by
Charles Luden
As I imbibe and read, I think about all the stuff I've seen on these gallery walls. I want to go outside
and write a poem in the yard, but won't 'cause I'm here now and the walls are nearly bare. Only two
pieces hang in opposite alcoves, each a copy of a stolen painting. The big space between is for
meditation on what's missing, what's here. That's about it, some think. Then a woman walks in and
lies on the floor face up. Dark neck length hair, grey spaghetti strap top with burgundy accents.
Black slacks. In her left hand a wax apple; in her right an ankh. This changes the feel here, though I
remain in constant rapture. Now I want to write poetry here. Calmness bouncing.
Dakota. Mr. Luden recently appeared at the Sioux Falls Jazz & Blues Festival, in July 2006, reading poetry with
the jazz group Kind of Blue.
