WHOEVER THOUGHT?
Sunlight was streaming; the old loft
windows sagged. A girl in the corner
was writing her notes. She said they
were memoirs, but they didn't seem
that at all - words of praise and lines
of solace. I never took to purple ink.
-
Out on the center floor, Jason Jempsin
was throwing paint; his ideas of an
abstract art made me sick - it was
more like accident than anything.
-
But, what was 1970 about if not for
junk? Everything else seemed stupid.
so why not painting as well. Corn
Flakes and Cap'n Crunch? Walter
Cronkite going on and on. Reading
condensed books and monthly sends
from the Literary Heritage Society?
-
Whoever thought any of this crap up?
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