and Monks and Bishops
and Prophets and Drunkards
and Prostitutes and Addicts
and She-Males and Roller Bladers
and Stroller Mothers and Old men with canes
and Fragrance Vendors ... has come.
It is like a scroll.
The art is like one infinite scroll.
With burned edges.
With oils and inks in and atop its surface.
Partially moth-eaten.
Like an old woman's skin, it is.
Figures. Yes. People. Yes.
Human Beings. Yes. Faces. Yes.
Limbs. Yes. Nose Hairs. Yes.
Greasy Hair. Yes. Broken Bones. Yes.
Crutches. Yes.
Fungus underneath the toes. Yes.
Poppy Seeds in the teeth. Yes.
Woman on a man's lap. Yes.
Baby in a carriage. Yes.
Father in a daze. Yes.
Mother in a mind maze. Yes.
Father and Mother hold each other. Yes. Father and Mother curse each other. Yes.
Father and Mother kiss. Yes.
Father and Mother sweat. Yes.
Father and Mother love. Yes.
Mockers and Scorners. Yes.
Drunkards fallen on the tracks. Yes.
Strangers leaping to save them. Yes.
Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes.
Yes ... terday is today and it is Yes.
Tomorrow is a secret ... sshhh ...
Walk slow, like up the Andes Mountains
or the Volcanoes of Mexico,
Walk until thy feet are no longer feet,
but some sort of a palm lifting them,
And one can sleep as they walk,
Sleep and dream and seem so keen.
« return.