Poem: Still Life is Dead. Long Live Still Life.

He made me bleed colors.  

Together, grew senile. 

Cannot change what’s defined.  

So, I died and reborn. 

Objects out the window.  

Then, throws me to the wall. 

He cuts me like a doll.  

Here, I fall on the line. 

Place me on this table.  

Just idle, I will lie.  

Staying still on my side.  

So, he primes our showpiece. 

Never been so alive.  

He might display me now. 

Pop-up art, Stockholm-bound.  

Catch the crowd with syndromes. 

Loves me now, loves me not. 

Might have fought your own mind. 

Just take it that we tried. 

Vitalize what art means.

*Note: Ekphrastic elegy written in response to Hyman Bloom’s work “A Leg”