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.

 

 

 

3 Scoops

 

3 Scoops 70 x 50 x 2 cm - c/o Karin Goeppert

 

WHAT HAPPENS?

 

Facing a urinal in Naples, Italy, and just as you unzip    

the dude next to you starts to play with      

his dick while peeking at yours. Dark blue suit, glossy long-

toe shoes, soft leather brief case. Christian Democrat  

with wife and two bambini at home? Instead of asking

you cope by closing your eyes, meditating on the

delicious factoid that pizza was invented in Naples.

Meanwhile I consider the body

horror in Dante’s Inferno which I think

reemerges catholically enough in Francis Bacon’s

fantasias of violence. At the Guggenheim Venice

a predaceous chimpanzee crouches atop a coffin-like box.   

His job in hell: crushing skulls like walnuts. Bacon, no doubt  

like the Christian Democrat standing at your side,  

was into conservative politics AND public latrines. Small world.

Have you ever read any of Mary Gaitskill’s tales

of sexual lunacy? Desire twisted like barbed wire. Nobody nice.

Pain the only game in town. She seems to be saying

“This is a part of life, people, deal with it.” By the way,  

the dancers up there on stage are making me

a little nervous as they carry out their rite of spring.  

Is it because they’re sacrificing a virgin

in a forest clearing? Or is it their beauty and strength? And behind

my wife’s tears—produced by a miracle

of colors conjured up by Joan Mitchell—a smile of gratitude.

 

 

Gouge Away

 

Almost Under Control 40 x 40 x 4 cm

 

ALTERNATE FACTS

 

Strolling under a jeweled sky was once

upon a time a small festival.

Not much else going down.

Nightingale solo. A few crows

bothering the corn. Drafty castle

in the far north of nowhere

in particular. Sheep in the distance.

The First Family on the ramparts

waiting for the Duke of Earl, replete

with slaughter, to return home.

Stoical duchess, blooming daughter,

pimpled heir apparent. In that cold tower,

full of life even though death pressed upon

them everywhere, pestilence, rusty nail,   

the chopping block. Just waking up

was a feast day. Today at work you were in

a meeting in which tiddlywinks and a burping

contest might have fit on the agenda.

Why not, what else, who cares?

Waking up to just another day.  

 

 

The Burning

Dervish 60 x 60 cm - acrylic on canvas

 

THE BURNING

 

Citizens of numerous

online domains…I watch you

swipe over Instagram like it’s

…well…you know…nothing.

 

You look up from your phone, notice an old man

emerging from a deep vibe, retro-enigmatic, moving

stealthily in your direction. Pretend stealth.

He wants you to be alarmed.

 

Looks like the type who would burn his papers

against a broken wall in some fragrant, bone dry,

southern land. Pornographic prose poems, diaries, letters

vicious with gossip. Released from paper, from so many significances,

 

you don’t burn anything these days. Delete mails.

Unfriend strangers on Facebook. That’s the end of it.

And no can one report

mad scribblings on the back of 

ripped open envelopes anymore.

 

James Schuyler wrote that Auden burned his papers

like a diplomat burning secret documents

while the embassy’s under siege. Now, admit it,   

you have to believe you’re pretty important to do that. 

 

 

Hey

 

Wrap yourself around Me 40 x 40 x 4,5 cm

 

MAKE-OVER

 

And the POETRY edition dedicated

   to Asian-American women

poets in prison?    that you happened?    to appear in?

   I think I’m jumping

   the gun a little. Too many effing question marks. We both

need a make-over. The only way you earn money

   out of me

is I stop writing this poem immediately

   and start a screenplay about

a totally made up YOU born in Macao  

   who at age three is sold to adoptive parents.

   In Hollywood. “Swimming pools, movie stars.” 

Your name is Liz, Elizabeth Caroline Wu, to be

   pedantic about it, but wait a sec,

back up, let’s turn this thing into a novel instead,

   a crime novel

about the world’s first and hopefully last

   Asian-American hit woman

slash summa cum laude graduate in Women’s Studies

   U.C. Berkeley slash poet, expert in radical discourses

set in strophic verse. However. Slipping a mickey to mainly male victims

   then suffocating them with a yellow satin pillow

is your real forte, even raison d’ etre. You never need  

   say a word and no one feels a thing.

   PERFECT. Let’s add your entrepreneurial success,

Silicon Valley start-up, ultimate move to Austin, seduction

 

   of billionaire space cadet Rafon Tusk who gradually

absorbs your company, fires the board, installs himself as CEO

   so you have no choice but to

take him out, a little powder in his energy drink,

   apply the satin pillow

over his always stuffy nose, and over that pouty

    mouth of his that you once thought was so “cute”

   but now detest, two pillows, and voila

Rafon’s no more than a glorified rumor on the lips

   of grieving podcasters.

   But wait a sec, back up, let’s simplify

this thing, dial it back, make you look more interesting

   than you actually are. FIRST: really short hair.

What used to be called a Little Boy’s haircut but this time for girls.

   Then a tattoo of a red spider

crawling up one of your mini-skirted thighs. PERFECT. A cluster

of readymade fans making selfies

   with you at some content-free

red carpet event in Bakersfield.

You never need say a word and no one feels a friggin thing.