Just the two of us

Just the two of us - acrylic on canvas - 120 x 120 x 2 cm (47.24 x 47.24 x 0.78 in) c/o Karin Goeppert

PACKAGE TOUR

Another warm 

day in Sorrento

a couple of decades ago.

Followed by another. There were precisely

fourteen in total. Slow days

of alcoholic contemplation, out by the pool

drinking Tears of Christ, the cheapest

wine available, grapes grown on the slopes of Vesuvius.

Maybe a thousand

olive trees, I wouldn’t lie. And a Roman

bath with squirting phallic graffiti

all over its ruined walls. “Italians,”

my wife said, “apparently really love dick.”

We began to see cocks everywhere—in chalk

on brick walls, spray painted, even in

what seemed to be toothpaste—

Amalfi, Positano, later in Naples. Such over

compensation understandable

perhaps in a psychic matriarchy, the realm of Mama Mia.

“Despised and rejected,”

said the Dutch art

historian—quoting from Handel’s Messiah—

a reluctantly gay man

recently dumped by a long-time lover;

embarrassed by his life

he couldn’t stop talking about it.

We travelled over to Ravello

with him one day—he gleefully

clapping his hands, hoping we’d

bump into Gore Vidal

buying tomatoes and prosciutto crudo—

where he downed three beers

in thirty-minutes flat

then wobbled off to the bus

and waited for us there. Sadness

nearly geographic in its magnitude.

Death Valley, the Empty Quarter.

We knew him precisely fourteen days.

Breakfast and dinner included.  With a partial sea view.  

She came with Flowers in her Arms

 

She came with Flowers in her Arms 46,5 x 62 cm mixed media on paper

HAVE YOU HEARD THE ONE ABOUT

There are three interestingly feral  

angels sauntering up a suburban street,

flapping their Caravaggio pigeon wings,

clawing the air with dirty fingernails, and the

first one says, “Honey, get your big fat booty    

outta my face,” and the second one says, “Knock knock….”

and a nervous housewife, staring

out her kitchen window at the third angel

a hunk worthy of daytime TV she thinks

oh yum, calls the SWAT team anyway.

Three angels screaming BITCH! all the

way to the holding tank.

Basta, says the judge, you’re going down.

In a year, if they survive incarceration,

one of them will be selling mobile phones 

out the back of his vintage Toyota.

The other two, like you and me, saying nothing

or blathering incoherently, are barely managing

the daily shit storm. Are comparing tattoos in a motel room

for fun and profit. Nothing is against their religion anymore.

Even the people we think of as good, or at least ethical,

rare and tender, their innocence buckling

under the weight of soul-altering cocktails,

stare in wonder at what their words have wrought.