And Jesus said unto them,
see ye not all these things?
Verily I say unto you,
there shall not be left here
one stone upon another.
—Matthew 24:2
Leon could only do
a single thing. An impresario
when it came to
canvas. Spotting the genius
from 100,000 works.
Saying one day
he would curate
an exhibit. Screaming
from the summit
of the roof, sliding down its
shingles, landing on his
ass above the eaves.
He could only ever hold
a solo brush.
His hand that quaked in
aftershock. To the big
one moments before.
But in the end
it did not matter.
His ground a-strewn
with stones. Likened
to a Temple
razed by Romans.
The scattering
of the Jews.
He painted,
while he stood on his
head on a stool. Counting
one one-thousand, two
one-thousand…
Claimed the mountain
had been stroked
while underwater.
That holding his breath
for hours
was the only gift
he had. We knew that
there were others
up his sleeve,
rolled up to the elbow
like a scroll.
But then he’d lose
that special term by which
he thrived, among the sneakers
tied but once, with bows the size
of mesas,
the sinless Windsor
knot he always wore,
fashioned
by his father
back in 1996:
Savant
One who knew us
better than our-
selves:
ashes to ashes,
stardust to star-
dust, you’re only the
universe y’know
and when he finally
showed us the portrait
of his mother,
gone since ’89,
damn, we’d never seen
anything like it,
his palette of
black-to-gold, this orb
of amber brilliance,
blinding us like a
god behind the
bush, one who
balanced the world,
spinning like a
ball way back in
Harlem—a common
trope (that's true),
a-twirl upon her
finger like a top.
Andreas Gripp
February 21, 2025
RF Image
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