A Bucket of Blood

I will talk to you of art,

for there is nothing else to talk about,

for there is nothing else.

Life is an obscure hobo,

bumming a ride on the omnibus of art.

Burn gas buggies.

And whip your sour cream of circumstance and hope,

and go ahead and sleep your bloody heads off.

Creation is.

All else is not.

What is not creation is graham crackers.

Let it all crumble to feed the creator.

The artist is.

All others are not.

A canvas is a canvas or a painting.

A rock is a rock or a statue.

A sound is a sound.

Or is music.

A creature is a creature or an artist.

Where are John, Joe, Jake, Jim, Jerk?

Dead.

Dead.

Dead.

They were not born.

Before they were born, they were not born.

Where are Leonardo, Rembrandt, Ludwig?

Alive.

Alive.

Alive.

They were born.

Bring on the multitude with a multitude of fishes.

Feed them to the fishes for liver oil.

To nourish the artist.

Stretch their skins upon an easel.

To give him canvas.

Crush their bones into a paste.

That he might mold them.

Let them die.

And by their miserable deaths

become the clay within his hands

that he might form an ashtray or an ark.

For all that is comes through the eye of the artist.

The rest are blind fish swimming in the cave of aloneness.

Swim on, you maudlin, muddling, maddened fools.

And dream that one bright and sunny night,

some artist will bait a hook and let you bite upon it.

Bite hard and die.

In his stomach, you are very close to immortality.

Walter?

Walter, what are you doing here?

I was looking at Carla's picture.

Do I pay you to look at pictures?

Now get to work.

I was just lookin'.

There are empty cups all over the place.

Clear them out.

You shouldn't be so rough on him, Leonard.

What do you say, Walter?

Hi.

I think I'll cut.

There's the man.

How you makin' it?

- Fine, man, how about you? - Good enough.

- Valdez Vice. - Yeah, Lacroix checkin' in.

Lou took over a couple of minutes ago.

Anything new at the door?

Nothing you can pound nails in.

A couple of hustlers.

One of them is short, fat, brunette.

Name's Skinny.

The other one was short also.

She was bleached and skinny.

- Name of fat. - Probably.

I didn't get it.

They didn't give any pitches, though.

Guess you can keep an eye on 'em.

Okay, any heads?

Well, Jerry Sachs looked like he was straight.

I'm sure he's on it, anyway.

I didn't see any pushers around the place.

Lou said he'd check out Jerry and sound him out later

if he gets any higher.

I guess that's about it.

Okay, Art.

Go on home and get a good night's sleep, you fink.

Okay.

So long, Paul.

Everyone listened to my new poem,

but do you think they really heard it?

- I heard it, Mr. Brock. - Thank you, Walter.

I'm sure you did.

"Bring on the multitude with a multitude of fishes.

"Feed them to the fishes for liver oil

"to nourish the artist."

That was word for word.

Is it?

I'd forgotten.

You don't remember your own poem?

I refuse to say anything twice.

Repetition is death.

I don't get it.

When you repeat something,

you are reliving a moment, wasting it,

severing it from the other end of your life.

I believe only in new impressions, new stimuli, new life.

I thought you believed that life is an obscure hobo,

bumming a ride on the...

I do believe that, Walter,

but I also believe creative living.

To be uncreative, you might as well be in your grave,

or in the army.

They tried to draft me once.

I couldn't pass the test.

Walter, Leonard's looking at you.

He's just about gone.

Walter has a clear mind.

One day, something will enter it,

feel lonely, and leave again.

Too much.

Yes, Cats, yes.

If you want to know how beatniks live,

William and me will show you.

We'll introduce you to some wild ones.

You may even discover an artist of your own.

And how much is that going to cost us?

What cost?

A couple of bucks.

You wanna meet some beatniks, don't you?

Oh, no, it's the artists.

I'm just crazy about artists.

All that is comes through the eye of the artist.

The rest are just blind fish

swimming in the cave of aloneness.

Oh, you must be an artist.

And working as a busboy too.

Feed him that, he will be satisfied.

The artist is.

All others are not.

That's most intriguing.

Are you a painter?

Well, no.

I'm working on something.

It's not ready yet.

What is it, man?

Finger painting?

Draw me a picture of a house, Walter.

Make some smoke coming out of the chimney.

I am working on something.

I'll show you soon.

Walter.

Is he, uh...

Did you get a good look, kid?

Go on home.

Hello, Mrs. Swickard.

Oh, Walter.

You look awful pale.

What did you have to eat tonight?

I had a salami sandwich, Mrs. Swickard.

If you were my son.

Why don't you let me fix you a nice bowl of soup.

Won't take but a minute.

It's okay.

I can fix myself something.

Besides, I got something important to do.

Oh, say, Walter.

Did you see anything of Frankie tonight when you went out?

I didn't see him at all.

If you do, tell him I've got a nice, fresh piece

of halibut for him.

Tell him that?

I mean, do you think he'll understand?

He's only a cat.

Good night, Walter.

Frankie?

A canvas is a canvas or a painting.

A rock is a rock or a statue.

A sound is a sound, or it's music.

Come on.

Be a nose.

Be a nose.

Frankie, shut up!

Oh, what's the matter, Frankie?

How'd you get yourself stuck in a wall?

Wait a minute, I'll get you out.

Frankie?

Frankie?

You all right, Frankie?

Oh, Frankie.

Oh, Frankie.

Oh, Frankie.

I'm sorry.

Poor Mrs. Swickard.

She had a nice fresh piece of halibut for you.

I'll give you to her in the morning.

Repetition is death, Frankie.

Let them die.

And by their miserable deaths

become the clay within his hands

that he might form an ashtray or an ark.

Pray that you might be his diadem, gold, glory, paint, clay,