like a straight razor in a morgue...
The cutting edge of the
moon illuminates a blood-spattered
canvas, as art imitates death.
From the tenements there comes a wail--
siren song to the thunderbeat of jackboots
in perfect sync, a mirage or a memory, but
you can't trust a fascist to tell you which.
In the night I sense that he
is soaring over the city
with his searchlight and his megaphone.
Solo flight in a jackdaw dream.
Brownshirt in a black sky.
He wears a silver swastika on a golden chain.
He has come to inspect my paintings.
I tell him that once viewed they
are no longer mine, but belong to the world,
like Saint George and the Dragon.
Pretending to be a Brahman with
high-falutin' ways, his tail switches
like an alligator who disapproves of my shoes.
His lips curl into a sardonic smile.
Flames shoot from the sides of his mouth
as he contemplates his next tactical move.
When I escape, the sky
is on fire in my rear-view mirror.
Pink flambe in a Black Russian's eye.
Is Paris Burning?
Quick, try to remember the year you were born...
and were you in love with Anastasia after all?
Across town it is ladies night at
the poolroom, where Miss Manners
is learning to let down her hair
as she falls off the chair,
lying in a lump like yesterday's oatmeal--
the foam on her lips like white caps
on a sea of unspoken desire.
Her words float in the air like alphabet soup...
Unhand that rainbow, you cad,
and let me color my world like
a purple-assed baboon
walking backwards on the moon!
The hushed gallery waits for her to tee off again.
While I sit lonely
by a fountain
where naked cherubs
are pissing away my dreams,
knowing that collaborationists
stalk their own shadows
while pigeons goose-step
through the square--
but none can tell you whether ghosts
sit up and listen to the footsteps
that echo through an empty museum.
Now, the edges of the world begin
to blur, like a painting by Monet.
I must draw my own conclusions.
And I am running...
RUNNING...
ducking down blind alleys
searching for the truth
that will open my eyes.
