Writing and painting have no difference,
You wait on your blank canvas muse,
In the mud and slime, an idea blows 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, Italian pasta,
Ann Waldeman’s beat on lips,
Frida’s hallucinogenic mind,
Poole’s brilliant ginger….
Dreaming Diego’s perfect
Box of hummingbirds.