It had made a small sensation,
an exhibition at the National
Gallery, a collection of
nudes that featured a woman
"friend" of the artist, painted with
obvious appreciation of her
voluptuous breasts. The crowds
that flocked to see what
he had wrought came to
learn what all the fuss was.
They murmured their own
appreciation at his skill
and obvious devotion.
This was love committed to
canvas. Anyone could see it.
My own enjoyment conjoined
an equal measure of seeing
art and overhearing
comments. Some were
sophisticated. Some were not.
A man and woman next to me,
in their seventies at least,
seemed especially enthralled.
Close enough to hear his
whisper, I caught:
"Yours are nicer."
To my delight
she giggled, giggled
like a school girl. "Oh, go on,"
she said. "Oh you."
Thursday, October 27, 2011
Wednesday, October 19, 2011
AT THE RECYCLING CENTER
Here is where we bring
our offerings
newspapers read and unread
Pepsi cans
old tax returns shredded
cheery yellow boxes
that once held Cheerios
We bring them solemnly
like sinners bring their sins
and lay them on the altar
hoping for
for immolation
for transformation
into something good and clean and useful
our offerings
newspapers read and unread
Pepsi cans
old tax returns shredded
cheery yellow boxes
that once held Cheerios
We bring them solemnly
like sinners bring their sins
and lay them on the altar
hoping for
for immolation
for transformation
into something good and clean and useful
Thursday, October 13, 2011
WHAT'S IN A NAME
We'd come from different places,
different worlds almost, and met
that summer of ‘66 between
terms and worked side by side.
He said my name was strange,
wondered where it came from.
Gladly, with a smidge
of semi-sinful pride,
I took him on a tour
of my ancestral tree,
then stopped. I need to be
polite, I thought, and with
no more thought than
that asked him about
his. He gave a sort of snort
and in a voice of laughter,
marred by just a touch
of bile, told me that his
name was given by the man
who owned his great grandparents.
I felt my face flush red.
I know I turned away
but can't remember what I
said. I hope I didn't speak.
I hope there was an eloquence
of silence.
different worlds almost, and met
that summer of ‘66 between
terms and worked side by side.
He said my name was strange,
wondered where it came from.
Gladly, with a smidge
of semi-sinful pride,
I took him on a tour
of my ancestral tree,
then stopped. I need to be
polite, I thought, and with
no more thought than
that asked him about
his. He gave a sort of snort
and in a voice of laughter,
marred by just a touch
of bile, told me that his
name was given by the man
who owned his great grandparents.
I felt my face flush red.
I know I turned away
but can't remember what I
said. I hope I didn't speak.
I hope there was an eloquence
of silence.
Thursday, October 6, 2011
PROJECT
I could, if I wanted,
create a new mythology.
Maybe that's what the world
needs, is desperately longing
for, a pantheon of deities that
has relevance for Now. So, for
example, how about a god
of electronics? You'll
pray to Him/Her/It when your
Ipod is on the fritz. You
can buy electronic votive
candles at Best Buy to
assist your devotions. Not all
gods will be good ones. Baseball
players will need to placate
Erroneous, the deity who causes
shortstops' fingers to fumble
an easy ground ball. The
possibilities are almost
endless and will require more time
and thought than I have available
at the moment.
create a new mythology.
Maybe that's what the world
needs, is desperately longing
for, a pantheon of deities that
has relevance for Now. So, for
example, how about a god
of electronics? You'll
pray to Him/Her/It when your
Ipod is on the fritz. You
can buy electronic votive
candles at Best Buy to
assist your devotions. Not all
gods will be good ones. Baseball
players will need to placate
Erroneous, the deity who causes
shortstops' fingers to fumble
an easy ground ball. The
possibilities are almost
endless and will require more time
and thought than I have available
at the moment.
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