Green and Gold

Grün und Gold/Green and Gold 30 x 24 cm mixed media on canvas

MINISTER OF URBAN AFFAIRS

It can begin here in this weed-thickened

night. The light of a thousand lamps

bouncing off the canal. The grass is alive—

pungent, spicy—with cannabis and curry sausage.

A girl passes us, talking to herself, jogging

at a safe, conversational pace; another girl

stomps by in motorcycle boots, pale fierce little face

saying nothing, body language however expressing 

FUCK OFF & DIE. Further on is what passes for a theatre

in our district. But no, it’s a café, but no—if we honor

the patron’s preferred nomenclature—it’s a “bistro,”

and why not? Meanwhile I’d better “liaise” or “interface”

with a urinal cake “asap.” Funny, innit (as I stand here,

splashing away), how time of life can be measured

   by states of mind musically speaking.

And even funnier that no composer has ever

thought of that. Consider the stuttering oboe sonata (that 30ish experience

of fear and loathing in the workplace), the chuckle of a bassoon

( easy, resigned humor of late middle age), the squawk

of saxophones ( youthful depravity), and so on. Amazing

the thoughts that come to us through this doily filtered light.

We Haven't Turned Around

 

THE CRITIC NEXT DOOR DROPS IN FOR A VISIT

Just thought I’d let you know   

that you have a mind like Time magazine.

It’s always: “on the other hand…

and yet…I’m sure

there’s another side to the story.”

I don’t mean

that in a bad way, but.  

Is it true you’re working

on something in a language

that literally nobody reads or speaks anymore,

sacred texts or whatnot?

A project similar, say, to climbing Goat Fuck

Mountain in Eastern Albania,

a place you can’t find on a map,

probably because it doesn’t exist.

By the way, we missed you

at the party yesterday.

It was the whole block, you know,

but who’s hung up on exclusiveness?

People say you were with someone

who’s dying, offering solace,

compassion, the resources of your charm and wit. Anyone

we know? Anyone we’ll miss?

Did you see the sunset yesterday?

And the day before? A deep golden rusty pink

is how I would describe it.

Gaudy, a pretty mess. Would

no doubt be sticky

if we could touch it.

If there is a God

at least we know  

now what His favorite colors are

and that His taste really sucks.   

Y e s

 

he asked me 30 x 24 cm acryl on canvas c/o Karin Goeppert

IS IT THEM, OR AM I JUST PARANOID?

Sometimes they look at me as if I were an alien. Like I might

nip off a few choice body parts, remove one or two vital

organs without spilling a drop of blood, then send it all

off to be examined by a Higher Intelligence.

I think they overrate themselves. Some of them are nearly

exquisite, true, but I don’t think anyone of more than

middling intelligence would find them worthy of study.

One could imagine, though barely, the diversions of a field trip—

as it were—but as objects of scholarly desire? I don’t think so.

Last week during dictation one girl must have thought

it was vampire hour. She thrust a crucifix the size of two

large fork tines in my face and muttered some heart-felt if

rudimentary Latin formula. The hysteria began to spread.

Another girl—a blond from Argentina, not averse to tangoing

into glass twenty or so minutes late—tried to rub a sliver of garlic

over one of my paper cuts. I was forced to punish her. I won’t

reveal how, but you can trust me, it will have no lasting effect on her behavior.

During lunch the girls started hammering together a scaffold.

At least they’ve learned something in wood shop. Besides,

they prefer hanging to burning. Fire ordinance? I have to

admire them. They’ve figured out the system. If you play

by the “rules,” you can get away with anything.

Who will write my epitaph? My wife for sure not. I peel back a

layer of bread. Mustard. Lots of it. She knows I detest the stuff.

Or was it my untrustworthy daughter? Or one of her pointlessly

malicious school friends? She has so many of late.

A Whiter Shade Of Pale

 

Gentian 50 x 70 cm mixed media on canvas

CONSOLATION PRIZE

His breath smells like women.

There’s a hint of clubs in his pallor.

Let’s click to his favorite apparition—

tall girl splashed with sumptuous perfume

in her cleavage possessing two of those

green eyelids in a Klimt. Bending her back

pressing his nose deep in her damp corsage

he longs to rip the ribbons from historic  

treaties and tie each one to

a naked thigh. But she doesn’t have one.

Nudity as concept or reality is strictly forbidden

here in the heart of the heart of homeland security.

Yet who doesn’t wish for one last fling

beneath wedding cake ceilings, a twirl

across floors of polished parquet?

(If that doesn’t materialize you will have to be satisfied

   with this trivial batch of

words steaming like clams in iridescent dreck.)