THE SHAMELESS HIDE
The four steps of the entryway to the glad-faced
brownstone I enter are my hideaway blocks of
a refuge. The man sitting there is a Joseph Cornell
scholar who wants to talk. He tells me, one look,
and he can see I am King Ludwig of Bavaria
reincarnated. Just like that, he's off the cuff.
-
How does one react to that? A shrug. I answer,
'yes, well, my horse has been misbehaving, and
it talks to me. I'm having it shot.' No more than that,
and coffee is served. On the computer screen nearby,
a live guy from San Francisco is on the other end -
a photo of a building and an office is all I see.
-
This is all confusing me, here, in the east 60's in
New York City. This art crowd all wears bloomers
and, although the girls are very pretty, I must wonder
why. I'm too old for any of this, but hold on still.
-
There are pallid swaths of yellow crowning some
painting on the wall - one of those famous guys, who
can do no wrong. I forget the name, Italian, German,
who knows? My mysterious circumstance runs on.
Air-powered by dream and wish, these guys just
keep talking. Gallery stuff. Curatorial bunkum.
-
There's a black lady out in the kitchen area - she's
working a stive and bending down with a platter. I
guess food's to come out at some point; though I hate
eating, and eating in public's the worst. I can sit it
out, one excuse after another will do.
I am privileged company now.
-
One hundred years ago, I'd have my picture in the
rotogravure. Right now, instead, I'm a bunch of dots
on some byte-filled screen to somewhere, talking.
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