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
“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
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
so much more, not of orange, of
words, of how terrible orange is
and life. Days go by. It is even
prose, I am a real poet. My poem
is finished and I haven’t
orange yet. It’s twelve poems, I
it ORANGES. And one day in a
I see Mike’s painting, called
thanks everybody ! stay tuned.
thursday october 31, 2019