Andy Warhol Christ the King

Andy Warhol Christ the King of Art Consuming New York City.

Capturing the compulsive jackdaw collectors-of-means.

Collectors of bright, stunning, eye magnet colors, shapes and shines.

Holding attention with layers of color, shape, personality, wigs, reputation, eye contact.

Posing high, glassy-eyed, the Mona Lisa junkie savior.

Sharing the obvious in a new found WAY:

As weeds are created by the miracle of life and are the kingdom of God, so are

Paintings of large tomato soup cans beautiful shapes, colors and ART.

Everlasting LIFE! Increasing VALUE! Buy low sell HIGH!

Andy Warhol Christ the King died so that Campbell’s tomato soup

May have ever-lasting life and collectors’ ever-rising value.

Shot by a woman but returned from the dead by modern medicine.

Showing his scar, his weak body and his shiny junkie face.

The disciples wait for Andy Warhol Christ the King’s second return from the dead.

His crown of thorns a giant blonde wig atop his shiny-skinned addict’s head.

On the Hunt

Eudy and Lenny bumped along in Eudy’s Hummer, down the muddy, rural path through farm country in Southern Georgia. They were intent on big game. Located in the lower Piedmont region of the state, the area was the site of a vast peanut farm which had been in the Eudy family for generations. It was 2 days before Thanksgiving and the morning air was a bracing 39 degrees. A brisk wind whistled through the towering sweetgum trees that were harvested for the manufacture of high end furniture. In less than 48 hours, Lenny thought, he would be breaking bread at Eudy’s family estate and giving thanks for a new Republican president and all that implied.

“We’ll get us some trophies today, Lenny,” promised Eudy, taking his eyes from the road for a moment. “It is what you call a target-rich environment, boy!” He took a long drink from an amber-hued flask and then passed it to Lenny.

Lenny grinned rather uncertainly. He’d always managed to elude these trips with Eudy up till now, but this time his boss had been adamant. According to Lenny’s fellow employees, Eudy held that you couldn’t take the measure of a man until you’d been with him on the hunt, out in the elements and all the rest. Lenny watched as they passed a forest of red maples, grown for transplant onto the large, palatial, plantation-like estates of the Georgian gentry. The scarlet leaves fluttered in the breeze.

Lenny spent 12 hours per day, in season, operating the huge, quarter million dollar peanut combine for Eudy, which proved that his boss trusted him. They often talked knowingly of fallow fields and LSKs and the like. He couldn’t fail him now, he thought. Since October, with the last harvest, things had slowed down on Eudy’s Farms, making time for excursions into the back woods.

“I think the truck looks damn good, Lenny,” Eudy said.

As well it should, thought the other man. Lenny had squandered a full weekend with his boss, applying the camouflage motif to the Hummer’s sides and roof. Spraying can after can of Rust-Oleum on the SUV’s carapace had been unnerving. Lenny read on the cans that the paint should be applied only in a well-ventilated area, but Eudy had been insistent on doing the job in the confines of his family’s capacious, 6-car garage. The reason for this, Lenny guessed, was that Eudy wanted to enjoy the high incidental to inhaling the toxic vapors. But, what could he do? Eudy was his boss.

The use of the stencils, the application of a base coat and the subsequent layering of coats was exhausting. The final application of a clear coat on top of it all had seemed to take forever, but at long last Eudy was satisfied. Lenny’s fingers were still sticky from the masking tape.

After what seemed like an endless trek, the men arrived at their destination, a small clearing abutting a medium-sized pond. The two men alighted from the vehicle. Eudy ran his hand loving down the tan, brown and muted yellow camouflage stenciling they had applied the previous weekend. Lenny gingerly felt his side; the jarring journey had played hell with his kidneys. Eudy seemed unaffected, however.

The men stretched their limbs and Lenny said, “I wish I’d bought more firepower, you know?”

Eudy shrugged, hefted his AR-15 and said smugly, “This’ll do me just fine, Lenny.” He took a sighting along the tree line of the distant forest.

Lenny frowned. “Sure,” he said, “you got your Franken-gun; all I got’s this piece of shit Winchester.”

The other man smirked. “You had your chance at the gun show on Saturday. You’re the one refused to lay down twelve large for a decent weapon.

Lenny winced. “Yeah, well, my daughter needs braces,” he pointed out.

“Priorities, Lenny,” scolded his friend. “You got to set your priorities.”

Lenny shrugged. Eudy had a point. “I guess you’re right.”

As the pair moved into the woods, Lenny raised his firearm and took aim at a flock of geese, but the other man stopped him with a hand on his shoulder. “Don’t waste your ammo, son. We got bigger game to hunt. Besides, the world needs more geese.” They walked on for another half mile.

“How do you know they’re in there?” Lenny inquired.

“I do my homework,” replied the other man. “Use scouts. And electronic surveillance. There’s a whole nest of ‘em about a mile into the reserve.” Taking point, he led the way.

As they proceeded through the trees, Lenny’s footfalls were magnified by the snapping of branches and twigs along the trail. Eudy, by far the more experienced tracker, was silent as a whisper.

Finally, the two outdoorsmen emerged into a clearing and came upon an encampment: tents, crackling fires, the savory aroma of grilling meat and open cans of beer were everywhere. About 20 men milled about, unaware of their presence.

Lenny whispered, “You sure this is it? Are you positive we got the right place?” he asked earnestly.

“Abso-damn-lutely,” said the other man in a boozy voice. “Pick a target, son.” And before he opened fire with his own weapon, he added, “You know the law of the jungle like I do, Lenny: first get ’em outta’ the libraries; then outta’ the government and the press and finally, at long last, it’s open season on poofs.”

…

(Light purple flower with many tiny petals with a green stem and hazy green background as it’s a close up. Two orange butterflies sip nectar on either side of the flower).

WWF

THE SCINTILLA OF LIFE

This Valentine’s Day

We celebrate the wonders of our natural world.

We laugh at first, too. 

Then curse. 

Brush back our hair

Ready to start for a new world, a new life.

 But the world turns over.

We are stuck, suddenly realizing our freedom. 

Even if it did bow over 

Just being able to pick up and go

Thru a puzzle of sandblasted sunburnt wood 

And feel lonelier than ever before.

 Land is our only love. 

We fell in love with these pieces of sky and earth. 

The wild and natural world is the one 

That show us the way to the child on us.

Animals and Wo/Men have come to live on Earth.

 Only together do we exist. 

Only together do we form a whole. 

All human beings have a common identity,

 We are not a single species on this planet.

 We inter-mate. 

We must to act 

With the necessities of all the living

Illustrating the scintilla of life.

Visa Office

He’s in Colombo

Trying to renew

His tourist visa

One more time

He knows

What comes next

And there’s nothing

He can do to stop it

He’s the main character

In the novel 

That Saramago

Was unable to write.

Taylor Dibbert is a writer, journalist, and poet in Washington, DC. He’s author of, most recently, the poetry collection “Takoma.”