Charcoal street two Print

My piece of colorful land doesn't make a difference between a dozing dream and an awakened reality. I squeal and echo into my own ears with a Robert Frostian voice, "Miles to go before I sleep." Walking tall from the bushes of his Jeff Jones' brush, the big Canon arrives awakening me with his feet, Across my flaming eyes, Mario Miranda and Franklin Booth fling zillions of black and white lines like a flooding multitude... Atop the flood, floating gracefully, with his croquil-edged spear, Sergio Toppe, always there to quell me... Look here, at the ends of Devid Downtown's brush, deep down its bluish cloudy silkiness, stay crouched that gentleman Dino Bataglia, and his pretty smile. Hidden at the curve of the smile, the poison-filled dust of his charcoal snow quakes me head to toe... When I was under the huge Bapu banyan, wide- opening my endlessly thirsty mouth, I remember the voices.... that were rousing the whirlwind of Carlos Giminez which cloaked me fully... And these guys whom I owned - Jack Davies, Mart Drucker, Mc Ginnis, bernie fuchs, Robert Hendell, Astn Brigs, Bob Peak, Tha, Noel Sikls- and several others with their hundreds and thousands of voices ...hurling pens, papers and brushes....chasing me ....scolding me...cursing me... Yes, I'm the cursed.