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.

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”