The Menaced Assassin

Rene Magritte, 1926

I see distorted visions

I'd like to forget

Witness rumors of violence

& plans to wake the dead

I swim around my bowl

at all hours, entertained

with a Victrola's horn

I dance to blue vinyl jazz

Soft fronds, croaks of frogs

wrap around my fins

They do not know

my language, my dialect

has no echo

no answer to inspire response

Around my face, sea cabbages

the snare of nets

little make-believe castles

Food floats down

from stubby fingers

that constantly stir the scene

3 Wise Men

beyond the balcony

would love to know

what I dare not speak

Black Cross New Mexico

Georgia O'Keeffe, 1929

I usually work

better out of town

up on ladders

with burlap patches

no game plan

just yards of linen

& quarts of the

richest acrylics

My brushes are

like sea urchins

dancing

in a coral reef

hands of a sea-

soned

deep sea diver

I avoid paparazzi

pupils dilate

colors contort

into a cross

Turn my canvas

over

& feel my scars

The Bewitched Man

Francisco de Goya, 1798

Conjures up wild stallions with

bended knees before a ram.

Feeds the light of a candle

with cold, guarded whispers.

His eyes can't quite contain

the moths that swirl inside his head.

He sneezes & there's lightning,

a cough becomes slick, black

wings. He thinks he's dreaming.

Sometimes voices awaken him

in the night. He knows no sun.

The brightness of silver eludes him.

Only the ripening howls of jackals,

the flared nostrils of bats gliding by,

anxious for his mouth to open.

The Birth of Liquid Desires

Salvador Dali, 1932

The beginning comes quickly.

In shadows & loose knit sweaters

there will be words, song,

& new landscapes to taste.

The 55th card is faceless

no number to ascribe a value.

The dealer is confused;

wants to leave, light a cigarette,

travel abroad.

In spades, or clubs of night,

the music will be soft

& muted;

smoke will linger above tables

like an old man's handwriting.

The wallpaper pattern

of geese

will hover before take off,

scan water glasses

for fingerprints;

a familiar flash of color

& form.

Downstairs, stars will whisper

their names to us.

We will be the color

of plums

before the doctor

pulls us out,

& learns to drink us.

Underground Fantasy (Subway)

Mark Rothko, 1940

We live where roots grow deep

the light of dark, immutable

& striated

the variable degree of movement

within the perimeters

of abstract & shade

Any moment, the cut of butcher's paper

the tear of tape patching

corners of a box

where exposed seams are not acceptable

The blade of a knife tearing thru canvas

a modern tapestry from a pale palette

too young

to know about lightning

Don't let the absence of color fool you

the subdued hint of seeing brocades

inside out

a flicker of candelabra

& a curtain's draft

This set is humming

for the director's cue

Yellow Band

Mark Rothko, 1956

After the storm, I am naked, exposed

beyond the edge of splintered maps

a distorted drip line from a hurricane's grasp

I bear no fruit, no words of comfort

for the moment

resting here among immeasurable debris

Your cables of communication

fortresses of brick & bath salts

have already been conquered

Remnants of bees survey my fingerprints

bits of colors flashing could be food, clothing

ants develop their own mathematical stance

Here & there are signs of battle fatigue

blurred graffiti on shiplap

the bloody flags of an expatriot's retreat

& everything else, everything else

flammable as

last year's Christmas tree

Joseph R. Trombatore: a Pushcart nominee; whose award winning collection of poems, “Screaming at Adam” was published by Wings Press, 2007. Recent poems have or will soon appear in JASAT, Spoken War, Oak Bend Review, Dead Mule, ken*again, Sugar Mule, Wild Goose Poetry Review, Word Riot, Offcourse Literary Journal, Houston Literary Review, Ygdrasil: A Journal of The Poetic Arts, burst!, Chantarelle's Notebook, Heavy Bear, & Gloom Cupboard.

Editor/Publisher of the online Literary Journal of the Arts: Radiant Turnstile.