In this blog we will share with you our vision of beauty, balance, harmony.

As Mark Leach writes in his book Raw Colour with Pastels: “Sound is all around us, and it is musicians who refine that sound into something of beauty. As a painter, I have always felt that my purpose is to craft colour in a similar way, to see through the confusion and seek harmony and beauty.”

And we add: Words, fragments of sentences, spoken noise is all around us, and Ken arranges words in such a way as to capture beauty in the accidental, the ambient soundtrack of life.

Sunday, September 17, 2017

Why don't you talk to me?

Why don't you talk to me? 50 x 50 cm acryl/paper/oil pastel on canvas by Karin Goeppert


Breakfast is served at eight.
There are poppies the color of bright red nail polish.
The swimming pool has a fence around it
so your little ones won’t drown.
Please do not visit La Sabre Rosa: frequented
by right-wing thugs
and professed homophobes
torture and
certain death are on the menu every day.
We are famous for the relative intactness of our heritage sites, and
we have some superb fabrications as well. A good fake trumps
a boringly authentic whatever any day. You can drink our well water.
And pestilence is no longer a threat. Nothing we know of  
stings or bites, or swallows people whole
and spits them out in tatters.  
Try our special sauce. It is low on fatty acids,
so you might live a little longer than average.
Remember: never hesitate to use your pay pal. That’s what he’s there for.

Sunday, September 10, 2017

Sunset and Vine

Strawberry Fields (Diptych) 30 x 80 cm (reserved)


Shuffling across a cobbled courtyard in Baden-Baden,
a blanket draped over his bony, raised-to-the-ears
by a Pre-Raphaelite angel named Steff—
merciful seraph—
a man always in slow-motion collapse,
shit-faced every day of his life yet able to focus
on his confession, philosophy, writerly addiction.
He was becoming who he was all the time.
That’s why he drank. A reason to celebrate.
An ode to order.
& writing was merely drinking
out of the ribbon and tap-tap of a Smith Corona.
Scribbling in the Valley for pennies on the dollar,
his share disbursed to liquor stores & sex-workers
where Hollywood Boulevard closes in on Vine
then misses it by a dog’s hair; this is
where our quest runs out of gas,” baby.”
Take note of skid marks, sprinkle of broken glass.
“It ain’t my accident. I just caused it.”
To wrap things up, a final word from our honored guest:
“It could be worse,” he croaks, guttural as a clogged drain,
popping open a can of brew—I never saw
him uglier or more persuasive—“we could run out of beer.”

Sunday, August 20, 2017

Coffee Break

Coffee Break 40 x 50 cm mixed media on canvas c/o Karin Goeppert


What are we looking for
It’s not the cheap wine
Nothing is cheap here
It can’t be the sun of late
too often escorted by clouds
It must be the way the olive trees shiver in the heat

First there were Etruscans
who danced naked and played the double-flute
and had the darkest richest tans in antiquity
Interested in death’s aftermath they entombed each
other in frescoed chambers all over southern Tuscany

The Romans, more interested in killing
than in what happened after, killed the Etruscans
and were themselves killed
by Alaric and his Goths
who sound like a 60’s rock band
sacking the Holiday Inn in Jersey City

And now we’re here
half Goth half Roman
would-be Etruscan
olive trees shivering in the noon tide light
where what we looked for has found us 

Sunday, July 23, 2017

Modern Love

Swimming Lessons 40 x 50 cm acryl on canvas c/o Karin Goeppert


I’m out hunter
gathering food, would settle for a
KFC in this neighborhood where
Arab men smoke water pipes in front
of their second-hand furniture stores.
At a table by himself a hipster
whose beard—
wanton, almost obscene growth—
makes me want to ask
how dare you eat coleslaw given
that catchall face hair of yours?
It took Berlin five years
to figure out it would need
five more years to finish its
new airport. They’re still working
on the math: airport’s still not done.
And yet the trees, ornate, intricate,
several shades of green in damp hot
July plus opulent semi-classical facades
of early twentieth-century houses
have to make me stop and smile.
And there’s our neighbor
setting out for nocturnal explorations
of Doper Park. Supplies obviously running low.
Good citizen of Kreuzberg
helping out the local economy.
That David Bowie and Iggy Pop used to live
around the corner is vaguely cool. Less so are the dozen
versions of Sally Bowles I’ve side-stepped over the years.
I think one Liza Minneli was plenty.
Americans here tend to adopt eccentricities
that will not let them go. Dude
from Ohio likes to wear a kilt
a lapse in taste I sort of hope returns
to haunt him in later years. Attractive
young English teacher dressed as a cliché
in clinging, short-skirted, blatantly whorish black,
brandishes vintage cigarette holder
and tries to be witty. I think it’s time
to head for the lakes & mountains. Italy’s singing something
voluptuous & sweet while Greece raises its goaty voice. Switzerland
has arranged all we need, even a desire
for the clink of cow bells or the sight of
tightly braided golden hair. A break from
full body tattoos fat nose rings gargantuan beards
creased by smug smiles the sneers of belligerent bus drivers.
It’s time
to get out.
It’s time to get
out. It’s
time to get out.
But we always come back.

Sunday, July 2, 2017

Interlunar Rendevous

Interlunar Rendevous 80 x 80 cm mixed media on canvas c/o Karin Goeppert


What does dürum mean, Mister Answer Man?
Well, Tiny Curious One, it means
a Turkish tortilla filled with thin slices of kebab,
onions, tomatoes, crisp lettuce, a garlic
herbal sauce, its trip south occasionally
facilitated by streams of cold beer. What’s
heartburn and garlic-scented breath measured
against such a delicious combo of ingredients?
It’s time to gather the right equipment and substances,
just me and a glass of some toxic brew, thoughts
not at all rigorous after a couple of bong hits, ears   
tuned-in to the correct channel as I make out
through static and buzz, not only an exquisite
piece by Portishead, but the sound of a young woman’s voice
muttering something but nothing I want to hear
while she fidgets and searches through her bag  
for a way out, answering my “where do you live?” with  
“exactly three hours from Louisiana,” and I have to admire
if grudgingly and with some regret and rising resentment
the way she indicates who knows we’ll see but I have my doubts
with a shoulder shrug, barely fighting back a yawn, hatching
the exit strategy I am fated to be a victim of.