down, the boulevard,
he led the bloody avant-garde,
and shocked the bores who bought his “split”
and reveled in its counterfeit.
And everything he did was news:
he’d hurt the girls and beat the muse,
then conjure from some current ditch,
and play the game till he got rich.
And each and every academian
fell before this chic bohemian.
And Paris found him hors concours
and begged for more and more and more. . .
But now, late nights, when death comes near,
he’ll think of Giotto and Vermeer,
of Titian, and those truly great,
and, in the dark, asphyxiate.
Copyright © William E.
Baer, all rights reserved