The Juice Bar is on Summer Hiatus!

Fruit

Thank you all for your devotion & juicy contributions!

L.K. Thayer is in a play called “O’Neill’s Ghosts”

Rehearsals start today for a September 5th opening!

(See previous post for info)

Too much is happening for me to split my focus

so I bid you a sensous summer and see you

this Fall!!  xoxo

– L.K. Thayer

fruit for thought…

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“If we spend the time we waste in sighing

for the perfect golden fruit

in fulfilling the conditions of its growth,
happiness will come, must come.
It is guaranteed in the very laws of the universe.
If it involves some chastening and renunciation, well,
the fruit will be all the sweeter for this touch of holiness.”

– Helen Keller

Mitch Hicks – U.K.

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“Canary Not Contrary”

was that a canary that flew by

no silly that was mad march

a yellow month of daffs then

more cash for the city wankers

oh i meant bankers

mothers day, st patricks day

how about coffee for the canary

they dont wharf  down coffee only dogs wharf

oh thats where boats unload then.. is that near barking

can i unload there?

Poem & snaps by Mitch Hicks

Frank O’Hara

orange photo: oranges oranges.jpg

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.