All that Jazz

Pliny Said 30 x 24 cm - collage on canvas

MORE OF THE SAME

“I’ve always tried to take

the most interesting path,”

an academic poet tried to explain,

“Hoping by doing so that I’d become

a path others might choose to follow.” Everything

we do is gesture, I wanted to add. But didn’t.

There’s so much explaining going on. Once,

my father-in-law, and in High German, no

less, said, “Have a seat, I want to tell you

all about the key to my success in life.” I knew

then I would need another drink, and later

the majority share of a joint. Most of us

are like brothers and sisters, twins, who don’t like     

each other. Angry siblings fighting over scraps of food  

and love, our mothers and fathers failing to notice.

If I’m a puzzle to myself, just imagine what you are to me.

Just another paranoid afternoon in autumn

 

Autumn is Yellow 100 x 80 x 1,8 cm - acrylic on canvas

JUST ANOTHER PARANOID AFTERNOON

Not the best day of my life.

One look at a crowd torn by indecision,

maybe hostile, “Are they like for us or against us?”

Pink Floyd might have set

some of this to music; mom, dad,

viciously festive relatives,  random well-wishers

all urging me to blow out the candles or

they’d chop me up into little pieces. What they failed to tell me

when I was a kid: strangers are almost always strange. And

everyone’s a stranger. Think I’ll duck out of this party. Well, an elfish girl

whispers, I’m not here to turn you on, but I’d stick around if I were you.

I know there’s a chair out of which I’ll have to struggle.

There always is.

Can’t help but remember climbing up one of those

tall buildings in the Financial District for a job interview.

Too gorgeous for words but scary assistants in their secretarial cockpit. I, sunk

in a chair very close to the ground. Knuckles dragging deep-pile or was it shag?  

Beige-haired boy/man in a baggy suit striding forcefully

toward me, half-hearted arm sticking out, eyes empty

as any sky above Needles, California, handshake

notable for its lack of quiddity. I have to leave this party,

sweet girl. And no, I didn’t get the job. Out on the wet windy streets

of Stadtmitte—German for downtown—a puzzle of trattoria and vegan bistros.

Obviously no one’s thrilled to be out. Every door is an exit.