on the floor, the monochrome seriousness
and dedication, in pose like Miyamoto Musashi
poised to strike a stroke with the brush
with some Calvin Klein coolness, to draw
a comparison of the Now and Then, the oils
half-spent litter the composition, the history
of an encounter once, in the Akira Ikeda gallery,
colours always the anecdotal, we met, in his eyes,
India still, the steam locomotive driving the charm,
and the Puerto Rican subway graffitti informing the law
of the line, the figure expressed, the karma
like the inners of a pomegranate exposed in naked
arabesque, the facile critic warned off by symbols
found in temples unvisited, in the jungle of psyche
the rings of being alive, found somewhere in the art,
and then we return to him, prodigal sons and daughters,
awaiting his assent to our discovery of ourselves.
loved it.
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