Peter Krok The Garden of Earthly Delights My mind was on something else, I left it at the Boston Market. Left an art book at the table, a book of Bosch, Hieronymus Bosch. Imagine the brooding figure of  Bosch rising out of the pages and standing on the linoleum at the Boston Market. As his puzzled eyes stare at patrons, he asks, Was Garten ist das? Wo bin Ich? An attendant cleaning the tables repeats, "This ain't real, man. This just ain't real." The lady at the register yells, "What'll ya have!" and whispers to the nearby server, "Who's this guy anyway? It's not Halloween. Is he kidding? Who's he kidding?" Bosch stares at the counter, shakes his head, and repeats, Was Garten ist das? Wo bin Ich? A lady behind the counter scoops some sweet potatoes, string beans, cornbread and half a roasted chicken. To avoid the stranger patrons move aside. Bosch lifts his easel across his shoulder and walks out with palette and brushes. Overhead winged beasts fly. Metal creatures roar along the black top. Mumbling to himself, Bosch strides along the Boulevard across continents . . . . Imagine Hieronymus at his easel listening to the news and watching the headlines. What signs does he find in the hills? Who is the tree-man and rat in the mouth of the two-legged beast? What butcher's knife cuts the ears? What worms the human skin     -- the mad scrimmage of appetite and violence, the marks of the fool's craving and neglect. My mind is on something else.

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