Archive for November, 2010

Whit and Uma

November 22, 2010

Oil on canvas, 12″ x 9″. This completes a four-picture portrait of the Waterbury family. Kip the cat and Uma the dog are in with Whit, Tonia, Sam, and Alex. I hope to frame the four together and bring it by here soon.

Pushcart Nomination

November 17, 2010

Nominations for the Pushcart Prize have been announced by The Flea. My sonnet, “Triduum”, is on the list! It appeared in the April Broadsheet. My thanks to Paul Stevens, Esq, formerly of Leeds & Harrogate, late of the Strand, etc.

Arcade

November 17, 2010

The cinema. A stage. Extraneous light
in artificial space. But what have we done
with our defining grace and gift of light,
our longing for a circle of delight?
What brave new world is shining in our face
from cherubed angles narrowing our light
and measuring the music? Holy light
is foiled as a replacement for the whole
of heaven–the reflection for the whole.
In darkened rows a Mass beholds the light
and chokes on dusty particles of time
that glisten in the blush of curtain time.

“I’m late!” the rabbit cries, believing time
runs parallel, if second place, to light
across some dreaded finish line. This time,
he’s right. I see it’s medication time
as watches slide through fur on chains and dun
the audience with open-ended time
demands. Let’s get on line. In space. On time.
Let’s imitate the sweeping hand-on-face
routine. Wake up! Sit straight! And listen!–face
the stage. It’s late! That ticking is the time
you wasted. Wait! The rabbit’s in a hole
and *tock*, already… Fire in the hole!

at Circle in the Square. Well, that’s the whole
magilla/enchilada, Ellis. Time
for tea. Let’s say we join the jack-a-hole
who’s hawking hats in sizes half and whole.
“How do you take it, Sugar, dark or light
or something in between?” He dumps the whole
Krups percolator somewhere near the hole
that spins with starlight in your cup, “You’re done,”
he snarls between the cakes. His dishes done
in staggered stacks, the Hatman eyes the hole
a mouse cut in the cheese. “He would deface
the provolone.” What fury’s in a face!

But wait a minute, there’s another face
revolving in the precious java hole
of china white. I wouldn’t have you face
the facts, considering the floating face
of Dr. Katz keeps smiling all the time
in holographic green. His northern face
is hung with moss. There’s fungus on the face.
“Forget the facts,” a grin of feisty light
and cracking teeth imparts and fades to light.
A problem: Close your eyes–you’ll see the face
of Dr. Katz. So this is how its done.
Forget the facts …forget the facts? It’s done.

A queen in red. A queen in black. I done
forgot my axe! But one dissolving face
or head is quite enough. And it’s been done.
Still, catty compliments are never done–
“I like your dress.” “You look divine”. The whole
charade and shuffled deck (the deal) is done.
With everything on her “To Do List” done,
the red one starts to get undressed. In time,
her rival takes it off. They take their time
on Tangos Palatine. And when they’re done
you close your eyes. The Doctor’s in, the light
comes up. There are mouse tracks and your wallet’s light.

But what have we done with our defining light?
What did we drink that shrinks us all the time?
Who was the worm that smoked and talked the whole
time we endeavored to enquire, his face
a pasty galaxy? What have we done?

Le Vieux Moulin

November 14, 2010

on the painting by Soutine

Cerét rolls over on a bed of flame
exposing an inflamed intestine turning
in upon itself. The garden’s burning
and the mill sags fallow on its frame.

Upheaval. Earthquake. A volcanic flow.
The bleeding mansard roof beguiles the plaster.
Permanent mementos of disaster
crack the lacquered surface high and low.

And on the yellow hill a gangling devil
relishes the foliating sky.
Impasto gray and blue surmount the wall,
a broken window taken for an eye.

A wheel unwinds. The leaning block and bevel
slide to the consoling balm of fall.

Museum of Modern Art
New York City

November Series

November 1, 2010

On Saturday, the search for bodies stopped

behind the smoking barricade of wooden
horses. Rudy Giuliani stood in

shit a little while. The Yankees dropped.

It felt like falling. And I felt like singing
Nessun Dorma, as the rank and file
locked arms and firefighters stormed the pile.
Nothing rose. A clock alarm kept ringing.