White is not the void we
think it is. Even when
blanc et blanc. Do not call me
lazy since my 8 by 11 is framed—
my initials
in the upper left. Don’t whisper
it’s been upended,
like a slew foot
while the ref had scratched
his nose. What is the colour of ice
before you bleed?
Our galaxy has no inverse.
Nothing can be capsized in the sun.
I stood on my skull
to prove it—pondering less-is-much.
The Buddhists put to shame.
Your jealousy is unbecoming.
You could have been a
prodigy yourself—with a twig and
heap of mud. Christening it
The Lotus.
Say nature never lived up to its bargain.
That rain is overrated—
translucent in your palms
like gathered mist. Your gaze up to
the heavens, as if your stunning
magnum opus demanded more.
Andreas Gripp
September 1, 2026
The Desperate Man / Gustave Courbet (1843)
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