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Oil on Pine MAG
I look upward and straight ahead from where I lie
likea midnight driver traveling an interstate
Fantastic cherubs soar atunknown heights above the thin mattress on which I sleep
Not ancientremnants of a Venetian palazzo, but painted only eighteen years ago
Theirpresent condition would never hint to their age
Like me, they too havesurvived the humid salty summers of this coast
The pain of the oncesophisticated radiant sky of a Titian has transformed
The blue now havingturned the surreal color of weathered copper
The once appropriate mustardhas turned a harsh imperial yellow
Where overflowing water from the ironbathtub above has stained the same mustard,
it is a violenttangerine
In great contrast to the other vivid hues, the plump round faceshave become all the
more pallid and severe
And the once gracefultiny wings by which they flutter, now appear ridiculous and
evennauseating
Once a smooth unassuming ceiling of pine planks, it has aged toabsorb the paint in
long uneven strips
Each piece of woodabsorbing the decorating uniquely
They appear before me as the bars of aprison ...
me on one side, fantastic and otherworldly beings on the other...
me in my cage ... for their protection ... for mine?
The unsureshades of a Technicolor marvel lined as though the antennae are
notpositioned correctly
The glowing of a screen which surrounds, whichscreams
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