The art nouveau oak moulding, chipped and cracked,
barely hanging from a rusty nail,
begs restoration. Klimt’s young maids untacked,
1910 doors, the flailing clothing rail,
fin de siècle mirror, long have lacked
a master’s living hand. In the hot stale
air of the cluttered loft its owner packed
and fled, dust lies decades deep in a pail.
I see patina, scratches, and fine grain,
not a dandy who fled from the crime,
the desiccated splatter of his brain.
I see myself with chisel, hammer, stain,
old, withered, not him in his prime
tying cravats and cursing the profane.
13 July 2017
A Yankee Poet in Greenwich Village
Remembering William Butler Yeats:
June 13, 1865–January 28, 1939
Whitsuntide: Sacred Fire, Divine Gifts, & the Quest for the Holy Grail
The Most Dangerous Game: Capital Riddles in Western Culture
Interview with George Burdi: Man Against the Modern World
Mihai Eminescu: Romania’s Morning Star
“He Doesn’t Worry Too Much If Mediocre People Get Killed in Wars and Such” Tito Perdue’s The Smut Book & Cynosura
Jalal El-Kadali’s Oyster Mountain