Sep 142011
 
                     for Ken Bastard

An artist, 
	that vast patchwork of fictive facts
	made irremediably human
Lies swacked to the black mat 
Lies swacked by bilious bastards--
	Hearing only the thin singing
		of virile virtuosos.

Crucified, rechristened,
He takes blamelessly the name "Bastard,"
Owing no allegiance to parents, prophets, persons,
		or miserly precedent.

Alone as only
	in that thinnest singing
He rears and raves
	Swinging pennants of pigments
	Fashioning each fitful color with fidgets
To one indelible enamel
	Alive in our mammalian minds.
	Rip of fittest tethers in tattered weather
		
	and off--oof!--go hallooing balloons
	by blistered brain's lightest excitements 
	shaped-- sheer veerings and vanishments
	into empty Empyrean blues....

Brushwork unbowed and bronzed,
Blast after melodious blast
Blessing bastardly the seeming serene
	Until all the thumping nothing
Is singing--singing unremittingly
	the "Joy of Bastard's Desiring."


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