Saturday, October 13, 2018

The Complete Nakedness of Billy

I hold auditions day and night
To look at each example in the light
Of clothes-less creatures, bare-ass forms,
And as each cools, confuses, warms
My ardor, I assess the essence, seek the Ur
Of nakedness in every him or her
Or combination of the two: the nude
Proliferating from banal to chaste to lewd,
Abetted sometimes (okay, often)
By my hands in sweet abandon on soft skin
Upon those evenings where the flesh
Insists that only touch can make it fresh
Again, beyond imagining, enshrined
In live apotheoses of the melting mind –
When what should now egregiously appear
But this: the ill-assorted body you see here!
Billy is the only one who’s dared
To come to me completely bared
Of anything remotely like self-consciousness.
Some think his head a monstrous mess
But I see in it disproportionately naked grace.
Billy doesn’t fake it. His soul is in his face.
I forget he isn’t wearing clothes.
He’d be just as naked wearing those.

Friday, October 12, 2018


This is sort of, though not very much, like Bette Davis putting an ad in Variety saying she was looking for a job -- I mean I never said 'What a Dump!' to everyone at a party in a movie directed by Joe Manckiewicz; that is, I have no exalted place on high to come down from -- but I've gotten such gratifying response to my drawings & poesy lately and have sold this or that drawing-and-verse to those who've contacted me, but my life would be greatly eased by increasing its cash flow so - how does one go about selling one's art? Without having an expensive web site? I've shown in galleries, and that's been gratifying in certain ways, but it's not how to make money, to put it mildly.
I figured if I put this plea on the art threads I post my art on - the three gay ones on Facebook - and toss it out into the general melee of Facebook and Instagram (which melee includes some of my fondest friends) that my hemming-and-hawing here will be fielded a touch more tolerantly than it would elsewhere. Any ideas, artist-fellows and other entrepreneurs of the soul and the bankbook?
You can private message me if you have any particularly juicy and untoward suggestions that you'd just as soon not have Aunt Dolores see. I'm shamelessly open to all.
Aunt Dolores included, of course. You know, in case she needs a gigolo who can play the violin or something.


Guy Kettelhack

Tuesday, October 9, 2018

Bare, Cling, Plan, Die, Infinity, Infinity, Nothing

God (again pretending to be Moses)
just rewrote His Theses and His Thoses.
I know because He just now hurled them
at my head, theatrically flaming, from the sky
(God’s a P. T. Barnum kinda guy): seven
reminders from heaven he hopes will gain
renown. (He said I could pare them down.)
1.       Bare it all.
2.      Cling to the lie.
3.      Plan never to know anything.
4.      Expect to die.
5.      Infinity must be true.
6.      Infinity can’t be true.
7.      Nothing whatsoever has to do with you.
Unbounded and unfounded chaos would appear
to be the order of the day from Massapequa
to Cathay, New Delhi to Islamabad. It’s not
that anything might happen but that everything
must happen which contrives to drive one mad.
But can cocoa mounds like us be driven nuts?
(I asked God. Weak with laughter, He replied.)
“Since the Cosmos must and cannot happen,
maybe, baby. But only after an infinity of ifs
and ands and buts. And infinity don’t know
from ‘after.’ And candy bars are lazy.”
(As I have tried hard to little avail to explain
before, we are candy bars and God is crazy.)
The rest is hazy.

Sunday, October 7, 2018

When You’re Sitting Alone

When you’re sitting alone like a poor little elf
it seems everything falls off the shelf of yourself.
But falls isn’t the verb. What you’ll have viewed
by the end of it will have arrived in a curlicued
rush: disguised as elaborate ribbons and spatters
of colorful paint-drops, they really are matters
of dry circumspect little naggings of thought
that seek form in this way to allay any fraught
misconception you’ll sometimes have had
that there’s nothing of import inside you: a sad
probing finger that often will poke at the bruise
in your heart – that you’re feet without shoes,
incomplete, like the news you’ve been promised
but never receive. Mental weather’s admonished
you often before that you’ve got something going.
But what? All this folderol flowing and showing
itself all the time! To what end? You’ll sit alone
for a small while more. Wait for your iPhone
to ring-aling-ding. That would be reason for cheer.
But wait, there’s no wait. Everything’s already here.

Tuesday, October 2, 2018


When you’re afflicted with Constructivitis
which allergically resists the imposition of all
rational consistency – geometric order, balance,
pleasing planes, proportion, clarity and color –
and instead enlists as many scraps, misshapen
flakes and bits as it can suck off poisons like
formaldehyde, asbestos, paint and pipes with lead –
oh, the dolor of the hopelessly substandard heart
of darkness in the cheap and badly bred! – you’d
almost think you’d welcome self-destructive entropy:
rotting, rusting, ultimately deconstructing into
piles of toxic glops and fuzz the way detritus does.
But when you see a breeze-borne random posse
of yourself drift by (which I just now espied) –
say, ten blue moldy blips you last felt crusting on
your lips – you want to cry. ‘There go I,’ you sigh.

Monday, October 1, 2018

Amanu and Sis

If Amanuensis was what you were sure they had said
they were named, you couldn’t be blamed – they’d
certainly said something like it. In fact, though,
Amanu and Sis were their monikers. Sis stood for
Sisyphus – apt for the randomly angled magnificence
which his companion Amanu rode everywhere:  she
had discovered him trapped on a mountainside under
a boulder (recalling the myth) – she gave him a kiss
and re-christened him Sis, and they got on quite nicely.
While he wasn’t precisely the lover she’d sought, she’d
grown older and tired of looking, Sis seemed like a gift,
and Amanu had found him quite easy to handle.
She chose to be known as Amanu because of the shoes
for which that was the name of their line of chic
custom-made sandals for which you’d decide the design.
She jumped at the chance though the company wasn’t
delighted with what she apparently had had in mind:
a sandal disjointed into a red pointed affair reminiscent
of something that prostitutes wear. So why do I go on
like this about them? Why do I think you would care?
Oh, you don’t? Okay, I was going to go on, but I won’t.