BLUE RIDERS

For Auguste Macke and Franz Marc

On my desk, in the sun,
mess of papers, things undone, 
not yet started, half begun,
an aged clock that doesn't run . . . 
lost to who it is is me,
poet an' thinker of history,
adolescent man of mystery,  
unfinished as I'm s'posed to be . . .

The papers are random, some related,
lists an' memos doomed, ill-fated, 
Blick Art coupons, most outdated, 
menu from a joint I hated . . .
an' on my desktop top position,
a picture from an exhibition,
an ad so bold in composition,
primitive, modern, world in transition . . .

Blue an' violet horses, 1913,
auburn colts, trees emerald green,
first animals livin' in a world that's clean, 
in peace, in colors only the artist's seen.
Now the gallery's open, the show's begun, 
'nother hundred years of art's been done, 
since Macke an' Marc felt their last sun 
over Champagne an' at Verdun . . .

On my desk, in the sun,
mess of papers, things half begun, 
the gift of years not for everyone, 
I lift my pen to the noble Hun . . .