Man-Size

 

Pink Lady 50 x 50 cm - mixed media on canvas c/o Karin Goeppert

 

 

NEW, TENDER, QUICK

 

If you don’t like the cobblestones, if they seize your

needle thin heels when you walk across them,

then get thee to Euro Disney. Some women here

look like gothic statues in an East German church.

Beautiful mothers, in sandals and white socks. There’s

a classic photo of one of them, a “golden hair Margarete,”

sitting on a curbside, blowing a bubble, wondering

if there’s fresh fruit in the stores. Hayrick. Manure ditch.   

Skin head revels. Where, in the thought experiment  

of a NAZI BRAIN, a rich lefty is nailed to a swastika,

his Tesla smashed by a detachment of the Waffen-SS.    

Later that day, I read in a letter written by Elizabeth Bishop

“My outlook is pessimistic. I think we are

still barbarians, barbarians who commit a hundred indecencies

every day of our lives…” my nostrils flaring   

to cooking odors from a nearby food stand. And presto, life smells  

like curry sausage and fries. Could be worse. Also, life can smell

shall we say interesting as I rise past the locked doors

of drinking associates and insignificant others. Also, fugitive thoughts 

cowering in a manure ditch. Hayrick under which evil lurks

knee-deep in blood

“…but I think we should

be gay in spite of it, sometimes even giddy—to make life endurable

and to keep ourselves “new, tender, quick,” (George Herbert).”

Near the river’s edge, a black lab rolling in sand. Two boys and three girls

emerge from brown water. Happy, watchful. Light in their hair.  

 

Jane Austen

 

Mayflowers III 40 x 30 cm acrylic on canvas

 

 

 

JANE AUSTEN

 

The neighbors’ kid drops an ounce bag in the stairwell.

For his own good you and I smoke it to fine ash.

And even with that tiny shard of hypocrisy lodged

in our sore throats (the shit’s harsh) we continue to thrive.

A day later a delivery of bottled water’s swiped from our door mat.   

 

As the philosopher said, payback’s a motherfucker. What philosopher? you ask.

 

But the kid, whom I call KING OF THE SLOTHS, is shockingly proactive.  

There’s Mega Death Metal coming down at two in the morning.

Sleep becoming yet another essential we can’t afford.

Raises the question: how did he know it was us?

 

Wolfing down a dripping kebab at midnight, a little snack

after two liters of beer. My specs are in the shop, thus

from a distance mail boxes look a lot like the brainless heads,

mounted on spikes, of our treacherous neighbors. Drifting to us

from across the street, a girl’s voice: “Bellini. BELLINI? It’s not a

painter, dude, it’s a drink!” And then, straight out of another century,

 

CIVILITY GRACE STYLE are rolling down our street in a coach-

and-four. The scene gives off an aura of countrified elegance: always a 

pleasure when lady Jane pays a call. Would it be rude of me to ask 

her to sign relevant DVDs? Or pose questions about hygiene issues  

in 19^thcentury England, or why the Napoleonic wars never figure

in her stories? Or should I just keep my mouth shut? For once in my life.