The Sunday Artist
I have been painting these last two Sundays;
it’s not much, you’re correct,
but in this tournament great dreams break:
history removes her dress and becomes a harlot,
and I have awakened in the morning
to see eagles flapping their wings like shades;
I have met Montaigne and Phidias
in the flames of my wastebasket,
I have met barbarians on the streets
their heads rocking with rodents;
I have seen wicked infants in blue tubs
wanting stems as beautiful as flowers,
and I have seen the barfly sick
over his last dead penny;
I have heard Domenico Theotocopoulos
on nights of frost, cough in his grave;
and God, no taller than a landlady,
hair dyed red, has asked me the time;
I have seen grey grass of lovers in my mirror
while lighting a cigarette to a maniac’s applause;
Cadillacs have crawled my walls like roaches,
goldfish whirl my bowl, hand-tamed tigers;
yes, I have been painting these Sundays—
the grey mill, the new rebel; it’s terrible really:
I must ram my fist through cleanser and chlorine,
through Andernach and apples and acid,
but, then, I really should tell you that I have a
woman around mixing waffle flour and singing,
and the paint sticks to my plan like candy.
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