Granted, I was a little rough. But in my defense…

1 06 2016

Granted, I was a little rough. But in my defense..





Wassily Kandinsky

1 06 2016

Wassily Wassilyevich Kandinsky (/kænˈdɪnski/; Russian: Васи́лий Васи́льевич Канди́нский, Vasiliy Vasil’yevich Kandinskiy, pronounced [vaˈsʲilʲɪj kɐnˈdʲinskʲɪj]; 16 December [O.S. 4 December] 1866 – 13 December 1944) was an influential Russian painter and art theorist. He is credited with painting one of the first purely abstract works.[1] Born in Moscow, Kandinsky spent his childhood in Odessa, where he graduated at Grekov Odessa Art school. He enrolled at the University of Moscow, studying law and economics. Successful in his profession—he was offered a professorship (chair of Roman Law) at the University of Dorpat—Kandinsky began painting studies (life-drawing, sketching and anatomy) at the age of 30.





Singing in the rain…

1 06 2016

Singing In The Rain





mother and child

1 06 2016

mother and child





I tea with my magazine wife…

1 06 2016

I Tea





End of the Celebration

1 06 2016

End of the Celebration

Long ago. In a passed life. Before the flood. Of Ivory soap commercials. When Jack Benny was still doing guest spots. When the cement was being mixed. And the bricks laid. The Berlin Wall. Before the Beatles. And the micro chiiiip. When the Russians sent a 2 headed dog around the planet. To mark its territory. I was promised happiness.

I found this promise. On the back of a soggy box of Kellogg’s Corn Flakes. My father explained happiness. As he dipped his Marguerite cigar. In the yellow. Yoke. Twins. Happiness and Paradise. And a numbered Swiss bank account. Established by an Irish Poet. Who later died of alcoholism. I remembered that promise. Made so long ago. When I met Monica. I had found happiness. No one mentioned anything about it being temporary.

Like a Buick through the Lincoln Tunnel. Thoughts passed through my head. We sat in the Hayloft. A fancy French restaurant. It was my birthday. The waiters gathered in front of our table and began singing ‘Happy Birthday’. In French. It was the specialty of the house. I could feel it. There was something. Ominous in the air.

I whispered to the soup. Monica asked if it was too hot. I pointed out that I was putting the question. Does love ever win out? Like the Christians in the coliseum. Yawning into the mouths of the lions. Gestures are a buffer against pain. She was leaving. Melancholy. Happiness’s fare…

………………………..

download SOMEWHERE IN THE 70S

I was a street poet. Talked, ranted, rhymed about the people I knew on Church Street. Everything had pace. Prose poems. And they were long. Words, thoughts, came at you from every direction. It was like the traffic.

D-SomewhereInThe1970s

 

 

 

 

 

 

 





Gold

1 06 2016

Gold