Appraising the state of Japanese hairstyles,
deep immersed in the crush of an overpopular
attraction, imagining this art train pulling
from the station, commute hour, paintings
the only window, glimpses of a world
distant, canvas slaps and gashes, swirls
Now alone with a Lt. Milliet
who appears suspiciously like
a train conductor, his blue eyes
and swabs of green
as fresh and vibrant as the day
they were committed
Wending a way towards a goal
that receedes in the face
of this polite, insistently pushing crowd,
the quiet of the street and lit cafe
on a typical French night, how much
I would give for its tranquility
and wine
Being up near Gogh is like being
near peasant hands
devoted to portraying God in colors
the paint was not dry and he was up and on
to another, and then onto his ear and body,
Christ in wormwood, a wormwood Christ
The brush attacking and populating trees
with dense masses of crow-black scribble,
She says he was finally free to use up his paint
knowing he would die, no more
hitting up his brother for 15 francs
or pilfering Gaugin`s money box,
dabbing brush in deep wells of oil,
bleeding thick tears with a capacity
for suffering and compassion
to outlast his own
Though I am but one of many
who have trundled through as
humble visitors past a person of state,
I feel as if I`ve just bumped into
an old mad friend, in Tokyo
of all places.
