On The Other Hand

untitled 40 x 53 cm gouache auf Himalaya Büttenpapier c/o Karin Goeppert

ON THE OTHER HAND

Someone I used to know—don’t

ask who—telling me all the time

isn’t it wonderful to be alive

because the world’s a grand

ball room of inspired

madness and beauty

some of which

decorated with frescoes

from Ghirlandaio’s workshop—

elegant, good looking

players of the day acting out the Life of

the Virgin and the life of St. John the Baptist

in Santa Maria Novella, and in the bay off

the north transept a fresco by Masaccio tries

to figure out perspective for the first time

since antiquity—the Holy Trinity—Mary Mother

of God looking a lot like a therapist

I once knew—and not always a splatter job

by Francis Bacon or David Cronenberg.

I noticed the other day—don’t ask which

one—that somebody’d taken selfies at Auschwitz,

then posted them on Facebook. This qualifies  

as a new development. Far as I know, in pre-social network

days smiley faces were not sewn onto complementary

striped p.j.s. But who am I to judge? Ah, that

famous question. And yet, I’m a certifiably

sentient being. And I know

how to take a Pamplona bull by the horns,

then serve him up with sautéed mushrooms, i.e.,

I’m adaptable; and

as morally “flexible” as the situation

dictates. But selfies

at Auschwitz?  Where the gas chambers

asphyxiated, and the ovens smoked? The mere thought

makes me want to take a shower.

A brain shower, a cerebral bath.

This evening we have nothing better to do than

line up to buy tickets for “Exterminator 2.0”—

I’m wearing a wig and sunglasses—looking a little like

Thomas Jefferson on vacation in Virginia Beach— in case

one of my “friends” walks by, on his way to the Exhibition,

on her way to the Rite of Spring or a lecture on wassuup.

Who isn’t helpless? Someone I don’t know once said that.

Overture

Brumalis (acryl/gouache/wall paint/coffee on canvas) 80 x 80 cm c/o Karin Goeppert

GIDDY UP

Frog voices bent in starlight.

Trees and bushes in the backyard

magical as a Steven Spielberg

bio-pic about Norman Rockwell

enchanted as the shadows of a sultry

summer night, a young girl falling in love

with a boy whose only love is his skateboard.

A barely audible shift in mood

leads to actions of life-altering consequence.

For all of this to make sense the world must be seen

as essentially sad yet still able to crack us up.

Frogs laughing in the starlight while a French farmer

sharpens his knives. Cleopatra, fat tabby, dancing

with a field mouse. Steven Spielberg sharing a

pipe with Norman Rockwell’s great-grandson

on a wrap-around porch in Fresno, both men bent beneath

the weight of stars yet giggling anyway, 

giggling about nothing at all. 

Dance Lessons Here, Real Cheap

 

I got the Blues - Ich hab den Blues 52 x 36 cm c/o Karin Goeppert

DANCE LESSONS HERE, REAL CHEAP

You’re on the run, aren’t you? Sit down here

next to me. I have more time than is good

for you but I think you will like me in the end.

Let’s start with a few dances. This one’s called

“Werewolf” and sort of resembles a tango with hair.

And the “Tonic Water Waltz” is for ex-alcoholics

who, as the story has it, are never really “ex”—

the way people who suck on e-ciggys are   

never really “ex,” are dying in fact to go back to

their corrosive old lover’s “Deadly Embrace”—the name,

by the way, of a decidedly  less wholesome dance.    

I’m famous for my “Rumba for Runaways.” This is

a dance of delicate delinquencies, of infractions

that matter only to the…infractor? None of this is easy

but I’m pretty sure you will catch on fast and stay a while

turning barefoot on this scruffy lawn for one of those

glimpses of eternity when everything finally makes sense. 

Green and Gold

Grün und Gold/Green and Gold 30 x 24 cm mixed media on canvas

MINISTER OF URBAN AFFAIRS

It can begin here in this weed-thickened

night. The light of a thousand lamps

bouncing off the canal. The grass is alive—

pungent, spicy—with cannabis and curry sausage.

A girl passes us, talking to herself, jogging

at a safe, conversational pace; another girl

stomps by in motorcycle boots, pale fierce little face

saying nothing, body language however expressing 

FUCK OFF & DIE. Further on is what passes for a theatre

in our district. But no, it’s a café, but no—if we honor

the patron’s preferred nomenclature—it’s a “bistro,”

and why not? Meanwhile I’d better “liaise” or “interface”

with a urinal cake “asap.” Funny, innit (as I stand here,

splashing away), how time of life can be measured

   by states of mind musically speaking.

And even funnier that no composer has ever

thought of that. Consider the stuttering oboe sonata (that 30ish experience

of fear and loathing in the workplace), the chuckle of a bassoon

( easy, resigned humor of late middle age), the squawk

of saxophones ( youthful depravity), and so on. Amazing

the thoughts that come to us through this doily filtered light.

We Haven't Turned Around

 

THE CRITIC NEXT DOOR DROPS IN FOR A VISIT

Just thought I’d let you know   

that you have a mind like Time magazine.

It’s always: “on the other hand…

and yet…I’m sure

there’s another side to the story.”

I don’t mean

that in a bad way, but.  

Is it true you’re working

on something in a language

that literally nobody reads or speaks anymore,

sacred texts or whatnot?

A project similar, say, to climbing Goat Fuck

Mountain in Eastern Albania,

a place you can’t find on a map,

probably because it doesn’t exist.

By the way, we missed you

at the party yesterday.

It was the whole block, you know,

but who’s hung up on exclusiveness?

People say you were with someone

who’s dying, offering solace,

compassion, the resources of your charm and wit. Anyone

we know? Anyone we’ll miss?

Did you see the sunset yesterday?

And the day before? A deep golden rusty pink

is how I would describe it.

Gaudy, a pretty mess. Would

no doubt be sticky

if we could touch it.

If there is a God

at least we know  

now what His favorite colors are

and that His taste really sucks.