Offering For Picasso

This poem is for Picasso who didn't have hair and looked like cheese. He divided up the bodies of people and a new form of art was born in the world. A circle of yellow became the sun a rainbow sprouted in an intestine exposed, a lost bicycle when pounded and earrings thrown let grow in the world to a thousand green beans: Now that he's gone Picasso, what machine would keep order in our dreams? What charm would vaccinate against the blood of war and abandonment so that the tattered world would again be beautiful?