All human suffering is equal… and individual, and personal.

But not all human suffering is equal in the media.

Yemen. At the hands of the bloody most awful self-absorbed murderous clans on the planet–the Saudi Royal Familty.

But it don’t matter. Because what matters, is what’s always mattered in the history books. Power. The struggle between dominant powers. Never…. what a partnership of those dominant powers do (the USA, and the Saudis)

We see the suffering…and herosim of resistors–in Ukraine, but not Yemen. Not Gaza.

Because this is a tug-a-war between the Great Powers… or, more acurately, between the internal Masters within each of them.

Fuck all of them. The billionaires. The Oligarches. The presidents, the dicatators, the CEOs… all of them. All the fucking “Leaders.”

Tear them up… their images, like Sinead O Connor.

And then… themselves

Know your enemy!

Comment

from the Beloit Poetry Journal: 1990    

 Purim Spiel --a poem of hope
The elder, alter older -
a tree
alone with its thoughts

Of kings, of Isaac snatched
by the ram's horn
again 

the thorn 
burning for Rivka by the well

Between them wide as an ocean
white wake foaming

a cormorant with flaming tail

Fuming from the waves
its signature of white on blue
a warrant sent 

Against the world

    but wait!

the story changes...
Back track

the firebird on its flume
red tongue panting like a dog
In heat. Esther. Queen
of Persia prancing for her idle king

A worshiper of things
he lays his power down
upon her ceding haunch

And she, she rollicks in her duty
rolls his Majesty
about the gilded room

Until a tree 
grows in his mind    the Alter
Elder is at stake 

its point 

Can touch the heart and 
stop it

Cold, a twitching stick 
with eyes wide

As oceans, as the 

desert city
on the desert's edge    He sees.

Taking in at last
breath

the Jews dancing
for their lives
their purled queen 

the sequined 
Rider blossoming like snow
like the bloom of the dark

crocus below
The bruise under that white 

skin, a king's passion
pressed against her breast
the alter

Of his lust, her love
but not for him - the world

Lays itself before her
renews the pledge    To her

As with each morning
clouds mount 
the skies and ancient trees
will come again to crown gray mountains with new green.


Jacob Russell

Acrylic on Canvas. 30×26

Fame is 14.5×13″ Who would like this? What would you offer for it?

… looking for a forever home!

Maybe treat my watercolors and inks like found kittens–looking to find homes.
How to present them… “This one is fiercely independent, but loves to cuddle.”
This one has no problem getting along with dogs. “
Find what frames I can. Find a work the right size for a one. Mat it, and frame.
If no glass, use polyethylene food wrap to temporarily protect it
and let the new owner take care of the glass–or pay me to do that.
Show photos on my blog and web gallery, links on Twitter and FB.
Promote one piece at a time–for a week, or till someone claims it. Set a low, no profit, anyone can afford it price.
Here’s to start with.
#642 6.5×6.5
Watercolor, ink
Matted, in a 17×17″ frame.
With glass $35.00 + shipping.

Challenge to post new work every day October– Work in Progress here.

This little piece of metal–or a blob of paint. –about 6×4″ — caught my eye. This will be a subject for a painting.

30×25 Oil on canvas

16 years ago, as Katrina was devastating NOLA and the Gulf coast, I moved into a first floor flat on the 1300 block of Morris in South Philly. I was there for 7 years–longer than I’ve lived anywhere since. A neighborhood dense with poets. I had a front porch, and a nice little garden. My walking stick spouted feathers and ribbons and can tabs. I made a Poem Tree on E. Passyunk. Wrote hundreds of poems. Both my son’s lived nearby in South Philly. We’d hang out at Lucking 13 at night, where Ben was the chef. Then the poets moved away. Ben and Gil left South Philly. Caught up in Occupy Wall Street, and Occupy Philly. In 2012 I moved to the Ox. For Woody Guthrie’s centennial birthday, I walked to NYC with the OWS Guittarmy. When I came back, I began to make art again–after almost 40 years. Each year since, has been more difficult. Not likely I’ll live another 16 years, maybe not another ten. Fifty-five years ago I sat on a second floor porch of our apartment in Wichita, daydreaming about what was to come… about to set off for Philadelphia on our Vespa 150 motor scooter. Late August, early September. Leaving Bass Lake at the end of the summer. It’s always been a season of endings, beginnings. This year… I think I’m running out of new beginnings.