John Heckman works at a linear accelerator studying quarks in Virginia. He
started writing poetry in the early 80's while living in historic Concord, MA
inspired by the history, nearby woods, and Walden Pond. He now resides in
Williamsburg VA with his wife and two dogs. He has been published by 'Blood Jet' a juried e-journal, and recently
been accepted for a debut summer issue at a new e-zine called 'Samsara'
a part of Sundress Publications. He has also been published in an
International Cryogenic Research Journal.
My Friend the Starving Artist
Curled tubes, smeared.
Canvas rub-smudge, prismatic.
Called art when tequila worms
were the main course.
lurked beneath your tray,
collage cubism you would slur
and the gallery bohemians would sip
pretending they knew their asses
from their trust funds.
Your painted nudes with middles
of mashed potatoes
and rhombus shaped tits
smirked in faceted wedges
tempered in sfumato.
Not Les Demoiselles d''Avignon
by any stretch of the canvas
although you shared in the barbarian form,
aggressive interpretation, quixotic.
You mainlined distilled grains
like a morphine drip.
your schizophrenic fingers
into lightning strokes of color.
Rouge-faced, merlot lips, lemon-skinned,
and your whores disguised as nudes,
What You Did Not See
The subject was the shell,
intrinsic in a life carved ancient.
You couldn't see the beauty,
the gaping jaw bone
a skeletal masterpiece
in a sea of Plesiosaurs.
Only a shell, you said,
a husk of imagination.
Blanched, a frozen hinge at one end,
toothless like a hand puppet.
You knew I ate the salted meat
careful not to disturb its body.
I could paint eyes, nostrils,
and a green body with flippers.
You would still only see the pistachio.
Color and art, words and sounds, explored here for your pleasure.