Vosdanig, alone with your stained canvas Studio walls receding, madness, full gallop Easels creak to honking horns, Whooping Cranes Half-drunk tubes, steep step fallen, hairy brush lagoons
Cezanne enters, pitied peaches, pirouetted pears Matisse, prince of breasts, bottoms smiling almost colorless Picasso, rearrange burning eyes, needles, crimes, cradles Pablo so enriched with each female receptacle
And you return to the canvas, exhausted Mother and sister whispering up ahead Horse’s hooves, Turkish death march, spring 1915 dance Silence, pause, silence, breath
When even paint washes lines and traces In smooth jolt, rapid caress, ejaculate Canvas turns to overcoat, walks Towards the NY night, into spittoons, Museums, a loud curse, abandon
Virgin canvas bought from the provinces Innocent, unassuming, bewildered Deflected, diasporic renegade
Virgin canvas begs, forgets Virgin Mary and her son torn blast Mine own lake Van, a chapel in ointments Pigments, streaked scratches, eyes and hands Chapel for cattle, for target practice, erased Young Turkish army recruits, reclaimed heritage
Vosdanig hangs himself to a pin on the wall To carry the weight of witness, to see saints Art and Armenia in endless stone serenades.
Bedros Afeyan 7-4-2011 Pleasanton, CA
** aka Archile Gorky