They were coming from all directions
Waves of hamburgers swallowing everything in their path
Hambergers bumper to bumper in the narrow Dutch streets
Cheese and ketchup oozing over sesame casings
I thought I discerned babies being swallowed up
With no salt
And then nothing.
I could see in this Amsterdam
Old brick buildings tilted in their quirky foundations
Along my canal a row of girls quickly cycled
While singing "My Sharona"
A giraffe walked over a bridge cutting them off
But they cycled under its tall, spotty legs.
From the outdoor cafe where I was sitting
I found a mirror and glimpsed at my missing ear.
"How would it heal?" I asked
Thousands of little brush strokes.
Tapping with the speed of a keyboard artist
Brush on brushstrokes in
Movements, directions dancing in the wind of my brushes
Brushing the canvas, the linen, the very pants I wear
If I stop the world goes dark
Women look at me and say, "Vincent, Vincent?"
I can't eat this bowl of spaghetti
The sauce should be on my palette
The pasta on my canvas
I hear a voice, it's the waiter now saying,
And I see him in my next painting besides
The girls speeding on their bicycles
The boats rising and falling
The tilted, pointed buildings tilting
The sun filtering a murky yellow at the end of
an autumnal day.
My painting finger is tapping on the café table
I hear the girls riding, singing "My Sharona"
I want to give them my ear but
They are riding too fast.