BRANCUSI'S SEAL AND FISH

With wet media
fingers set in bronze
with clusters
of fish and terrestrial mammals
at my day dream
set on the cold shore
in the harbor seal silhouette
features pedestals of birds
assured on my mind
in a motif of your sculpture
on a blanket canvas
of nature's exposure
by wishing an on sight schemata
from the sensual culture
of motioning pinnipeds
of Brancusi's sculptures
as an underwater diver
in disclosures are swimming
at their ocean beds
of these ardor of creatures
by the color of my words.

PATCHEN AND CREELEY

On the printed galleys
painted poems brush us
over the emerging galleries
covering extended lines
of an armchair length
upon new provocative language
dripping waters, colors, designs
of an interior stubble of spaces
in five O'clock shadows
facing their underground memoirs
for chimeras and observers
by studio attic windows
on phosphorescent cameras
as we survey our arguments
of a dripping midnight ink
sounding out what we alarms
shutters our adolescent exposure
from patinas and impressions
and a venture of brave appearances
thinking out loud at the Louvre
unraveled in our nourishment
where living down of day dreams
from the posture of a Paris love
these much two traveled voices
of canvas at the art of words
fairly wander over a continuous
alcove serving nomenclature
in repast of our culture
of double concave worlds.

MAGRITTE'S TIME

Etches of red unravel prose
bathed in a revolutionary art
to a time of invention
covered in your pulse
rose on museum walls
bandaged with painted dreams
by the Paris windowsills
which spill ravishing flowers
the sky ,grass and palm trees
in a yearning for daylight hours
to form the coiled tongues
of figs, clouds, oranges
opening in the courtyard
departing with a new creation
grafted as bardic images
from refugees hiding
in the markets and alleys
fleeing the Occupation.

SAMUEL JOHNSON AT 75

With June allergies
or on his knees
or with the company
of Boswell's biography
or his own wise history
in business of a tell all
he is melancholy
yet eats his veggies
at 75 will atone
yet barely alive
we have his wisdom
of freedom to survive
when reputations fall
his will rise.

EMILY DICKINSON'S DAY

Sometimes on a day
an invasion
of her brave words
others momentary persuasion
rarely tongue tied
only on occasion
for to be topical
is to be philosophical
in Plato's cave
from our lonely nature
saves our nomenclature
to carefully stow away
or abide.

THERE IS TIME
(For W.H. Auden)

With my hand
here in modern London
reading Auden
here is an exiled time for
silence in the dawn
to reach out for pardon
among the shells and rocks
even to view the night squalls
in the home harbor's sun
at a park in an English garden
going over to Dover
watching the last white swan
over the waves appear
as a sea voice bird motions
in perfect harmony and pitch
away from the ditch water
and I've done taking out the boat
into the Atlantic ocean.

A BEAT DREAMS OF ST. FRANCIS

On the second hand
of a third note laughter
by the fourth estate
near the fifth dimension
of the sixth day of media
reading aloud
by the seventh night
over the eighth star
crossing by the ninth circle
of the lyrical tenth kiss
washing the beggar's feet
after an eleventh ladder
drawn by a musical heaven
at the crossing of a twelfth abyss
from a Beat poet's alchemy
of silver into aqua fortis
born on November thirteenth
as of creation in awe
at the miracles of St. Francis
meeting at the Fourteenth station
at the fifteenth prophetic sound
from the sixteenth lost poet
who composes madrigals
of wonder in the underground.

BLAKE'S DOMINION

Like threads in the sunlight
of tapestries
unwinding on a visionary loom
a faint sunlight has shone
over an artist of skills
as we wander for hours
in the breezy poet's room
by the church stained window sills
over Blake's statue of dominion
in shadows of Westminster Abbey
as a mystic hears chants in the rain
by shadows of the twelve Apostles
who is continuously pencil sketching
even through the last night vapors
leave us to search for your statue
on a summer's seasoned hour,
remembering his bold "relief etching"
from some papers floating in mind
imagining him in a dream vision
stretching his cosmic powerful words
hearing by blinds
the London showers
from the raucous thunder fog
listening to the wondrous chorus
on a branch of sea bird wings
picturing him customarily awaking
hearing all of nature sing
imaging a potter's wheel
of Blake's endearing drawings
one by one on the high shelf
reddened by words of a cosmic rust
and weeping tears myself
William cannot forsake his task
to be done
as an enigmatic artist
whom we singularly trust
revealed in his "Songs of Innocence"
this Blake, an idiomatic artist poet
and solo visionary
offers a charismatic metamorphosis
splashes as his anointed oils glow
in appointed water color patterns
as a dynamo overtaking Romantic art
deposits his frescoes stretching
for his all knowing eye gates
of his own inventive "Inferno"
in illuminated manuscripts
upon copper printing plates
beyond Raphael or Michelangelo
to illustrate a historic glorious verse
as in a luminary's dynamic break
with the shaky dust of the past
he blurbs in faint highlights
among angels which rose and fell
as a nature poet and an artist
in a loving second illustrious career
from proverbs of "Heaven to Hell"
who toils to be reviewed and outlast
as he illustrates Chaucer
and Dante from tempera paint
with inundated different chalks
on a snow white boned china
or a angelic saucer will not shock
as he traces a new sainted art
and talks like a renewed artist
going past us as an lone eccentric
to show us to walk a kindly peace
how a clever genius unleashes poetry
for he is still with us to sum up to ask
our secret anthropomorphic wishes
never to depart in stone masks
as he will have vetted to fulfill
an increase of our own creativity.

SHARK

An Atlantic great white shark

off sunny Cape Cod

wanders in the dark
a shadow of an old movie

sighted at a distance
on a beach day

playing hide -and -seek

most leave the shore

after a wandering peak.

T.S. ELIOT AT CAPE ANN

Near the marina at Cape Ann
T.S. Eliot after
a short morning malaise
takes a constitutional
by the Atlantic
near a wide pendulum
of shadowy waves
sits on his favorite bench
by the beach of the blue island's
water ways along sand shells
with the sea and rocks
holding him aside
to reading a French poem
by Baudelaire
with the birds about him
feeding from Elms
fallen in a sunshine vision
reaching a staircase
where day dreams
become real in his finer words
he slowly walks into a church
there are granite cobblestones
and a crisscrossed ceiling
in a shadow eyeing the God
over the long hallways
covering bone china
of white seraphic angels
on the gleaming windows
near the port of call garden
with the language in decision
of own future poem
in his back pocket
like Messiah hidden secrets
revealing a pardon.

YVES TANGUY'S ACOUSTICS

Your hand to tongue colors
with acrobatic disguises
implodes as telescopes
hung under a silent liquid
of the full mirror moon
with a painted appearance
is rung from enigmatic tropes
on geometric canvas boards
over the seas geographic ropes
with ambrosial cosmic currents
on the other side of the Seine
peaks over your wide lyricism
fading over crowning answers
of imaginative appearances
reins in a city knowing prism
for our swooning landscape
of his psychiatric wounded past
by acoustic sounds discovery
from a significant dramatic
in Tanguy's surreal analysis
that a fainted idle personality
may remake your regained fingers
to enigmatically override us
in your newly arrived
ground to an American journey
by an unreal metamorphosis
out of a new found surrealism
washing out cinematic colors
drowned on your canvas
with your floating lines
yet lodges in a secrets
of a past nemesis
in the attic anteroom
from the absinthe of melancholy
that burns your war wounds
into your own caustic tapestry
knowing your intuitive escapes
from chances of a deep sun.

ON THE BALCONY

We stared at the calm sea

over the Cape balcony
when we were eleven

hearing us play a Brahms

sonata for violin in G Major
''The Rain''at our debut

as you played a grande piano

to accompany me
staring at my fingers of agility

Natasha too had a grin of pain

with living signs
of a heavenly adolescent love

whispering in a Russian accent
an encouraging translation
of a commanding Psalm 91
feeling the sun shine again
to forgive my nascent ability
as a gust of cutting wind
by a mourning dove
and scent of incoming wave
from the demanding crowd
of Boston symphonic critics
or Romantic word lovers
by bowing chestnut trees
who hear birds and crickets
sighing through thick Oak
a hymn singing spoken sound
making the stand up poet proud
and knowing it was spring
by the dim Atlantic ocean
this very hour a brushed breeze
motioned to him upon the apron
upon their chorus of red wings
that even the seedlings
under ground opened
at this hour along the river bed
to a new yellow crocus flower
by the wooden music shed.

AT THE PUSHKIN  STATE MUSEUM
(for Leon Baskt)

Leon,
whether a painter
or an illustrator
with all the data
of an innovator
water colorist
a photographer
a famous book illustrator
passionate fashion designer
for the Russian ballet
after 150 years of your birth
and on your anniversary
you are still missed.

NO ONE IS COLLATERAL

No one is collateral
or sequential in an audition
at our outdoor shock theater
to play this Hamlet scene
with Cordelia's lover's part
in mixed gender factors
as if we are performing artists
or had been occupational actors
waiting until summer stock
transfixed on those bummer words
to fulfill our lines with emotion
from an influential Antigonish coach
wishes from us
his distinguished devotion
and wish for a revolutionary concept
transforming the poetic script
we view a Browning's delineation
of several assured monologues
in modernity's writ
and review his primary portraits
of our waiting disguises at heart
in the matured dialogues of plays
both comic, historical and tragic
performed at Boston, Oxford
Nova Scotia or Stratford upon Avon
we are all here to suit or crown
the desires to pivot soliloquy of art
that inspires and follows a poet
to a museum ,gig or symphony
for we are not merely granted
a wise postscript and sound board
to supplant or quote literally
but to dig up notes from memory
in rehearsal to control
sharing our lines rendition
over the director's choice
to deliver a rival yet universal
divine voice in every soul
but sending out shining words
on grounds to be tomorrow's
contemporary stars of the age
with the flare in camouflage
of a bright laurel crown
in silver filigree bars
for a language of renown
that will inspire, assuage,
quarrel, curse, but not silence us
as a chorus up on stage
as we are fired up
we recall an enlightened
verse, page, chapter
or to analyze the insight
and factors in "Twelfth Night"
for the molten high critics
taking in the music and language
of Illyrian dreams envisioned
at our Shakespearean company.

GROWING UP

A brother is doing
deep breathing on the island
as his good friend Peter
a French teacher
is stammering on the beach
with the words of Baudelaire
puts away his playing cards
on the park bench
after reading a chapter
from Melville's ''Pierre''
tells me my cat is missing
on the shore of the Cape
as Igor, our neighborhood
jazz drummer on a blanket
under a lemony umbrella
and former scat singer
and child wonder from Russia
is contemplating upon
a favorite drawing of Vermeer
with his son Gregory
over the June sand castle
while feeling airy
like a vessel out of shape
as a vendor is spreading
peanut butter on a cracker
for his daughter, Maria
but she wants a condiment
of mustard on her hamburger
as any wild teenager
who brings a lipstick mirror
with her to the beach,
as a life guard boyfriend waves
at her smiling by the corner
of his eye
to come into the water,
and a poet says a quick prayer
in a silent contemplative way
to prevent the sky diver
from having an accident
on this Father's summer day
as my cat shows up
on my checker board
eager to play.

SUMMER SEARCH

You took of your shades
watching may-flies, honey bees
and tropical birds
reminding me of Gauguin's
paintings of Tangiers
the umbrella on the beach
kept us from the wide sun
and jelly fish on the shore waters
had us thinking of dangers
so many close calls
we sometimes felt
by our manager
to have a metamorphosis of words
we are reaching out of fears
but hearing only silence
here in the desert of sand
we are like pirates in an oasis
or compliant strangers
waiting on the strand.

A BALTHUS DREAM

A tableau of color
filled in my sequences
of a Balthus dream
knowing of the artistic relationship
of Rilke's friendship as a poet
between these critical innovators
elicited in the Swiss mountains
his paintings grow in demand
in credited creator's portraits
of Alice in Wonderland
this cat or kabuki
only few acknowledging
his matured genius
or understand you
like Giacometti,
Bataille or Camus
with a mind's eye to capture
what his later celebrity brings
in his divine nurtured rapture
from the nature of things.

A BEAT BARD

At old orchard
a Beat bard visiting Maine
tosses on his enfolded blanket
covering me at dawn
until the last sunset host
puts on the classical radio
next to the last
remainder book bench
listens to a musical interlude
of an audible French soprano
as the poet reaches into the bin's
lower depth to search for ideas
in the deposit of a musical score
finding my right lyrical voice
in sheet music in a choice
of chromatic chord and time
setting for my poem
to a harmonic mood of feeling
from a context revealing
a jazz rhyme and rhythm
pledging to record a sonata
for my new composition
about Edgar Allen Poe
playing solo riffs on my sax
as we follow the hourly rising tide
on a mile wide isle of beach
as sunshine loses direction
under the veil of a Raphael blue
pale ceiling hovering above
as dawn's clouds pass over me
in pure reflections reconciled
from all of natural creation
when Debussy is stirred
in the background
when plaudits of heavenly sound
takes over a poet's words
as a small singing blue bird
sounds on beech trees
some of the wise poetry notes
in phrases of John Milton, Dryden
and Dante's paradise reach me
which welcomes my eye motes
at early sunrise as Poseidon waves
above from her passionate myth
at my laughter's attention
covering a day dream's voice
at my intention
of La Mer by Debussy
after the clarinet's echoes
leave my temperament
newly reborn out of love
with a French horn and strings
pass over violin, viola ,cello
on their bridges
motioning our brave contentment
to acknowledge the sea knowledge
without any singular boundary
along scales of a gorgeous ocean
in its tempo of colorful shapes
of humpbacked whales
as in open chorus of stars
praising creativity
in a dancing ovation of ingenuity
for all of us by an enthusiastic
five star drum roll rave
as the symphony's conductor
from our harmonies choice
of phrasing and melody
in moving the G staff and bars
of dissonance to console
in a cacophony that moves
our soul's capacity
more and more.

JUNE NIGHT:1990

We sat in the parlor
while on the piano
we played the sonata
of Mozart in D major
for two parts
and from wayfarer songs
of Gustave Mahler
composed from his heart
after being caught
by the Bay's spring rains
played some alto sax riffs
and tried my best
even as a romantic
on the sofa to relax
we sang melodies
against sturm and drang
and sought refrains
while we enjoy blue birds
hanging by a hedge
near a cherry tree
knowing life is a gift
this June night
we rehearse Chekhov
of the "Orchard"
and in my own poetry words
of a bard's night verse
we acknowledge a kept love
even the cat slept tight.

THE DISAPPEARED ONE

June showers in a heat

fall into our picnic basket

it must have taken hours 

when the barbecue flames

rose on the lawn

in the smoke by the gate

under the tent of crickets

this Sunday 

we heard a Beat poet's

parched voice

fading from view

on the street between rains

reading of his experiences

in locating the names

of orphans from the Argentine
called "the disappeared"
of whom Jesus was one
were hunted and rounded up

by the military state
almost vanished

whom he saved

as a jazz brother invited
a young man who was famished

for a Spanish meal and wine

offered a kiss of peace

and we passed the plate
and he stayed overnight
until dawn.

DUCHAMP :AN EXCHANGE

Paint exchanges phrases
as a poet of future tense
to deposit ready made art
in an uninvited exhibit
from our language's sense
for society does not welcome
Duchamp's ala carte variety
thinking it shadowed solely
for faint fools or a joke
on their delighted part
as a "Nude Descending a Staircase"
once upon a tabled bench of rumor
arranged behind the stage
he defying all fabled ring of rules
in our century of cinematic scenes
or what is labeled a commodity
in stardust charismatic schemes
by denying all old drawing laws
with a new dramatic charter
amid the underground of humanity
of a once a treasury toxic cause
in a barter sold for a modernity
from Marcel's strange
pleasure sounding manifesto
the calls of a hidden artist spoke
as if in a metaphor of dreams
until his wondrous exhibition
awoke to hit us mightier
than it seems anyone's ego
with a departing leisure of
good humorous glow
in the French neighborhood
on the cold walls of museums
only part of the viewing public
nervously understood the show.

SYLVIA

Sylvia walked in a hallway
of pained light
through the window
it was always night
living for words
always in the shadow
of living out the hour
in her poetic insight
from an already blemished day
astonished at her nerve
at a man's wrath
Sylvia moved giving flight
on her own contemporary path
from a finely shaped mind
in a new confessional school
that others  hardly would find
a bared to be understood
and cast out with an icy cry
of harassed laughter
wishing to write her name Plath
on the encased blackboard
rejecting all chalk sounds
that would be erased
to reinvent her past,
no one knew whom
was stalked after
such was her lot and rule
recognizing her own fame
she composed by the mirror
taking out her lipstick
not realizing any blame
and shut the door.

IN A TREASURE TROVE

In a treasure trove
of living words
there is no border
to love or define forgiving
it is already done
yet here we are in the sun
listening to Charlie Parker
deciding to explore nature
and reach a nest of birds
caught in dark branches
or here at the beach
we assure that inside
of a shell and rock
that a hurting turtle
is well protected,
we make our ways
through Platonic caves
until we motion
with divine a measure
that we will be connected
in a snorkel of wishes
through the ocean waves
to find and save the fish
from man's leaving plastic
and all sort nets and metal
to save part of our planet
below our earth's
geological shadow
we let go
from the diving board
and swim in our words
in a dramatic mile below
like Jacques Cousteau
surfing with
an environmental smile.

EDWARD HOPPER'S TIME

It is as if on a movie screen
from your legacy's sun down
as we stare at your art showings
in your drawing of Watteau's clown

A pioneer show stopper
as art clearings engineer
with Warhol and Pollack
Hopper 's colorful part is clear

In a choppy sea by the Cape
he climbs in surreal geometric shapes
as in my dramatic,astonishing quatrains
draped in an realistic enigmatic veneer

In your sign language of our time
desiring an hour in the museum
at an age of war, crime and fire
you inspire a fine daring dream.

FALMOUTH VISIT

A striking wind moves and lifts
me under my black umbrella
with the black sun shined sea
on the rays of a sandy blanket
at Silver Beach in Falmouth
childhood returns today
still wet in my bathing suit
near the Child's river bed
searching for rocks and shells
after a brief cognac
unwinding near weeds and shed
when along Buzzards Bay
recollecting on the untold swings
over a dawn of church bells
a French artiste is drawing
on a canvas bench
mimosa flower designs
delivering them
over the green way
in my summer neighborhood
I'm playing a sonata of Bach
on my flute by a chimera
with my own added cadenza
then briefly on winter's
once rested anchored kayak
watching boat - tailed grackles,
as blackbird red wings fall off
the leafs of maple trees
while on vacation fly fishing
watch a school
of humpback whales
who communicate
on the Atlantic
to sing and compose
for each other
for more than an hour
then we may deposit
my verse vision
at the wonder
of a day's wild roses
near the back wood lake
by night's defenseless nests
as good sister
Elizabeth and Yvonne
from Paris and Lyon parishes
reach for their cameras
a jazz poet poses in the light
hearing his breathless riffs
and they understood the ease
of all of nature's
spiritual guests
who awake
at my Falmouth visit
to please us with insight.

THE WRITER

The play write opens the curtain
hoping his words connect
today he must be certain
he/she is politically correct

Once the poet write used a pen
when it was a sword
now he/she must be to adjust
to owe its justice we can afford

This is an age of dramatization
where language is hidden
at a fixation's time on the stage
where phrases are forbidden

So hide your passport
for any bard's realization
when your mighty support
for creation may be discarded

Today's issuance of any Party card
is not an arty understudy's business
it's for the wondrous avant garde Godot
not an insurance part of an underwriter.

IF HALF MY DAY


If half my day
were in words
to reveal the day dream
when my spirit leaps
to reveal the grains of sand
near the deep sea
reaching my hands
to touch the surf board
as I'm concealed
from a poet's laughter
as if I was playing riffs
on the jazz floor
as the winds batter us
far from the shore
does it matter
how music behaves
in the fjords by high cliffs
under the deep ocean
in Iceland or Norway
or when the moving critic
raves twice in a day's wonder
at the waves over his raft
motions to ride into drafty harbor
knowing it's nature's feeling
of pride as the salt spray
now shadows
a tourist ship with a grey cat
until we reach the Bay.

LOWELL'S POSTURE

With little pocket money
and a Kennedy half dollar
Lowell's posture
climbs up in shadows
of Beacon Hill
safe from mind racing
in stepping out of the rain
from the Widener library
pacing up and down the courtyard
with a privileged bard's endurance
among silhouettes of knowledge
tracing with his "Imitations"
by acing literary illuminations
of Western culture,
now at summer school
facing students at Harvard College
who encircle me in the yard
with a quiz kid justice attitude
feeling restless at summer school
yet coiled with lean soundbites
on Lowell's prudent moods
yet outlasting unsealed archives
on a vacation's equilibrium
in a four semester's stasis
from fortresses
of insight learning
wishing for
a yearning amanuensis
where the  many lives
of a poet survives.

MONDRIAN'S DAY DREAM

When on ordinary days
we escape as we ran
or cycled in reverse
away to the city museum
wanting a quotidian way
out of the traffic and mundane
we turn to enigmatic paintings
of Mondrian who shapes
the dynamically expunged
language in a luminous
pure colorful exchange
of orange and red in denial
in any before presented painting
or expunged drawing line
in language of our universe
from all yearning exiles
as half closed eyewitnesses
we half laugh or smile
in our fainting yet marvelous
elemental reactions
to your experimental canvas
it is disclosed that we learn
from his abstractions
that art has no hearse.

MATISSE'S WALK

To walk with Matisse
by Notre Dame Cathedral
is to take enigmatic notice
of shading in after dusk
in a dark pastoral setting
from fate's breaths of incense
in a geometric shift of time
as a whimsical bird surfaces
high on the boulevard
out of a repainted June heat
you are in a singular intimacy
with cut-outs of macrame
by his windowpane canvas
borne from a floral of laughter
when template shadows of earth
are renewed from painted sills
in a rainy seasoned garden
and by the flats budding trees
turning a horizon around
at an easel in the Paris park
by the landscape's convoys corner
across his wistful living fingers
in a thrilled wish
of an artist's twisted shapes
by night light feverish lanterns
yet not too embarrassed
of pardoning a woman in a hat.

MICHAUX'S MISSION

Just like fine words
strung on high notes of an oboe
of a hypodermic omen at night
along a June Paris boulevard
clearing out enigmatic angels
over the table end of fortune
at his future expression
Michaux's mission glows
from dusk and esoteric despair
advances a bard at the moon
with hallucinogenic notice
in an airy chimerical ascension
uncovers a high funereal
rhythmic appearance
as you quickly pass by
in a testament of memory
spun in oracles of sulfurous words
in a caustic poetry tongue lost
from a charismatic lamentation
opening up entangled voices
in a shine of oblivious separation
transpiring elemental wisdom
hung over from
a visionary Mephistopheles
yet dreaming
of a moonlight daughter
to kiss and rescue him
bent down on his canvas
lap and knees writing all night
uncovering a windy metamorphosis
in visible ink dream fingerprints
shivering as in an fallen hourglass
of embarrassed absolution
in the thin narrowing gallows
of being by his printed journey
in a poet's ultimate moments
of his struggling recreation
in a mescaline drawing
almost tasting the sea mirrors
by an erratic water bird
seen from weighted ladders
standing with an easel
in an enigmatic whirling desire
to forget hourglass sands
of his own desert
which shadows all of us
in the madness of ambient music
when you are translated
into his own abyss.

A BRAQUE DREAM

Floating collage
illumined with a dance
of shining images
on the first painted blues
covering a round canvas
fainting in primeval stages
draped to recognize
an opacity of a Braque dream
in a sleeping water bed
delivers painted loving skylines
with visions of descent
in a mirror of color coats
of restless tongues on rivers
from symbols of honeyed
geometric shapes
of a visionary cluster
from wingless calligraphy
in a insightful shroud
assuaged as a language memory
passing by a monochromatic luster
in the submerged waves
from cubist tunnels
in a disguised backdrop
decomposed as beacons
in running sunlight dust
of uninhabited spells
scattered from oilcloths
in a futurism of painted clouds
which depart over the Seine.

WITH WHITMAN'S SONG

The shiny satin blue waters
along the Hudson
quivers under the sun
fanning in the windy trees
with Whitman's song
curled in the wandering hull
of an invading river breeze
hears wavering sea birds
among lyrical loving
sons and daughters
unfurled in urban mirrors
a boat upon an island pattern
the relaxed universal poet
of Jan, Ivan and Vlad
delivers his poetic persona
in a painful scented light
when your stolen days
rise in fire crackers
to be a city phantasm
flaming over Manhattan
in a dark verse pulsation
to have comforted
the nameless injured soldiers
our fallen brothers
wounded in the Civil War
heard from your enchanted
phrases as we embark.

RENE MAGRITTE'S POSTCARD

Thank you, Rene Magritte
from your tangle of mystery
on a surprised postcard
by a visa and passport, 1968
a bard wears a red-greenish tie
over his expunged seer sucker
suited for the sated rain
under the leafs of trees
with a motive of respect
out of sheer bravura
as an motif of images appear
on a hotel lobby's T.V. screen
of Magritte's figurative paintings
as a student feeling like a fugitive
slumbers in from Orly airport
worrying about jet lag from Boston
reading "Numbers" with Moses
about his own own loneliness
in an anguish of nightfall's silence
from veneers of schizophrenic tones
by a window's antsy assurance
as June showers stretch across
the river as the bird sky dances
over the Bastille shadow,
here behind a stationary glass
at the outside cafe encountering
a solitary chocolate kiss
into happenings that flicker
through an unpainted canvas
by coiled trees tasting oranges
from fingers of scones
walking near close footfalls
by boat oars on the Seine
as spring floods
and pale butterflies vanish
at Paris nights by lamp stands
playing my alto sax riffs
until the fainting meadow
day breaks from absences
into an assembled clairvoyance
from unrelated essences in islands
of tone, virtuosity, and speech
from a poetry noted reflection
as your art delivers us, Rene
in a dream of colors labyrinth
here by recurrent
student awakenings
I'm taking snapshots
awakening in transparent words
and international jazz echoes
sought by affectionate lovers
walking by the sea floored Seine
under a taciturn umbrella
in assembled landscape insight
from incidents of private couples
over dusk's release waiting to view
Rene's surrealism at the Louvre
of his cutting away all frontiers
in paintings at delivered edges
by dada's sharpened invitations
opening an opulent flickering
of night lights sent from a city's
symbiotic vista resembling a time
of transparent, discordant rainbows
splashing out liquid's canvas
dizzily falling showers covering
your mirrored  kitschy statues
over a phantasm's originality.

DALI'S INVITATION

Accepting your life,
your silent film presence
in Bunuel's first movie
"Un Chien Andalou"
at an art theater in Madrid
painted from hidden glimpses
we enter the camera footage
in a dark room
wild eyes splashing paint
sparkling in a feverish time
of emerging dizzying gloom
in spliced parchments
to cool the associated varnish
and vanish in concentration
in forbidden breath
of Franco's stretching time
from a dreary fascism's death
in a prism of mordant statements
as we receive your drawings
burnished from a museum's
shadowy Bohemian corridor
with your mustached waxed
over a stiff collar
in discordant anticipation
at your unrelaxed home coming
as a full legendary ghost
before your rise in reverie
at Barcelona's bull ring
from a toreador's host
of patinas and snowy nudes
in paint firing clockwise
at an unfamiliar canvas target
against the status quo
in uncurled surrealistic elements
as a daring unabashed psychic insight
poised from an organic hourglass
composed in a clashing nightmare
in fearful red shades
of illusive variations
to placate surfaced life wishes
covering eye glassed splashes
of beaming a metaphysical light
flames authored from photographs
that you discard in latest flashes
and an access of autographs
on scattered Spanish posters
we located at a used bookstore
in San Francisco City Lights
where you are on a placard.

FRANZ KLINE'S TIME

Seized with action painting
in a fire escape of speech
genius sparkles its color
in shades of tempera
from a rolling technique
in a cerulean variation
each painting an art event for us
we reaching Franz Kline's time
in masterpieces stark and unique
watching for his dark canvas
moving geometric devices
in avant garde spaces
shining on its bordered surface
of a figurative calligraphic scene
in a reunion with Frank O'Hara
his wise collaborator and curator
in 21 poems and etchings
of a Sixties safekeeping disguise
with a ruse of a new style
in an abstract deposited tease
of a figurative anarchic device
not brushing off petrified reality
which in every artist projects
his own personal kvetching
yet he knows he a recluse inside
into his admiration's emergence
though a sanguine public creator
oriented as any poet
in vocalization's irony
positioning an awareness
in his black and white immediacy
from a realization at his intervals
influencing a panoramic style
as any exile seeking recognition
transplanted in a reinvented mind
and avant-garde memory
experiencing our reviewed perception
motioning each private reaction
to eviscerating war's horrific wanton
and demonically teaching dramas
of spontaneous happenings
with Kline's ability of expressionism
and a draftsman 's opening up
his anonymous supreme gentility
in a sensual confidential light.