just to lay alive in the cemetery sun

on ground, shoulders and head bent back

against  an obelisk of hot black marble

(like a salamander sunning on a rock)

accepting the drunken incoming solarization as truth

justice and the american

never-way of nothing ever

(it’s gone in but a blink of the eye) -

i dream of all the undreamt

but realize for myself

that the only possible undream ever

is never making love to you.

~a part of yesterday~

Paint is no more than its pigment: colored dirt.

In my heyday, I could paint 40 feet up at the very last rung of a ladder while simultaneously swinging two 4-inch brushes, slapping and knocking out boards with ferociously speedy abandon, all the while bracing myself by only pressing my thighs against the outer ladder frame.  I felt like a 'dirt conductor' of a great pigment orchestra back then.  But it was hard on the brushes: they wore out before their time.

What the hell is a 'heyday' anyway?  Such notions seem well beyond re-comprehension,  though maybe it's just my mood.  Today, I'd rather wander into a certain little farming community, find a barn, and have a hayday...with a friend.