They explore life's anomalies by not doing anything controversial. They are a proverbial married couple caught in America's bourgeois slaughterhouse of dubious aesthetic values. Their children grow into bohemian outcasts hating the two parents who become living senior statues posing quietly on park benches where violent dogs are walked on leashes by dysfunctional masters. Nothing really changes: decades come & go as people bury loved ones while discussing the pitfall of reverse mortgages. It becomes fashionable to be quixotic simulations of ancestors long gone
on the same turf of ancient doggy bones.
Stalking the Queen of Pop
Who needs drama except in cinema, the lonesome paparazzo told himself walking down Sin City's main street where trickery abounds in the smallest flower the bees fail to overtake,
for beauty lives to dominate even those neon forces around us. There were sunspots in your hair like miniature hairpins, needle-sharp reflecting a poster of Britney Spears:
outside Planet Hollywood the drunken young women sang to passers-by oblivious to the sidewalk aria (accompanied by street & traffic sounds of discordant overtures).
You passed by, not noting the fans you suddenly surprised. How could you or your entourage demean my camera's beauteous lens, a vision stalking the essence of you
from city to city, concert to concert as if my art were a dirty fact to be trampled by the rabble's ugly feet mimicking the imitation of life with the pavement weeds beneath us.