the artist himself
was a man, i noted.
there he stood in the doorway,
pale as paint.

his shoulders suspended
from the door frame,
his elbows hinged.

a scarecrow in spotless slacks
creased to abstraction,
and an off white shirt
half-tucked in, as if to ask:

now sweetie,
do you really?

and yeah,
the whiteness of the man.

he seemed to
pulse transversely
in a space full of white static,
a sort of sacred
secret
stately man,
an artist chaotic,
a Jackson *******-Jesus.

and his face is as white as canvas
he draws on
a cigarette that you hardly notice,
pinched inconspicuous straw between his
Jesus-lips
on his
Jesus-face.

his eyes only grazed mine for an instant,
settled on the wall above me and

"well now
aren't you cute"