I am not a painter, I am a poet.
Why? I think I would rather
be a painter, but I am not. Well,
for instance, Mike Goldberg
is starting a painting. I drop in.
“Sit down and have a drink” he
says. I drink; we drink. I look
up. “You have SARDINES in it.”
“Yes, it needed something there.”
“Oh.” I go and the days go by
and I drop in again. The painting
is going on, and I go, and the days
go by. I drop in. The painting is
finished. “Where’s SARDINES?”
All that’s left is just
letters, “It was too much,” Mike says.
But me? One day I am thinking of
a color: orange. I write a line
about orange. Pretty soon it is a
whole page of words, not lines.
Then another page. There should be
so much more, not of orange, of
words, of how terrible orange is
and life. Days go by. It is even in
prose, I am a real poet. My poem
is finished and I haven’t mentioned
orange yet. It’s twelve poems, I call
it ORANGES. And one day in a gallery
I see Mike’s painting, called SARDINES.
go now, drink coffee and write well. the morning is half gone, gray, i have nothing to write, but push on anyway. i left my windows rolled down (on my soul) last night, it rained. ha. may is crumbling beneath my feet. the waitress smiles and is refreshingly honest about her sadness, one hair curled up lovely just behind her ear, it’s enough beauty for me. coffee, rye toast, each bite a savior. i think of america, all i have is my smile and you want that too? you don’t know happy. are you the reason for my sadness? shellac. pissing into a brown toilet, i wash my hands with luxury foaming hand cleaner. luxury foaming america. quote of the day, “nothing.” the sea is churning in the distance, craig looks up from his coffee, knows i’m thinking of him, then i remember poppies blooming along a chain link fence in the east bottoms. the ground fits right up against the sky, thunderstorms.