Writing and painting have no difference
you wait on a blank canvas muse,
in the mud and slime, and an idea blows on by.
Maybe you catch it, maybe you don't ,
if you do suddenly the seed becomes
and then you are Stein in Paris,
Hemingway on a bender,
F. Scott Fitzgerald's tortured soul.
Corso's gasoline's wry pasta,
Ann Waldman's beat lips,
Frida's hallucinogenic mind.
Swimming with lonely catfish
in a gringo river.
I want to shake you out of my brain
but I can't .
Love is like a death watch
when things sour
And I know you dream of Frida
as she was
dreaming Diego's perfect
box of hummingbirds
that last moment before