Fermatas dance, break over the bar.
Long and short and singular
and plural pauses are across,
just short enough a time
somewhere parallel to the universe.
Naturally a word, or three,
are forever…lost.
Glasses tinkle, plates rattle,
knocks bottle together in a
perfect world. As it were.
Allow Horace to consider Plato
to contemplating a bust
of Homer that Aristotle has diddled with -
Michelangelo paints
the three of them (with
a postmodern self-reverence
thrown in for good
measure: look see: there,
in the room, it has to be
Rembrandt, or
Remington. Or
Miro. What
difference, really)
in bas relief
against one of
Cosimo’s backdrops;
put Honig, Turkel, Juvenal,
Tinker Evers and Chance
on the front,
Rimbaud does copy for the Tribune,
put Graves on one side, Roget on the (word
for) other, throw in a Webster,
a Gibbon, toss in Spengler,
and ambulate
a feast
a stew
a mulligan
every night, seven nights a weak,
cast lots always one drink
too late for one,
one drink too early
for another.
Mr Buonarrati, count blessings
every night that Raphael
lived a short life,
Soderini was a doddering friggler -
didn’t recognize David.
Smile, and take their money.
All the world’s a
proscenium.
As it were.
© 2012 – Mark A. Douglas – All Rights Reserved
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