Want to read my latest poem?
[b]In the National Gallery of Art[/b]
Cutting off an ear is a cruel act,
but it made an impression on the Impressionists.
In the gallery, the paintings hung on the sea gray walls,
like a flotilla passing in the hushed night.
Then, in the basement, we glided through the passageway,
and Marie said, "I feel like I'm in an airport terminal."
No, I said, I feel like a character in an Einstein thought experiment.
The cascade surprised us, while the glass offered protection
as we went on to the grinding machines.
The grinding never seems to stop.
We drank coffee, and talked for an hour.
Somebody farts on the elevator. Performance art.
Cutting off an ear is a cruel act,
but it made an impression on the Impressionists.
In the gallery, the paintings hung on the sea gray walls,
like a flotilla passing in the hushed night.
Then, in the basement, we glided through the passageway,
and Marie said, "I feel like I'm in an airport terminal."
No, I said, I feel like a character in an Einstein thought experiment.
The cascade surprised us, while the glass offered protection
as we went on to the grinding machines.
The grinding never seems to stop.
We drank coffee, and talked for an hour.
Somebody farts on the elevator. Performance art.