Wednesday, July 18, 2018

Ken Trimble # 38 Dreaming Mexico Dreaming Frida

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
the flower,

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
the fire.

No comments:

Post a Comment

Note: Only a member of this blog may post a comment.