Impromptu

When I paint I do so quickly, not without care, but without purpose, except to apply paint to canvas. Because if I think too much there is paralysis, nothing created. Ever.

I do not try for something. It tries for me and then I wait. Wait to see whether or not I like what I have created. Sometimes yes. Sometimes no, as with triptych painted recently. Colors right. Images right. Bottom right corner wrong. I look and it bothers, though I didn't see until later. And creating first, painstakingly, would have produced nothing.

It is the same with writing. When I think to write, almost nothing. Overwrought. Overthought. That is why I like a blog. Less thinking, more writing.

A poem. Impromptu. For to sit, to see, to wait.



For a basket of cherries
will you love me
low and sweet
lip to lip
and
lung to lung?

To try for close means
brown thighs, bare
lovely in their ability
to noise the silence.

Real is as
drunken butterfly
kissing barfly into midnight
and
alighting
with iron feet.

Nostalgia,
violet, no n
the breath of sound to ear
loving low
coupling sweet--and w/o purpose.