No confusion exists on Eldridge St.
a synagogue long ago now my studio
where I spread colors without stint
a race over many years
the reach of my hand against death
stacked against the wall
now I wash and curse the stain
Not forgetting clouds go away
you know the sky for a heretic is clouded
I leave it to you does art tell anything
has this babble become uncertain
it was sad in the old time loft
the bohemian a counter nobody remembers
arranged an elaborate front
but it was paint that broke through
pigment defeated the will
and from that inspired beginning
the dishonest self was dislocated
to hang on twisted wire
