This odd sensation in my chest
like a cat stretching and yawning
emerging from a nap.
At other times a twitching,
a nervous tick acting up,
a single shiver, a tremble.
Or a swift flash of feeling
not quite a pain, but a thought
passed quickly through my body.
Is this it? Is my time up?
Has my heart finally decided
it has had enough and quit?
This is how it speaks to me,
clutching at things unsaid to
tell me something uncertain.
Looking around the hall Bosch realized
this is where the men who are born from
the asses of his painted demons congregate –
he was trapped within the hell panel
of his own nightmare triptych and whatever
made him paint it had brought him here –
now he had to produce something for ArtForum
they were expecting a cover story
with illustrations, but he was frozen –
he looked to Bruegel for guidance but
Bruegel stood there, mouth hanging open,
wishing he still had some of that Cockaigne
to get him through this particular vision of hell
Then the presumptive candidate began to speak
and they both knew that all was lost
they would have to return their advances
and stumble back to New York City emptyhanded
no vision of hell either of them could conjure
would capture the scene laid out before them –
reality had outstripped imagination
and was circling in for the kill.
