Saturday, May 28, 2016

8212. I WANT TO BE STANDING WHERE YOU JUST WERE

I WANT TO BE STANDING
WHERE YOU JUST WERE
In the courtyard of MOMA, whatever
it's called  -  garden, courtyard, plaza,
mall  -  there are always things with a
grandeur I do not know.  Like the
newest ringtone of a bell I hear, or the
listen-to of some music, new, the
simple-peculiar is what catches the
eye. And brings me here to know.
One million guardians in time, and 
you, like a walking Picasso stroll by.
I recognize the angled face, those
planes, and the triangle that is your
eye. There is a human attribute about
it, but I don't know how or why. The
Blue Period is never mentioned, and
pure classicism is from here gone.
-
Two of us. Skeletons in flesh, and
hardly breathing, we deign to try to
talk of Art  -  my long ellipses, your
Sister Wendy brightness. That outdoor
sculpture of a long-stemmed rose; it
really must be a joke since it's thirty
feet tall. We can't talk of anything else.

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