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| Garden in Autumn 30 x 42 cm acrylic on paper - sold |
WHAT
HAPPENS WHEN I WRITE POETRY ON AN EMPTY STOMACH (SONNET 4)
I am
dreaming again, only wide awake
this time,
hanging from a precipice,
a cliff in
Austria, say, on the verge
of taking
my obsessions too seriously.
A lot of
prepositions in my life. Participles dangle dangerously.
But my stomach’s
whooping like a moog synthesizer.
So I order a
little supper. We’re in a gallery of the Uffizi,
vitello arrosto
con patate e Bottticelli; just below my nose
deep red
Chianti swirling slow-motionly (sic!) in a broad bellied glass.
Across from
me a simulacrum of Charlotte Rampling.
The way she
looked in Woody Allen’s first really
bad movie,
ersatz Fellini, the one after “Interiors.” Full-blown
narcissist,
speed reader of Schopenhauer, cat-eyed femme
fatale, she
has my wife in a fit of giggles, maybe a little in love,
and I can
scarcely take my eyes off their words.
