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I was going to ask:
What became of the paintings?
But choose not to.
Better to let dear memories
Lay with me in dark
Nights such as this.
Better still to believe that
This woman next to me
is who I always wanted.


On the occasion That mute is not a good look for me I’m back to work On this art igloo Where truth be told. Not by me; By paint and wood.


In the darkest corner of my life
Nothing seems possible.
Even the brush resists
The chisels are gruff.


I’m sick
In pain
As the body fails
Thus the art.




tonight, on the way home from painting

this hot pink sky
dropped on treetops
hungry silhouettes
reaching all a lust
at fleeting day
to a dark canvas where
high in it
Polyphemus' eye's all bright
and below
howling everywhere.


I wake up each morning
Fertile from dreams.
Notions of ART!! wrung out
Like water from a shirt
that would shrink
If tossed to the dryer.

Notions about being
Pervade and parade
insist on the brush and the mallet.

I just think the whole business of living
Is wonderful and funny.
Despite the cruelty and savagery,
Meanness of spirit and greed,
Flowers still bloom,
Babies coo,
Lovers exault.

No blue penciling the dream time,
It comes to me and we dance.
Sort of like the silhouettes at the
End of the Seventh Seal,
Only alive and beside ourselves with merriment.


I can’t go back
Since I can’t get up
since my eyes keep closing
The door is closed
The key is gone
And I can’t go back
Since I can’t get up
Since my eyes keep closing.



to whit:

She hangs thus.
the stars humbled;
some remnant of blue in this night sky
embraces the moon,
a halo around the evening's celebrity.

We tiptoe out
poorly attired;
don't want the neighbors to see
this doughty couple looking up,
blinking sand from our eyes
and falling in love.

What is a recipe
if not a menu of experiences
and the good sense to
single out those
that taste good together.


and then
the fireflies became jazz
and under a full moon
lit up like
Coltrane's saxophone.

Oh I sway,
this is magic
a warm illusion
that oddly
makes me goosebumpy.
Temperature notwithstanding.

I know you are there,
a rumba of air
moving twixt those twinkle lit bugs.
I miss you.
Come to me in sleep
like the piece we saw at the Met.
You said it would happen.

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