(no subject)
I'm a permanent character
in an impressionist painting
at a French cafe.
I float with the omniunpredictable umbrella
from table, to chair, to floor.
I spin upper table facades
with my inexplicable verbose.
Raphael makes me feel like myself.
Because he's so composed.
I don't recognize the idea you're conveying!
I recognize the absurd world of pigment
and what meets the eye.
What the eye meets with me,
(the character in the permanent impressionist painting)
is not curvilinear, nor van gough's form.
It's: nothing solid.
(How do you know so many solid things?)
It's a graceful leap and a trip and fall, says you.
But I tell you: it's nothing.