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Jeff Stier Oct 2016
A most pious man
whose well-tempered music
brushed the cobwebs
from the throne of God

Evolution was made manifest
across deep time
these lyrical figures
achieve the same purpose
in the space between the morning star
and the dawn

A fallow field
is sewn with pearls
a moonlit beach
illuminated by shadow
every scrape of the fiddler's bow
merges mind with the present
harvests the meaning
in the moment

The composer
that good man
for a time
church organist at St. John's
its notable steeple leaning
all askew
as a rebuke against God
or perhaps the drunken architect

A finger of candlelight
plays across the manuscript
a fugue echoes
through the still church

And though no living person
on that still winter's night
shares the organist's solemn delight
the stirring mass of possibility
that is posterity
softcomponent  Dec 2013
softcomponent Dec 2013
caricature fiction like a functioning don't-ask- but- I'll-tell
it was a clover and a daisy's birthday by way of default and
Jesus Christ, this girl likes Terrence McKenna? In all immediate alleyway stores of coke and ketamine is the period at the end of every written sentence,
so the wait is something beyond me. the slate is a cleanliness devoid of practice

but whose really watching, kid.

you? or the television?
dedicated to Jen Sawyer.
Nikunj Dec 2012
out from school we came to jmc,
to become what our parents wanted us to be.
with NC we enjoyed harrapan and vedic civilization,
Ashima mam taught us Transition ( paleo to noelithic).
writing 10 sides answer seemed IMPOSSIBLE,
15/25 only left us numb.
coming for hindi at 8:30 was really irritating,
mam's msg of cancelling the class was even m
ore *******.
Tues and wed 8:30 were scolding days,
since frustated JS splited her anger on us.( though i like her lot)
om sai ram and gandhi was KN's department,
though antique, she was another inspiration.
enjoyed Montage for the first time,
Chronicle was the accomplishment for the lifetime.
first year ended so rapidly,
90%ees were satisfied with 60s.
then we met the iron lady of our department (chaddha mam)
she asked questions after every second point.
RS Sharma got replaced by sultans of delhi and Satish Chandra,
every notebook had words like sufi, bhakti and Iqta.
transition frm feudalism to capitalism muddled our heads,
Dobb and Sweezy never left us till the end.( remember jha's ******* :P)
enjoyed boston tea party and civil war in States,
though never understood out of khiljis and tuglaqs- who is great?
****** taught us stress, depression and suicide,
we almost got killed by Bronte's Wuthering Heights!
Orcha trip was another milestone,
Khajurao sculptures turned all of us on :P
pool party with "tinku jiya" was superfun,
each one of us made good connections.
Second year also got over and we entered in our own little world- T9.
everything was new to us,
future tension always bothered us!
Journey to China and Japan with Chakko was great,
though we never grew intellectually and understood decline of Shogunate.
Gazala mam introduced us to napoleon and bismarc,
became our friend. guide and mentor.
Chadda mam took us to royal court of mughals and rajputs,
but Iqta and jagir still confuses us!
Sleeping time came with menon's class,
18th cent and 1857 always bored us. (though i admit she is a great scholar)
we stopped studying and started enjoying life to the fullest,
since history taught us no matter what Peasant is the one who will be suppressed!
Montage 2012 rocked,
DJ Aqeel's ferrari left us in shock!
Postponing and preponing the classes was 3rd year's trait,
petty fights over it were always great.
Since first year we all wanted this day to come,
to wear saree and have FUN.
the Farewell day has passed :(
From now onwards... NO cancelling or preponing classes, no prof to scold us, no NSS hours to complete, no deadlines of tuts, no canteen's samosas and macroni, no diwali mela, no Montage and Chronicle, no Ashok bhaiya, no ******* and commenting and last but not the least NO HISTORY HONS 3rd YEARS (2009-2012)
No one realised how these beautiful 3 years passed away.our eyes are wet but heart is content.
just wanted to tell everyone that i will miss you all. though i may have not interacted much with everyone, but I wish you all the very best for your future...

So superseniors,
leave all grudges behind and enjoy the last week of your college life at JMC to the fullest
Ottar Aug 2013

Gut drawn across history, reaching to this day and a time,
                                               teaching to play the sublime,
Where no grain has gone through that passage, unchanged
           And some wait at the threshold, not ready, unsteady.
There is a tug o'war back and forth,
till time always wins.
Time or forgiveness erases my straight forward sins.
All that bends lined up just so,
fast or slow,
no one alive knows!
Just how it was meant to be
so let it...


Can you catch them, the leaves of fall,
is there chase enough in you to play with them all,
as the sounds of Autumn, have the pace,
which invites you play face to face with
what you hold, end of the rainbow,
Summers gold, treasured,
with subtle pleasure.

Where is your wisdom, where is the care, you leave behind
to find some solemn place of peace,
in a world that won't let you practice your passion,
it is after all out of fashion,
so bow a little more
and I will listen for the wind,
which may blow your notes like leaves and sheetmusic,
like laundry on the lines,
which you have to memorize or read,
in the cold
until the sun sets, the lights dim and the candle wick
is extinguished.
Still you dream of summer.


Sitting in the outdoors on a chair built for two,
I sit alone, so much to see and to hear,
as there is music playing, but I do not know from where,
the bees buzz and travel like they can feel the vibrations,
dragonflies dance in pairs, wingtips touching the sky and clouds,
hummingbirds find the flowers sweeter than before,
is that a cello out of doors?,
but the traffic on the street, fails to compete,
and the music goes on and I am replete,
but I listen still, to drink in more,
I would rather be no other place than where I am now
I close my eyes, and keep them that way as
I fear surprises among other things,
but this music is filled with the comfort it brings
the empty space beside me in this double chair,
if the empty space were to leave what would I have?,
feed me in my loneliness,
fill me, though I may be alone,
I will be able to share,
the Joy of caring,
with any who come near and love what I love best,
but my emptiness moves with me,
when music, like love, is a test of trust.


The rocks meant to trip me up make my feet find footing,
as to step on the wrong rock means to fall
on my face
or land displaced,
oh the hard, hard heart-ed rocks,
my fingers lose skin,
don't trust my eyes
don't trust my feet
don't trust my memory,
to get me home,
I have to forget where I was so I can know to keep
going, because I need to go,
to the water,
the clear water,
it gives me credence,
when the water runs clear,
I drink it in and I am revived,
so pour this rocky music into me and
when I wake up, I will take up where life
has left off. And give it another day on the rocky slopes
that rocks my hopes,
there is no easy life.


Are your days dragged on for many hours past twenty four?
They at work want you to work more for less,
you walk in the door to change your dress,
and out you go again, so you pack you wallet with
cash, credit and disdain,
you walk slow as to shuffle not to be resistant,
so you actually see something near or distant
that resembles life in the normal lane,
instead your ups take you down,
from there all you do is look up,
up and away.
The music mocks your life
of strife,
your significant other half,
is more than you will ever be,
there is no end to the mockery,
so pick up your bow,
and reach not for an arrow,
but strike your muscles and your nerves,
to see if you are alive after all,
for only fools imitate the wolves by
howling at the blood moon.
Or jaywalk without looking,
or stay on the treadmill from hour one beyond twenty four.
Time, the monotone and remains the same,
it us who fill the hours, for shame, at the pace.  


Oh jump and run and hide as it has all been a dream,
the ogres are in the hills and trolls are under every bridge,
the master walks the fence line banging his club every twenty paces,
to see if any faces peek out from the shrubs which need trimming
and he sends his dogs to ferret out the weasel faced boys,
and the pink pigs with pigtails,
while we hid in the oak on the hill watching the sun stand
stock still and the tall trees dust the sky as they move in the breeze,
making room for the heart shaped moon,
for my love, my love...
we will soon be apart and no glue will hold us
and once we will be together again it will
be like we never parted,
but you left me so soon at a terrible cost, on my heart strings
each butterfly that goes by lightly
reminds me of you,
each single cotton ball cloud,
that floats my way,
I wait for it to come over-head,
no, I run to where it is so,
can see your face gently in the shadows
and contours but you are playing at hiding while
seek your beauty in all things,
all things,
all things,
that we said were ours and did not possess,
because it all belongs to God.
As do you.

Sadly I must wait here for my time,
I will listen to this music, as I am by myself
lone cellist playing
while I hold it all in,
please come close before he plays the last staff,
the last bar, the last note,
then I will rest, sleep, dream and float,
on the notes he has played as they
carry me as close to you,
so I am sure to catch your tears.

Final Thoughts (Incomplete)
The measure of the flesh is found in six pieces, of these cello suites.
The measure of the heart for music is opened in these six pieces of mystery.
They that sound, from time to time, that they were composed yesterday.

Inspired by listening to Cello Suites No. 1 through No. 6 by JS Bach by Various artists, especially Pau (Pablo) Casals and reading the Cello Suites by Eric Siblin, great read, if you like that sort of thing.  
I think, I know that this poem will be in progress for a long time, until I find some understanding, of music theory or learn to play the violoncello. Started 20130825 finished 20130829
Jeff Stier  Nov 2017
For JS Bach
Jeff Stier Nov 2017
The universe closes in on me
galaxies align
in matrices of light

This moment was never
meant to be

I'm a cloud
telling tales to the sky
a bit of wind
and I'll be gone

The moment slips through
my fingers
water into the well
while time
that mortal dragon
is readily slain
for there are no dragons
time is a myth
and this universe
bends backwards upon itself
eating its remains
and issuing forth
new life
in a fugue of renewal

and again.
JS Sep 2015
I feel you, I really do.
Guess what my father wasn't there too,
a bunch  of substitutes but no one solid.
A bunch of institutes couldn't give me solace.

You'll wonder about fishing
and camping trips too.
You'll wonder about shaving
or using a tool.

You'll learn from your friends
some of the above,
then you'll learn on your own
and feel so unloved.

You'll get into trouble
and a couple of fights,
you're living and learning
its the way of life.

No worries though,
I'm here to tell you,
If you give it you're best they'll see the value.

So don't fret my boy for I am you, keep faith stay strong and you'll make it through.-JS
lost my father when I was 4
Coop Lee  Oct 2015
Coop Lee Oct 2015
mom betrays us.
headlights into the night
& up the breakneck boulevard bluff overlooking town and terminus.
she brings his heart in a ziploc bag,
an offering
to that old burnt-out oak.


front porch blood trails forever. she
claims self-defense and the camera-eyes caramelize her
fame & fortune & stepdaddies & book deals & ziploc pb&js & dead dog omens.
when did the heartache begin?

racing car ****** and fluxed up the boulevard in a ritual reach for daddy and the oak.
the girls are waiting. one two three, seeds.
brakes sabotaged. he
bursts into death, a molten ball of mazda.
father and son laugh there on the brim of here and hereafter.
apparitions uncoiled.

                    [home movies]

where mercury avenue ends
the woods begin.
& those woods are evil, an eldritch place, she laughs.
even the indians wouldn’t bury their dead there.

caught between the whir of spokes and windshields reflecting
sky and skin, the blue hue
of television flickering on the hands of a family.

grandsons conjure grandmaster demons
on the ply of their treefort high.
the heart of grandma in a ziploc bag.
jupiter and saturn are in conjunction,
twelve past midnight on a tuesday in september.
a school night.

            [the babysitter brings over an unlabeled video tape, says its scary]

the children watch.
slumber party screams and pb&js.
ghouls blunted by pungent neighborhood inertia.
son, a ghost returned in rhythm and electronics,
hungry for pizza and pure vengeance.
previously published in Deluge Magazine, by Radioactive Moat Press
M May 2016
We write it and we destroy it
Do with it what we see fit
Tear it up
Burn it, hide it below dead js in a cup
Like our souls
Like the cigarette burn holes
In our shirts and our arms
Our sleeping bags
Awoken to forever-under-our-eyes bags
Mara W Kayh Dec 2014
Really only knew you from your posts
On Facebook
That made me smile or
Made me cringe at times
Or made me curious.
A family man
But seemingly alone
Two teenage daughters
Apparently who you'd see rarely.
I didn't pry too much.
Just saw your presence through the stream
Of news feeds. Every other day..
Only A picture or two of you
Otherwise generic public images
With short proverbs
Or offensive religious posts..
I know your father.
But again, I didn't pry
it seems there was little contact between you.
Today, as the dawn broke,
I saw you'd left.
Just an image of you, shades on,
With RIP, JS (same initials as my long gone timeless love)
Too young to leave.
Didn't know you were ill?
No, reading the comments I discover
it was not a sickness,
Just another day, outside
While chopping down a tree.
That came down on you with massive force.
The blow was delivered by nature at least..
And in that there may be some comfort
I hope
For the loved ones you leave behind.
And perhaps an opening for love to return
To you and your dad.
Who I know to be a most sensitive soul.
And Who I'm sure is quietly shedding a river of tears
For a son who left the world so suddenly,
Just 10 hours ago.
On a winter day while chopping down a tree.
Found out this morning about the sudden passing of a FB only friend..
Strange how you can grieve personally for someone who you had an online connection with.. Just a few "likes" on his posts and he on mine.
jeremejazz Oct 2010
How can I, ever forget,
For loving the Guy four years I have met.
His love will I ever get?
Him to painfully go, how could I let?

I could still remember the first day,
I could never forget the words he did say.
My love for him grew deeper everyday,
Beside him, I always wanted to stay.

A year went on, he was still my classmate,
Rejoiced I was for such fate.
To tell him my feelings, I could not make,
I guess I'll have to wait for the chances to take.

The next year came, another section he was,
The distance became farther between the both of us.
No longer could I see him in class,
I don't know how long will this last.

Then was High School's last year,
Came out one of the things I did fear,
Only could I shed a tear,
But could not come to him near.

This time, he's already taken,
The news have made me weaken.
In choosing him, have I mistaken?
For my love, he had forsaken.

The JS Prom that year was a failure,
He didn't danced with me for sure.
Like the poem, "The Prom Nightmare", but not that pure,
For I am still searching for a cure.

During that night, he didn't gave me a chance,
He instead asked other girls for a dance,
I could only take a simple glance,
To the person who didn't gave me just once.

What would vanish is the Pain,
But the scars would still remain.
Love of my life, will I ever gain?
For I am still waiting in vain.
*inspired from a brokenhearted person*
I wrote this poem from a request of my friend who told her sad story to me.
Down on the South side a
tube ride away,
out in the Borough
where some people stay and
some people say,
it's a nice place, a
well-lit place, a somewhere
to sit and deep think place.


there's another side, a ride back in time
when the streets were caked in
horse **** and grime and the urchins
searching for somewhere to stay,
some nicer place
on a much nicer day.

And the Stew houses
but no stew inside,
known to children and
no place to hide,
Goose, oh goose
let my children go loose,
cries far away from
the Borough today.

The following text is taken from 'Goodreads' reviews of John Constable's 'The Southwark Mysteries'.

'For tonight in Hell, they are tolling the bell
For the ***** that lay at The Tabard
And well we know how the carrion crow
Doth feast in our Cross Bones Graveyard.'

In 1107, the Bishop of Winchester was granted a stretch of land on Southwark Bankside, which lay outside the law of the City of London. The Bishop controlled the numerous brothels, or 'stews'in the area, but the prostitutes, known as 'Winchester Geese', who paid the Bishop licence fees, were nevertheless condemned to be buried in unhallowed ground. For some 500 years, the Bishop of Winchester exercised sole authority within Bankside's 'Liberty of The Clink', including the right to licence prostitutes under a Royal Ordinance until Cromwell and the Puritans shut down the bear-pits, theatres and stews of Bankside's pleasure quarter.

In 1996, those working on an extension to the Jubilee line of London's underground, unwittingly began to dig up the bones of the outcast dead of Southwark, extimated to number 15,000, and John Constable began writing the Southwark Mysteries and later became part of a campaign to preserve part of the cemetery as a memorial garden.

I can't resist pasting in an article from the Daily Telegraph that appeared after the performance of the Southwark Mysteries at Shakespeare's Globe and Southwark Cathedral on Easter Sunday and Shakespeare's birthday, 23rd April 2000:

The Sunday Telegraph, May 14th 2000


A religious play staged in an Anglican cathedral has provoked fury after it featured a swearing Jesus and Satan wearing a phallus.

The Southwark Mysteries was produced by Southwark Cathedral and Shakespeare’s Globe in south London as part of the capital’s 'String of Pearls' Millennium celebrations. It mixed ***** medieval scenes with modern imagery and referred to bishops engaging in homosexual *** with altar boys and priests visiting prostitutes. The character of Jesus, who rode onto stage on a bicycle, was shown apparently condoning a range of ****** activities, while Satan told scatological jokes and ordered Jesus to 'kiss my a*'. At one point Jesus was admonished by St Peter for his swearing and responded: 'In the house of the harlot, man must master the language.' At another, Satan, played by a female actor, strapped on 'a huge red phallus' before using it to beat his sidekick, Beelzebub.

The play was written by John Constable, who said that he had deliberately wanted to challenge Christians. 'Profanity is a theme of the play', he said. 'The point of it was to explore the sacred through the profane. ' Mr Constable said he had worked closely with Mark Rylance, the Globe’s artistic director, and the Dean of Southwark, the Very Rev Colin Slee, who conceived the idea of a joint production to mark William Shakespeare’s birthday falling on Easter Day. He said the clergy had made a number of suggestions about the content, but he had not acted on all of them. 'They did ask me to make sure that Satan did not wear the phallus in the presence of Jesus, which I did', he said.

The first section of the play, which contained much of the ***** material, was staged at the Globe, and the final part, 'The Harrowing of Hell' in the cathedral. 'Colin Slee was very robust in keeping me on the straight and narrow', Constable said. 'The play is a new version of the traditional medieval Mystery plays, which were religious in nature but accepted human imperfections and took place in a carnival atmosphere. It seemed to be well received by most people who saw it.'

But one member of the audience, Simon Fairnington, has condemned the play as 'disgustingly offensive', saying that it 'revelled in the glorification of vice'. In a letter to the Dean he complained: 'Had the play been a purely secular production, one might not have been surprised at its treatment of Christian belief. What was dismaying was that it was sponsored and performed in part within a Christian cathedral. The cynical part of me wonders whether this is simply a sign of the times, and the way the Church of England cares about its Gospel and its God.' Anthony Kilmister, chairman of the Prayer Book Society, said: 'This is not the sort of play that should be performed in God’s house. It is quite disgraceful.'

But the Dean, who was the centre of controversy a few years ago when he allowed the cathedral to be used for a Lesbian and Gay Christian Movement celebration, defended the play. The performance was in keeping with traditional Mystery plays and 'portrayed graphically the life and history of the area' which was 'where the seamier side of life was to be found', he said. 'The message was that even the worst sins are not beyond redemption', he added.

Most of the audience responded positively to the underlying message of mutual forgiveness. Like the Dean, many accepted Satan’s *****, blasphemous words and deeds as part of the Mystery Tradition. The theologian Jeffrey John was of the opinion that, despite some obvious heretical tendencies, Constable was presenting 'remarkably orthodox Christian teachings going back to the first century AD'. Constable’s Harrowing of Hell is closely modelled on a play from the medieval York Cycle. His version shows Jesus’ spirit of forgiveness triumphing over the letter of The Law. Jesus’ ultimate 'Judgement' is a verse paraphrase of Matthew 26: 35-45.

  My blessed children, I shall say
When your good deed was to me done.
When man or woman, night or day,
Asked for your help, your heart not stone,
Did not pass by or turn away,
You saw that, in me, they too are One.
But you that cursed them, said them nay,
Your curse did cut me to the bone.

When I had need of meat and drink,
You offered me an empty plate.
When I was clasped and chained in Clink,
You frowned, and left me to my fate.
Where I was teetering on the brink,
Did bolt and bar your iron gate.
When I was drowning, you let me sink.
When I cried for help, you came too late.

  When had you, Lord, who all things has
Hunger or thirst, or helplessness?
Had we but known God a prisoner was
We would surely have sought to ease His distress.
How could God be sick or dying? Alas!
When was He hungry, thirsty, or homeless?
How could such things come to pass?
When did we to thee such wickedness?

  Dead souls! When any bid
You pity them, you did but blame.
You heard them not, your heart you hid.
Your guilt told you they should be shamed.
Your thought was but the earth to rid
Of them I am now come to claim.
To the poorest wretch, whate’er you did,
To me you did the self and same.
Hal Loyd Denton Mar 2012
Hodge Podge

I entered a shop titled paraphernalia in Canary Row as I started to enter a raw sea breeze rose it
Blew hard against my back little did I know I was about to enter a new world the place set the

Mood so much nothing that set everywhere but was in perfect order what a place to search for an
Indefinable item moving from one discarded disgraced piece to the next then an item of interest a

Pearl among bitter residue a case of leather with gold initials they were meaningless but they
Seemed to gleam like the time I approached a man setting in front of his house I was just a kid

Although I had lot of zeal for the things of God well it couldn’t be a worse situation as far as
Timing goes I just left a woman’s house that tended bar I thought what an opportunity she will

Be thrilled to see what is in store for her life that bespoke despair that has been more years than
I like to think about but when I shook her hand it was like taking a cold wet fish and holding it
I’m not being insulting just truthful the naive blur I was in was quickly taught a lesson it was like
Having a propitious sale on beautiful blue water and all held promise of good things unfolding

But the sea is the master of surprise that is it’s most captivating quality so from nowhere a
Knifing Wind rips the sail loose for a bit chaos rules that was my feeling as I stumbled away and

Came upon this man as said it wasn’t perfect he was opening mail just relaxing and I show up
And I’m Arguing this in my head to God he won’t listen it will just be repeat of what happened

But as I Passed his fine big car the sun glinted on the chrome and in that briefest of moments
God Spoke this is who I want you to talk to sounds good no God was talking to a deaf guy what

A Picture A tiny speck saying oh sure to the one who created this speck an all the rest so I
Soldiered On he probably thought what his problem I exuded a lot but none being confidence

Well after a Quick hello and in the next breath ready to say goodbye the spirit within started
Speaking Winsomely He dropped his guard I didn’t stick my foot in my mouth and we talked

Close to two Hours and at the end he gave me the greatest compliment he said you are a great
Salesman and it meant a lot because that was his line of work again don’t have contempt for

Small things so the Case intrigued me and spoke of promise so I purchased it a bit of history
Picked up a last stop for durable goods and it was such an announcement for the times it came

From it had forties written all over it when I picked it up I felt movement that felt like loose
Papers moving instantly it became more valuable what if it was an old movie script they have all

Kinds of stories about How Hollywood was everywhere up and down the coast and didn’t I bunk
Next to John Steinbeck’s son when I first got to Fort Ord the initials were in fact JS maybe he

Started another Story like Cannery Row Tortilla flat a sequel to Grapes of Wrath my heart raced
As I envisioned Spencer Tracy carrying this very case with the script for Tortilla flat they were

Both drinkers Maybe they switched cases in a haze of drink not unlike the mist that socks in the
Monterey Peninsula whatever it was I had to get alone and search the contents so I returned to

My sea Cabin at Big Sur it was already famous then Jack Kerouac spent time there he opened
Many Doors for me I took to the road in an imagination and later in real life I love the sea so the

Cabin Inside looked like a miniature museum of all things nautical I had the immense fire place
Roaring and the sea howled incessantly and the cabin groaned and creaked slightly what music it

Played To enhance the moment I doused the electric lights and lit the lantern you picked it up to
Carry it and you saw yourself as the old man trudging his way up the difficult path to the light

House Walking against a contrary wind so I placed the lantern on the great table that rested on a
Driftwood base sure I paid too much for it in Carmel but it was the best five hundred I ever spent

The twisted gnarled wood glowed with sea glory so now the time came to open the case with
Excited fingers I pressed and they released and I opened the lid in the shadowed light the paper

Might as well have been Silas Marner’s gold it was paper like rich parchment and strangely it
Had a golden quill I thought typical California you could find anything if you searched very

Long Of course no ink or well to put into it but since I am a calligraphic buff that likes that
Exquisite Way of writing I had the necessary equipment to get started writing with such richness

Crashing Against my heart and mind lost souls at sea and only their case survived it was time to
Write something the quill glowed the tip dripped as black blood the sound of it scratching sent a

Shiver through me the paper licked the ink and pulled it deep within its aged pores for hours I
Was truly lost on a sea of ink well what did you write well friend that is when the pirate in me
Arises and I have to say you will have to wait for the book but I will leave you with this it is

Dedicated to two Donnas’ one who got me restarted and the other that blesses me and others
With her soulful writing not the end by a long shot!/profile.php?id=716179266&ref;=ts
Jerry Saltz Michael Reid Rubenstein: What I am about to write IS NOT A PUTDOWN of your art. You write, that "everything you see is priced under $950..." I am NOT sayiong you are a bad artist but I looked at some of those brush painting things: They are overpriced at that figure. There is no originality in the work; no spirit; no idea; no touch; risk; or whatever. I am sure many many people would not pay a dime for MY WORK! I would not pay fopr yours. Again, no disrespect intended; YOU posted it and made the offer; I thought maybe I'd buy something so I looked, is all ... ♥ Js Tuesday 12:30 PM

2 figures on stage in totally make believe situation
JERRY PEPPERZ hello Michael i noticed you withdrew your offer
MICHAEL REID RUBENSTEIN why are you acknowledging me if you think i have no originality no spirit no ideas no touch risk whatever?
JERRY PEPPERZ oh come on Michael hasn’t your skin grown tough enough by now to withstand a little criticism you want to run with the big guys you got to learn to play hardball (smiles smugly)
MICHAEL REID RUBENSTEIN a little criticism huh Jerry you’re a published big time nyc art critic nominated for prestigious awards advisor to celebrated exhibitions visiting critic at many esteemed universities friends with renown celebrities photographed with powerful dignitaries who the hell am i to utter a whisper in your direction (smells looks away)
JERRY PEPPERZ now come on Michael i was just doing my job no need to take it so personally like i wrote What i am about to write IS NOT A PUTDOWN of your art (picks hair from shoulder flicks it)
MICHAEL REID RUBENSTEIN Jerry you got a way with words (pause) i’m just a stupid-*** painter who doesn’t stand a chance against a shrewd critic like you i think i’ll just keep zipped up and quiet (makes eye contact)
JERRY PEPPERZ but i asked you when i re-friended you on FB to be more vociferous and participatory i guess i didn’t realize how valueless your artwork is please forgive me (sniffs finger)
MICHAEL REID RUBENSTEIN didn’t do your homework huh Jerry? i keep asking myself why you didn’t send me a private message why you needed to take an earnest exchange of ideas and openly deprecate me heck you’ve never even seen my work in person your casual remarks dispute my entire life’s work credibility authenticity what you think you were being clever or cute Jerry you know how to be vicious i realize you don’t become a famous critic by being nice to people critics gain popularity because they’re ******* with razor-sharp slandering tongues you want to hear what i think i’ll tell you you’re a balding insecure little man who enjoys beating up on small time artists (is it all right with you if i call myself an artist) like me you know how to take a person’s complete career and trash it with a few choice words you can be rather mean Jerry (grinds teeth)
JERRY PEPPERZ i apologized now let’s not turn this into a regrettable incident (rubs hands together)
MICHAEL REID RUBENSTEIN at least i’m doing something Jerry instead of sitting on my **** condemning others i wonder if my work were hanging in Larry Gagosian’s Gallery and collected by Charles Saatchi how fast you’d change your tune you’re nothing more than a puppet of the rich and if you try to sue me for these remarks you’ll get nothing since you made **** sure my paintings are undeserving with your haughty dismissal
JERRY PEPPERZ would you excuse me i’m late for a lunch date with Alec Baldwin this little repartee will have to end bye Michael (turns looks down checks cell phone)
MICHAEL REID RUBENSTEIN Jerry can anything good or positive come out of this or does your mind not work that way i mean you’re a revered critic i need you in my corner
JERRY PEPPERZ you really think i’m an ******* don’t you (looks down rechecks cell phone)
MICHAEL REID RUBENSTEIN like i mentioned Jerry i’m just a stupid-*** painter not a judge or brilliant critic what i think is irrelevant what you did was cruel sadistic abusive
JERRY PEPPERZ get over it let it go just drop it Michael i really need to run Alec doesn’t like to be kept waiting he’s buying (grabs coat walks like he needs to go to bathroom fast stage right then suddenly reappears) don’t let me find out i underestimated you who do you think you are i’ll thoroughly destroy you (exits immediately)
MICHAEL REID RUBENSTEIN (shakes head) sheesh

Jerry Saltz
Jerry Saltz September 8, 2010 at 9:22am
Subject: I am sorry.
I read your comment.
I am sorry. I did not mean to cause you any pain.
I went back and deleted by commnet to you. I will now delete the comment i made to you about it.
You can do whatever you want with your comment to me; it is up to you.
Thank you,
Jerry "clever," "cute," "vicious," "*******," "slandering," "balding,"
"insecure," "little," "beats up on small time artists," "take a person’s complete career and trash it with a few choice words," Saltz

— The End —