Chicano Poet

Wednesday, March 21, 2007

Art For Art’s Sake

Manhattan, infected with insects,
seems to trouble no one but Robinson.
The creatures crawl on his skin,

dutifully, politely, no doubt, yet still…
He tries his best to forget
by thinking of Mrs. Morse,

the skirt pulled over her breasts,
no time for detailed lovemaking,
no time for scruples, no time for guilt.

Hell, these damn insects have no use
for the alphabet, they number time
in weeks, even days, he mused.

His wife, ah, his wife…
he headed to the art gallery,
his own new paintings excited him,

words only mean what words
want them to mean,
but paintings, paintings need no language,

he pondered as he slipped
into the gallery,
that damn, silly de Kooning already there,

he said a polite hello to de Kooning’s wife,
his sex drive had returned.
Had he even said goodbye to Mrs. Morse?

And, after these two years of cheating on his wife
with his neighbor’s wife, Mrs. Morse
why did he still call her Mrs. Morse?

But, soon, he was talking about art,
he forgot his cares, his carnal problems.
Was that him projected on the ceiling?

The peeling paint depicting his shoulders,
the spheres of his eyes
looking at him, proud of him, it seemed.


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