About a dark, dark forest and the YouTube Wars

Schwarzwald - Black Forest 70 x 100 cm / 27.6 x 39.4 in - acrylic on brown Craft paper

SAM & JORDAN: THE YOU TUBE WARS

First we should dress them:

Sam the rationalist in a lab coat,

one suitable for meditation in caves

and day hikes in the Sierras. And panel discussions.

I can’t say whether Jordan would look better in velvet

robes with astrological symbols

and Jungian archetypes on their sleeves

but I’m convinced he’d go for it in a heartbeat.

Sam can’t seem to grasp that most people are

dumb and/or incurious. That they are seeking

not the “truth” but an interesting shopping

mall to hang out in: the kids are bored

and hungry and hot, and Jade wants a new pair of shoes

badly. And what do you want? Do you know what you want, sir?

Sam wants to fill the Void with fact based values.

Jordan, with mythological archetypes, and God.

How else do you stop people

pillaging liquor stores, raping each other,

stealing all that isn’t nailed down or guarded by “security professionals?”

Sam is never emotional unless you call being annoyed emotional.

Mildly annoyed. Jordan can weep in an instant. Surrogate daddy

to millions of 25-to-30 year old boys who are not getting enough.

Enough pussy. Enough respect.

Bongs and skateboards must be wrested from

their flailing, immature hands, sordid instruments of masturbation.

Sam gives a sheesh-can-you-believe-this-shit smile.

He does not believe it. He cannot believe it.

Jordan extends a crossed leg and pulls up a sock made of silk.

Audiences everywhere already know who they “like.” 

A PRESCRIPTION FROM DOCTOR DE SADE

 

Folly - 29,5 x 39,5 cm acryl on canvas - verkauft/sold

A PRESCRIPTION FROM DOCTOR DE SADE

                                                         Lust’s passion will be served; it demands,

                                                         it militates, it tyrannizes.

                                                                                               Marquis de Sade

Here, take fifty

of these and if you manage to wake up

don’t call me in the morning. Better still

I want you perched atop a column

crushed by sunlight in some stony waste of

Syria or Sinai, a martyr to your failure of nerve.

Pain and pleasure are but Siamese twins

who share a couch and a plate of pommes frites. Nevertheless

next time an opportunity comes knocking, invite it in, offer a brandy,

then sit back and see what tingles first.

Maybe not a moment of perfumed nights will follow, or the perfect spasm,

though plenty of delicious remorse—think of your wife, her evenings

spent knitting a hair shirt for your conscience— oh sweat-drenched   

insomniac—or your husband working overtime to buy you

that vacation in Mazatlan you’ve always wanted—and no regrets to speak of. 

Amorphous

Amorph - Amorphous 39 x 39 cm

BOURGEOIS COMPLAINT

Obscure whispers from waves

and tree-tops confess their restless spirit;

then, as if to prove their point, depart. You contemplate

the Eight Sorrows plus their off-spring which

adds up to a total of sixteen. Numbers, though often oppressive,

enable you to grasp a nutshell’s infinite space. You’re

at home in theory, as they say; theory takes you for a ride

in a 1965 Galaxy 500 convertible, out on Fish Ranch Road

in the hills just above Berkeley, and dumps

you on your ass in the dust, near the rattle snakes

and joggers, laughing the whole time. So much for research.

If you must visit that white city perched

amid olive trees and citrus groves and hyperactive goats,

then go on, get out; we know

that your mind works differently from ours…

how does your mind work?

(Rumor has it that the rebels will seize the airport any day now;

trains have stopped running; food and clean water

are in short supply.) Rumor has it

that it doesn’t work at all, never has.

The White Stripes - In the cold cold night