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My Sunday at the Met. Surrealist Max Ernst
for surreal New York: in an ocean, an eye; a see-through
woman, chess-playing bull; green cows; the monster
of Fascism; but Mary whacking baby Jesu
on his bare ass, his halo toppled to the floor,
was best, a scandal in its day, still red hot.
What would Max and friends, though, Masters of Riot,
think of such reverential visitors?
Only a child’s complaint now and then broke through
the hushed tones usually reserved for worship.
Old story: yesterday’s rebels, today’s popes.
He “tried to make friends with New York." Me, too!
Back on the street, beyond surreal, the parade
of faces, human collage, more extreme than Dada.
Philip Dacey is the author of eight full-length books of poems, most recently The Mystery of Max Schmitt: Poems on the Life and Work of Thomas Eakins. He has been the recipient of three Pushcart Prizes, two NEA fellowships, and a Fulbright to Yugoslavia. In 2004, he moved from Minnesota to New York City. For additional information, visit his website: www.philipdacey.com.
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