Impressions at a Modern Art Museum

more fantastic, larger, bigger, more azure, fibonacci sequence,
rope, pale blue chipped pot & pitcher,
bottles of syrupy milk,
black pipe lookin' like a fertility goddess,
drawings like children.
clumps of old multicolored string,
long pink fiberglass planks,
lines like a sock,
ugly octagon!
OOF!
commercial cereal box blue grid sheet & sun orange with pink fridge to make your American 2.5 kid family real happy.
old frontiersmen, wrong turns.
weird painted bean bag,
ketchup and mustard colored U.S.
blackboards and chalk, messy ghost explosions, black handprints on an anchor.
smug little indian.
golf putters, sitars, sliced pink strawberries with hyperelectric tender flesh,
rothko's planes that innocently blot out thought and white,
jackon pollocks popcorn roof creations,
black and white accusations.

beefy girls with lipstick red overcoats,
canaries,
gabriel garcia marquez makes a fruit salad,
cuban forest nightmare.
stitches and white lines that never want to end,
focus: # 4.
dead end, elevator,
worms slip through dirty woman-girl fingers and yellow pink rose petals are tossed, squished and felt like a pink pigtail child playing in a steaming street with a chipped red fire hydrant.
scholarly wolf-bearded clerks like Irish warrior poets.
chain link nose rings, guessing games between father and daughter, shaded barns, checkered hats, french surrealist flow charts, greek subconscious tripscapes.
steel bone scraps, joan miro has eyes on his knees and fishes with a silver hook moon...
he also has EXCEPTIONALLY dreary birthday parties.
THE PALACE OF CURTAINS.
mondrian's simple hearted subway charts are like
labyrinths drawn to hide confused raging minotaurs.
ponds with pastel clouds.
simplest view of anything is its impression.
simplest view is its impression.
simplest view impression.
simplest impression.
impression.

el nino no se quiere quedar dos horas y media.

POP.

suprematism and materialism can bring spiritual freedom...? really? doubt it.
two squares flat in space but,
I see me wearing red cloth shoes.
oily fingers slipping out of tin tubes,
thick stout greek women trade gossip in the garlicky market air over a clay pot of water.
duchamps paintings spit and insult everything around it, thank god.
cool dorky chin ponytail.
bon bon dollipops licked as giggles ring out from the yard.
matisse periwinkles/ moroccan garden is an aztec boy looking at the rainforest hilly path to reach his far flung cacao skinned lover.
kandinsky cut up and made jig saw puzzles out of rainbows on canvass.

kirchner thought everything was a neon beer sign. matisse's living room is in the jungle; guarded by wide-eyed mushroom munching lions.
van gogh met poseidon and made him a sea captain.
black wanderer with a straw skirt rests on the cold marble desert sand.
the world is made of tiny fragrant rose petals.
back to the flower chanting.

babies die too.
our generation is afraid of itself,
of its collective POWER.
the last breath before death, I wonder if it hurts?
red and blue baby.
wrinkly soft baby gerbil fetus.
authors die softly.
Icicles growing down her chin like a dagger beard.
school children are painted dolls.
hairs like sirens down to bruised spidery shins.
the room of faces stares into every SINGLE one of us.
we stare back though.
our eyes would benefit from paralysis, so that they were not so rovingly deceitful.
In censoring, we say that blackness and void is better than the god flesh of humanity.
death is better than life?
little girls hang from strings on their necks and float blondly supported by the weight of their own tragedy.
the void seeping out of her skull, the total loss of comprehension screened on waterless eyes.

these things made me feel not just her death, but a premonition of my own.
iconoclasts had unhappy childhoods, probably sadly mixed with jaded and betrayed innocent traditional iconographic figures.

that room is someones hell.
death is white and red; so are my shoes.

the man next to me asks me what time I have; I blurt out "no time". I should have said instead, "barely enough".
some people are pregnant with energy & joy, some timidity & distraction; but very few are actually pregnant with babies.
even if your lips refuse to form it, your eyes never let you hide a smile.

pens across paper like tattoos you scribble across your sea scroll soul.

sometimes even very good paintings are worse than very bad ones.
rural people understand cycles of life, samsara clocks.
I want to live in a HUMAN NEST.
cottages are the most honest place to view a sunset; preferably in the kitchen, eating potatoes.
colors and form are completely subjective; feeling is everything.
the floor and composition of the ground is energized and vital.

In starry night van gogh sees a river as an ocean; not just any, but the ocean to floating perfect bliss. It is a yogi's eye with which he saw.
undressing my wishes I find a desire for absolute quiet & peace within artistic fire fury, I also desire lumps of golden hay that I wish were cocaine.
A desire to tell FANTASTICAL STORIES.

psychadelic feet swim in polka dots of pink. freedom like bubbles bursting opening closing slowly; casting mutely in the shadowy kingdoms of the romantic poet thieves with beards and intentions made of gold and stolen watermelons.
the chair bends and twists like a wooden snake; an arabic cushion as its hat; warm auras surround the dream givers.

shadows can be larger than the object that casts it.
bodies need not be singular, one two three, but blend into ONE naturally. blending crowds wave like patchwork flags in their hard plastic blue chairs at me;
I recite them poetry and they listen; they become me and I'm happy forever.