Make Room for DADA

and baby says:
"dada"
making room for Dada and the
art in all we see....
words tumble across the
canvas

out of an ageless
Europe Dada erupts onto
the page, the spillage
of somersaulting
texts, the clipped eyes, the
fragmentary pasted back
together into a new whole,
wholly itself and no other,
disjointed limbs, the
uncanny mechanics holding it all
somehow, a new coherence
for a new age aborning, the ships
leaving the ports for the Americas
pulsate with a new vigor, the

father shocking his conventional
son across the pond, himself a bastard
child left, wrapped in a broadsheet manifesto,
at the door of the academy, the clicking
of their tongues a chorus
of insects in his ear, deafening in their
censure

and I say again:
now and for all time--
let there be art for all
let loose the floodgates of art
and for all to embrace
their art as they do a lover
leaving on a train,
breathing in their essence
until they are filled, entire