The madhouse statuary seemed to dispel the pre-life we gave it. 
in sleep, to become the one bauble rescued from that  hoard, whose shapes 
no one now will know. It cannot be said they existed. Yet

If it’s loveliness you want, here, take some,
hissed the black fairy. Waiting for the string quartet,
on the corner, denatured I wondered what the heck.

You are my most favorite artist. Though I know 
very little about your work. Some of your followers I know: 
Mattia Preti, who toiled so hard to so little 

Very little was known about anything
in the old time. It was as a vocalise
is to a sonata, children in the limelight

Customize the event, picking at soul scabs,
turning your face optimistically toward the window.
There must be a long biography coming out soon,

As I was saying it’s a never-ending getting
closer if you will, a class-unconsciousness searing
these ears for a lifetime, and by then it’s time

The first of the undecoded messages read: “Popeye sits in thunder, 
Unthought of. From that shoebox of an apartment, 
From livid curtain’s hue, a tanagram emerges: a country.” 

Scribbled on the expansive mist, the desire
of many dwindles to us
and our “activities,” wholesome

The deep water in the travel poster finds me 
In the change as I was about to back away 
From the idea of the comedy around us— 

I’d had a “good night’s sleep,” meaning
thinking of waking, and waking,
shifting closer together, and then not.