Barbarians

Pirouette 50 x 50 cm acryl on canvas by Karin Goeppert

BARBARIANS AT THE GARDEN GATE

In my dream are lines of coke.

In the old fashioned bottles.

Who can resist coke in the old fashioned bottles?

And castle dungeons with wall-to-wall

and big soft pillows plus baby oil  

or one of those Majorcan golf courses complete

with slender girl caddies in Catalonian attire—

but there are huge speakers out of which

ooze the greatest hits of Wham! which makes

me want to track down and punish the deejay—

plus car sickness and enhanced coercion: “If you

don’t shut up we won’t stop for tapas.” In other

words, the perks and ills of civilization. So I depart this dream

and welcome other barbarians, dinner guests,

visiting relatives, bullying past Maginot lines

of good behavior—bilious, looking like shit

after a day long ride, demanding alcohol and salty snacks.

Later, stepping out into the yard to smoke a joint, I’m

hoping for a vision of freedom, but all I can see is the back fence.

The Greatest

Midnight Stroll ink/gouache on cotton rag paper by Karin Goeppert

HELLAS (2)

I didn’t swallow the fly

and I’m glad. Principle

as much as disgust. And the smell

of pines I will never forget,

like the last words of an old friend,

almost gone, one way or the other,

about what she will never forget.

Temple of Poseidon nothing but

a few chunks of marble embedded in dirt.

Across the gulf

the lemon groves of Galatas

in a grid of irrigation gutters

the mountains behind them

sharp-edged

like unearthed implements

from some epic blood-bath.

Tree-climbing goats.

American students puking over the side of a party boat.

Who wasn’t having fun?

The light told me of white cubic shapes, differing shades of blue,

how shade itself had differing shades of blue

the light in Greece

an authority on many subjects

saturating my glass of bathtub retsina

in the kitchen/living room of our

impoverished landlord & -lady

a fly drowning inside it.

You tried to make me drink it all down

so as not to insult the hospitality of these fine people.

Even then you were a force to reckon with,

implement sometimes—the force—manage a little

but never rule:

years of applied technique

trial and error

most kinks

massaged out

with just enough residual weirdness

to keep things interesting

or a little surprise at breakfast: did she say that?

Hmmm, she’s still got it. 

We were twenty-something

back then. Didn’t know asses from elbows. But

so close to happy it couldn’t help but touch us.

Flashmob

 

Schrecksee 30 x 30 cm acryl/gouache on cotton rag paper by Karin Goeppert

HELLAS (1)

Nervous Greek toilet: delicate

as a maiden aunt’s

belly, hardly able

to keep anything down.

The plumber you sent for

several hours if not

days ago

lured into a card game

at the harbor

finally shows up

with a bag full of excuses

and a few old tools.

And he would say—if he bothered

to explain but certainly not justify

an existence as self-evident

and deserving as his own—

“I am what I am.”

As much Popeye as Zorba,

he scratches his seven day beard.

Almost scratches his balls

before noticing the presence of a female.

Thinks he knows exactly

how to extract what he wants

from what you have.

Your “secretary,” for example.

Turn your back for five seconds

he’s fingering her hemline,

admiring the “material,”

her hands in the air

flapping helplessly

as if trying to dry nail polish.

Human nature or whatever

you want to call it has room

here to stretch,

scratch a musky armpit, sigh,

reach across the table—

a rickety affair, beer coaster

stuck under one wobbly, too short leg—

and grab a few more olives.