Hey. I read the biology book from
back to front and now I'm a monkey
again? That's the sort of thing I
cannot understand. Like a deKooning
wash on a threadbare piece of cloth,
what matters is one thing - first blue
eyes - and then the other. The crowd
still files in and pays to applaud. But.
No. Matter. I remember some of those
guy, with cigarettes and their booze,
standing around the Cedar, smoking
with their brawn. What's the sense of
being a painter, if all you can end up
doing are things like that. And, of
course, all those famous Hampton
scenes ending in death. Pollock, oh,
Jackson. Pissing into someone's
fireplace again? I ended up dancing
with David Hare. Well, well. Edith
Metzger. Springs-Fireplace Road.
How's it go? It doesn't. No.
Genuflect then on this, you little
wanton heathen girl. I was your
conscience and your shadow, but
it's all over now. I could have been
a superstar - painter, clown, and
more - but now I'm so dead tired
of this whole entire scene. Why
do we claw so harshly to climb
when the bottom's all we've got?
I can't even visit. I forget where
they laid your sacred body.