You: the starving portraitist sitting outside the Shubert
You just
spilt art on your clothes
lifted your palms, twitching,
reading ruddy black, white
swathing your baffled body
inhaled colors’ smells
While paralyzed
How The Hyperreal smells like leather, reminiscent,
An inside-out glove, Muscle drained of red–
Realized how you contract, molting fermented opaques
Caricature frame evaporates, vaporized by rubbernecks, eyeballs
Cocooned in ink, papier-Mache`d, amateur art, peering hard,
To atrophy your rigid frame.
You, vacant, rickety, intoxicated by the cold and wet
Leaning on cement
Elastically embracing your own bones, your being, oddly well
Watching passengers smear by on NY time on charbroiled paths
You
swingless in the indigo rain
A broken pendulum, An unrolled marble-
Ana Celeste Poetry 
I love how urgent and aggressive your poetry is. I’m a fan!
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Thank you so so much!! That’s a way I haven’t heard it described before and I really like it. Spicy.
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Yes! With hot sauce
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As refreshing as a slap in the face Ana and a wake up call to all complacent poets – am an avid fan of visuals and you can paint!
“Leaning on cement
Elastically embracing your own bones”
I also read this as the portraitee – – if such a word exists – the artist’s model
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Thank you!! This was definitely meant to be an artistic rebirth of sorts for me and I didn’t really think about it much in this way until now, thanks for the insightful comment!
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