The prettiest thing that I ever did see: Two lines that pointed to infinity, and you, Irene, dancing in the middle of the street with one hand raised up high as I stared at my feet you gave one loud cry to the sound of your own beat, I said my oh my as we hung round to find our seat right behind Mr. Jackson on his trusty steed While the police and the homeless cursed out our reckless deeds. Irene I'm in Boston and I'm turning pale green, is being known and tried better than unseen? could the filled tins of chance pan out to full curd will the mute Miltons and Rembrandts finally spin their pale word will my songs kill our sins with a glance of the absurd Irene you flew so fast, you were lost in the night like a kite Now I'm in this blackness, in the bleak Boston light. The prettiest thing that I ever did see: Your empty apartment with you nowhere to be and none of the rats seemed to know where, some said New York and some said Delaware, some said you were committed to some psychopathic care and now all I have left is this quote that I stare at written with black coals, on your one burner stove: "There is only one aristocracy: The aristocracy of passionate souls!" Who wrote that Irene? You never did know. The prettiest thing that I ever did see: your two eyes just starin' right back at me, with the sound of your laughter through my detention cell, while the memories of last night brew in our minds well, The cold ice cream snowballs we flew at the critics that did tell of your bare-naked portraits they claimed would never sell Irene, your portraits were beautiful, beautiful as hell. New Orleans, 2019 S.C. Knier
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