Everyday Observations of Cubists:
Gently Unlocking Doors – (Word by Word Across the Atlantic)
The street is frozen
Smoke rises from chimneys
Dogs limp – favoring a paw. Stop& burn.
They do not want to be carried.
The pastry maker says, Adieu.
He bends from the chest and extends an arm.
His wife is an attractive sum of grotesque angels
and melon balls
Her lips open from behind her knee –
Yet, not because they’re free – Undersized & underdeveloped brains too.
Ever more why we love them and their playfully silly games.
We like cartoons for them.
We can create a cartoon world for kids – We have great animators for this.
Other adults seem lost in the street – clearly lost,
Though they walk this street each day.
A tuba swallows peanuts and then a blond snake –
A principal for the first American orchestra to play
at the Vatican
in front of a Pope.
Rot iron gates watered with white snow –
A skinny man unlocks his jaws for a triple cheeseburger piled w/ French fries and coleslaw just like they eat in dirty gray port towns.
“A real unusual kind of Pittsburgher! that one is!” -
she says in her coconut voice under a palm tree of Key West.
It’s only 69 degrees but they’re happily getting drunk and eating each other through their sets of glorious eyes.
In the West, another Internet high-rise is erected.
Sown together memories of last night perplex a woman in a tuxedo.
For her, the citadel had a felling of confidence.
I now stride through bodies drenched in winter sun.
We are always a little closer this time of year.
And yet, to other admirers, you feel so far away.
The Irish fellow on the bicycle w/ a fat mustache thinks that
maybe Dr. Montgomery King would rather have world peace
than some holiday where he doesn’t have to deliver mail.
Ice makes it difficult to steer and at the same time stare at those upright breasts of Mrs. Johnson in her tight baby blue sweater – He holds onto his pipe, takes a nice draw from it, and says, Adieu!
The cherry tobacco permeates the air and blends into the gray wetness of everyday street life dissected by unconventionally rich patrons
of the café`.
Drinking in the time, and always controversial, Eddie, the new American
here in the South Of France where someone’s nephews are painting the rust covered bellies of boats, drink in hand -
Eddie says to natives and transients alike,
“I’d rather have Dr. King alive & in stride with me singing a rendition of
In The Name of Love.”
She looks disgustingly in love with Eddie – showing unapproved signs of his victory of her body, mind and soul – she sighs in my ear,
“Some of us wear our hearts on our sleeves.”
She tugs and bites, stands up and walks away with seductively swift motions now frozen and broken into dance by my tiny visions.
Jan 16 2004