A Confluence of Dead Masters
Dali has much to say. Rembrandt less so.
Rimsky-Korsakov is understandably distracted by the
delicate nuances of diminished chords.
Colette is careful to avoid the attentions of the Marquis
Picasso views the proceedings with the eye of an eagle,
or perhaps a fierce raven by way of Edgar Allan Poe.
Hemingway demands fewer words, more precise words,
the vernacular of a stoic draftsman, while Joyce waxes
expansive as the linguistic past and begins laughing
Georgia O'Keeffe and Virginia Woolf become fast friends,
retreat to a neutral corner and engage in an intimate
tête-à-tête that few can comprehend beyond their splendid
Jarry serves the lobster while Mondrian measures the
Warhol arrives on roller blades with such convincing speed
he convinces others. A ghostly entourage of effete sycophants
streams in his wake.
Bukowski downs another stiff drink and takes a swing
at Welles, who despite his considerable bulk manages
to dodge the haymaker with impresario agility.
Anna Pavlova pirouettes to a music of the spheres that
no one else can hear.
Burroughs considers a needle, the way it shines in the
lamplight, the lush poison it purveys.
Dante suggests with an eloquent flourish that they are
all trapped in a purgatory of their own creation.
Camus keeps searching for his car keys.
Leonardo, writing and drawing with feverish abandon,
leaving ink splattered everywhere, remains obsessed
with the possibility of human flight.
(First appeared in Star*Line)