Munch

Norway
Oslo
Kristiana
He went mad outloud
Given death’s ungovernability.
Given so much loss
And a life lived among ghost
But on his way out
Held up a broken mirror
So we could see at least
Through a glass dimly
What all artist already know.
Death is un-convertible.
But life’s response is another matter.
You gave up
On love
Which was to be
His final oxygen tank.
As love is for all lovers.
Artists included.
Choosing death above life
While abiding in life
Is bad poker
Which presumes to know to much
Of suffering.
Suicide is cowardly and lacks vision
Or hope of sight again….
Why not just suffer well instead.
Make a path for other’s exits.
Or chronicle the slanted tale well
Offer clues for those to follow.

Magritte’s apple

Ok, I get it
Reason alone is boring.
But what’s not?
A woman’s body turned to rainbowed window. Fait enough.
But don’t pretend to know
What your subconscious is saying
Much less mine.
You are bored, ok.
I can relate to that.
Just say so, and we can
Walk and talk and look at odd birds
Or something stimulating.
But, if you thesis is: I too am bored.
That’s just not enough
To go on.
Ok, you now left your newspaper
On her breast
And it became a rainbow.
I’ll go with that, as your cigar
Burns out….
Thanks at least
For that much
Old lonely friend.
Your still an apple in my eye
Regardless. But,
Could’ve used a bouquet
Made of fruit
About now.

//
Van Gogh
You left me enough to go on.
Kandinsky, thanks for a visual map of music.
Picasso, get over yourself
Your talented, but to paint suffering
You must suffer more than isolation.
Cezanne, thanks for seeing well
For us all.
Paul Klee, that you existed
Was enough to make me want to also.
Rothko thanks for those broodingly deep
Mediations, I saw through them with you.
As for the rest of you,
Stay true to you
We need something to go on…
Now.
We’re all clever and talented
But teach me Love
And I’ll really listen.