-for mike horan
a. the centaur
i saw this man, at the louvre,
shuddering to move
grizzled self profile with the arrow-point nose,
half man, half-equine
fantasy
of splayed horse skulls in a jungle vomiting up
charred tire tracks and unsmooth leaves.
b. the artist
i saw this man, on canal street,
muttering somethings sweet
eyes glued to crackvial pavement,
fierce john brown beard
that belies a heart of treasure,
all man, no horse
not in pursuit of leisure,
satisfied lurking in the shadows of library eaves,
staring at his paintings that hang above
like a child gazing at the brilliance
of fresh morning sun.
c. the context
i saw this spirit, swirling
in the cloud of broken time
giving away great art for free
-not that it’s a crime.
not that it’s a crime
for benighted spirits
to paint flurries of color lines,
mystiques of ganges-dunked mysticism,
the hourglass shape of ice skaters
twirling between rainbows of kids,
what it all really means
should be a secret
never spoken.
and 'pon a trail of time that’s broken
he will roam, endless, confident
that those green mountains just might be
his destined home.
