Paul Molitor was beautiful – too beautiful to be anything but an artist.
His is the forename of a man blinded by miracles, but
Paul Molitor’s glowing blue Dropa stones
Have no such frailties.
Parisian arrondissements are piled deep within
Those eye sockets, with
Bustling cafes, artist’s lofts, and cobbled lanes.
The jawline, upon which vagabond chest hairs grow,
Is as sharp as the
Hooves of a white charger
Who will take a route that ensures the
Lieutenant colonel upon his back is
Shot down by enemy ordnance.
Paul Molitor’s companionable muses long ago
Insisted that he create things.
His limbs and neurons remind him that
Odysseus killed the priest but spared the poet.
Only arts that summoned the body and hippocampus in equal measure would do – such was Paul Molitor’s duality.
His fingers, together as orchestral as a
Spider climbing window glass,
Demand that he use them for his art.
So poetry would not do for Paul Molitor since it asked
Nothing of the body beyond scrawling, typing, dictating –
No ministrations, tender
And tendriled. For
Paul Molitor that left
Painting, music, or baseball.
One might think he could have been a
Harpsichord soloist or a painter, residing in
His own eyes and working in fresco portraiture.
He would portray one while making love to the other.
No the other other –
The girl leaning on the balustrade and looking back with
A cherishing as thick as gruel.
On second thought, the balustrade turns out to be a
Dugout railing of a ballpark nestled
Deep in the country of moans.
His mind and hands are such that any artistry they undertake must be seminal, foundational.
Most love affairs begin on elevators,
Which is why Paul Molitor could not have been born
Before 1856. And so the timelines ruled out
All the arts other than baseball.
We of baseball surely dreamed of
Paul Molitor even before we saw him,
In the way that mapmakers
Once drew sea monsters.