Picasso Van Gogh

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