Mina Loy, I Love You

Right. There. Blue jeans.

Burp. Bubble noise with the mouth.

No, first bubble noise with the mouth.

Then burp.

Explosive exhalations

While staring at the paintings.

And another set.

The dog’s elbow drumming out triplets on the wood porch.

Smell of cigarettes.

Smell of paint.

Blue jeans

Workman’s blue jeans

Plaid shirt.

Crocs

Belly

Shaggy hair

As in Scooby Doo

Writer

Seated

Moleskin journal and matte black Space Pen.

Silenced “Hurt” on headphones tucked into the neck of a black t shirt

The t shirt says, “Brooklyn Barbell Club”

The bumped stool rocks

And mimics

The sound of the dog’s drumming

When bumped by the distracted painter

Distracted by his painting

Distracted by his work

More sighs

Back up

Stare

Heavy smell of cigarettes

But no visual evidence

Perhaps it’s this chair

All these people I don’t know.

Future paintings.

Do the Libertarians like me?

Do the Communists?

Is anyone going to sack up and kill me?

Will Adam?

Eventually?

When I’m done?

Will he hire it done?

Mina Loy, I love you.

I’ll take the boat

You take the train.

Bird noises and the breeze

Through the trees

It’s Birmingham after all

Cars on the street

In front of

The main house

When these houses were built

Only white people lived here

What if I stayed home

And painted with my pen?

What if I stayed home and turned America Junction into an artists’ colony?
Aren’t there better location choices?

Aw, what does it matter?

We’ll all be dead soon anyway.

Don’t be such a pessimist.

Soon he will go and dance for four days in the sun and pierce to the tree

There’s paintings all around.

Iraq is falling to ISIS

I like to watch Cody paint

Smell of cigarettes

And paint

Mina Loy, I love you

Pollock too

Hemingway, not so much

Can you read?

Reading isn’t easy for me.

I sneak a picture or two.
This morning before I left the house I–

To hopefully prophylactically remove at least the physical need

Some bookstores don’t have books

Alabamians don’t read anymore.

How can I be this tired

So early in the–

“There’s a wasp.”

“It’s a fly. I just saw it.”

(The writer points at the fly.)

(The fly, not wanting to be seen or pointed at or talked about, exits through the open door.)

“Oh. Sometimes there’s a wasp in here.”

Another flying insect makes interesting music

Inside the large

Plastic garbage can

To my left.

A 30 galloner

Buzz buzz fwap!

Buzz buzz crash.

Struggle struggle buzz.

Silence.

My turn to sigh.

Fart.

Dog? Or painter?

The leaves awaken in a fresh breeze,

Fall quickly back to sleep.

The ancient terrier,

A ringer for Toto in his dotage

Decides to go out onto the porch.

Something on the paintbrush stand makes a noise.
With no one standing near it.

Out of time.

Out of ideas.

See y’all tomorrow