From Their Mama, the Star

The artist grows fuzzy - turns

red-orange-pinkishly indistinct – while

exactitude reigns in outlining articulate

sharp thin black lines that confine

the pastel-hued shenanigan standing

in back of the artist in billowing curves –

as if it is the vision the artist deserves –

amid other lines twining around like

the miscreant creatures they are. Welcome

to this part of whatever star cooked up all

of their leptons and quarks to eject them

eruptively out to become the odd

business they’ve been in this twisted

existence so far – this opera buffa –

this bloop of bizarre bazaar.

.