John Ii - Poem by Morgan Michaels
Knowing it was, in liklihood, the start
of a life-long obsession, a collector's fate-
knowing the buyer would be back, better informed,
for the Horst, the Ritts, the George Platt Lynes.
I recall your immaculate white shirt
your spiffy hound's-tooth blazer,
your perfect features, gone to seed,
your carefully combed hair, your lop-sided smile;
Your trousers, sharply creased,
your loafers shined and heeled like new-
you looked like something out of Gianni Schicci.
How you loathed bitter American cultural isolationism.
You knew all the good restaurants in Chelsea
and some that were not so good;
your openings entwined the best of politics and esthetics;
you moved on only when the market dried up.
John, where ever you are I want you to know
death alone will part me from my Von Gloeden;
where ever you go I want you to know
death alone will part me from my Olive Cotton.
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