the color Blue

Blue used to be my favorite color. Since I have started to paint, it has shown itself as the most difficult color to work with. Blue is unmagical. It is just blue; there are no nuances, no extensions. Rarely do figures and faces appear in a blue painting. Just blue on paper and that is all. Very occasionally I get lucky with blue. The association of blue with money. Blue-chip stocks. Cool remote blue boardrooms, And with junk. Cool blue mineral clam. Perhaps blue is a quantitative color.

A blue picture I have just completed. I look for some meaning, some life. There is none. The blue paint even clogs the drain in the sink.

(from My Education, William S. Burroughs)


I know that your intelligence seeks some sort of fixity

I am sorry for not being able to offer that

My minds swirl and swirl into colours unknown to you

Simple life as we read in stories and poems are too far away

The reality of things are tightly tied into space and time

Creation beyond this fence is impossible

The only possible creation beyond this fence

Would be the poor poor love

Love who echoes lonelily

Love who walks still through my past and not by my future

Love who you meet in your dreams



Inside the Frame

hawli s

There is a box

In the box there is a language

In the language we bow

In the language we shake hands

In the language we wave hands

In the language we proclaim our love

In the language we make the invisible, visible

Sometimes this box is thrown in the gutter

Then we shout out loud to be heard

Sometimes this box is placed on the sharp point of the pyramid

Then we whisper not to get hurt

Sometimes this box has no language

Then we are very happy



morocco train

You errant soul will always stay in your bed

You are an intelligence wrapped in purple paper

I might not be able to talk with you

For you are so much better than I

I am changing endlessly

I am moving and then positing it

You will never lose anything

Because you never created anything

I have lost so much

I created too much


My Heart

My Heart I’m not going to cry all the time nor shall I laugh all the time, I don’t prefer one “strain” to another. I’d have the immediacy of a bad movie, not just a sleeper, but also the big, overproduced first-run kind. I want to be at least as alive as the vulgar. And if some aficionado of my mess says “That’s not like Frank!”, all to the good! I don’t wear brown and grey suits all the time, do I? No. I wear workshirts to the opera, often. I want my feet to be bare, I want my face to be shaven, and my heart– you can’t plan on the heart, but the better part of it, my poetry, is open. Frank O’Hara lourdes