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 