Posts tagged ‘Resentment’

March 25, 2013

A Lifelong Brush With Obscurity

Obscurity

Contact with anybody
who has produced work of quality
fills me with a thwarted yearning empathy,
an implausible sense of fraternity,
a melancholy sting. Regret and resentment
gnawing at me, eating me alive.
This is what you reap
when you haven’t sown anything.

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March 8, 2013

Deeper than Death

Problems_0001

I don’t care about anybody else’s problems:
They are not as serious as mine.
My sadness is not only deeper than yours:
It is wider and in every respect richer. 

 
February 4, 2013

Redemptive Half Measures

 

Redemptive

I always assume that people I admire are single
and experience a sinking sensation
when I learn they are not. They drop
in my estimation – for what that’s worth –
from wishful thinking to cold hard earth.

 

 

January 13, 2013

LXXXV

The transcendental is strictly off limits.

There are no levees capable
of withstanding the torrents of distraction
that surge through my mind. Tender
resentments, useless trivia and tired lusts
are carried along like debris on a swollen river,
from which, very occasionally, a lucid thought
emerges – only to be sucked back down
into the sewage of pettiness and vanity.

December 13, 2012

past, resent, future

images-2_2

Living in the present, negligibly;
regretting the past, sweepingly;
and speculating upon the future,
incredulously.

 

December 4, 2012

Second Blush

 

I resent you for bringing out these feelings:
I was better off without them.

 Cranach_Lucas_the_Elder_Diana_and_Acteon_art_gallerys_prints_arts_p

You have evicted me from myself;
banished me to a semi-autonomous region;
to a statelessness beclouded
by fear of regret.

May 24, 2012

Parasitology

I measure my life by other people’s milestones.
All this evasion, absorption and accumulation
provides a foundation in tradition,
a rich vein of consolation.
Art, like death, makes life more interesting.
And without it: as unthinkable as love
without pity, or a selfless eulogy.
But the bondage of receptivity
compares most unfavorably
with the selflessness of productivity.

December 29, 2011

State of Grace

Frankly, your prolificity disturbs me:
It serves to satisfy an insatiable hunger
For mediocrity. You swagger in vain
Against extinction. But the efforts of those
Who wrest crumbs from history
Will ensure your immortality.

November 10, 2011

The Kiedis Problem

A certain party was inspired to pay tribute to the great poet and paragon of male beauty, Anthony Kiedis:

As part of the Pacific Standard Time offensive, an ad campaign has been launched – to reel the kids in, presumably – in which celebrities are enlisted to endorse the work of their supposedly favorite artists. Posters around town depict a shirtless (as ever) Anthony Kiedis – yes, the semi-talented egomaniac best known for boasting about all the drugs he took 20 years ago – flaunting his impeccable pecs (and/or abs) with Ruscha Hollywood Sign-in-reverse typeface superimposed behind him. According to the press release, Kiedis “personifies the mood and attitude of Southern California… like no other artist today,” which suggests we’re in more serious trouble than we may have previously thought. We are best represented by a junkie who walks around naked with nothing but a sock over his knob. Yeah, I know, he’s moved on: I’ve seen his mature work.

So, as  Kerouac suffers at the hands of Ruscha, so must Ruscha suffer the indignity of Kiedis’s seal of mediocrity. This addiction-flaunting braggart (bragging about art) is exactly the kind of ambassador the art world doesn’t need. In an accompanying three-minute video Kiedis and Ruscha drive around LA together (you get the idea), rhapsodizing about the city that has been so appreciative of their qualities. While Ruscha mumbles graciously, Kiedis, the celebrated wordsmith, discusses his special relationship with language: “I definitely relate deeply to the idea of words being art. When I see somebody else who’s got such a connection with words, I instantly feel connected to that person.” (Especially, one suspects, if that other person is famous.) It would be easy to point out the numerous  solecisms contained in those two sentences, but why be petty? I have nothing against the guy, I just don’t like the look (or sound) of him. And surely by now enough people can recognize a Ruscha or a Baldessari (who receives similar treatment from the almost-as- irritating Jason Schwartzman) without the aid of some smug celebrity striking poses in front of their work, which seems to imply that LA art can’t quite make it on its own without the imprimatur of its Hollywood adjunct.

November 10, 2011

ARTISTS ONLY

 

Never mind that you have nothing to bring to the table.
No problem, that is no longer a requirement.
A career in the arts is no longer the province of the unlucky few
who did what they had to do. Like poker, it’s a game open
to everybody now, and the tables are crowded with players
hungry for easy money and televised prestige.
Sacrifices are demanded of those who waver, hesitation is fatal;
false modesty or self-doubt get you quickly shaken out.
But the quality of the game has become vitiated, impenetrable
to the uninitiated, and the less talent you possess,
the more brazenly it must be heralded. Lay a golden egg
where carelessness meets calculation. The artist’s touch:
It pays, these days, to advertise your desperation.