DORCHESTER AND AERIE

43. DORCHESTER AND AERIE:

Isn't there room for me in your random dream ? can there be anything unsaid ? I walk along these pitter-patter streets where once Joan Mitchell walked paintbox cardbox stretcher bars and cloth and she was crying in her way just trying as wihtin every weathered surface she'd find something to make better and color and line and she'd stay late at places where the sad men cavorted drunk and talk back to them : 'stop it you cock-whacking infantile deadmen you all talk to much and all your infested imported daredevil dreams seem nothing now until you do them : Franz Kline the beast in his black and white dreams Hans Hoffman who jumps from his push/pull mantle all listening to the sounds of old Europe ripping itself to shreds piecing the shrieking past back together again as best as can be : blood-dramas and Armegeddon playlists in the backrooms of Dorchester and Aerie but for us here instead wicked 17th street dreams dying whimpers the flaccid hand and the dead embers of all these dying days : rouse up oh men of this new age ! your sons and your daughters shall all efface time and make everything disappear and your own disgruntled words shall make me sick!'