Hip, hop in the MoMA

(in response to pink out of the corner (to Jasper Johns), Dan Flavin, 1963)

No one would ask if you Met a bunny,
but when you hang out inside your MoM(A),
bunnies belong in Kentucky Afield? not Rothko and
the light, pink,
bunny in the corner,
coloring, confusion,
the transparent expression,
“Is he part? Is he art?” guard says,
“Stay!” I herd the free tickets pass
to snap a family photo with Van Gogh:
“I wuz here” to hear
him cry– not the bunny, the man,
inside the night,
a stuffed bunny still died, another piece, another life
skewered through the brisket
above a chalkboard, for art, life
is a bunny outfit–outside of Lent,
no pocket for a MetroCard
no Times Square girl to hand
a torn ear caught in the 1-9 turnstile;
For him “I wuz here” the Artist states.

Preparation for the hearth

Foot friction, she smiles,
“sandals braking down cause duck-walk,” I say,
and fly across the claymated basement,
jettied like the muddy earth encircling.

mortarboards form next week
and fly across another room:
pots will be removed from the kiln,
placed on selling shelves with resumes,

her fingers resume, slippery nails filled,
stuffed to overflow like the glazing shelves,
“this is craft, not art,” curtly said.
the adding . . .subtracting . . .centripetal . . . centrifugal. . .

“what color should this one should be?”
her call? will clay return to rock
for defeating paper,
will she write

her mark brandishing,
initializing the final piece
this Friday night,
the final week,
to fire.

Art History is punishing

viewing where the footprints pressed with a flare of
nothing is more important
causing nostalgia intense as the airborne stone breathed under the Athenian sun.
Ahh!
you are evil if you do not long for the return,
as if the momentary mundane is as worthless as the ruins buried beneath the tourist-packed tavernas and the crowded walks of kiosks and corn roasting

One dog sniffs – a poet’s calling

One dog sniffs the other’s behind,
“You artistic?” he asks.

no hiding, let’s follow our noses:
{Adultery in the reception line}
ignored””the best man wants to hug the bride.
{Hell in the visitation line}
ignored””the mother collapses on the casket.

my roommate sometimes smells my children
“What’s the raison de etre of your joie de vivre,” he asks.
“I don’t know,” I reply,
“but it sure sounded like a female in a men’s restroom:
good and frightening.”

I rearrange bits on a magnetic plane

I rearrange bits on a magnetic plane,
There’s more to life than this
image, not the taste–
the ephemeral and epidermis–
functioning in formless figure
rigid as rigatoni,
“try to design me,”
“what if I’m all design?”
“Can’t be.” I muse across my chic living room;
packages consumable by Teletubby toddlers
distanced from truth by remote’s teach–
afraid, craving reality
that couldn’t be shown on TV
or pages at the grocery.

No one to romance

There is no one to be the receiver of my romance,
No woman in my life worthy of my waiting on to dance,
I crave to craft art for her ear and eyes,
Listen to her laughter; comfort as she cries,
Meditate on her ruminations and discuss her daily digests.
Hear the air of her breath, watch the rise and fall of her chest.
Where is she? Tell me please,
So I can cherish her now. Certainly I must,
Construct trestles of trust before I rust.
Surely, it’s her time for me to see
And love all parts of her with every part of me.