ketchup party

ketchup party

at the ketchup party things are not so bad.

um. not so. bad.

for instance

someone has the guts and finds it in their heart to bring out transparency maps, a banned parlour game trending mainly in underground artist circles during the Weimar period, viss ist origins oont dee short-lived abject artist group Die Chaos.

etc

the rules are simple. plug up all the holes windows doors openings of the party house except for one, er vun, preferably vun that filters in a good amount of day dusk or moonlight UNT! freshly sledgehammered through a wall with a shovel or, vun hopes of course. a sledgehammer. the party host lines the floor with one giant clear sheet of plastic, rather expensive for its Weimar time but not ours or so it goes. guests are blindfolded like vee are and commanded to draw an intuitive natural line map to the only opening in the joint with a bottle of ketchup as a drawing tool. well, thee drawing tool. each guest scrambles to create a new sloppy map in their sloppy way, invariably abstracting the previous ketchupy escape routes drawn by der udders. once finished, the transparency map is hung or propped up in the middle of the room and guests scramble out via the new and quite only exit transporting the party outside. cocktails served, thank you, to us, the ketchup splosheduppartyguests who occasionally peer into the party house now remixed as phenomenal gallery space to marvel and guffaw at our ephemeral collective mustard, well, masterpiece.

heavens. Das moderne Leben macht Spaß!

Mark Luggin The Now Probably To The Kitchen We're All Laughing Anyway

I saw that nice heel its way out n down n across most likely to heaven or rather. Mark's studio. Light-filled bedpan to the stars. But it's really just woodbeams scrappy wall paint, New York skies the weather what have you, his brushes n books, brushedup books due to wet paint and concentration, sealed up pages due to paint and who cares anyway, oh! And his eloquency. His darn Spirit. His darn marriage and I don't mean to Mell. His marraige to The Artist. All of them that, um, who meet is gaze n survive his burn. Very few of them do, but do they care? Nope. Ahh Freedom and Survival. A divorce from those and you end up. Hm

And you end up on Mark's canvas.

Lucky devils.

We're all lucky devils to live through the atomic fifties, scooting our pelvises to rock n roll, knowing what poetry is and what painting can be. And Jazz. With or without Mark Rothko.

But there goes the heel, out the kitchen at a quick Russian pace. Tiny little ballet kick at the end or is it my drink? Mell keeps'm comin' chilled ever so right and I'd swear this kitchen was shrinking.

Mell drinking while stirring while commenting while shucking food on plates all at the same time and I think she's pretty darn ready to be on the Ed Sullivan show.

Mark's distant clumping down then up up up with the lugging. Up up up canvas cradled, no, saddled onto Mark. It's a New York Jazz Rodeo & Artist Pony Show come to see us, Mell n I, come to stir us in our seats with something marvelous, something new. Something so new it outstinks this fine Mell-made food by a mile. We love it. We adore it.

The Now greeting us

laughing all the way.

Pine Wave

and whatever rigermaroll, uh

and there it is. hard to believe, but yeah, there

well I jus thunk that. or said that, dunno

only time for these 3 things as wave peaks

shout to love of my life in my arms: I'll try to find you

thought bubble: my drawings

thought bubble: glad I flossed n brushed

final thought bubble or garbled utterance or possible rememberence in lieu of something else: the line of the profile of Mickey is a perfect line, one of eloquence, Mickey being only of perfection, I am so lucky to be enchanted by him, sharing affection before the goodbye

The rising is impossible but it is already there and peaking. That curve, that pause is aching. Clearly a mirror of love.

It is beyond slow motion. It inhabits everything around. The pines feel astonishment, as that slow syrup of circles echo out connecting us, live human forms and pines and pine rings and other trees, scampering or self-frozen mammals, soil, and I'll guess the insects, turning all living things into salad and shadow. Great shadow. Great mountain salad deleting my history of self-discovery, my future of discovering the world. Our all together history. Tossed.

The only time a giant wave of water, wind, lightning and mountain will rise up, peak out, crest up in silence, then avalanche down upon our romance.

My final thought or utterance or something else, is

is of her eye

making sure I capture hers in my eye

gleaming

making sure she captures mine

or at least my commitment to her

to finding her

to holding her

in the salad that was once a mountain