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" be
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 ORANCES. And one day in a
gallery
I see Mike's painting, called SARDINES.
Music
Poem (Lana Turner has collapsed!)
Meditations in an Emergency
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