I have a fan crush on young Vincent D’Onofrio.  As I lay in bed tonight, I finally realized why.  He reminds me of an old flame.  Something about the tall body type, the surrounding air of intense creative energy. 

Ed was an artist.  Well, he still is, since he is still alive.  Lives in Bangor Maine and still teaches art. D’Onofrio no longer looks anything like the young man he once was, although I still watch the old “Criminal Intent” reruns from decades ago, in which he plays Detective Robert Goren.

One summer weekend, Ed and I drove out to Boston. We stayed at Copley Square and roamed the surrounding streets of Boston, meandering galleries and shop windows, never at a loss for conversation and delight.

That night, as we prepared for sleep, he asked me to get up and pose, with my arms out, in the light from the window. He pondered the pose for a minute, and that was it.

So, when I saw this painting on his website, I wondered if that image of me stuck somewhere in his subconscious and wound up in this painting.

Probably not, but I can fantasize, can’t I?

If you’ve the mind to, check out the paintings on his website.  His spirituality (he’s an ex-priest) comes out in his paintings, capturing the very essences of his subjects.  His paintings are full of the kind of beauty and energy with which he lives.

Here are two poems that resulted from that weekend in Boston.

Stone Cold Demon

I hear the silent scream
of the demon in the shop
on Newbury Street,
teeth bared, hunkering in
some primal isolation.
I want to hold him to my heart,
warm the stone that molds him
in his place, sing him
soft with lullabies
and promises I will keep.

I taste his fear in the tears
that mark my cheek.
“Love me, love me!” he cries.
“Love!”
“Me!

Pan Makes a Personal Appearance

To think it was you I summoned!
All those incantations,
those spells dispatched
to shift the stars, returned
as this immortal face,
this ancient tale.

To think the gods still answer prayers!
Make bright, deft-handed landings
right before my eyes,
fall haloed and goat-footed
deep into my mark,
breathing mischief and mayhem,
and bold bewildering dreams.

Angel, satyr, shepherd,
your music stirs the skin.
Play your syrinx now
for me, my kin.
We will dance, dance
to your tune.