Earth

Earth II 20 x 20 cm mixed media on cotton rag paper

MICKEY, THE NORWEGIAN BABY BOY

                                                                “Life is a combination

                                                                 of magic and pasta.”

                                                                                  FEDERICO FELLINI     

You used to give me lessons in the dark.

Then “Nurse Ratched” (someone’s

mom) switched on the light.

Instant loss of innocence. We have

changed, matured, have a developed sense 

of what we like and dislike. We still like

Chinese food but will it ever taste the same? Sweet

is a bit more sour than it used to be but I don’t

think you even care. Should I be worried? “Take out” is

“To Go,” and I hear chop sticks chiming in the wind.

This is known as recycling. We talk about “La Dolce Vita”

making a comeback of sorts. Fellini. Bunuel. David Lynch.

Like. Like. Usually like. Tend to dislike special effects.

Then real life takes over. Plans have to be made,

Epicurean adjustments, a handful of careful hours.

Everything else has been left to chance. There are

moments of quiet elation. Then real life takes over.

Mickey, the Norwegian baby boy, raises his

tail in delight, scarcely aware of what’s turning him on.  

Am Freitag, 28.04. beginnt meine Ausstellung bei Peggy Lukac!
Ich würde mich sehr freuen, euch dort ab 17.00 h auf ein Glas Wein und ein paa portugiesische Leckerlis  begrüßen zu können!

Friday next week my exhibition at Peggy Lukac Design starts.
I would be happy if you could drop by!

Save me

 

Sils Maria 60 x 50 cm acryl/oil pastel on canvas c/o Karin Goeppert

KEVIN

                                           “Which way I fly is hell…”

I always thought murder

would be your fate.

Not the serial sort, but rooted

in animal rage. Pitching

legendary fits on your parents’

front lawn, weeping,

facing the crime scene you grew up in.

Fists clenched, arms at your sides,

walking in place, cursing your father’s transgressions.

We only found out later what

he’d been doing to your sisters.

A time of drought and baseball in the street.

Kids waiting for the ice-cream truck.

Barbecue smoke drifting over back fences.

Then you would explode out the front door.

People stood on their porches

as if a parade, all its floats on fire, were passing by.

I almost expected hesitant applause.

Sartre called self-murder an act of bad faith.

Certain experts

in the human condition

claim that it’s a coward’s last act;

others see it as a final

gesture of self-indulgence

(amazing what an array of shallow

fuckwits can come up with) as

as if suicide were an orgy

in an opium den—but what if

stepping out the front door

were the equivalent of soaking

your nerves in acid? What if

traffic signals

issued intolerable

commands? What if the last time

you made love to a woman

she ran a credit check before undressing?

What if the only possibility

to rest easy,

in the end, was never to wake up?

It's Too Late

 

Yupo 20 x 20 cm ink/gouache on paper

TARZAN’S COMMON LAW WIFE

O Jane, where art thou

as the icons of lust

gather on the billboards?

Where were you while summer

wallowed in the shallow end

like a despotic thug, a facilitator

of imperial crime, while others

did all the work?

And you without regrets, playing house

in a tropical tree fort.

The rest of us need love, Jane,

the rest of us need lots of love

O Jane. Meanwhile,

humidity is revising the record books

as far back as 1910. To each his own fetish.

To each his own consolation. We can roll back

the comforters now, open the big bays

for the damp air to circle our lonely thoughts. 

That's Life

Erde - Earth / ink, gouache, oilpastel, oil stick on cotteon rag paper 20 x 20 cm

SHARK ATTACK

You figure life has no choice but to make us small.

It eats us up, devours love and ambition.

Happiness a table-dancing

demiurge, flashing its tits, shaking its booty

always moving just out of reach.

Makes us want to buy stuff. Watch quiz shows.

Otherwise we would talk poetry

and see in every staircase an Everest—

uttering sonnets and planting flags.

Nothing would ever get done. Ego systems would

back up and the will to power go slack. You wouldn’t

have to stand up in a crowded restaurant while people

eat Rostbraten and Wienerschnitzel and potato salad

and deliver the first and last public oration of your career.

Laying everything out. Policy decisions, a few vital stats, mixed

reviews, tearful self-justification, instances of staggering defeat

leavened somewhat by one tiny victory snatched

from the cold waves of your waiter’s indifference.

You’ve stood your ground, said your piece. Now what?

Your third worst fear is that police

might haul you off to the psych ward of a

crumbling urban hospital. Your second worst fear   

is that a concerned neighbor might ask you to leave.

Your worst fear keeps circling back for another go.