street,
a flow of blood dripped constantly from the sharp teeth
of slippery men wearing their helicopter smiles,
trafficking dope 

from a railroad town in Laos
down the trail 

under a heart of darkness:
their American machine guns shooting up
the hard thin arms of Oriental hunger.

On a plutonium pathway the buffalo grass turned shit brown
with the CIA and Agent Orange
locked in a fatal embrace 

from the Plain of Jars
to the Central Highlands,

to the DMZ,
picking pure white daisy petals
while counting down from twelve 

to four and finally closer to zero:
under a cloudy mushroom afternoon,
Nixon was inaugurated to deliver
PEACE 

while fighting for his golden Crown
in the slaughter hallways of Pennsylvania Avenue.

Where was Einstein?
when Daniel Ellsberg
said there were no winnable options
for a WAR 

in jungle thick with sudden death
and monsoon confusion?

A thousand western schemes floated beguilingly,
mingled with autumn flower petals 

on the Perfume River,
past the starving bones of an angry Imperial ghost,
to their lonely grave 

in the South China Sea.

no hurry

hello,

dear friend!

we can always depend

on an early sun rise!

it's no longer a surprise

for we have starlight in our eyes,

thinking about the roads underneath our feet

and the sound of a nearby heartbeat

coming from a satisfied lover

sweetly smiling underneath cover

always alongside

for the final ride.

so,

we're walking through a field of spring flowers,

laughing at the slowly passing hours,

looking at big wheels spinning without going anywhere,

and we rest without carrying any extra care.

yes, i swear

what's always there

is music on the breeze

when we see the magic of the trees

and see cows jumping over the moon

in the middle of a summer afternoon:

no hurry, no, no hurry

to end anything too soon.

hello,

dear friend!

we can always depend

on an early sun rise!

it's no longer a surprise

for we have starlight in our eyes,

thinking about the roads underneath our feet

and the sound of a nearby heartbeat

coming from a satisfied lover

sweetly smiling underneath cover

always alongside

for the final ride.

yes, i swear

what's there

is music on the breeze

when we see the magic of the trees

and see cows jumping over the moon

in the middle of a summer afternoon:

no hurry, no, no hurry 

to end anything too soon.

my warmest regard

i found a cougar in my backyard

reading from a black and white yellowed note card

he was thumbing the whole page looking for a clue

lots of angry cats are still wondering what to do

if there's a passing storm and the thunder keeps coming down hard

running around in my backyard

i'm giving all wild animals my warmest regard

but when their fantasies bite and spit 

and the music finally decides to quit

well, just keep the dancing shoes tapping across the bandstand floor

Ginger and Fred have memories that are too hard to ignore

sliding and spinning 

losing and winning

grinning

calling home where i answer my phone

pretending to be singing baritone:

special friends and the most beautiful Harvest Queen 

riding in a Cinderella wagon making a happy ending scene

making the best of our time

adding more polish to the shine

lending all the bums a dime.

i found a cougar in my backyard

reading from a black and white yellowed note card

he was thumbing the whole page looking for a clue

lots of angry cats are still wondering what to do

if there's a passing storm and the thunder keeps coming down hard

running around in my backyard

i'm giving all the animals my warmest regard

but when fantasies bite and spit 

and the music finally decides to quit

just keep the dancing shoes tapping across the bandstand floor

Ginger and Fred offer memories that are too hard to ignore

sliding and spinning 

losing and winning

grinning

calling home where i answer my phone

pretending to be singing baritone:

special friends and the most beautiful Harvest Queen 

all riding in a Cinderella wagon making a happy ending scene

making the best of our time

adding more polish to the shine

lending all the bums a dime.

sweet melodies

we're all alone, 

sometimes talking on the phone

with everybody else

marching on the parade ground, 

listening to the sound

of time passing away.

there's always more to say!

for when i saw you singing to the trees,

hair blowing in the breeze,

perfectly at ease,

welcoming me to the picnic table 

like in a legendary fable

happening in real life,

i felt harmony everywhere

and sweet melodies

drifting thru the air,

whispering my name:

this is not a game.

Christopher Reeve as Superman

the total eclipse,

as i walked the sidewalks near Central Park with a friend

discussing the virtues of obsession,

was a Tea Party surprise.

it rushed towards us like an angry earthquake

formed in six dimensions,

like a blizzard of Lou Reed New York craziness,

blasting our faces,

our small faces,

like a bold print headline in jazzy neon colors

broadcast live from a giant billboard

mounted on one wall of a 5th Avenue skyscraper.

masked and unmasked goblins were scurrying on and off

the adjacent streets, dodging taxis and ignoring traffic lights,

parading smartly by radiation detectors and the steely eye of 

security cameras.

they went searching for fading high school memories of

acne and heartache,

of fall football games and loose sweaters filled with varsity hands.

and the total eclipse faded as quickly as it appeared,

which was disappointing.

one small girl passed us dressed as a witch,

seemingly channeling Alice in Wonderland,

while holding aloft a green caterpillar smoking from a hookah.

she went snickering as though she was in La La Land, although

she was barely at 42nd street.

i stopped my friend when he began to dabble with finger paints,

pushing passing goblins as he did so,

smearing his private paints onto their private parts.

it was all for fun, he said, when i asked

"What the hell are you doing that for?"

and to get him away from the crowds, i suggested a movie,

maybe with hot buttered pop corn and a cold coke.

we had to have coke!

especially to see Christopher Reeve as Superman, i thought.

since Chris was a friend of mine from the early days of the Actor's Studio,

i enthusiastically said "Let's see Superman!"

but my friend said Superman was dead, and in a way he was right.

Chris had a terrible fall off a jumping horse and became paralyzed;

he often publicly stated that he'd walk unaided again some day,

maybe to join in finger painting on city streets or to act on television

or in another movie where he'd wear a red cape and fly faster than a 

speeding bullet, without special effects.

well, sadly that won't happen, and i never got to see the movie that day, either,

because my friend pulled me into a book store where a small 

gathering was taking place for the hearing impaired.

and everybody was dabbling with finger paints.

without keeping score

but i can't remember your name

or if we once lived together

or if you'd visit me

regardless of the afternoon weather

carry my heavy school book

give me a second look

i can't remember what you took

but it seems

you often appear in my dreams

and i got a crush on you

baby, i'm not sure what it is you do

but the daylight is brighter than it ever was before

and i'm winning every game without keeping score

you comb my unruly hair 

when i don't even know you're there

and it sure looks great

like i'm the master of the universe

it must be fate

'cause it could be so much worse

but i can't remember your name

or if we once lived together

or if you'd visit me

regardless of the afternoon weather

carry my heavy school book

give me a second look

i can't remember what you took

but it seems

you often appear in my dreams

and i got a crush on you

baby, i'm not sure what it is you do

but the daylight is brighter than it ever was before

and i'm winning every game without keeping score.

we'd dance forever

we can sit and jump,

watching the moon shadow move

perfectly at peace.

all movement is rest,

a poet keeps reminding,

little by little.

outside the windows,

what do we notice is there

when we look away,

when we see ourselves

walking on a quiet road

as the hard winds blow?

and steady we go,

like a tree with fine branches

that stretch out for life.

what i love the most,

when we catch each other's eye,

is our connection.

our breathing steady,

we can laugh without laughter

and cry without tears.

sipping our coffee,

we share tales of adventure

while doing nothing.

some cream and sugar?

we hear the questions arise

while we stay grounded.

i tell you so much

but my silence also speaks

with a deeper voice.

and your voice is song,

rising above the shouting

as it saves itself.

and who you now are

is what i hear you tell me

what you want to be.

if our walls could sing,

and we held hands together,

we'd dance forever.

what was lost

and all this up and down

makes it hard to get rid of this frown

it sometimes appears to be rich

and i feel a certain calm

but life can be a raging bitch

i can hold it in my palm

it looks at me and winks and gives a little laugh

am i here for myself? or on someone else's behalf?

well, i take a deep breath and stick out my thumb

hoping to feel the breeze

but i'm simply too numb

sitting on my shadow down on my knees

there's a man or a woman flashing smiles on the tv

asking their audience whatever they might want to be

and it's available for free:

no need to search into deeper space

no need to go forward or to retrace

there are lines to follow and they'll point the way

asking for your memories before they take them away

and in the end instead of asking each other

there's only a momentary shudder

and a flicker when the big screen goes blank

and there's no one to blame and no one to thank

you'll never wonder

what you drank

or what was lost 

or what was the ultimate cost

and all this up and down

makes it hard to get rid of this frown

it sometimes appears to be rich

and i feel a certain calm

but life can be a raging bitch

i can hold it in my palm

it looks at me and winks and gives a little laugh

am i here for myself? or on someone else's behalf?

well, i take a deep breath and stick out my thumb

hoping to feel the breeze

but i'm simply too numb.

I heard Maria Callas singing

when she said it was evolution 

i was too damn small 

i heard Maria Callas singing in the Milano opera hall 

she was absolutely divine 

so i thought i'd take a chance 

i wore my evening jacket without my underpants.

i heard Keith Richards play when i was seventeen

he was absolutely wildly crazy touching the obscene. 

when she said it was evolution 

i was too damn dumb

i protested with long hair and my opposition thumb. 

i watched Ari Onassis wear his glasses in the shade 

he accumulated people and i knew he had it made.

i watched Mick Jagger wear his penis on his nose

he accumulated people in the evening without clothes.

when she said it was evolution

i was too damn blind

i wrote a note to Santa Claus

the one he could not find.

when she commented on gravity

i told her i could defy it,

but she said i couldn't deny it, 

so what did i really know

sucking my injured big toe?

i heard Maria Callas singing with a butterfly in her hair

her voice like angel flowers vocal passion everywhere!

when she said it was evolution

i was too damn naive

i heard Maria Callas singing 

it became impossible to leave!!

when i talked with Picasso

when i talked with Picasso, 

it was an early evening near central Paris

and he was flush with Spanish wine,

laughing with artistic friends already feeling fine,

splashing paints on the nearest cobbled street.

and he told me his life would never be complete

until he was known everywhere

for his prodigious talent and his famous penetrating stare!

well, he had an brilliant eye, that's for certain:

he said he painted more than one Russian ballet curtain,

and when he saw the many young ladies swoon

he'd immediately take them to his special room

where he'd teach them French or as much as he knew

while they kneeled before his greatness, admiring the local view.

and when i told him i was also fond of Gertrude Stein,

he said quite forcefully that she couldn't be a friend of mine;

she had her hands full of more important things to do,

and no time to waste screwing around with another old shrew!

i asked inquiringly about his relationship with Matisse

but he looked away and somehow seemed at peace.

when a gallery owner said his Opening sales were beyond belief

"like stealing money without being an actual thief!"

the drinks flowed and everyone partied the night away,

without pretensions or any interest in becoming a gourmet.

when i talked with Picasso,

he refused to let me go

until i promised to give him the best press,

and there's more, a lot more,

but i digress.

sitting on a bench

you are 

sitting on a bench

polishing your perfect nails.

it might be too hard for me to remember

my heads from my tails,

but i approach anyway,

wondering as i study your face

what i might have to do or say.

you smile and offer me a timid joke.

i take a deep breath and offer you a pleasant toke.

but i wasn't trying to score;

i didn't have time for that anymore:

too many days have fallen over my head

and i look like i've just tumbled out of an untidy bed.

i can't even remember what i'm doing here:

memories of childhood keep trying to reappear

and i know i've traveled with heavy loads on my back;

all the passing white clouds have turned into coal black.

behind me all the pain of failures and interesting lies!

but i keep sailing my ship when all it wants to do is capsize,

wondering if i can be the first mate,

standing my watch at the helm like i'm on a first date,

not ready to drop anchor and head into the nearest port.

maybe there's one more chance to be the gentleman and find a fine woman to court

while i am still standing and 

you are

sitting on a bench

polishing your perfect nails.

it might be too hard for me to remember

my heads from my tails,

but i approach anyway,

wondering as i study your face

what i might have to do or say.

what it is to be alive!

i'm not pulling any punches

rolling along 

carrying a bag full of morning hunches

and you're watching me from under cover

pausing

hoping to discover

what it is to be alive!

and we're out for a freeway drive

watching all the singers and dancers

holding hands 

while looking for questions and answers.

there's a lot to unfold

or so we're being told,

marching in a band or sitting on a side street,

always running lightly on our feet.

it's me on the radio

listening for directions for which way to go

maybe to Fifth Avenue 

or to stay home with you?

but another turn and more keep coming,

dancers dancing and singers humming,

there's music in our dreams and angels in our head,

so many words silently on the floor being unsaid:

it's always time to keep steering

there's a horizon and yet it keeps disappearing

and that's where we want to go.

i'm not pulling any punches

rolling along 

carrying a bag full of morning hunches

and you're watching me from under cover

pausing

hoping to discover

what it is to be alive!

and we're out for a freeway drive

watching all the singers and dancers

holding hands 

while looking for questions and answers.

there's a lot to unfold

or so we're being told,

marching in a band or sitting on a side street,

always running lightly on our feet.

kill them all, but

Poland,

said the German man,

should be mine!

Poland,

said the Soviet guy,

will be mine!

not exactly friendly,

but they decided to share.

tasty treats;

blood in the streets.

they didn't have to choose.

kill them all, but

especially the Jews.

expose a breast,

then line up the rest.

pa and ma;

steamrolling toward Warsaw.

don't ask & don't tell:

simply blitzkrieg them to hell.

swallowing pills over the eastern hills.

no time to shiver crossing the river!

3 days with no sleep;

rounding up the sheep.

wrong or right?

not considered in this fight.

two madmen on the move!

and who will disapprove?

two madmen on the loose!

and they'll escape the noose.

Poland,

said the German man,

should be mine!

Poland,

said the Soviet guy,

will be mine!

not exactly friendly,

but they decided to share.

tasty treats;

blood in the streets.

they didn't have to choose.

kill them all, but

especially the Jews.

Pascin will see you now

i will see you again,

but not yet, my friend,

i whispered several years after 

we had met,

but now i was dead:

not he or she or they or all else who came to play,

(the many artists and hangers-on),

drinking and eating and loving till the earliest dawn.

they might say it was madness in my blood as i wrote,

but i calmly slit my wrists and hung by throat,

tossing a bloody testament on the nearby gallery wall,

before my solo show about Cecile and my personal downfall:

oh, yes, i knew triumph and despair,

dabbled in color! 

and whores with fine lines and wit

or maybe duller;

but if you slept, i was alert

at Montparnasse,

always the flirt,

never considered the serious painter

as i wanted to be known.

so i fade,

become fainter,

and wonder between bottles of red and white wines,

will i see you again, my friend?