In this blog we will share with you our vision of beauty, balance, harmony.

As Mark Leach writes in his book Raw Colour with Pastels: “Sound is all around us, and it is musicians who refine that sound into something of beauty. As a painter, I have always felt that my purpose is to craft colour in a similar way, to see through the confusion and seek harmony and beauty.”

And we add: Words, fragments of sentences, spoken noise is all around us, and Ken arranges words in such a way as to capture beauty in the accidental, the ambient soundtrack of life.

Sunday, March 16, 2014

Swamped

California on my Mind I 35 x 33 cm






BAYOU

You can’t imagine how long it took me
to find out that life is not a French movie  
in which the characters are precisely elliptical

in that Gaullic fashion we once thought
so witty and admirable, everywhere reeking
of cigarette smoke and of easy-

going sex and good strong coffee, it’s never
that frivolous, a difficult or dangerous situation
might surface that requires grace under pressure,

calm, focus, stealth, and even
cunning if that’s what fits,
even a kind of Machiavellian

twist to the plot—a move like that of Michael’s
in the “Godfather,” or Peter O’Toole’s King Henry
in the “Lion In Winter.” I’ve seen too many movies

because most of the time life is more 
like a documentary on PBS
about the unfortunates who live in a trailer park

lost down some ignoble rural route  
in the deep-fried South, and where it occurs
to a stand-up philosopher one Sunday evening

at a roadhouse adjacent a stinking swamp
that our freedom is nothing but an illusion,
is some other guy’s story in the end, an amiable

asshole, surely, but one with a lot more re-     
sources and pull than we will ever have, in fact   
he’s doing the Machiavellian twist

right now with the lap dancer we’d hoped—
stupidly, expensively— to spend the night with.
Meanwhile management is washing its

hands of us, and we find ourselves    
lodged between a pair of moo-moos in house-slippers
who in a certain light resemble the bloated remnants

of Thelma and Louise. Floral and huge
as a twin-set of rain soaked sofas 
on some sagging back porch in Baton Rouge

they dream of day-time soaps and the cunning smiles of evening anchors. 




Born on the Bayou

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