Let’s go down to Scottsdale and look
At the galleries and the beans and after,
Hike in the desert, leave in the heating kitchen
The fly troupe, the ink deposit of a cross-
Word burial ground, and the plate of clotted
Stuff from a mammal, with eyes like yours, goaty’
The collagen wonder of your high rise ibex
Attitude that the mercury divides and glazes;
I’ve a few saddles but not-one for a job like this,
The acetyls from your shampoo collected
On my throat, the maple pores, the flying fox to
Canada in case of Armageddon, you’re darned right
Felicity, human felicity and the mild bravado
Of a family of toes, I’m not the devil, though
My demons have a tartan of their own. I was all
For fetching to the country, declensing plateaus, mid-0
Blues, post-adolescent breezes & globulated little
Loyalties to prairie muff. I’ll have the afternoon instead
on Nero’s Sculpture Mile a.k.a. our mall, sentimental
paint flakes, and the beggar’s beggar Peg-Leg! must look after
that denim clad chart of nervous chordata my mother.
I’ve always loved dogs, meaning
You can see something but you’re just not sure what it is
Fritz Scholder is putting on a show: he puts some blood
On the canvas, gives some blood to the audience, and gives
Back some blood to his body, calls it ‘L’Or d’Atalante’.
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