by Ron Padgett
I’m just now reading this horrible book, The Burning Man by Stephen Longstreet. It’s a poor take-off on Picasso’s life without using his name. But I must finish it so as to add it to my list. It’ll make number forty-nine. Number forty-nine, and I could go on forever you know. The next will make fifty. I like round numbers.
What I like most about Boston, I live in Boston, is the air. The green bridge outside my window. The black church uptown or downtown. People are common-looking here. I’m sorry. (That they are common-looking.) The crime rate is high. And history is very important. (American.)
Next I will read (number fifty) Beowulf by Bryher. I’ve already finished an anthology of Best Russian Short Stories by lots of people. (Russians.)
What I like most of all are people. But I don’t know them very well. I hear them say things. I see them.
This June (soon) I’m having another one-man show at the Bartholic Gallery in Tulsa, Oklahoma. This will be number six. In Tulsa I like the air even better than I like the air in Boston. Most of all I remember Tulsa for the air and clean and sky. (Blue.) I remember my aunt’s, she lives in Tulsa, healthy teeth that have never touched chocolate. (He who eats fire farts sparks.) And I certainly do miss New York.
I remember green plants and white walls. My “studio.” All painters have white walls. They might have been dirty. I don’t know. But now they are white. I remember. Damn! (This sounds out of character.)
I remember Francine and Pat. Ted and Sandy and Ron and Johnny. Dick and Carol. Peter or Suzy. And Ella and Connie. Bill.
Connie is a real girl who writes letters in red ink. And uses a ruler so her lines are straight. Yet somehow she does it as much to your advantage as to her own. I am sorry I left you out of my character list.
I remember the Museum of Modern Art and coffee. Coffee I always drink black. It just doesn’t excite me with cream. I remember round white tables, trees, conversation, and Balzac.
Johnny and Dick, Peter and Ron, or Bill: they are boys. I remember their faces. I could say men. I could say more.
But a clear sky, that’s what is important. Especially nowadays in Boston where everyone owns a raincoat.
I don’t own a raincoat.
I look into the mirror often. Do you understand me? No. You know I live alone. Not that I mind. I have no choice. Or else I do have a choice. I talk to myself; but not out loud. The man next door does. We share the same bathroom, along with six other people. It is dirty. But it doesn’t seem unsanitary. He’s drunk most of the time. He gives me magazines. He curses at his radio. He didn’t make my character list. He vomits often. I can hear. And he makes a lot of noise going to the bathroom. I feel sorry for him and I wish I didn’t have to. I have no choice. And I don’t even know his name. But of course, of course you don’t understand me. And do you think I care?
Writing all about myself the way I am, you might not believe this, but it’s true: I hate myself. Say the word hate over and over and over until it sounds as mean as the word fuck said in the worst way by the worst person. Then you understand me. Hate. Say it once more. And again. You understand me now. For it’s true for now. Perhaps only for a moment. I don’t know. You see, I just don’t know. It’s not true of course. And besides I’m changing. I might have said growing, but it sounds funny. Developing sounds even worse. I’m twenty now and almost twenty-one. Almost of age. I’ve known for years I was a painter. I am a painter.
I don’t remember women very well. I don’t know them too well. It’s been two months. I see, as I remember, lots of soft with red lips. I don’t like the word skin. With little white teeth even though they might be big. Even though they might be yellow. But ivory sounds better. Should I go all the way and say they remind me of pearls? (Teeth.)
Yes, perhaps I remember Pat most of all. That’s just the way I am. I’ve painted her so many times. I did paint her once with green hair and red eyes and lots of other colors. Pat: small with nervous fingers and little feet. Little toes. Long black-brown hair. Once I made it green. I already said that. Once I made it blue. Sometimes maybe red. A pink hat. I’ve done it. I like colors. Pat really does have a black one (hat) that she never does wear. Big eyes which know too much to be twenty-four. Or twenty-three or twenty-five. But maybe they know too little. I won’t say I don’t know. Honest. Drinking coffee with cream and smoking a Kent in a too-yellow bright cafe (Pat) too late at night. With eyes that know too much. Or too little. Enough to be too much without knowing more? I won’t say I don’t but I honestly don’t know. Honest. And small red lips (I love red lips) which are very special for one reason or perhaps another. Sentimental? It’s more than possible. (But I can’t stop.) Big eyes she outlines in black like Liz Taylor (beautiful!) does. In the morning it’s hard to wake up with eyes that know too much and too little. Do you notice I changed the or to and? You understand. And her presence forces me not to say what I’d really like to say. You don’t understand. But perhaps she is smart for this. I’m getting in way too deep. She is good. This I know. For the Bible tells me so. Little ones to him belong. We are weak but he is strong. Yes Jesus loves me. Yes Jesus loves me. Yes Jesus loves me. The Bible tells me so. (A song.) I sent Pat one box of chocolate-covered cherries for Valentine’s Day.
It’s your own fault you know. If you understand me you’d know what I meant. “Therefore be bold,” I always say.
Sandy is good. Sandy is pregnant. Sandy gave me a goldfish for a red and green Christmas. I never took it home. Is home where the heart is? I painted her three times with glasses and bushy hair. Ted wrote on two of them. That’s just the way he is. And one had red shoes on. I like bushy hair. My hair is bushy. I like the way hair falls. I like the things hair does. I sent Sandy one box of chocolate-covered cherries for Valentine’s Day.
Ever seen a baby look at a newspaper upside down? It’s not really funny I guess. I’ve seen it in home movies. (In color.) It happens all the time. Mothers laugh at it. And fathers smile at it. But I like it. Babies are small. I’m glad Sandy is going to have a baby. So I quote:
He puts his grandpa’s glasses on,
Then imitates his frown,
And reads the paper backwards, while
He holds it upside down.
I like quotes. I like babies. I also like certain species of flying birds.
Ted is good. Ted is a poet. I am twenty years old. But you know I’m almost twenty-one. Ted is married to Sandy. Sometimes Ted has a beard. And sometimes Ted does not have a beard. I love good Ted. I hate good Ted. But you know I’m almost twenty-one. Which is not at all beside the point even though you may think so. That is to say that even though you may think it’s beside the point it isn’t really at all. (Beside the point.) The point is that I’m almost twenty-one. I never send Ted a box of chocolate-covered cherries on Valentine’s Day. And there is so much more to be said.
There is so little to be said. And my hands are tired and my fingernails are dirty. I still don’t have a typewriter. I don’t know how to type.
On February 14th, 1963, I got terrible sick upon eating three boxes of chocolate-covered cherries. But you wouldn’t understand. So on with the story:
THE STORY: (IN VERSE)
Sandy, (one)
Went out in the field to run.
Ted and Connie, (two)
Said they didn’t know what to do.
Pat, Johnny, and Bill, (three)
Said “Let us climb a tree.”
Francine, Carol, Dick, and Ron, (four)
Said “Let’s swing on the old barn door.”
(Peter, Ella, the man next door, Suzy, and I, we just all sat around watching. It’s not that we were party poopers, or anything like that. It just wasn’t our turn yet.)
THE END
I Like
A happy glory to sky!
Vitamin C I love you mornings
By night I absorb black
At twelve I eat Malto Milks
By the dawn’s early light it hails
Sometimes it rains
Architecture I didn’t understand
Pink
Once her white V of panties disappeared into the sea
I remember
The sea is naked by night
Wetter and darker and deeper
It is black
I don’t like it
(I throw my glasses into it quite often)
Last night I felt empty words and broken things
Ivory carvings never very white
Oriental rust water and fine arts festivals
Navels or novels?
Brown hair and liberty
I have hair
I am twenty-one
I read
And being twenty-one is all I know about
I don’t like this arrangement
This morning I see squares
Rectangles and circles
My room and the sun
Ivory and yellow
Water and cigarettes
Smoke and air
Blue
I like what smoke does in the air
I like the things yellow does on ivory
The way it dances rectangles
And squares for me
’Til noon
Then I’ve just myself
My mirror
Art
And movies magazines
I like movie magazines
I Like
I Joe
You lie
About pineapples
There are none under anywhere
I look
I see
I find only dirty tulips
Or orchid ribbons
Orange
With big black words
A royal sky:
It lets one see
And what a good thing a white shirt is!
Nice
Nice to see red by night
to know pink well
to understand yellow birds
to realize black and white
Terribly nice
Mirrors are
Nice
(Terribly)
To see by
To see by me
You
I love
I love Indians
pen points
Hungarian
plaster
sweetmeats
five
A nice number to love by
If feather pillows didn’t leak
Out onto green floors
Where normal shoes belong
With blue socks
With white stripes
And Boston newspapers
All about news
And things
I like
I like fried chicken
smashed ’taters
thickin’ gravy
not biscuits an’
chawklit pie wif
mushmeller toppin’
And I simply love horoscope!
(Crunch)
The sky is aflame!
Red
(A jet of anti-matter gas is exploding harmfully against the upper atmosphere)
But tomorrow is Tuesday
And I shall see the four seasons on one branch of pink trees displaying
Ivory lilies insisting
Upon white privacy
(Or they threaten not to root at all)
I, personally, vote for blue
And to hell with Easter
I prefer red and green
mother Christmas
black birds of passion
sunsets that consume
pink nuns and salty peanuts
and Renoir who bores me
But most of all I like shoe polish
And the big sun rises over Delhi . . . .
The People
And the mountains shall bring peace to the people.
—Psalm 72:3
Today I will uphold others with my prayers. Tomorrow I will let my light shine. And day after tomorrow I will help build the Kingdom of God. I never plan more than two days ahead. For in all actuality, tomorrow is another day. I am a painter. And what I want to do most of all is to tell you all about the people. I love them. First I’ll tell you a story about Mary Morey, and now my story’s begun, I’ll tell you another, about my brother. (“I just thought I’d add another crime to the family record by butchering my brother Jim with an axe in his bath!”) And now my story’s done. However, I’ve another one.
Once upon a time ago (many years) a little cock-sparrow sat on a tree looking as happy as could be. Why not? A little boy came (John David Anthony) along with his wee bow and arrow, and said he, “I shall shoot dead that little cock-sparrow!” “His beautiful body will make me a nice little stew, and his giblets will make me a little pie too.” But, “No, no, no!” said the sparrow, “I won’t make a stew.” And with a flap flap of the wings he flew flew flew. (Like fast in order to make Eggland on time ((six)) for a surprise ginger ale party for Wee Willie Winkie Pinkie upstairs and downstairs in his pink nightgown.) However, he didn’t make it. On his way he met this little man, and he had a little gun, and his bullets were made of lead, lead, lead. And he shot the little cock-sparrow through the middle of his wig, and knocked it right off his head, head, head. It was immediate death. However, reports have it that the ginger ale went flat and Wee Willie Winkie Pinkie was in a terribly bad mood. (Depressed.)
You know, we are all living in troubled times, when peace seems almost impossible. One bright spot, however, is the growing awareness among Christians each and everywhere that we all belong to one big family—the family of Jesus Christ. I would like to close with this thought for tomorrow: “The best way of knowing God is to frequent the company of his friends.” (Compliments of Rita F. Snowden.)
However, I’ve more to say. I had a little nut tree, and nothing would it bear, but a purple purple apple and a silver golden pear. It was really frustrating. I’ve always been terribly fond of nuts. Ginger snaps. And butter cakes are good. However, I’ve always felt terribly sorry for brown chocolate trying to be unusual.
You know, what I really like about people is how good they are to look at. And how, with just a something or another you can love someone far far too easily. And sometimes those things just happen. Once one misty moisty morning, when cloudy was the weather, I chanced to meet this old man, dressed up all in leather. He began to compliment, and I began to grin, How do you do?, and How do you do?, and How do you do again?
I’m fine. But you know, some people don’t like things. However, I do. I shall never forget from my seat in the Royal Albert Hall (London, England) artist and instrument seemed fused into one. Yehudi Menuhin stood before me that night playing Mendelssohn’s Concerto in E Minor. It was really good! Existence becomes true real life when it merges with the lives of others. (People.) As Bernard Shaw wrote once something to the effect that the very worst of sins is not to hate them but to be indifferent to them. As I do remember correctly he described such indifference as “the essence of inhumanity.” Which is a rock if ever I saw one. For, for every evil under the sun, there is a remedy, or there is none. If there be one, find it, if there be none, mind it. But most important of all: Love the people. I do.
P.S. Higher than a house, higher than a tree, oh, whatever ever can that possibly be? (Star.) Which reminds me of my recent short trip to Dalmatia. During my recent short trip to Dalmatia I enjoyed walking along the coast of the Adriatic Sea. It was a simply splendid evening. The moon sailed in the sky, and its light dispersed in thousands of pearls on the calm black surface of the sea. I’ve always loved black. And pearls excite me. However, I found the Adriatic to be rather large.
Andy Warhol: Andy Do It
As for Andy Warhol, yes, I do think so. As I said, Andy Warhol “dug deep.” (Perhaps without digging at all!) At any rate, like I said, Andy Warhol “lets” you know what he’s doing, but he doesn’t “tell.” If Andy Warhol “told” it would be telling about “what” he is doing. Or what he “did
.” Andy Warhol, he’s got “courage” and he’s got “ideas.” Andy Warhol I think has creative ideas. Andy Warhol doesn’t I don’t think do creative paintings. Andy Warhol might not even do paintings at all! For all I know Andy Warhol might not even have “ideas” at all, but for me Andy Warhol has “ideas.” Andy Warhol perhaps paints ideas, but if so, I sure do like the way his ideas look. Andy Warhol’s ideas look great! Andy Warhol paints Andy Warhols. And I like that.
I like Andy Warhol. I like Andy Warhol. I like Andy Warhol. I like Andy Warhol. I like Andy Warhol. I like Andy Warhol. I like Andy Warhol. I like Andy Warhol. I like Andy Warhol. I like Andy Warhol. I like Andy Warhol. I like Andy Warhol. I like Andy Warhol. I like Andy Warhol. And that is why I like Andy Warhol.
And “that” is important.
Plus
“The Grand Manner.” There is something of the “grand” in Andy Warhol. I like grand things.
And
“Spectacular.”
I find Andy Warhols to be spectacular, grand, clean, courageous, great to look at, and likeable. I like Andy Warhol. And there is more to be said. I like Andy Warhol.
Andy Warhol’s “paintings” have “presence.” Andy Warhol’s “paintings” have “face.” I like paintings that have “face” and “presence.” I would not like Andy Warhol’s “paintings” if they didn’t “have” face and presence.
Andy Warhol knows what he is doing. Andy Warhol “does it.” I like painters who “do it.” Andy do it.
Marge
There is an old saying that life is just a bowl of cherries, ripe for the picking and more delicious with each succulent mouthful. Right now I’d like to fart on whoever said that because it is one big giant lie. Life is many things, but it is not a bowl of cherries.
It all began that evening of May 29th: my 18th birthday. We were eating a bowl of cherries, Marge and I, on the front porch in the white swing. The cherries were beautiful, black-red, and inviting. It was a blue evening in May: Arabian blue. Not dark yet, really, but dark enough for the moon. It was a beautiful moon. Big and full and white. I never saw such a beautiful moon. It reminded me of a picture. It reminded Marge of a picture too. She said so. In a museum. Marge liked to draw. “Some day,” she said, “I’m going to be an artist.”