Draw a scene. Draw the statue of Frank Wilma.
15.
Daylight. Buses. Electric cables. Daylight is weird.
Somewhere Frank Wilma is scratching out his new poems. I didn’t mention that at Donut Land — Little lines about everything that look like one thing. Aztec treasures, life sources, hidden notes. His life, many lives ago — in an ancient manuscript hidden at National Museum of Anthropology in Mexico City. Victrolas’ long suffering phrases bent over his tiny Apple Computer, Apt. #2. Heidegger, Aleixandre and the Chinese classics by his side. Gato, melancholy and groovy, romantic and painting human scenes on the streets and the writing with the touch of a Tango singer, like Gardel, alone, wearing a cinnamon-colored fedora, long coats of Argentina. Jack, black cup of coffee, jeans and a red shirt, inky instruments of Revolution. Open window to a melting, multi-colored scream screeching and smearing by Chinatown and up, up Broadway.
Frank, Frank, Frank!
I miss you Frank Wilma. One day your poems will come blazing back from the sky. A few blocks from Capp Street, there will be a statue of you on 24th and Mission Street next to café La Boheme. Back on 22nd, I’ll be waiting for you in Donut Land.
— Johnni Capp Street.
Juan Felipe Herrera
Donut Land, Mission District, SF
Open All Night.
Fresno Writers dot com 