Sitting in a Gugenheim Museum one cannot but muse...

It's like being high, I say, looking at all that there fancy modern art; words just flow out of em and I'll be damned if I don't write a few of em down:

-Sometimes there's no greater pleasure than being the man pissing on the wall in the 'Rain' of Mark Chagall

-Who would not wait to die in the blue dream, Joan Miro?

-I, for one, will not eat up the pink crustacean dinner served by Kardinsky.

-You are a trez rare tableau sur la terre (Picabia).

-From the hand of Haviland to the Milano theater bill, a filled hourglass and deviled pastries carried by knights through the Solidarity of Fog. Whose unbalance carried thee motionless in territorial circumambience, and harried forward your life through a vast pink funnel? I was not there, I was not there to comfort, not there to comfort and support your wearied stumble, your untucked pleasures were retired without me. Too eager and you looked sadly upon your fingernails casting your deceit without remorse into the final dim gravities of fathomless objectivity.