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Modern Bohem

Still in Mont Martre he lives.
Free-flowing he sleeps on the mattress floor
Sometimes by day
Sometimes at night

He hears whispers in the walls
Oil pastel turpentine calls
Exhausted white-wine fumes
Through him dredded hair exhume

Eats cereal in his converse sneakers
Listens wisdom groans in cringing speakers
Of springs exhaling rhythmically
Behind the door.

Sketches on the sidewalk cigarettes
Ashes pencils in Degas’ pirouettes
Windmill inspirations – creatures from the black lagoon
Friday morning breakfast – inky spirals in a spoon.

Still in Mont Martre he lives.

Though he journeys constantly
Seeking experiences complimentary
To the vibrations in his skin.
His boots – caked-mud casts
From the mountains, where he’s been.

On a muted gray mid-morning frames
Containing gypsy knights and Bedouin dames.
Filter Photoshop fluorescence through his strokes
Capture flashing thoughts in cans of cokes.

And if you lose your way in shade and tone
Slip on watercolor dreaming cobble stone
You too may find him who will give
A burnt-umber smile, and a charcoal place for you to live.


Mont Martre


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