standing in
slush.
busy street
corner.
closed café.
heavy traffic.
a tense
trench coat.
a fist full
of roses.
tight
fingers.
drops of red
on
dirty white
snow.
giving beauty;
getting pain.
ignored.
people pushing
past
going somewhere/nowhere.
Okay, I’m experimenting.
Thinking of William Carlos Williams.
Using images and minimalism.
Accenting end-stops with periods.
Thinking of Hart Crane and his “Thomas A. Ediford” line. Misusing grammar to say something,--not new--but else. Else what? Just else.
The poet--artist on a snowy, slushy street corner like a little match
girl—giving roses that no one takes—desperation squeezing his hand on the
thorns—“giving beauty, getting pain” We
are not here to sell. We are not here to
make a buck. We are here to love. We are here to shed light and beauty. We are here to create wonders and miracles. This is the essence of my subversive thoughts:
the love of money is not love at all. It
is animal drive. But I say, we are
gods. We must shed the animal. Gibran said: “work is love made manifest.” But we have said, “work is money and we are
beasts, and we place a market value on our work.” We have sold ourselves for cheep. I will offer roses till I bleed--and do not
think that because I give them freely that they are worthless. I am on the road to Shangri-la. Where is Shangri-la? It is in the heart. It is like a seed in the heart. I am the garden of Shangri-la. And when I die the seed will grow and in that place
the roses will bloom. The poets and
artists will pick them and stand on cold street corners saying, here, take
them, they are free come and take the roses of Shangri-la
