AGE SLIDES UNDER THE DOOR AS OIL PAINTS
I don't need to shave to see my future
in the purple scream.
On TV between shows about predatory big cats
there's a commercial for a scooter chair,
the old fart motorchair for aggressive men sick of their lives
who race down the middle of the boulevard
in Long Branch, New Jersey, trying to stage
insurance collisions because they need a Medicare supplement
or maybe because they might just be killed and end it.
I awaken and, before my daily filter kicks in, I am in a scooter too
and (sing) Do You See What I See?--
I am a paint-by-numbers copy of Francis Bacon's
"Study after Velazquez's Portrait of Pope Innocent X"
with the ghastly old dude seated on a scooter throne
looking to play bumper cars with Cardinal Borgia
because they both are waiting for death and it's been
years since Borgia, at least, can remember
what it feels like to get laid.
That makes me feel just a bit better
because if my dreams are not much fun,
at least Bacon's must have been rarer than overcooked steer.
For how else could anyone bear to face a day
with that inner face, truthtelling, open to the world,
a purple splot of skeleton bleeding rage from every pore,
forcing some sucker priest to take him out in his scooter
to witness his final prayer, slamming at full force on the downgrade
into the back of a tractor trailer to end this holy farce
and send home the painter, his work done for the day.