Monday, July 28, 2014

Krazy Coot

          Even a disorganized
move gets you there. 
                 Ugly win, they say,
   but nevertheless a win. 

I saw a Philip Guston
        in which I observed 
his trundling from frenzied realism

to Crumb-like bananas. 
      So much like myself,
I thought . . . ten years before I thought it.

            One can evolve, molt,
terminate one's contours.
       There's growth in dying.

Alive . . .
  by so much . . . 
              and beyond that might be more than
        I can handle. 

Like Guston, I've slithered
   into autocracy. Can a figure 
             express that?

I doubt it. 

      I need antonyms and umbers,
                crimsons and odors,
                     curlicues and verdigris . . .

this imperceptible stasis,
          that endures as a contusion,
and I heal slowly 
                 nowadays . . . not at all.