b.z. niditch | improvisation no. 2 | waiting for hans hoffmann | klimt's the kiss


The snow gone
in a half photo reignites embers
of a conclusion in the raw
wounds of love and gashes
of the masculine\feminine
in meshes and filaments
of a conversation portfolio
frozen in the art
of invisibility
here on the Alps
by the orchard
of your alter ego
in a conceptual threesome
trembling in a drift
of pillars used for blankets
in a short circuit love affair
quivering from the cold
downward on the blue hills
wanting to again play sax
at the Grenoble gig
where mon oncle Pierre
who knew Aragon
ran for office
with the slogan,
Let them drink
goat’s milk
instead of wine”
as firestorms draw us
with divided attention
drinking to the stars
hurling snow balls
spitting from crags
on every hollow mount
oblivious of everything
when love like an eagle
calls us to witness
the same northern
sky lights,
we are inebriated,
budding together.

The Gate | Painting by Hans Hoffmann


Like my own
exile from reality
toward the abstract
haven of New York
between two shores
a sea moonstruck
by time’s Leviathan
with an absent sky
and a somnambulist
ominously on board
Hans waits to meet
my curator grandfather
in a white beard
next to green bottles
of absinthe
in lonely latitude
and an ocean
of political swimmers
lost in the tide
of crazy waves
of reaction
art now shut down
on the boulevards
of Berlin and Paris
with art’s forgetfulness
of not knowing
what circles over us
will not last
they cling
like the seaweed
to an ocean floor
with an absence of poems
written in the pallor
of war and flesh
all over the globe
you Hans Hoffmann
will wake up
some morning
in the Village
and paint
with wild brown lids
on scented canvas
arrangements of color
in liquid solitude
from a condensed silence
water drops its first light
by the fever of art.


This year
always young
Gustav Klimt
is celebrated
in Vienna
with “The Kiss”
for every mouth
gloved in lemon
150 years
as pilgrimages
of tourists
in a flowing poise
of symbolist color
offering inkwell gestures
of signed monograms
at the museum
cutting through eras
of living art
motions upward
spiraling patinas
in the enlightened
through lamps of sunlight
as I give out a four hour
sax recital
rebuffing time
for this insomniac
alto saxophonist
dazzling notes
on a twelve toned scale
with an acid mouthful
of abandoned snow kisses
in a luminous foreign body
on a word blind earth
to cover the unknown.

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