Final London Tally and Kindness to Poets

Edgeworth and Oxtails 2024. Acrylic on United Airlines blanket, 18 x 24"

I’ve tallied up my spending for the two overlapping weeks spent in London. (All quids accounted for—air travel, hotel, food, Tube and bus):

Week # 10 = $1,142.50 (London Part I over budget: $842.50)Week #11 = $973.74 (London Part II over budget: $673.74)

Hard to believe that I am still in “safe” territory. I shall continue for the rest of the year at a pace of <$266.76 per week in order to stay below the $15,000 threshold, and remain gleefully unattached to the American political nightmare.

No problem. That number is actually above average during the weeks before London. So yes, creative poverty can enjoy once-a-year European travel, that is, if it’s prepared to forego the taste of real Italian Parmesan cheese. Maybe once every three years is a better idea. And it’s best to visit with a partner who’s rich. She can order the appetizer while you opt for that cheaper third glass of water. She’ll also be an insurance policy if international travel ca-ca hits the oscillating appliance.

The following paintings I made in honor of the new friends who welcomed us into their homes. Attending Edgeworth Johnstone’s exhibition was the highlight of our stay. Tower Bridge was attractive at night, but the memory of shopping at Sainsbury’s with a motley crew of painters and poets will light me up inside for years to come. I painted onto economy blankets stolen from our plebian seats on United Airlines flight 3502.

Emma and Her Notation 2024. Acrylic on United Airlines blanket, 18 x 24"

Charles Draws a Bath, Eamon Cuts the Wine, and a Safari Scene for Freya 2024. Acrylic on United Airlines blanket, 24 x 18"

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In Kalpa Time, St. Francis is a Contemporary of Elon Musk 2024. Acrylic on rice bag, 14 x 18"

Today I’m painting on cardboard and rice bags while America remains a present hell to poets. Nothing new of any nation for the last 500 years, except this particular government also embeds pointy shrapnel into the soft tissue of human babies. I need to write a book to satisfy a grant I didn’t get yet. No money is coming to me, which only intensifies my determination to buck the system with a sledgehammer. I lied that I began drinking tea because it was better for my health than coffee. Not true. I’m a tea man now because coffee costs too much. Therefore, being modern “poor” like a 1600’s Throop country peasant will enjoy better heart health than the King and all of his men. Every time I think “Why am I doing this?” (denying myself many middle class privileges), I grab my little anti-ethnic cleansing account book and imagine a great granddaughter opening it in 50 years. She’ll have read in school about the decline of Empire and its greedy genocidal maniacs. She’ll see I was doing nothing much in order to do something better. That small posthumous pride will invigorate. I think that young people today need journals of stamina left for their children and grandchildren to read. In every future scenario laid bare by nuclear fascism, Presidents and the dumb influencers of Youtube® are obsolete. Tomorrowland wants (and needs) a part of me to build again. Contemporary grown-up America is a nightmare to any sensitive solar system. Gaia wanted ’em gone a hundred years ago, which in universe time is just a split second, a scintillation from a distant star. Humanity has already been wasted. It just needs light to catch up.

Meanwhile, as rocks wait for the coming of the new dinosaurs, please respect the poets and scolds of old and now. We leave something to stand for what our generation has taken. No matter how insignificant this week, I pray my sanity game will inspire future survivors of our doomed race to make their precious day-to-day seem less doomy.

From Lou Reed, poet laureate of a dying species:

Well, Americans don’t care for much of anything
Land and water the least
And animal life is low on the totem pole
With human life not worth more than infected yeast
Americans don’t care too much for beauty
They’ll shit in a river, dump battery acid in a stream
They’ll watch dead rats wash up on the beach
Complain if they can’t swim
They say things are done for the majority
Don’t believe the half of what you see and none of what you hear
It’s like what my painter friend Donald said to me
“Stick a fork in their ass and turn ’em over, they’re done”

From Ron Throop, poet laureate of the cat litter box:

Get poor as you can
So shit don’t hit fan