• Vol. 04
  • Chapter 01
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La galería d’arte

Nobody touches dirty, poor people. Especially, when you have ragged clothes on and you stink three meters away. I was a poet on the streets of California. Poets aren't welcome here as one oughta know. Screenwriting would be a much more rational choice. But, here I am on the streets of Los Angeles trying to write poems amidst databases nearby. Dadaist poets have been appropriated by Silicon Valley. Creating a jumble of words doesn't require humans anymore.

Reading John Fante's Ask the Dust and Bukowski early in age I romanticized poverty for too long like Ross Macdonald's Anthony Galton (at least how his mother described him) only that I had no inheritance.

Last month my friend opened an art gallery. I am told he gets by fine with the sales commission. They displayed gloves this week by an artist from New York. The artist was what one calls a 'conceptual artist' nowadays. He brought in a ton of gloves and wanted help from my friend to color them in different colors. He paid me $150 for a few hours of work.

Taking the money from the hands of the artist with a glove I decided I shall never touch another human being again without a glove. The hand that touches the keyboard, the brush and the pen need not touch a fellow human being. In this city of angels, one doesn't live for humans.