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.

Pupils’ pupils

It’s clean–like suburbia,
absent of dumpsters,
no scrubbing phone cords
or de-staining diskettes
like when she’s actually laying between the hotel cotton,
oh wait, we let the maids do that;
there’s sweat on the mouse
and saliva on the mouth to the hands to?

alone?
penetration turns to education, maybe artistry?
justifying pupils’ pupils in the camera;
what do thins lines draw?
locating the absent parents of a preteen wading in the hotel pool.

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.”

The vermin–verses–the color field

Lost in a field of maroon,
bumping up against ambiance–
assonance of a few-color-palette
brushing up beside the intoxicating thesaurus
of reality, with its big, burning, brushes painting
bold strokes on an ivory canvas of innocence.
Jaggedly, I run across (away from the open)
toward the eclipsing trees to transcribe,
“Hah, Number Ones! Zeroes leave a path, too!”
So splatter this vermin into the wind
and hang my pelt in your book museum.
“Would you like these words sauted?”
arriving on the table–bubbling verse, fat of the living, no acrylic–
for “if ever I loved thee” and wanted to explode, “’tis now.”1
explode me with your eyes, chunks will fly and be
reborn in the healing, cleaned once again
–to splatter hemoglobin
on the platelets and dinner entrees
of the hunting.
1 from a hymn, “My Jesus, I Love Thee”