9314. THE PAINTER WITH GREEN EYES

THE PAINTER WITH 

GREEN EYES

Can you take me down a peg,

or will you; or a notch. Just something

to let me know my head is too big

for my shirt, or, oh, you know the rest.

I'm sick of all this living, all this

dilletantish stuff, those people

twirling their spaghetti thinking

they're Luigis with linguinis.

With the pizza napkin tied around

their neck, with the maps of Italy

in vivid color. Barf. 'I can't even

sit down because I keep landing

on my manhood'  -  that's the way

these big doofs talk. Take me home,

country roads, to the place where I

belong. Oh no, please. I liked Rose

Madder better as a color than a girl.

-

It always bothered me that I was even

born  -  go figure that. What kind of

individual sensitivity would make

someone feel like that? There's no

alternative; it's absolute thinking and

leaves no room to squirm. Cadmium

Barium Yellow, Medium : can you

even believe that's a color? Go ahead,

go into Utrecht at 237 W23rd, you'll

see what I mean. Art supplies and 

rows of color. Oils with the weirdest

names. If someone dreamed up colors

I guess something could dream up me.

-

I find life too strange. Still wish I was

never born. Still wish I never saw a

windmill. Still wish I never met you :

darling doily dolly case, heart-stream

Long Island, Mezoaic Americaic, 

angel food cake and me and you.

Signed....the painter with green eyes.