DORCHESTER AND AERIE:
(the art world, nyc, 1946)
Isn't there room for me in your random dream?
Can there be anything unsaid ? I walk along these
pitter-patter streets where once Joan Mitchell walked -
paintbox cardbox stretcher bars and cloth - and she was
crying, in her way just trying, as within every weathered
surface she'd find something to make better and color
and line and she'd stay late at places where the sad men
cavorted drunk and talk back to them : 'stop it you
cock-whacking infantile deadmen you all talk too much
and all your infested imported daredevil dreams seem
nothing now until you do them' : Franz Kline the beast in
his black and white dreams; Hans Hoffman who jumps
from his push/pull mantle all listening to the sounds of old
Europe ripping itself to shreds piecing the shrieking past
back together again as best as can be : blood-dramas and
Armegeddon playlists in the backrooms of Dorchester and
Aerie but for us here instead wicked 17th street dreams,
dying whimpers, the flaccid hand and the dead embers of
all these dying days : rouse up oh men of this new age !
your sons and your daughters shall all efface time and
make everything disappear and your own disgruntled
words shall make me sick!'
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