A Confluence of Dead Masters

Dali has much to say. Rembrandt less so.

Rimsky-Korsakov is understandably distracted by the

delicate nuances of diminished chords.

Colette is careful to avoid the attentions of the Marquis

de Sade.

Picasso views the proceedings with the eye of an eagle,

or perhaps a fierce raven by way of Edgar Allan Poe.

Hemingway demands fewer words, more precise words,

the vernacular of a stoic draftsman, while Joyce waxes

expansive as the linguistic past and begins laughing

in tongues.

Georgia O'Keeffe and Virginia Woolf become fast friends,

retreat to a neutral corner and engage in an intimate

tête-à-tête that few can comprehend beyond their splendid

selves.

Jarry serves the lobster while Mondrian measures the

windows.

Warhol arrives on roller blades with such convincing speed

he convinces others. A ghostly entourage of effete sycophants

streams in his wake.

Bukowski downs another stiff drink and takes a swing

at Welles, who despite his considerable bulk manages

to dodge the haymaker with impresario agility.

Anna Pavlova pirouettes to a music of the spheres that

no one else can hear.

Burroughs considers a needle, the way it shines in the

lamplight, the lush poison it purveys.

Dante suggests with an eloquent flourish that they are

all trapped in a purgatory of their own creation.

Camus keeps searching for his car keys.

Leonardo, writing and drawing with feverish abandon,

leaving ink splattered everywhere, remains obsessed

with the possibility of human flight.

(First appeared in Star*Line)