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.”

Coffee Break

Coffee Break 40 x 50 cm mixed media on canvas c/o Karin Goeppert

A SENSE OF PLACE AND OF TIME

What are we looking for

It’s not the cheap wine

Nothing is cheap here

It can’t be the sun of late

too often escorted by clouds

It must be the way the olive trees shiver in the heat

First there were Etruscans

who danced naked and played the double-flute

and had the darkest richest tans in antiquity

Interested in death’s aftermath they entombed each

other in frescoed chambers all over southern Tuscany

The Romans, more interested in killing

than in what happened after, killed the Etruscans

and were themselves killed

by Alaric and his Goths

who sound like a 60’s rock band

sacking the Holiday Inn in Jersey City

And now we’re here

half Goth half Roman

would-be Etruscan

olive trees shivering in the noon tide light

where what we looked for has found us 

Modern Love

Swimming Lessons 40 x 50 cm acryl on canvas c/o Karin Goeppert

BERLINALIA

I’m out hunter

gathering food, would settle for a

KFC in this neighborhood where

Arab men smoke water pipes in front

of their second-hand furniture stores.

At a table by himself a hipster

whose beard—

wanton, almost obscene growth—

makes me want to ask

how dare you eat coleslaw given

that catchall face hair of yours?

It took Berlin five years

to figure out it would need

five more years to finish its

new airport. They’re still working

on the math: airport’s still not done.

And yet the trees, ornate, intricate,

several shades of green in damp hot

July plus opulent semi-classical facades

of early twentieth-century houses

have to make me stop and smile.

And there’s our neighbor

setting out for nocturnal explorations

of Doper Park. Supplies obviously running low.

Good citizen of Kreuzberg

helping out the local economy.

That David Bowie and Iggy Pop used to live

around the corner is vaguely cool. Less so are the dozen

versions of Sally Bowles I’ve side-stepped over the years.

I think one Liza Minneli was plenty.

Americans here tend to adopt eccentricities

that will not let them go. Dude

from Ohio likes to wear a kilt

a lapse in taste I sort of hope returns

to haunt him in later years. Attractive

young English teacher dressed as a cliché

in clinging, short-skirted, blatantly whorish black,

brandishes vintage cigarette holder

and tries to be witty. I think it’s time

to head for the lakes & mountains. Italy’s singing something

voluptuous & sweet while Greece raises its goaty voice. Switzerland

has arranged all we need, even a desire

for the clink of cow bells or the sight of

tightly braided golden hair. A break from

full body tattoos fat nose rings gargantuan beards

creased by smug smiles the sneers of belligerent bus drivers.

It’s time

to get out.

It’s time to get

out. It’s

time to get out.

But we always come back.

Interlunar Rendevous

Interlunar Rendevous 80 x 80 cm mixed media on canvas c/o Karin Goeppert

THE PERILS OF PLEASURE RELOADED

What does dürum mean, Mister Answer Man?

Well, Tiny Curious One, it means

a Turkish tortilla filled with thin slices of kebab,

onions, tomatoes, crisp lettuce, a garlic

herbal sauce, its trip south occasionally

facilitated by streams of cold beer. What’s

heartburn and garlic-scented breath measured

against such a delicious combo of ingredients?

It’s time to gather the right equipment and substances,

just me and a glass of some toxic brew, thoughts

not at all rigorous after a couple of bong hits, ears   

tuned-in to the correct channel as I make out

through static and buzz, not only an exquisite

piece by Portishead, but the sound of a young woman’s voice

muttering something but nothing I want to hear

while she fidgets and searches through her bag  

for a way out, answering my “where do you live?” with  

“exactly three hours from Louisiana,” and I have to admire

if grudgingly and with some regret and rising resentment

the way she indicates who knows we’ll see but I have my doubts

with a shoulder shrug, barely fighting back a yawn, hatching

the exit strategy I am fated to be a victim of.

Layla in Cincinnati

 

Pentecost 80 x 100 x 4.5 mixed media on canvas by Karin Goeppert

CINCINNATI SPLEEN

So what do you, like, want from life? This from

a gum-chewing girl, eyes switching off just as I

register her pointless question—

life doesn’t take requests—

still I wouldn’t mind languishing awhile

beneath the weight of a half dozen essential questions, preferably

in a garden, Calabria or California, either would do, olive grove out back

thunderstorms in late summer, in the evening

so that it’s cool enough to sleep

ants everywhere in the aftermath of rain

like all over that severed hand in “Andalusian Dog” and

a young woman attempting to console the poor thing

although, in hindsight, maybe there weren’t any ants—

I’m always in search of

a perfect image which I can then haul around

for ever like an ill-advised tattoo, a motto, I try

to explain all of this to a girl whose name—

she chews gum like she really means it—

whose name, whatever her name

is and who wishes, just like me, that she was anywhere but here.