Tuesday, March 11, 2014

my daughter sleeps
on the couch these days…
she's there now while i type this.
i'm procrastinating on duties
needed to move the day forward.
i'm taking this quiet time for myself…
there is a grass fed sirloin to marinate,
dishes in the sink and drawings waiting for life.

but right now i'm typing.
typing and thinking
the thoughts of a man,
perhaps, too satisfied.

there is still fire in the hours
i move through,
but the fire burns
without the tinder of rage.
the urgency,
one of savoring-
of reflecting…

i used to roam Europe
with one bag and no money.
for better or worse,
those days are long over--
families don't hitchhike
and a wife and child
demand the courtesies
of more refined travel.

47 seems a comfortable distance
from 26 and it's violent insecurities.

the danger, of course,
is losing that edge
that made shit happen…

in bad times the artist has to tuck their chin,
roll the shoulders forward,
and bite down on the mouthpiece.

in good times the artist
must continue to find
a battle in every day,
while living richly
and creating loudly…

or quietly.

like now...

Sunday, March 9, 2014

the tumult of the laundry list of fairs
and the debacle of the Whitney is closing…
i've been in my studio. working.
this year was not my year
for $19 glasses of champagne.
i've been in my studio. working…
i have, however, spent time with thoughts
of SoHo, the SoHo of decades ago,
circa 1993…

climbing white painted stairs
for red wine in plastic cups,
later to stagger into clubs and bars
with our fill of art, primed
for heavier sport…

the bouncers liked me
because i could finish what i started…

the same cobblestones
and the same majestic
buildings still exist,
but the glass walled real estate
bordering the sidewalks
is not the same.

and there are places i remember
that are now only that...