Sta.sh
| go ask alice she was like the fire searing moments of electricity carried in her purse notes of the underground writing scribbles in between the pages, she knew the names of everyone she ever met making small paintings on paper swirling kaleidoscopes of thoughts and passion the day always dimmed when she left, she took her heart on the road met strangers left donations sat quietly on park benches watching the days go slowly by, very late in the day she often thought she was Alice loved to say "go feed your head," loved to walk alone in the forest bringing back small animal skulls she found along the way, left the bones in her yard to bleach in the sun drank Absinthe and sugar cubes with a straw smoked Cubans and blew smoke rings out into the fog Someone asked what it was like, I said, "Think Marcell Duchamp and Willem DeKooning and then slide back in your chair and read some Charles Bukowski while listening to Dylan's Highway 61 Revisited. Mix in a blender and add ice and mint and relax. Time will go by like you will never know. painting is like hand stuffing a mattress Franz Kline Check this other site out.....cartoons and comix and ink drawings and lost aspirations of the lost generation......The Zap guys got me for awhiles. [link] |
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