He paints only huge pink cartoon phalluses,
The most famous painter in New York.
He knows how to wheedle bond dealers.
He knows the right brand of Schnapps,
The right alienated talk, as if risen from a Marxian grave
To see Tiffany's for the first time as something
To which Art can only aspire.
He can talk directly, without pausing, without laughing,
Comfortably talking to them, talking about money,
He drinks bottle after bottle easily, but it doesn't
Diminish the force of his theories of art
He perfected at school before teachers far less
Forgiving and less susceptible to gracious smiles.
His work begins at sundown, prowling the clubs,
Buying the right drugs for the right people, relentlessly
Seeking them out, only to appear as a matter-of-fact dealer
Of chemicals and irony, not interested in leaving anything
But a crude, macho, sexual trace, his business card,
So when the critics and collectors ask them about him,
It's "he's brilliant, an irresistible force" — he's there at
All the parties, willing, compliant, uncommunicative,
A master of non-sequitors at opportune moments, talking
And spending and loosening, like a municipal trader
Overseeing the future of New York.
He is thoroughly worn out when he wakes in his East Village
Loft, scene of many violent nocturnal performance pieces,
And after a bowl of cereal, paints more pictures to fill the void
He had created in higher minds the night before.
Occasionally he must stop, in shame.
