Posts tagged Lit

stop pretending I haven’t always been the match.
[tyler knott gregson | typewriter Series #291]

stop pretending I haven’t always been
the match.

[tyler knott gregson | typewriter Series #291]

tyler knott gregson | typewriter series #229

tyler knott gregson | typewriter series #229

the problem, of course, isn’t the Democratic System,
it’s the
living parts which make up the Democratic System.
the next person you pass on the street,
multiply
him or
her by
3 or 4 or 30 or 40 million
and you will know
immediately
why things remain non-functional
for most of
us.

I wish I had a cure for the chess pieces
we call Humanity…
we’ve undergone any number of political
cures

and we all remain
foolish enough to hope
that the one on the way
NOW
will cure almost
everything.

fellow citizens,
the problem never was the Democratic
System, the problem is

you.

charles bukowski
tyler knott gregson | typewriter series #181

tyler knott gregson | typewriter series #181

tyler knott gregson | typewriter series #171
[all I am is pulsing for all we just were.]

tyler knott gregson | typewriter series #171

[all I am is pulsing for all we just were.]

tyler knott gregson | typewriter series #145, part 1

tyler knott gregson | typewriter series #145, part 1

tyler knott gregson | typewriter series #118
[I would be lying if I said there were not times that I am an earthquake inside this skin.]

tyler knott gregson | typewriter series #118

[I would be lying if I said there were not times that I am an earthquake inside this skin.]

10 plays

Frank O’Hara | Why I Am Not a Painter


I am not a painter, I am a poet.
Why? I think I would rather be
a painter, but I am not. Well,

for instance, Mike Goldberg
is starting a painting. I drop in.
“Sit down and have a drink” he
says. I drink; we drink. I look
up. “You have SARDINES in it.”
“Yes, it needed something there.”
“Oh.” I go and the days go by
and I drop in again. The painting
is going on, and I go, and the days
go by. I drop in. The painting is
finished. “Where’s SARDINES?”
All that’s left is just
letters, “It was too much,” Mike says.

But me? One day I am thinking of
a color: orange. I write a line
about orange. Pretty soon it is a
whole page of words, not lines.
Then another page. There should be
so much more, not of orange, of
words, of how terrible orange is
and life. Days go by. It is even in
prose, I am a real poet. My poem
is finished and I haven’t mentioned
orange yet. It’s twelve poems, I call
it ORANGES. And one day in a gallery
I see Mike’s painting, called SARDINES.