The day is nice,
today is a light cool mist over everything after weeks of ninety
degrees. The coffee is good and strong. I'm sprawled out on the
kitchen table with pen and paraphernalia. When I was first married my
wife always made sure where ever we lived there was a room for my
desk. It was great; a room, a desk, a typewriter and all my books.
But as time went on and she and I got farther apart the desk seemed
to get lost along the way as we moved and the place got smaller and
smaller my room became less and less of a priority no longer, like
myself, a necessity. However I did find a substitute for my desk, a
most convenient and logical solution - a place to sprawl out and be
close to the coffee pot a place generally as far as possible from
sleeping children and angry women and even today when I have no
typewriter, no home, no wife, I still have a little quiet and
solitude here at this long inspiration of kitchen table.
It's nice and
cool but I would like some sunlight, sunshine like yesterday, the
girl dancing and laughing and I rubbed her sore muscles putting her
to sleep in the ragged summer grass there by the stream you can still
drink from. Maureen, the way your hair shines golden, the way you
wore that yellow tied at the waist shirt - I want to buy you a gold
medallion of the sun, little girl I want to lay you out in ninety
degrees of heat and fuck you till we melt. Maureen in the sun quiet,
cynical, tired, your legs are strong I thought you were nervous but
you fell asleep as I worked the tight muscles of your legs yielding
up the cheeks of you ass, a long sleek back up around sore shoulders
the white ivory neck kissed between the space of blonde laying in the
grass my hands unable to stop...
Then there is
Maureen in evening laughter,
Restless martial
arts forms against the stars
Stoned as shit
on some hashish she bought
To see her now,
happy, care free, no self put downs,
Golden lady I
like to be here...
Maureen your
skin is magic,
The night has
been beautiful for us
The moonless
stars are animals I want to travel among
While your
desire is to keep both feet on firm earth
Dancing in the
dark I hate to leave you –
All night my
fingers shake in their sleep as if I had ten penises each dreaming of
your cunt all at once.
Now is eleven
a.m. someday July 1980 and the sun struggles with the overcast and
I'm still being here at the kitchen table. My son will be four in
November. I want to teach him to paint, to play the piano, to live...
Daydream: To be
a successful artist so I can have a house where my son can come spend
summer. A house with gardens of wild flowers, roses, peppers, onions
and tomatoes, a house of tall windows and open empty rooms.
Question:
Doesn't every artist want to be Picasso and every writer Henry
Miller?
Answer: (fill in
to the best of your ability. you may use the other side of the page
if you need to.)
______________________________________________
Question:
Doesn't loving to create...?
Loving to
create, to tears, painfully loving to create. To complete, to create,
to live off ones work as if it were food, each painting a mouth full,
every sentence something to chew. As I write I must stop too full to
take another word, as I paint I must stop lay down and digest, until
such time as ravenous with hunger I must begin one or the other once
again. Lick the canvasses, suck the colour straight from the tube,
chew the smudged papers and sip from squeezed ink pens... It gets me
horny to think about. Cigarette moth’s geranium spider web sun grey
morning bright with afternoon walking.
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