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| They say it's your Birthday 65 x 50 cm acrylic, oil pastel and charcoal on paper |
COMPLAINT
(1)
When you’re
away you have to stay
clear of
those statues whose fig leaves
have been
chipped away by curious school girls.
And I have
to cut down on cheese burgers
and grilled
cheese sandwiches because of
cholesterol
and salt and other poisons. It’s about
time for
our Annual Relationship Audit, a Situation Report
from the
Situation Room where things can get rather weird.
At the
moment it’s quiet. The cats are cleaning themselves.
You’re on
the couch, plugged into WhatsApp, while I’m
spreading
like a puff of smoke over a back yard fence.
A neighbor’s
got ribs on the grill. We seem to be
in
California but it smells like Louisiana
in steam-bathed,
barbecued August; a delicious
lethargic
deep south vibe I don’t know all that well
though I’m
jiggling my legs—spastic movements
that raise
a few eyebrows— to its back country harmonies.
Sometimes
I’m someone looking for a Big Idea, a ready-made
sustainable
system cruising along the skyline
like any
charlatan absolute. I even read books. In the end, all
solutions
are temporary. Still, until you’re home unscathed
everything will
feel hopelessly permanent, and I’ll be
someone not
merely solitary but vaguely menacing too.
When people
spot me they’ll grab shovels or gardening shears.
