short poemMy eyes hold secrets like caged tigers.Beautiful.Fierce.Trapped.
ModernA bleeding radish hangs in the center of the room.I try to see this mess of rope for art.Modern, they say.I see an art-from-scrap free-for-allstrewn about a concrete room.Positive thoughts,open your mind I chantsee the art.That poor bleeding radishhanging from a dozen nooses.The green wire blob in the cornerswings, snickering and makinglude gestures to the bloated mermaidhung like a gutted fish;upside down, bosom exposed,bleeding seawater overan escaping urchin.Fruits, vegetables, the Eiffel Towerdangles overhead.Modern, they say.One suicidal radishand they call it modern.
SeeThe eyes,they say, are thewindows to the soul. Whatsay you, then, to a potato?I see.
TemptationA newtemptation isarriving at dock six.Turn the cab around, I think Iwill drive.