Sweet smell of morning
and leavings of last night’s rain
were scattered about,
sluiced on glass and ground,
left abandoned for drying.
A naked wrist called to remember Warhol.
The wild storm came and went,
as 4am was time, as day break was birthed,
as the tired feeling that reels one to a cold shower expires,
as eyes to a mirror interrogation, to face this—
was deep and strong.
Hands never moved on the melting clocks, where ants carried away.
Haring said, “I am becoming much more aware of movement.
The importance of movement is intensified
when a painting becomes a performance.
The performance (the act of painting)
becomes as important as the resulting painting.”
In order to become whole energy burst through,
coming down pieces, it restored movement.
Where stiff blades of grass begged of overcast—end this holocaust,
“Just drop, fall already!”
And it happened, moving in a storm-window screen
as a runaway train through a dark tunnel,
as a maladroit thief in the night—confused at access, loud.
And that was the waking siren emboldened,
no firetruck’s scream, no squad car whoop, no alarm bells ringing.
Dali enjoyed watching Gala with other lovers, they came.
This sound predated them all,
and it was just pressure and water and air and now.
I caught the leftovers in a rearview mirror flared reflection
at a stop light turned red; the droplets cascaded down
at the truck’s growly acceleration.
Soppy beads rocked in zigzags about the exterior of a blackened rusted frame.
Sun caught on the cloy smell of dying lilacs—sweet,
chain coffee in the console—weak,
and exhaust from a boxy bus that was slipping by noisily—disgust,
motivation to kill, the latter cacophony in soft mushroomed cartilage.
The formers caught porous nose at the same time.
We were all traveling in the storm’s wake to get somewhere,
and some of us were living unnoticed.