Keith Haring, you, as one of Warhol’s final disciples,
Blew translucent amorphous bubbles with a tiny plastic wand, spreading warm fuzzy pop art,
And muscle car caricatures fluffed into marshmallows.
D.j. scratching, beat box NYC
Your pulse, your kingdom, your harem.
Latin boys lined up wanting to model for you-
are not that kind of artist. Graffiti, urban art form of the dispossessed, denied,
disenfranchised. Bareback alleyways, gritty sideways glances and groping, always the groping
Never enough, never too much, just like your art. Broadly drawn monochromatic shapes, with fists pumping, “Power to the People!” Or, faceless pastel colored, bodies like cooked rigatoni whose appendages and torsos flow one into the other
Probing and prodding every exposed surface or orifice or contour.
You didn’t just devour!
Tempera and acrylic cartoons conveyed your vision of
Comedy, tragedy and all was love, Madonna and
Silence did equal death.
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