MAX KLINGER'S "GLOVE"

Searching as an artist
for a glove at the ice rink
as an annalist
of a poetic painter
in symbolism
who makes us think
as we cling
to our own Freudian
magnetism of assumptions
without any sectarian
lonely presumptions
only a meaning to be enjoyed.

ESTABAN VICENTE'S TIME

Your knowledge
of collages
like edges
of minimal art
with less of the brush
in precision for an exercise
that we rush toward
may be imprecise and hidden
in part of fragmentation
as basic pigment is crushed
toward a culture in an id
of your sculpture and painting
from the New York school
by interior rooms
as the liberated shapes
of an individual tone
instead instructed
the particulars into vermilion
of linear arrangement
drapes the sunny windows
as in "Roon 113 Red"
in its area's shadows
from the initial "Blues"
dissolves its collateral colors
into cobalt, gold, pink,
blurring the marginal
in a miracle of wonder
undersold in the minimal
by a faultless buffer
to its directness
and liberate a color surface
in cahoots and in part
from a supervised chance
of form in tracing zones
poised for a short distance
in palette and elemental plate
from a tenuous technique
in the roots and theory
from the tree of knowledge
at the dry bones of art
forming an ambiguous state
to make us aware to think.

AT THE REGATTA

After my string recital
in Harvard Square
my uncle and aunt
take me out
to a French restaurant
after having raspberries
and a croissant for desert
I'm seriously thinking
of Raoul Dufy's
ceramics and tapestries
since he drew regattas
in his perspective in 1962
at Paris which we viewed
now we decide to go
to the crew race on the Charles
where local students row.

SENEGAL'S SOW PASSES

He sculpted Mandela
and Martin Luther King
now it is his day
to remember Ousmane Sow's
passing
on December first, 2016
as we can shape
the breaking scene
of a fantastic Senegalese
sculptor's proud humanity
and democratic legacy
spending his activist star time
between Dakar and Paris
in his meaningful art miracle
of making the dictators
and evil doer politicians
in a few African countries
hopefully to be embarrassed
by their abominable crimes.

CORNELLL'S OBJECTS

Attending your exhibitions
on Saturday
after my music lessons
by twenty I knew you well
in graphic recognition
from your objects
and definitions,
Joseph Cornell,
in realization
from his variance
of chance clippings
from old French magazines
of your standing by sails
walking by benches
under the burning sun
along the sandy Seine rocks
enfolded sideways
as a kind of
shail dude walking
by a floor
and flora of stones
off the Channel at Dieppe
with your stored boxes
or from your sharing the vaults
of Perrault's fairy tales
you completed my experience
of meeting another visionary
teaching me
to understand what is contrary
about the less
tantalized phenomenon
of the crowd's opinion
is not always allowed
by these mirrors and corridors
in the proud corners
of the museum
but to stick to my own dreams
in a prolific collage
from my range in language
of my own poetic appearance
which directs me
of a startling variance
from critical appropriation
of taking a critical stance
here among your erotic zones
elusive and maladjusted
as an archetypal totality enfolds
to grotesquely embellish
as a selfishly
pirated set of bones
in this fantastic cabinet
among the crystal shoals
of these unselfishly anecdotal
picturesque scenes
of the archival romanesque
in white or black coals
of unbowed metamorphosis.

MOREAU ON VIEW

You taught us well
beyond a fault
after all you were
the teacher of Matisse
Marquet and Roualt
drawing us out
in exotic water colors
with proof you remained
being aloof and free
on the walls
of you own gallery
without any school figure
to resemble
in your known charisma
as I walk into the museum
trembling at
"Jupiter and Semele"
or "The Magi"
feeling you are risen
to take your juxtaposed part
in your own mausoleum of art
from a surreal reality
by the rocky shore landscapes
and bizarre mythology
you reshape any human fatality.

ADVENT VENTURE

Above the waters in my kayak
escaping the shadows
over an overcast fog
passing the ocean's pine woods
from the shore's soggy earth
as a Beat poet
running from city bacchanals
backed up by words
with rhythmic jazz memory
in my sailing riffs
draped like a clone
at a windy twilight
toward my own canal zone
needing the burdock silence
from faraway lights
as a vast sky opens to fill
my birdsong horizon
breathing in my snorkel
like Jacques Cousteau
among frog legs and toads
splashing to give birth
where only sea lights console
by hiding from the sun
to lengthen under dark waves
a body of pirated booty
is located
between bridges
of a third heaven and earth.