America is a dying cow. Everyone wants to suck at the withered teat. The stronger push the weaker ones away. Naturally they grow hungry and angry. The wealthy drink the poison milk, then spew their vituperative proclamations. The rich defend the makers of armaments for wars across the world. After all, war is a profitable enterprise. Republicanism demands dependency on oil, coal, natural gas, deforestation, and relaxation of the standards set by the Environmental Protection Agency. Business must be THE first priority.
The old, union baby boomers are a thing of the past. Destroy their unions so they won't be able to collect their pensions and health and welfare checks. Just think of the money saved! Damn those dinosaurs who built America! Turn the young ones into a slave-class of worker drones. Take away their right to collective bargaining. They can go back into the sweatshops. This is regress my friends, not progress! Democracy has taken on a new meaning...corporate complicity. Money is the bottom line. Not human rights or ethics. The Constitution is being re-written for those in power. Non-union wages mean lower taxes at the end of the year for government. Every arm of government will get less without the unions, because union wage-earners will make less and buy less.
Will Wall Street and corporate America foot the bill? I think not. This new economic posturing by the tea-bagger Republicans reeks of totalitarianism, not capitalism. If they have their way, the "grand elite" will rule the day. The masses will feel the whip lashes on their backs, once again.
A government that disrespects its teachers, firemen, policemen, tradesmen, bus drivers, scientists, and intellectuals is damned to mediocrity. The government we have now in place in America wastes close to a billion dollars a day meddling in the affairs of cultures all over the world. We bring our pre-conceived notions wherever we go and try to "spoon-feed" them to people who want their well-deserved right to SELF governence.
Maybe if America used these resources to resurrect its own economy and people who work for a living, it might regain some of its dignity again and be known as "the land of the free". Let's try and feed the dying cow! Maybe it's not too late.
Saturday, February 26, 2011
Friday, February 25, 2011
HOLD ME
hold me.
yes, hold me.
tighter and tighter.
love me.
don't leave me alone.
be one with me.
we'll set our souls free.
i promise i'll make you happy.
it won't be like before.
just hold me.
it's now, you see.
we'll float like feathers on wing.
off to eternity.
yes, hold me,
love me.
you'll see...
how happy we can be.
never fear.
dry your tears.
just let go,
and hold me.
yes, hold me.
tighter and tighter.
love me.
don't leave me alone.
be one with me.
we'll set our souls free.
i promise i'll make you happy.
it won't be like before.
just hold me.
it's now, you see.
we'll float like feathers on wing.
off to eternity.
yes, hold me,
love me.
you'll see...
how happy we can be.
never fear.
dry your tears.
just let go,
and hold me.
THE DANCE
he was a grown, man-boy.
they called him, "a retard".
but he had more heart,
than any of them.
he picked her flowers from his mother's yard.
she worked in a dust-bowl, honky-tonk dive.
she was a dime-a-dance girl.
sometimes she took men home.
he wore an ill-fitting suit when he visited her.
she took him by the hand.
he gave her the money and the flowers.
they commenced the dance.
he stepped on her feet.
she did not care.
she looked into his vacant eyes.
there was love in there.
she saw it.
a tear dropped to her cheek.
he told her not to cry.
he smiled.
she smiled.
no-one had ever given her flowers.
what she had received from him was pure.
he smiled broadly.
it was a life-affirming dance.
they called him, "a retard".
but he had more heart,
than any of them.
he picked her flowers from his mother's yard.
she worked in a dust-bowl, honky-tonk dive.
she was a dime-a-dance girl.
sometimes she took men home.
he wore an ill-fitting suit when he visited her.
she took him by the hand.
he gave her the money and the flowers.
they commenced the dance.
he stepped on her feet.
she did not care.
she looked into his vacant eyes.
there was love in there.
she saw it.
a tear dropped to her cheek.
he told her not to cry.
he smiled.
she smiled.
no-one had ever given her flowers.
what she had received from him was pure.
he smiled broadly.
it was a life-affirming dance.
Wednesday, February 23, 2011
AND SO...
and so i sat in these bars...
and sketched lonely faces,
of men and women,
who smoked cigarettes,
and drank whiskey.
and i joined them
in the parade
of souls,
marching toward oblivion.
and we didn't care,
that it was killing us.
sweet suicide it was,
and still is
for many...
the tattered masses,
the inebriated,
the suicidal,
the misunderstood,
the unemployed,
the employed,
and me.
and i look at my copies
of published works,
and great canvases...
stored or sold.
my scrapbooks of memories,
and photos.
I am now fondly received.
and it means less to me.
i claim my fame.
at such a cost.
all self-generated.
a mythology of bullshit.
on bar napkins,
i sketched in bars.
wrote dialogues.
scrawled it all down.
put it together.
and so...
it continues.
until it ends.
and sketched lonely faces,
of men and women,
who smoked cigarettes,
and drank whiskey.
and i joined them
in the parade
of souls,
marching toward oblivion.
and we didn't care,
that it was killing us.
sweet suicide it was,
and still is
for many...
the tattered masses,
the inebriated,
the suicidal,
the misunderstood,
the unemployed,
the employed,
and me.
and i look at my copies
of published works,
and great canvases...
stored or sold.
my scrapbooks of memories,
and photos.
I am now fondly received.
and it means less to me.
i claim my fame.
at such a cost.
all self-generated.
a mythology of bullshit.
on bar napkins,
i sketched in bars.
wrote dialogues.
scrawled it all down.
put it together.
and so...
it continues.
until it ends.
Tuesday, February 22, 2011
Saturday, February 19, 2011
I KNOW...a story?
i know what the problem is.
don't tell anyone i told you.
i'm afraid of being arrested.
it's the phone company,
the internet,
GPS systems,
black ops,
the CIA,
the feds,
the police,
they're watching all of us.
yeah, right now.
facebook is a sham.
it's a monitoring device.
they record all that we say.
big brother is here.
orwell was a prophet.
they're going to put me in prison.
intellectuals will be the first to go.
the books are going to be burnt.
then they'll go "all tribal" on me.
they will dance around the campfire,
like primitives.
it's all a big conspiracy.
the news is fabricated.
it isn't real.
it's all made-up.
they want us to be afraid.
and we are.
do you notice the surveilance cameras?
they're everywhere.
they probably have bugged my house,
my car,
my office.
they are watching me.
i'm getting off the internet.
i'm burning my cell phones.
i'm selling all that i own.
i'm going to leave without a trace.
i hope they don't find me.
i'm leaving with my cash.
this is my only chance.
i have no other alternatives.
i know what they're up to now.
don't tell anyone i told you.
i'm afraid of being arrested.
it's the phone company,
the internet,
GPS systems,
black ops,
the CIA,
the feds,
the police,
they're watching all of us.
yeah, right now.
facebook is a sham.
it's a monitoring device.
they record all that we say.
big brother is here.
orwell was a prophet.
they're going to put me in prison.
intellectuals will be the first to go.
the books are going to be burnt.
then they'll go "all tribal" on me.
they will dance around the campfire,
like primitives.
it's all a big conspiracy.
the news is fabricated.
it isn't real.
it's all made-up.
they want us to be afraid.
and we are.
do you notice the surveilance cameras?
they're everywhere.
they probably have bugged my house,
my car,
my office.
they are watching me.
i'm getting off the internet.
i'm burning my cell phones.
i'm selling all that i own.
i'm going to leave without a trace.
i hope they don't find me.
i'm leaving with my cash.
this is my only chance.
i have no other alternatives.
i know what they're up to now.
Friday, February 18, 2011
DON'T MESS WITH ME
I'm not in the mood.
Don't mess with me.
Leave me alone.
I want to just "be".
Don't get in my head.
I'm better off dead,
than play your silly games.
Yeah, they all sound the same.
Don't bullshit me.
I don't want to be
messing around,
playing the clown.
Like you want me to be.
Why can't you see?
I'm through with these days,
these idiot ways,
of people who jibe,
and perpetrate lies.
Just leave me alone,
go back to your homes.
A man can't get rest,
because of the mess,
of mind-fucking fools,
who don't play by the rules.
After sixty-odd years,
vales of tears,
I just want to relax,
no more attacks,
please.
Don't mess with me.
Don't mess with me.
Leave me alone.
I want to just "be".
Don't get in my head.
I'm better off dead,
than play your silly games.
Yeah, they all sound the same.
Don't bullshit me.
I don't want to be
messing around,
playing the clown.
Like you want me to be.
Why can't you see?
I'm through with these days,
these idiot ways,
of people who jibe,
and perpetrate lies.
Just leave me alone,
go back to your homes.
A man can't get rest,
because of the mess,
of mind-fucking fools,
who don't play by the rules.
After sixty-odd years,
vales of tears,
I just want to relax,
no more attacks,
please.
Don't mess with me.
Thursday, February 17, 2011
MAN CAGE
a yellow, steel man cage,
held twelve men.
i was one of them.
suspended over a 400 ft. dropshaft.
like the innards of a spider,
we were.
a one-inch steel cable on a drum,
like the thread on a spool,
the crane lowered us to the depths
of the deep, deep tunnel.
at 50 ft., the smell gets in a man's nose.
dankness, dynamite powder, rock dust.
I can still smell it.
carbon monoxide, diesel fumes.
i looked at the faces.
haggard, tired, red, bloodshot eyes.
saw the stickers advertising companies,
dynamite, tools, on American Bridge hardhats.
metal lunchboxes, thermos bottles, cigarettes...
dangling from chapped lips.
we went down.
not to see sunlight.
only darkness.
held twelve men.
i was one of them.
suspended over a 400 ft. dropshaft.
like the innards of a spider,
we were.
a one-inch steel cable on a drum,
like the thread on a spool,
the crane lowered us to the depths
of the deep, deep tunnel.
at 50 ft., the smell gets in a man's nose.
dankness, dynamite powder, rock dust.
I can still smell it.
carbon monoxide, diesel fumes.
i looked at the faces.
haggard, tired, red, bloodshot eyes.
saw the stickers advertising companies,
dynamite, tools, on American Bridge hardhats.
metal lunchboxes, thermos bottles, cigarettes...
dangling from chapped lips.
we went down.
not to see sunlight.
only darkness.
Tuesday, February 15, 2011
THE ANSWER
what is the question?
there are many of them.
which is the most important?
there isn't any one.
how do i find the truth?
it slowly reveals itself.
do i find it in God?
some have.
some have not.
so where do i seek it?
everywhere.
i've looked all my life,
but alas, i'm still lost.
most are.
most always will be.
are there any who has found it?
no one knows.
if they say they have,
they are probably ignorant,
or they seek to deceive you.
then is it a hopeless pursuit?
no.
seeking the truth is all there is.
so what do i do now?
that is the answer.
there are many of them.
which is the most important?
there isn't any one.
how do i find the truth?
it slowly reveals itself.
do i find it in God?
some have.
some have not.
so where do i seek it?
everywhere.
i've looked all my life,
but alas, i'm still lost.
most are.
most always will be.
are there any who has found it?
no one knows.
if they say they have,
they are probably ignorant,
or they seek to deceive you.
then is it a hopeless pursuit?
no.
seeking the truth is all there is.
so what do i do now?
that is the answer.
Monday, February 14, 2011
VALENTINE FOR MY WIFE
be my valentine.
by mine.
let me kiss your gentle lips.
hold my hand.
i will always stand with you.
our love is always grand.
through all the phases in our life.
through joy and hardship,
love and strife,
i will be there for you,
my lovely wife.
so kiss me, my precious,
hold me close to you.
i am your valentine,
'til all is through.
and when we enter heaven's gate.
will you still be my love?
yes?
i can't wait.
for all these years i've been with you,
my heart grows warmer.
glad i said, "yes, i do."
by mine.
let me kiss your gentle lips.
hold my hand.
i will always stand with you.
our love is always grand.
through all the phases in our life.
through joy and hardship,
love and strife,
i will be there for you,
my lovely wife.
so kiss me, my precious,
hold me close to you.
i am your valentine,
'til all is through.
and when we enter heaven's gate.
will you still be my love?
yes?
i can't wait.
for all these years i've been with you,
my heart grows warmer.
glad i said, "yes, i do."
Sunday, February 13, 2011
LIFE
it's the game called life.
we are born sucking at the teat,
or the bottle.
one is as good as the other...
i guess.
it's all a crapshoot,
a roll of the dice.
enjoy the good luck,
'cause bad is around the corner.
life is all good and bad.
the perpetual dichotomy.
the endless circle of being.
life is just life.
that's all...
never to be understood.
it isn't s'posed to be.
it just IS.
that's all.
we are born sucking at the teat,
or the bottle.
one is as good as the other...
i guess.
it's all a crapshoot,
a roll of the dice.
enjoy the good luck,
'cause bad is around the corner.
life is all good and bad.
the perpetual dichotomy.
the endless circle of being.
life is just life.
that's all...
never to be understood.
it isn't s'posed to be.
it just IS.
that's all.
Saturday, February 12, 2011
BLACK SWAN
The movie, "Black Swan", directed by Darren Aronofsky is a masterpiece. Immediately the viewer is struck by how closely the camera follows the frenetic movements of the beautiful Natalie Portman, as she travels the streets of New York, prepares herself for the work of "the dance", and suffers physical and mental torture to gain the number one role in Swan Lake. The music of Swan Lake is superb, as is the editing, story development and angst of our protaganist.
Get the buffer out and shine up an Oscar for best actress of the year. Ms. Portman, definitely deserves it. She is absolutely amazing in the role. It comes as no surprise, because she studied dance since the age of four. Her lithe body and beauty, much like that of Audrey Hepburn, borders on the anorexic. Natalie's portrayal shows a dedicated ballerina's mighty highs and lows. I felt as if I wanted to hug her as a father, and guide her through the difficulties her character encounters. Many themes are woven in this drama. These are themes of creative genius and madness, beauty and terror, obsession and compulsion. Much more cannot be said, for I will destroy the impact of the movie and performances. Surrounding Ms. Portman is a wonderful cast. Most memorable is Barbara Hershey as her overly doting mother.
Having a daughter who performed with Von Heideke Ballet Company, I was moved to tears by this monumental film. For those in the creative arts, this film is a must see. I came away from the film with tears in my eyes, and an existential emptiness. Yet, the majesty of the event, and what was accomplished by this brave film made me smile. I understand from past experiences what demons the dancers of the ballet have to deal with in the practice of their art, in order to be "perfect". The movie made me question if perfection and obsession for art in all of its forms is absolutely worthwhile. I leave that decision up to you.
Do not miss this movie if you are obsessive about your love for the arts. You will never forget it.
Get the buffer out and shine up an Oscar for best actress of the year. Ms. Portman, definitely deserves it. She is absolutely amazing in the role. It comes as no surprise, because she studied dance since the age of four. Her lithe body and beauty, much like that of Audrey Hepburn, borders on the anorexic. Natalie's portrayal shows a dedicated ballerina's mighty highs and lows. I felt as if I wanted to hug her as a father, and guide her through the difficulties her character encounters. Many themes are woven in this drama. These are themes of creative genius and madness, beauty and terror, obsession and compulsion. Much more cannot be said, for I will destroy the impact of the movie and performances. Surrounding Ms. Portman is a wonderful cast. Most memorable is Barbara Hershey as her overly doting mother.
Having a daughter who performed with Von Heideke Ballet Company, I was moved to tears by this monumental film. For those in the creative arts, this film is a must see. I came away from the film with tears in my eyes, and an existential emptiness. Yet, the majesty of the event, and what was accomplished by this brave film made me smile. I understand from past experiences what demons the dancers of the ballet have to deal with in the practice of their art, in order to be "perfect". The movie made me question if perfection and obsession for art in all of its forms is absolutely worthwhile. I leave that decision up to you.
Do not miss this movie if you are obsessive about your love for the arts. You will never forget it.
Friday, February 11, 2011
THIS MESS
i always have to clean up some mess.
it might be in the house
or out in the yard
or things i have said
or decisions i have made
nothing is ever clean
pristine
perfect
in this messy life
idyllic is for me
a perfect world in harmony
with little birds that sing
and women with their bling
that come to me
so happily
oh bullshit
it's still a mess
my truths i must divest
accept reality
as far as i can see
the messes of the world
as more news is unfurled
to my unreceptive brain
i'm foolish to complain
it's always gonna' be
a mess for you and me
so get out your broom
and rags to clean the room
as soon as we are done
there's more where that came from
it's hopeless can't you see?
this mess, reality.
it might be in the house
or out in the yard
or things i have said
or decisions i have made
nothing is ever clean
pristine
perfect
in this messy life
idyllic is for me
a perfect world in harmony
with little birds that sing
and women with their bling
that come to me
so happily
oh bullshit
it's still a mess
my truths i must divest
accept reality
as far as i can see
the messes of the world
as more news is unfurled
to my unreceptive brain
i'm foolish to complain
it's always gonna' be
a mess for you and me
so get out your broom
and rags to clean the room
as soon as we are done
there's more where that came from
it's hopeless can't you see?
this mess, reality.
Wednesday, February 9, 2011
Jazz
the netherland of jazz
i used to escape there
along with my cigarettes
and scotch
in the dark of my room
around noon
and look at swirls of smoke
in contended drunkenness
no one was there to boggle my mind
it was all perfect
like a house of cards creatively put together
in a fragile state of being
undisturbed
until the slightest wisp of wind
dismembered it all
more than slight
but with piercing shrieks
of the winds called reality
it wasn't a nice place
to be for me.
yeah, I was jazzed.
i used to escape there
along with my cigarettes
and scotch
in the dark of my room
around noon
and look at swirls of smoke
in contended drunkenness
no one was there to boggle my mind
it was all perfect
like a house of cards creatively put together
in a fragile state of being
undisturbed
until the slightest wisp of wind
dismembered it all
more than slight
but with piercing shrieks
of the winds called reality
it wasn't a nice place
to be for me.
yeah, I was jazzed.
I FOUND A FLOWER MADE OUT OF GARBAGE
i found a flower made out of garbage
it was a pretty thing
made of found detritus
old ribbons
pieces of aluminum
pieced together with rusty wire
handily made with love i suppose
place in a soup can painted green
lying on a floor with used needles
next to a urine soaked mattress
in a building where squatters lived
now they were gone
the demolition had been scheduled
i brought the flower out
put it in the cab of my crane
i used my wrecking ball
leveled a decrepit building
for a new one of steel, glass and concrete
a cold monument to those with money
and i felt sad
i brought the flower home
no one would touch it
it might have germs
they threw it in the garbage
this thing of beauty
i could not understand
this beautiful thing was discarded
like so many other things
i had no part in it
or maybe i did
i found a flower made of garbage
it was a pretty thing
made of found detritus
old ribbons
pieces of aluminum
pieced together with rusty wire
handily made with love i suppose
place in a soup can painted green
lying on a floor with used needles
next to a urine soaked mattress
in a building where squatters lived
now they were gone
the demolition had been scheduled
i brought the flower out
put it in the cab of my crane
i used my wrecking ball
leveled a decrepit building
for a new one of steel, glass and concrete
a cold monument to those with money
and i felt sad
i brought the flower home
no one would touch it
it might have germs
they threw it in the garbage
this thing of beauty
i could not understand
this beautiful thing was discarded
like so many other things
i had no part in it
or maybe i did
i found a flower made of garbage
Monday, February 7, 2011
ODE TO THOSE WHO SEEK FAME
they leave shit-heel towns, suitcase in hand.
maybe they carry a beat-up guitar case,
or a raggedy chap book of poems...
an actors line-or-two...
a singing voice.
they head for la-la land, or the big apple.
sometimes chicago.
they are swallowed up.
their so-called talents are ignored.
and in the great neon-world of their minds,
they still truly believe in their "genius".
they ain't shit.
theirs is the definition of insanity...
doing the same thing over, and over, and over again...
and expecting different results.
oh, those poor souls.
a few of them actually "make it".
most of them become petulant, self-absorbed assholes.
they are lionized, idolized, iconized, canonized.
but they ain't saints.
they're still fucked-up people.
all of it becomes a pain in the ass.
"fuck it all", they say.
"bring me back to my small town".
suitcase in hand, the losers leave and head back.
they leave their dreams and the moronic herd.
they leave the idol worshippers.
yes, they go back to cornfields or factory jobs.
they leave behind the fortunate ones.
the ones whose souls have been sucked out of them by:
booze, drugs, sex, fame.
yeah, fuck it all.
maybe you were hip,
but it was a long time ago, baby.
rich or poor, unknown or famous...
pain is the only reality.
they now know this to be true,
the lucky ones.
so pick up your bedroll, traveler.
press on and find your new home.
in this time of change you'll come to realize truth:
that when you've reached the zenith,
you've actually hit your nadir.
reality comes and you will begin to know peace.
you might meet yourself for the first time.
maybe they carry a beat-up guitar case,
or a raggedy chap book of poems...
an actors line-or-two...
a singing voice.
they head for la-la land, or the big apple.
sometimes chicago.
they are swallowed up.
their so-called talents are ignored.
and in the great neon-world of their minds,
they still truly believe in their "genius".
they ain't shit.
theirs is the definition of insanity...
doing the same thing over, and over, and over again...
and expecting different results.
oh, those poor souls.
a few of them actually "make it".
most of them become petulant, self-absorbed assholes.
they are lionized, idolized, iconized, canonized.
but they ain't saints.
they're still fucked-up people.
all of it becomes a pain in the ass.
"fuck it all", they say.
"bring me back to my small town".
suitcase in hand, the losers leave and head back.
they leave their dreams and the moronic herd.
they leave the idol worshippers.
yes, they go back to cornfields or factory jobs.
they leave behind the fortunate ones.
the ones whose souls have been sucked out of them by:
booze, drugs, sex, fame.
yeah, fuck it all.
maybe you were hip,
but it was a long time ago, baby.
rich or poor, unknown or famous...
pain is the only reality.
they now know this to be true,
the lucky ones.
so pick up your bedroll, traveler.
press on and find your new home.
in this time of change you'll come to realize truth:
that when you've reached the zenith,
you've actually hit your nadir.
reality comes and you will begin to know peace.
you might meet yourself for the first time.
BLOOD
There's blood in your eye.
There's blood on the orange moon.
I notice the blood in the gutter of my bayonet.
There's blood in the gutters of the streets,
and in the gutters of the mortician's table.
Blood in the sand.
Blood in the jungles.
Blood on the city streets.
The blood of the soldier runs red.
The "blue bloods" never spill.
The blood in their veins run icy-cold.
Cold-hearted they are.
Blood means profit.
The powerful only have blue moons.
They don't notice the bayonet,
or feel its sharp penetration.
They step on blood-red carpets.
They accept humanitarian awards.
They never step in the gutter.
They make donations for tax shelters.
But in secret rooms they plot.
They support regimes.
There's blood in their eyes.
It's not seen.
It's well-hidden.
So onward we march.
For flag and country.
For God and family.
For the powers that be.
You and me.
We are enemies.
For those whose blood runs cold.
There's blood on the orange moon.
I notice the blood in the gutter of my bayonet.
There's blood in the gutters of the streets,
and in the gutters of the mortician's table.
Blood in the sand.
Blood in the jungles.
Blood on the city streets.
The blood of the soldier runs red.
The "blue bloods" never spill.
The blood in their veins run icy-cold.
Cold-hearted they are.
Blood means profit.
The powerful only have blue moons.
They don't notice the bayonet,
or feel its sharp penetration.
They step on blood-red carpets.
They accept humanitarian awards.
They never step in the gutter.
They make donations for tax shelters.
But in secret rooms they plot.
They support regimes.
There's blood in their eyes.
It's not seen.
It's well-hidden.
So onward we march.
For flag and country.
For God and family.
For the powers that be.
You and me.
We are enemies.
For those whose blood runs cold.
Friday, February 4, 2011
THE WORDS ARE GONE
I just wrapped up another book.
the words are gone for a while.
this is not my style.
my head needs to rest.
I'll keep you abreast.
to the news of more.
for I'm just a whore,
to the written word.
It sounds absurd.
I'll do my best.
I'll take a short rest.
so see you soon.
this silly buffoon,
must hit the room
where ideas wait
but i roller skate
for a couple days
it's not malaise
so never fear
i'm gonna be near
and see you soon!
thanks readers.
the words are gone for a while.
this is not my style.
my head needs to rest.
I'll keep you abreast.
to the news of more.
for I'm just a whore,
to the written word.
It sounds absurd.
I'll do my best.
I'll take a short rest.
so see you soon.
this silly buffoon,
must hit the room
where ideas wait
but i roller skate
for a couple days
it's not malaise
so never fear
i'm gonna be near
and see you soon!
thanks readers.
Tuesday, February 1, 2011
ART WARS
The soles in my shoes had holes in them,
from all the miles I walked trying to show my art.
I stuck newspaper in my shoes, so my feet would stay dry.
My heels wore down on the outsides,
so they gave me a funny gait.
I couldn't afford a portfolio case.
Not even one of those cheap vinyl types.
Instead I wrapped my work, which was negotiated on expensive french water-color paper. I put it in cardboard boxes that I had flattened and disassembled.
These boxes were obtained from kindly grocers in my neighborhood.
Burlap rope clumsily held my package of treasures together.
I knocked on many a gallery door.
The owners were mostly gruff with me.
They were haughty and gave me looks of disdain.
I knew I was nothing to them.
They never even bothered to take a look at my life's work.
Some of them even went so far, to insult my dress and demeanor.
I was told to never come back again to present myself or my art.
Finally I learned the proper procedures of mailing mounted slides,
resumes, lists of showings, and artist's statements.
I couldn't afford any of this, but financed it with art sales I made in taverns.
I had a fire in my belly I couldn't put out.
I painted for hours every day.
I drank in workingman taverns and sketched scenes of the downtrodden.
I sent photos of my paintings to galleries that I thought would show my work.
Pretty soon, some good galleries were seeking me out.
I went to their shows, still in blue jeans and boots.
I wore a raggedy leather jacket, and a cowboy hat.
My beard was unkempt, and I smelled of whiskey.
I got my break for a solo show at a decent gallery.
I never changed my ways.
I was still disheveled and drunk.
The owners said it added to my mystique.
What a bunch of bullshit.
The whole scene reeked of bullshit.
One day a businessman and his trophy wife came to one of my shows.
He asked me, "How much for this piece of yours on the wall?"
I was drunk and angry and answered him, "Can't you read the fucking price tag?"
Then I told him, "Normally this painting sells for eight-hundred dollars, but for you, because of your impudence, the price is double that."
His sweet wife took my hands in hers and kissed me on the cheek.
She told her husband to write me a check for sixteen-hundred dollars.
I won a battle that day.
I lost many more.
I was at war.
My career had begun.
I heard the music of Wagner,
and so the Machiavellian schemes began to dance in my head.
Such is the nature of my art wars.
from all the miles I walked trying to show my art.
I stuck newspaper in my shoes, so my feet would stay dry.
My heels wore down on the outsides,
so they gave me a funny gait.
I couldn't afford a portfolio case.
Not even one of those cheap vinyl types.
Instead I wrapped my work, which was negotiated on expensive french water-color paper. I put it in cardboard boxes that I had flattened and disassembled.
These boxes were obtained from kindly grocers in my neighborhood.
Burlap rope clumsily held my package of treasures together.
I knocked on many a gallery door.
The owners were mostly gruff with me.
They were haughty and gave me looks of disdain.
I knew I was nothing to them.
They never even bothered to take a look at my life's work.
Some of them even went so far, to insult my dress and demeanor.
I was told to never come back again to present myself or my art.
Finally I learned the proper procedures of mailing mounted slides,
resumes, lists of showings, and artist's statements.
I couldn't afford any of this, but financed it with art sales I made in taverns.
I had a fire in my belly I couldn't put out.
I painted for hours every day.
I drank in workingman taverns and sketched scenes of the downtrodden.
I sent photos of my paintings to galleries that I thought would show my work.
Pretty soon, some good galleries were seeking me out.
I went to their shows, still in blue jeans and boots.
I wore a raggedy leather jacket, and a cowboy hat.
My beard was unkempt, and I smelled of whiskey.
I got my break for a solo show at a decent gallery.
I never changed my ways.
I was still disheveled and drunk.
The owners said it added to my mystique.
What a bunch of bullshit.
The whole scene reeked of bullshit.
One day a businessman and his trophy wife came to one of my shows.
He asked me, "How much for this piece of yours on the wall?"
I was drunk and angry and answered him, "Can't you read the fucking price tag?"
Then I told him, "Normally this painting sells for eight-hundred dollars, but for you, because of your impudence, the price is double that."
His sweet wife took my hands in hers and kissed me on the cheek.
She told her husband to write me a check for sixteen-hundred dollars.
I won a battle that day.
I lost many more.
I was at war.
My career had begun.
I heard the music of Wagner,
and so the Machiavellian schemes began to dance in my head.
Such is the nature of my art wars.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
