4691. IN THAT OLD MAGAZINE

IN THAT OLD MAGAZINE

In that old magazine of time I was writing a

note  -  some blank page someone had left me;

describing a feeling, the roaming of an idea,

idle and haphazard. From where I was sitting  - 

on an old museum couch, watching people pass  - 

there was nothing more than the truth in every lost

person's eyes. Each was crying for love and perfection, 

and I really could offer both though I dare not do. Then

the matter ended itself  -  harshly enough as the guy for

the lecture stepped in. He asked me what my matter was,

and I said a game, he smiled back and then asked my name.

'Nothing more wild than that, I suppose.' was what I said to him.

And then I added, 'But you best call me Jim.' By then everyone

else was standing, some even thinking I was him. What a coarse

conundrum I'd started. I let the fellow get started at once.

-

We were talking some Minimal Art, some Heizer and Smithson
and Reiman and Arp. After a while though, it all gets so tiresome,
so dark, so weary, tendentious and vacant and loud  -  all just like
the art crowd; remember though, in that old magazine
of time I was writing a note.