AT THE ART STUDENTS LEAGUE
As this was a fixative of men, I took one hand
and dipped it in a bucket. All those horrid colors
which the artist plies came dripping down : a yellow
to a green then a blue to a red-purple. And I was
no match for you. Flagrant Picasoo projections,
the reliquaries of ashen domains and very earthenware
things, holdings of the ancients and all their doomed
flowers. We talked, and then we tried. the strange
Hispanic guy with the long, black straight hair past his
shoulders was doing Yoga on some bench behind us.
He stretched and yawned like a pro, balancing alone
on his two hands and arms. How long can you keep
it up? I wondered. How long would it be worth?
In the lobby, the Freemason artist was selling brushes
and pencils - all the stuff the pretty girls kept buying.
I missed the bristle and the fluff. No one missed me.
I went back to the Spanish guy, thinking - if he
does Yoga, does he eat yogurt?
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