“…To me, art is mainly about a condition of [my] soul” M.C.
He’s the horned goat in red robes with his Cheshire grin, the trout that
swims above the marriage bed, a chicken chasing a Rabbi home.
He’s the violin that plays the funeral, the cow that gives green milk, the
clock that marks our time.
He’s the husband & the wife adrift in midair, a Shofar trumpeting Rosh
Hashanah, a loafing Hassid called to prayer.
He’s a gambler with his foot in his mouth, a drunkard pissing against the
fence, Jacob battling his angel.
He’s Abraham with a knife at Isaac’s throat, a lover stroking the skin of
his beloved, Job frozen in despair.
He is, in fact, all that he has gleaned & pressed to his breast & wrestled to
the earth & tamed &… reluctantly released…