Lots of activity this morning. Posting my artwork. Reviewing the paintings and drawings makes me feel like I want to do some work.
I like to feel that someone is watching – somewhere, someone is looking and enjoying. Its a satisfying thought.
And here, finally, is my American Hustle poem!
He is ramping up his comb-over
With lacquer and glue,
The mirror hard on his paunch and his suit
Settling into a statement of brusque
Pushed to the end of their tailoring.
He is attracting flak-like
Static from both women
The satin-coated blonde
Parading the lounge and
The scything redhead
Scaling up his scams.
Roslyn is raw energy encapsulated in
Housewifely prowls around
The spindly dining set
She is yes and no at the same time
Overshadowing the lamps and the wallpaper.
Sitting at the table
While the TV dinner catches
Fire in the microwave
Sparks blooming from the
Tiniest crease in the foil folded
Over a roast
She is juggling the flames
As if they were her nerves or
A feeling set to fire from sheer belligerence
Blistering the wall
And climbing into a cornice.
Your gift is a blaze of innovation – a
Trojan horse of technology and
She won’t have that science in her kitchen.
Your girlfriend, on the
Other hand is all
Twisting nerves and cleavage to the waist, composed
With steel and ambition,
Glossed over with life’s lessons
Stalking paradise in Blahniks and
Shaky on these new legs
An urban sophisticate with an
Ersatz English title
And plenty of sexual
Sydney & Richie
But the other man has taken her by surprise,
And she is vacillating
Between what is necessary, what is wanted
And what is real
Together they are storming the
One spare stall in the
Jumping the queue of wilted dancers.
Falling through the door, she is
Silhouetted against the back wall,
Still talking, her ass right out there. She’s going
From love to seduction to
Breaking a frame over his head
Fighting unfair with glass gouging a
Slap of crowsfeet while
Rivulets of blood are clouding his eyes.
No way is this over! I want to
Waltz you through
Disco’s last throes
And then we can end up
Tangled in a marriage
With no indictable offences.
These last few weeks have been hell for him
The ladies room confrontation,
The sexy, expensive mess
He is overwhelmed again
In the corner of a hotel suite,
Falling backward from a car,
Tripping up a curb
Cowering near a door,
Scrambling for his heart pills.
Back in the denouement,
With step-child in tow,
Two survivors with newly minted
Trundle into suburbia.