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Gallery Going, Going . . . . . . Gone! they found the old man a century ago-- still, inert, cold against his canvas; and now sundry gallery-goers peer in studious fuddle at these art-bursts of dead genius, his frenzies frozen into dessicated evidence on cracked ochre canvas. Precognition? Prescience? Gratitude, perhaps-- as he exhaled his "Thank you"s heavenward, to his own masters, far beyond the dusty skylight somewhere, at the terminus of mystery where art is sport. |
Additional Notes:
This poem was published in another form in Longitudes, Writer's Block, and Echo Magazine.
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