Triptych Stitches of the Eskenazi

Stroking the strains of ancient aconite 

Descending, ascending, descending,

Glazed eyes piercing eras.

Dada delinquent chasing expression, brushing bronze. 

Eating the Hudson River school.

Eye rolling at Christian iconography.

Seeing more white faces than truth cut into the wood on the walls. 

Diuretic etchings draw out the hidden names 

That have become overgrown by the generic shrub.

Picasso like Hemingway, is shit.

Kerouac runs on Duchamp's wheel.

A ready-made shovel, eating my fill, 

Already full, stepping up to plate

Flushing the toilet: while pissing On the Road. 

I like to watch curves move, more than standing still with color.

So, I follow the breasts with my eyes. 

Cutting the shapes to sculpt, running the ridges with my fingertips. 

Verdant fields paint a face on what could be.

Opening the door down the hall, 

I paint my scene across ancient things

Wishing to feel something more than being alright. 

Ascending, descending, ascending, 

Looking to fill an empty spot. 

Walking was an art compared to the alternative.