I have given dignity back to the object…It’s existence was broken…It was going to have a miserable existence.
–Pierre Pinoncelli, arrested January 7, 2006
he is just
vieil homme in Paris—
all patchwork and paper-mache;
all voice and no teeth —
an old dissenter come to gape
at the fountain of avant-garde
that R. Mutt claimed,
fingering a museum map
like a lucky tarot card.
he wanders: a stray echo in an achromatic bubble—
spitting in the champagne,
saluting the green button in the elevator
for being green—
his wild giddy-ruddiness
mistaken for the passé trappings of insanity.
and maybe they laughed at first
when he unzipped his pants
or spit out their champagne
when he left his mark
on Duchamp’s throne,
but they never really saw
his ball-peen wielding glory
until someone screamed—
perhaps to usher
the new pieces at his feet
into the world.