Pleasures of the Hearth 3, 7/91, 40 x 40 inches
From the book, Paintings, published by Alfred Knopf, 1997.
Pleasures of the Hearth 2, 7/91, 40 x 40 inches
From the book, Paintings, published by Alfred Knopf, 1997.
Chicago Sundown, 8/89, 40 x 40 inches
From the book, Paintings, published by Alfred Knopf, 1997.
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MADNESS OF CHANCE
I loved my madness
but it wrecked my car,
and threw me through the windshield,
and the windshield was real,
but I lived,
and my madness pretended to suffer death,
so I buried him under
the pear tree, the pear tree in my head,
my face was all carved up,
and chickenblood spewed on the road,
roosters of chickenblood,
but I put my face
back in place, it was changed
but still mine,
and the paramedic offered me wine,
but I said No, wine
drives me mad, and his white coat
burst open with numerous
female breasts, each
squirting milk, and I said
No thanks, my god
you look soft, but
it would be mad to drink
from you, and the breasts
changed into penises,
and each penis was mine,
but I only had two hands,
for which I was glad, so I got
out of the ambulance and stood
at the roadside with my thumb
stuck out, and a stranger stopped,
stranger than most, so
I didn't get in, and he said
What's the matter? And I said
it would be mad to do this,
and then it got dark and it rained,
so I walked into the nearby town,
and had some coffee and cherry pie
at the counter, where the local cops
bragged about scaring the shit
out of this driver and that, and I said
Officer, I just crawled from a wreck,
just look at my shirt (it was stiff
with blood), and the blond one said,
Are you crazy, I'm on my break,
so I threw the hot coffee
in his face, and he dropped
to his knees and began to beg, and
said, Forgive me, Forgive me, now
I understand, and I walked outside
and the rain had stopped and the ribbon
of blacktop shined to my right and my left,
and I knew I had outlived madness,
and it made me feel a little sad, but
I got a ride in a Cadillac with a nice
old man with silver hair who disliked talk, so I
crawled into the back and all the way to LA slept
the sleep of those no longer mad.
From the book, Singing Yet, published by Alfred Knopf, 1992.
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