The Passing

Im dunklen, dunklen Wald - In the dark, dark Forest 30 x 24 cm

THE PASSING

Significant

others fall away like chaff,

like confetti

in a party’s aftermath.

Always have. Maybe you miss

the ambiguity of their smiles, the pinpoint accuracy

of their charm. Or maybe not. Nonetheless 

it does seem unjust that we have to 

bite the dust, cash in our chips, or

as the Germans put it, lay down the spoon, just

one more ego, fat with fantasy, consigned to the void.

Some wish that instead of kicking they could just go away   

for a while then return to their lives refreshed, even enhanced,

as after a few weeks in a Tibetan monastery, or

a single night in some plush bordello of the Belle Epoch.

Think of the expense. A  crowd gathering  

itself together like the remnants

of a lost tribe, clamoring for food and drink.

All of that attention gone to waste.

A stranger in Birkenstocks reading from

the HOLY BIBLE—is there any other kind? Evidently he

prefereth the King James Version. Still, the exit is plainly marked.

 Nina Simone - My baby just cares for me

A little country comfort for y'all

Abstract No. 3 - Pastel Painting

RED STATE OF MIND

We believe in law n‘ order

but we do like our vice. Not much

else to do on a Saturday night. The

MET ain’t coming to town any time soon

and I doubt American Ballet Theatre’d

get out of here unplucked(all

those nice little birdies in Swan Lake)un-

fucked(ditto)or undead.

What will we take? You name it.

Cut it with a razor and we’ll suck

it right in. Roll it and we’ll bogart it.

Sex? It ain’t subtle with us but it feels good.

Senseless violence? We can do that.

Shoot, we do that all the time, sometimes even for money.

Here’s number one on my hit list of great

out of town ass kickers. Three days

in Reno, Nevada—the “Biggest Little Town In The

World”—which is basically an over-sized slot-

machine with dollar-ninety-nine cent breakfasts—

all expenses paid. Sounds like a piece of heaven to me.

What was that you said about transcendence?

Well…it tastes like grits soaked in egg yolk.

Looks like a tired stripper in Fayetteville, N.C.

at two in the morning. Feels like a

pump-action shotgun ever so damp with linseed oil.

Sounds like Johnny Cash live at Folsom.

Smells like refried beans from a funky little stand

in Tuscon, Arizona. With cheese, lots of cheese.

That desert wind’s blowing hot today, and if you look real hard,

over yonder by the used car lot, you can just make out His

face in the swirling dust, frowning about

some minor offence, no doubt, but looking the other way.

He’s a good ol’ boy and this is His home town at the End of Time.

It's country time.

An exerpt from the Cohen Brothers' film "O Brother where art thou" 

Barnstorming 30 x 20 cm - 12 x 8''

WHY I’VE CALLED YOU HERE

If all the deeply repressed rage in this audience were suddenly released

we would have a cross between “Carrie” and Omaha Beach. 

Overpopulation is an urgent statistic; still, there’s no need to encourage its opposite.

Hasn’t done the Chinese much good. They still breed, if sometimes surreptitiously.

It’s all number and economic growth and whether their fleet will

surround Hawaii next year. At some point our species will have to merge spiritually  

with the space-time curve, so we’ll no longer think ourselves infinite. We will keep on going,

surely, but only to end up back here, if somewhat diminished,

                                       in this Biergarten, on the outskirts of Munich,

underneath these chestnut trees, humidity moistening a young girl’s pig tails

like something seen on a mountain trail, or the third morning at Woodstock.

No one will have to go home, because home is uncertain right now,

doesn’t exist in any principle we can lay out.  

Which is not why I’ve called you here. 

... In this great version of Soul Sacrifice, there is even a girl with pigtails.

Soul Sacrifice - Santana

THE ALPS THE ALPS

Today it is time for the Alps, the mountains - where we love to climb and hike.  Bavaria is the place where we frequently go. Not only is it inspiring but it also clears out all the big city toxins. 

Ken's poem is about the physical/sensual experience of the Alps whereas my painting is, well, the visual side of the experience.

We also include a little video of the American singer Erika Stucky who provides the audio portion of this post. She grew up in San Francisco and moved to Switzerland where her ancestors came from. She is both a jazz singer and a yodler.

Geisler Gruppe, Südtirol, Northern Italy 38 x 37,5 cm

IN THE ALPS

Every room smells like smoked meat, thick

skinned, scabby looking hams hanging from hooks

in the imagination, for you cannot see them. Only their

fragrance abides, like an elusive lover’s, just out of reach.

A girl’s voice, stubbornly archaic, climbs higher

than your aching legs have climbed this lovely day

the lyric wrapped in a mountain dialect

too dense to penetrate. Between songs she’s texting

her boy friend perhaps while a strung out cluster of cattle,

heads bobbing submissively, straggles

past the stained-glass windows of our pension. In a few moments

we will be eating one of their kin, slaughtered then

pounded into further submission by the cook, dipped in egg

and flour then dropped in sizzling fat, or dressed in onion, or draped

in white sauce stippled with peppercorns—

dead meat disguised as

Wiener Schnitzel, Rostbraten, pepper steak

is still dead meat. Our desire is itself delicious. The girl’s voice

moves through the raftered room

like a delayed echo of appetite

come back for more.

Erika Stucky does her mountain thing!