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poem about bert leveille

THE SELLING OF bert leveille

“... We have thoughts, sir.
They are thoughts that have no words.
They leap in our minds;
They dance; and these paintings
are remembrances of that.
These paintings, sir, are thoughts
come to life.
They breathe, they dance, just
like they do in your head. ...” – by J. Belland

You Sir.
Yes, I said you.
I saw you walking this way and I said
"There's the man...he's the one!"
Step this way, towards the card table and easel,
I have something you want to see.
Don't look too hard, but there is an artist over there;
She's surrounded by family and friends.
She's the one there, the one with
the quick smile
and the dancer's legs.
She made what you see here.
She made it all.
You see this teacup? It has things (forms we call them)
emerging to sort of replace the handle.
You understand.
And you know the cup collection of your Aunt's?
Need I say more?
Or you could use it yourself.
It would stimulate more than caffeine.
It would freshen up your morning.
And I have T-shirts here.
And they are remarkable.
It is art that you can wear, sir. You...
or someone you love.
Rembrandt did not paint T-shirts, sir...
but Valezquez certainly did.
And Rembrandt was not Bert Leveille.
And now, sir, the paintings...
We have thoughts, sir.
They are thoughts that have no words.
They leap in our minds;
They dance; and these paintings
are remembrances of that.
These paintings, sir, are thoughts
come to life.
They breathe, they dance, just
like they do in your head.
To have one of these on your wall
is to live that internal life.
Talent, sir?
Talent is when someone comes along
who can put it on paper.
Where does that skill emanate from?
I just don't know...
and so the mystery deepens.
Take these notecards.
You can not only send a note with these, sir.
You can send mystery.
You can put it in an envelope.
Aut Minnie? The one with the bank stock
and the old car? Perhaps she could
use some mystery come to her
in the mail.
I saw you walking this way, sir
and I picked you out.
I sense that you know some things;
About how life fades,
and passion;
and how the days can march by,
unchecked, unloved,
And I sense you've heard the song
of the caged bird, singing.
Well, sir, you may have this day.
This sunny day, sir, you may own forever.
Put it under glass.
Wear it.
Mail it.
It is yours to purchase
with nothing more than dollars.
Death is at our elbows, sir
you know this.
We are waist deep already in our own death.
Protect the day, sir.
Buy something.

– by J. Belland

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