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-

5 thoughts on “

  1. 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

    Liked by 1 person

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