Tour de force

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)