For Sylvester
On his 40th
Talking To Myself
Early dark blue, one jet trail arching past Venus, snow coming tomorrow. My mother, unable to move. Hit it down the road, seven hours, stand by her bed, acknowledge the bond of blood, the sensitivity she could never handle, that I have ridden to beauty beyond all expectation.
Wilson Street
Low gray sky. Cold. Still. Christmas tree upside down, tinsel on dirty snow. A yellow balloon bounces slowly across Wilson Street. A black cat glides three steps up, turns in a doorway.
Portland
On Looking At A Mediocre Painting
Thin paint. No passion. We would agree, I know, although we met only once— some things are in the blood. Mustard, orange, navy blue around a fake significance.
The loss of Ireland, the 19th century, what were you to do?
Fuck the beautiful, the gifted (my mother before she went crazy); leave the clanging cockroach cold behind (Bobby); find the best (Pollock, Kline, Noguchi, Nakian), live uptown (Kevin); die finally.