And now for something completely different

Wucherung - Growth 50 x 40 cm

CHAOS THEORY

The corner of a tarpaulin torn free by the wind.

A coastline of toothy fractals along which   

our dreams are assessed by a man with a tidy beard.

The fact that we know who made us and why. Our certainty, its thorns.

If only nerves could be covered by indestructible  

implants fashioned from a substance not subject

to import duties. Think of the turnover. Think of the

corner of a tarpaulin torn free by the wind, and what’s hiding beneath it.

Meanwhile a gorgeous volcano

is on the verge of eruption: Mina Filona, the

precocious virtuoso: her tantrum

midst the tangle of a cumbersome fugue.

And the commentator, crawling out from

beneath the wind-torn tarpaulin, says

” Nothing will ever be the same again.”

The Rite of Spring - Stravinsky

San Francisco Symphony Orchestra

conducted by Michael Tilson Thomas

You better look twice. Is everything what it seems?

Regentag in Kyoto - Rainy Day in Kyoto 48,5 x 58,5 cm

1995 CABERNET SAUVIGNON

The valleys here are beautiful, with their oak tree 

lined roads, the glistening vineyards, the vintage  

Victorian “cottages,”  some painted pink, some purple,

others lilac or pumpkin orange, with their gingerbread  

turrets and wrap-around porches and curlicues and furbelows

and architectural shrubbery. Any trained sensibility balks at the    

excesses of those who like it cute. And it is true that everything matches

and almost nothing fits—if you look too closely—like any arti-

fact of perfection—a Matisse, say, or a Vermeer—and even  

the powerful, seductive, possibly life-altering pleasure

in that first mouthful of a really good Napa-Sonoma cab sauv

can lead one to an artificial paradise. Interpretation(of dreams

or of sensation)doesn’t interest the profoundly superficial natives,

not really, it’s the swirl of colors in the glass that matters, that inexorable

undertow into a pool of smoky warmth and calculated elegance

and our moving away from it at the same time, a waking up,

as it were, to the realization that every year is as good as the next.*

*One of the complaints about the very best Californian Cabernet Sauvignons

is that—due to a stable climate, ideal soil conditions, and cutting-edge crafts-

manship—every year’s vintage is as superb as the last. Which is not considered as

interesting for the aficionado(or the market)as the bad year/good  year distinction.  

Dave Brubeck - Laura

Big Lemon

Große Zitronen - Big Lemons 23 x 30 cm

WHY I SHOULD BE PRESIDENT OF THE UNITED STATES

Because I am best able to utilize

the power of speech over a wide range of media.

I’ve never inhaled. I’ve never had sex with a woman

under my protection. Who has inhaled.

Because God wants me to.

I would not hesitate to use nuclear weapons.

I don’t drink, smoke, fight, and if I chewed snuff

I’d only spit in an empty coke can, never on the street.

I probably wouldn’t use nuclear weapons.

Do I speak French? I’ve never set foot in a foreign country,

including  Northern California. I definitely don’t speak French.

It was a hung jury. I have no hang ups. Technically I’m innocent.

I think drones in the air are cheaper than boots on the ground.

I am not handsome nor ugly nor short nor tall, and I’m 

neither intelligent nor stupid. In brief, I am defined by what I am not.

Under no circumstances would I utter the word “motherfucker.”

Drugs have a problem with us. Guns don’t shoot communists, patriots do.

I think boots on the ground are more discerning than drones in the air.

I’d abolish the legislative and the judicial branches,

    and …um…what’s the third one?

Because I’m just the kind of person I would like to have a beer with.

 Prokofiev - Romeo and Juliet

Opéra National Paris - Nurejev

Untitled Orchard

Hain - Orchard 28,5 x 38,5 cm

UNTITLED

Relatively coherent streams of thought

interrupted by a reluctant encounter

with the telephone: another day of distractions

inaugurated this time by a marketing survey.

Later, I’d swear that the man on one knee

on the balcony opposite my kitchen window

is not tying a shoe lace but making an offer of marriage

to some girl standing in the shadows, and I think she’s

smoking something, and he looking up at her as if she were

a fresco on the ceiling of paradise so lovely it’s almost

unbearable to behold, and there’s this bluesy trumpet intro by Miles Davis

prowling around in the back courtyard

like the ultimate cool cat himself, the main man

in an Italian suit and sunglasses, and I have the feeling that it’s

1956 all over again. Which can’t be right. So I put a small pot of water on to boil 

and try to figure out what I should

do next. The British would make tea,

the hungry boil an egg. I decide to let

the water cook till “I Wants to Stay Here” kicks in,

then propose marriage to the evening who’s 

slouching towards me right now, darkening, and faintly perfumed

by two damp poplars and a blossoming lime-tree. I won’t get

on my knees for anyone. That’s way too Jane Austen. But it sure is getting hot. 

 Miles Davis - Generique