ANDY WARHOL'S NIGHT

Warhol steps into the void
while hidden as Adam
among the first trees
while in his gallery
he is king of the market
with a business sale
on his salary,
walking the Factory
like Lord Malory
putting up his posters
in his gallery
his heart fears
like a blistered thistle artichoke
a still life ill at ease
even in the unforbidden Sixties
amid the Big Apple
feeling cursed as he awoke
with that crocodile smile
he will not even handshake
this Eve,
for everything
makes him annoyed
his genius not even spent
on unpaid rent
buoys him up
for the future deposit of salary
with good- natured poet actors
who are unemployed
filled up
in Andy's lifetime glitterati
filled with Freudian slips
afloat for literary resistance
always with the boldest chip
on his shoulder
to spiral us with his insistence
that he was always alright,
without balance as a vulture
making underground waves
who cares how he behaves
clutching to grapple shadows
making the midnight round up
for society's super stars
in film,words, pop art
as his own camera lens
focuses for glamorized variety
playing out a part of Chelsea Girls
to make a clamor of sounds
of life in his hotel mart,
Warhol not mistaking
any ardent chances
to keep up rumors
of selfish games
always for his fame
yet sleep walking as a ghost
or taking insomnia walks
along hallways of Andy's
hammered world
on a curious enamored night
of a chance attempted murder
he is curled up now in an ambulance
amid the trance of the Factory
with his insight's fantasy
on an undisclosed diary
always furiously moving on
like Cinderella's fairy godmother
hearing as if a daily trance
listening to gossip on the intercom
to maddening sob stories
from his actor's workshop
by runaways dropping in
with the bar raised up
on any crazed phantasm
however outrageous,
not ever robbing the deadlines
in his own clever cup of ink
with that courageous insight
of his wink
yet blowing everyone off,
not knowing
he is assured and hard up
in his ordering and control
yet selfish and double minded
that nothing or no one
could console his headlines
without his parting glance
at arrogantly forging a goal
without any forgiven romance
Andy Warhol by living freely
in his avant- garde tapestry
high on his balcony
yet so troubled
in his Polish soul.