Caravaggio's Massive Forms are Alive,
Drifting in Space, Hovering Provocatively
o'er the Beguiled Again of Reverie

The finest chamomile flowers in the world
come from the Nile River Valley of Egypt.
Donatello shaped a gorgeous stream of sinuous curves
in plum blossoms of the Madonna
and the angel, swore that Zuccone is just a little pumpkin.
Sheesh! The Northern Lights flow free,
almost hidden by a mass of splendidly flowing drapery,
arranged in cumulous folds...

In the wild, fields of chamomile look like
a light dusting of snow. After the plows
come through, the Ace of Hearts is Spring,
and the Ace of Bells is Summer.

The face card shows a Chinese word.
Like Pringles’ irresistible shape....they're hypnotic.

They sway and sing. Caravaggio often uses the curve
and counter-curve, a blur, a yin-yang
movement of strokes & forms as he explodes
a line that constantly folds
and unfolds, at dazzling speeds: like sensuous runes
upon a deserts’s dusty shore.

Monroe's loose white towel gently falls,
envelops her back and sides. Every picture
tells a story. The Ace of Acorns is Winter.
Zuccone is just a little pumpkin. And
the Northern Lights/ flow free.

Reelin' in the Strato-Cumulous

Steely Dan Skies

We are not, we are not pitiful sparrows, everything evens out.
Is that so strange?

Whatever bobbles, bobbles up. Like, or as, revels
of precocious baby fauns we experience pure joy of
ivory and nature. Everything evens out. Eventually,
the street began to twitter, silencing Rupert, for a while.

Double glazing subdues the howl of our Sargasso Street. And
Hilda? well, she was sitting by the writing table. A long, grey while.

Ever wandered into a dead, aimless calm
where nothing ever happens?
Édith Piaf, at rest, tends to remain at rest.

Time wounds all heels. Masochism has brutal regs, but, I mean,
c’mon: everybody hurts. Surely, then, the richness of our struggle
elevates us, makes us wine. Supine. Supreme! Siempre fresco.
Acceptable pain lurks/ on the outer fringes of love.

These manoeuverings can be monitored, though
they seem to drift, languidly, in a diffusion of tangerine colors
and ornithological similes,
but, after all, they are what they are. Chamomile tea.
Coffee spoons, the quick/ and-the-dead.

A saucepan shadows the wall, Your mind makes almond trees
disassemble. Crack/ like thunder. Everything evens out. Agh!

Waiting for Hilda, with kind of, an... Olympian detachment,
Rupert went to bed and read Proust.


--mge