Seaborn was an eccentric poet and a friend of mine. Over the years I produced many prints, broadsheets and books of his poems. For his book Conjurer’s Juice I had him call me and read the poem to my voicemail to make sure I broke it up the way he intended. I kept that recording for years after his death until I accidently erased it. Dumbass Craig! Here is his poem The Red Horse about Marc Chagall, Seaborn’s hero. Also some photos of some of the prints I produced with his work.
The Red Horse
When the woman in the museum
looked at the Chagall, she said,
“But what does it mean?
I don’t like art where the artist hides the meaning.”
Flying fish, man with goat’s head
offering a bouquet of fireworks
to an upside down bride.
Once I was pulled over by the police;
I had laryngitis and all I could do
was make a sound like a cross between
a goose and a fog-horn.
When I tried to write a note
explaining my condition, I realized
I couldn’t spell laryngitis
and handed them a piece of paper that said,
“I have Larry.”
They passed it back and forth
saying, “What does he mean;
what does it mean?”
Maybe I should have handed them
a drawing of a violinist with no head.
Or like the clerk in the store
when I asked the time, responded,
“I don’t know; I’m just hired help.”
Then presented me with a peacock feather.
What does it mean?
Maybe there’s a way to tell time
by peacock feathers. Something buried
in the mythology of hired help.
Circle of children
pointing feathers toward the moon.
I feel about the woman in the museum
the way she feels about Chagall:
what does she mean
what does he mean?
The peacock spreads his fan of fireworks.
It is time.
Man and Dog Press 
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