Olay!
Que rico, this hombre, this contemplative blood-red matador. Arms folded, slight frown…
Just killed a bull? Defaulted on a loan? Or, surprised by a rueful post postcard (see orange object between legs) depression? (Is there a troublesome message from vacationing mother, estranged lover, old compadre on the reverse? (From Majorca? L.A.?)
Does that account for the empty kleenex box?
Red Vogel Vanishes
Last August—rumor was—he bummed a ride on Route 1 going south.
Never phoned. No note. Just a torn and empty envelope, robin’s-egg blue.
Escape into the clouds
Theseus slaying Minotaur in the Tuileries
Late December afternoon in Paris, just before Christmas 2007. Theseus, impervious to cold and and his lopped off cock, pauses just before he clubs the Minotaur to death. Coup de grace incarnate.
Blue-delighting heavens. Ice-cold, homoerotic heat. Northern European light feebly caresses Mediterranean myth.
Minotaur’s gorgeous pectorals, lolling tongue, and eyes glazed by pain or death?
“I Am Not A Condo!”
shouts the sign on the new condo at 18th & Eighth. Magritte comes to Chelsea. Welcome
surréalisme! Inside, above, a flat-screen TV sparkles. Seagulls squabble in its yawning skull.
Bird, Jamaica Bay
Click On Me!
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