The Love Artist—Installment 2

Pierce couldn’t believe the women he got on his living room floor by scratching his phone number on the back of some card or receipt he found in his pocket: “3-2”—whatever—his number—it would say, and then “Painter”, and just under that “Pierce”. —Just by asking! And my brother’s getting up there in years. White hair, dentures—he’s handsome but shit! —you see what happens when you sell a few paintings?

But I haven’t sold shit—and as I begin this self-portrait, I admit affection for almost nothing: not my face nor my talent nor chemistry nor pillow—and this from the most powerful man in the history of the world. —From a Mason of a conspiracy theorist of a blue-blooded WASP—neither ambition nor confidence nor confidence but only the tiresome stare of this black mirror. Can you imagine the demand for such bile?

What I long to hold is the book you would write, the silence you hear, or note—the space between these vulgar thoughts. —Where are you Miles? Egon? —Where are you Bird and Dizzy? Bely? Camile? —Was it Socrates or Plato who said the best king would be reluctant? Well, I am as ugly and reluctant as you can imagine—and will be remembered for both. I will be perfectly ugly in this age of horrid beauty. Horrible in this age of perfection —Perfect in gruesome mistake. —This shit’s too easy—with everyone staring at each other’s feet —this high school nation —of T-shirt readers —monkey jobs and newspaper masturbators —there’s nothing else to do! —and there’s nothing to do—so Improve! —so what the welfare mom’s got Frigidaire and the ladies who lunch rock Zeros? —Everyone’s shit’s still cold! —and watching —and stuck in traffic invoking that same old tired curse. I’ll tell you what. Here it is up front —easy, pre-digested —pull-quote fashion. —Pure —impotent and stripped like you like it, beaten and subdued —mystery-free, with the heart ripped out so it won’t fuck with your schedule —So you can make it to the gym on time —gym, yoga —whatever —I don’t care... Here: —so you can feel guilty about calling in sick for work—so you continue to complain about the view from the peak of recorded time, so you can continue to ignore those midnight tears and save the children for 30¢ a day —here: —just for you, for love, for you, for you and love—because I fucking love you: —Your power is in watching. And care is zero-sum. —And you give it up by the day. —Because you won’t give it up.

—So there —it’s premature—I know —blatant and crass, I know —not wound around any tease of a plot or made-up shit, I know, but isn’t that how you want? —cut and stretched and preserved under glass—dabbed dry and laid out on Styrofoam—HDPE, ABS, TIAA-Cref —EPS, GM, NSA—isn’t that how you want it? —Laid out on bleached pine—with the hardware visible? —Handmade paper—recycle code two —union bug, cruelty-free? —Isn’t this what you want? —Your attention is love and care is zero-sum. —There —Everything I know. —One sentence —and my thanks —for everything —for the silver spoon —having been born with everything, for everything! —No, really..

(—oOoo, can you hear it? —The slap —the slap —the slap of white? —demanding to be let, —demanding —demanding —even as it pretends to give! —Demanding to be let in!…

—Come back, come back!

—The trophy wives are in! —Your birthright!!’)

Fuck.

Don’t try to be white. It’s a long way back.