picasso reach

pablo splashed chance
on surfaces that waited
for his arrangements.
broken pieces and obliquities
charged with brushes of wit.
slashes of afterimage hues
he'd add at arms length,
to cut up canvas.
strokes swept away
what went before.


his fragments of time and space
were fractured facets
of reverse color.
he broke and turned
those jagged shards
to entertain and disturb us
(and amuse himself).

escaped prosaic
in strategies of clash
when he spilled himself,
red wine and paint
in credible exaggerations.
fictioned angles tangled
when he cubed art
for brass ring
and heights.
flew wide prismed flight
above narrow streets of the rest.
interrupted squares of canvas.
reached beyond dimensions,
most of all the one
that's ticking.

---

thai temple tangle

bamboo, broad leafed hours jungled
wore air thick and liquid all

wove to leaves made touching under
coy joyed runners treetop swinging

singing rains come drip and trickle
footsteps dance to banderlog chatter

jungle tangle takes on shape
temple rises deep green shadowed

wrapped random emerald growth
traps monument in time now bound

long before man stacked folly
stone heaps of monkeys uncle

creeping leaf and vine mark spot
where long before all was holy

---

warhol's private joke
(written to a warhol work of stiletto high heels)

hey andy
your memory
of a few perverse
yet highly stimulating
moments got under the radar,
but you did have great taste in heels.

when you laughingly taunted those babes
with that revelation of twisted truth;
when you told them the why's and
wherefors of the high heel,
and why this fashion
element was a camoflage
for one ridiculous way
to enhance, prove a point,
and make the female geometry sing sex silly,
they didn't have a clue and figured you were kidding.

after all, they could have
invented the torture
themselves.

if it works,
if it does what it does,
it must be what they want.
that's all.
a balancing act for fashion
and that sweet wiggling strut.

Andy, haunt our 15 minutes.

---

contemplating a soak

it's back
that random smatter
smell of breaking raindrops

urgency drifting
wet afterness
I can almost put my finger on

they blend into din
that heals everythings thrum
turns all into drums

maybe it's the beat

maybe it's all those beats

all those beats bound loose and
tight together in liquid
everchanging rhythm

washes through window
as we click plastic
it loudens

I touch it to keys
translate somewhat
then

out to get soaked