Seeing Things

 

Sunny Meadow 29,5 x 20,5 cm mixed media on brown paper

SEEING THINGS

Domestic bliss was

not on the agenda.

Seeing through step-father # 1—socio-

pathic flim-flam artist with two

maybe three aliases and five marriages

on his rap sheet—for a few   

fairly adventurous years, then

clean through and right out the other  

side of step-father # 2, witlessly transparent,

arms and legs aggressive animals

not knowing who to hit or kick next; then another life   

later looking at a view from the cliff  

isle of Hydra 

one hot eucalyptus-scented day

swimming off the rocks with

three flight attendants from Quantas

eating feta for the first time ever

investigating the tannic properties of retsina

meeting a girl of such virtue

her skin left burn marks on my finger tips    

See the Acropolis

and die, no, that’s not it, see Naples and drop dead

or at least hallucinate

in a tall narrow alley-way where

squinting accurately I see

a mirage of the Roman empire

in the twenty first-century AD

birds in cages outside tiny windows

pumping out a little street music

and now we’re here

in the midst of a cease fire on the verge of truce

“Jungle Blues” on the turntable

fragrance of orange, of buttered toast and honey, coffee

good strong coffee and there you are old

enemy now nearly my best friend again wrapped up in

turquoise bathrobe smiling into a hand-painted tea cup

planning your day as if all you have ever known is peace. 

Why don't you talk to me?

Why don't you talk to me? 50 x 50 cm acryl/paper/oil pastel on canvas by Karin Goeppert

GUIDELINES AND SUGGESTIONS

Breakfast is served at eight.

There are poppies the color of bright red nail polish.

The swimming pool has a fence around it

so your little ones won’t drown.

Please do not visit La Sabre Rosa: frequented

by right-wing thugs

and professed homophobes

torture and

certain death are on the menu every day.

We are famous for the relative intactness of our heritage sites, and

we have some superb fabrications as well. A good fake trumps

a boringly authentic whatever any day. You can drink our well water.

And pestilence is no longer a threat. Nothing we know of  

stings or bites, or swallows people whole

and spits them out in tatters.  

Try our special sauce. It is low on fatty acids,

so you might live a little longer than average.

Remember: never hesitate to use your pay pal. That’s what he’s there for.

Sunset and Vine

 

Strawberry Fields (Diptych) 30 x 80 cm- sold

CHARLES BUKOWSKI MEMORIAL POEM

Shuffling across a cobbled courtyard in Baden-Baden,

a blanket draped over his bony, raised-to-the-ears

shoulders

by a Pre-Raphaelite angel named Steff—

merciful seraph—

a man always in slow-motion collapse,

shit-faced every day of his life yet able to focus

on his confession, philosophy, writerly addiction.

He was becoming who he was all the time.

That’s why he drank. A reason to celebrate.

An ode to order.

& writing was merely drinking

out of the ribbon and tap-tap of a Smith Corona.

Scribbling in the Valley for pennies on the dollar,

his share disbursed to liquor stores & sex-workers

where Hollywood Boulevard closes in on Vine

then misses it by a dog’s hair; this is

where our quest runs out of gas,” baby.”

Take note of skid marks, sprinkle of broken glass.

“It ain’t my accident. I just caused it.”

To wrap things up, a final word from our honored guest:

“It could be worse,” he croaks, guttural as a clogged drain,

popping open a can of brew—I never saw

him uglier or more persuasive—“we could run out of beer.”