Archive for September, 2008

waiting

Baghdad

 

Everyone had this strange compulsion

to pause like minarets in the ritual wind

and listen

 

because they were convinced

that the tautness could not go on

indefinitely

 

that some day something had to happen 

that much was certain but what form

the release

 

might take could only be guessed at

and lying out on the roof at night

under the stars

 

I strain my ears trying to imagine

I hear perhaps in the direction of

Arbataash

 

the faint sound of voices calling

but it is always the presence

of silence

 

broken now and then by a sleepy rooster

crowing on some distant housetop

or a cat

 

wailing in the street below or a truck

far out on Mosul Road

backfiring

 

bang bang

it coasts down the long hill to the Tigris

fertile old giver of life.

 

 

 

 

 

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A Dying Cubs Fan’s Last Request

In loving memory of Steve Goodman, Harry Caray, and Dad.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7xBxZGQ1dJk

Go Cubbies!

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two sonnets!!

Sonnet for Elizabeth Barrett Brownie

 

How do I love thee? Let me enumerate.

I love thee to the depth and breadth and girth

My arms can reach around thy Earth-

Like expanse of graceful weight.

I love thee to the level of thy gleaming pate,

Reflecting Apollo’s glory and Bacchus’s mirth.

I love thee freely and give thee wide berth

When thou go-est to the buffet thy soul to sate.

I love thee with the passionate sigh

That thy globular contours do invoke

When to thy corpulence I am nigh.

G-d grant that I should quickly die

If thou wouldst ever leave, or choke

Upon thy pastrami Reuben on rye.

 

*  *  *  *  *

Posted/notes

I wanna wipe the smile off the face of the moon,

cleave the all-too-real from the oh-so-mystic,

pierce the sullen silence of the sacral sadistic

with the sylvan cry of the amorous loon. (1)

I’m gonna eat the baneful bear like a dangled boon, (2)

like a continental missive gone totally ballistic, (3)

like the stickly-sweet science that is phallic gone fistic, (4)

that sharpens the knife and swallows the spoon.

Now you may call me incendiary

to splash down acid this electric morning (5)

with a caustic word for my adversary

who sleeps on the table of the actuary.

I’m telling you now to heed my warning

as the name on the sign is noli-me-tangere. (6)

_________________________________

1. Diving bird; Gaviiformes gaviidae.

2. John Milton, in his sonnet “O Providence” (1660″ writes “…bane and boon through Heaven’s glimmering Light.” Also, perhaps “a dangled boon” alludes to American frontiersman Daniel Boone(1733-1806), who hunted bears in Kentucky. The poet lived in Kentucky from 1962-1977.

3. Reference to the Salt II Treaty language on (inter)continental ballistic misiles?

4. The “sweet science” and fistic both refer to the sport of boxing.

5. Eugene O’Neill’s “Mourning Becomes Electra”?

6. Latin: warning not to touch.

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White stripes

In Joyce’s Studio

 

Up the time-worn stairs

you will find a place

to come to do good work

a place to come to

 

and the trees

white birch trunks

on fields of blackest void

and merest blue ghosts

are a place too

a place of fine lines

and absolute edges

 

O the trees are people

with no legs nor heads

just trunks and eyes

limbs and crotches

or all legs

with scarred knees

and stitched incisions

tracing the rough gestures of

dull blades

 

and don’t you know

there are dark spaces

behind every tree

black shapes

that swallow light

and reflect the shape of absence

 

and the absence of shape

and all that lies between

are white paper birches

living pages

of one woman’s history

written in striate code

 

and who can say

whether the zebra is

white on black or black on white

and does it even matter.

 

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Wavy Day

Waves

 

4 a.m., 22 degrees Fahrenheit, 48 degrees north latitude,

pedaling east down the long slope to Houghton, Michigan.

On the right a shooting star, on the left aurora borealis,

a greenish glowing four-humped cycloid wave tracing

the path of a point on a disk rolling on the horizon, like a ball

bouncing across the silhouetted hills.  Spring peepers sing

 

in rhythm with the blinking red lights atop radio towers,

two nodes slightly out of phase flashing synchronously

every 17 cycles of the left tower in time with my prolate-

cycloidic pedaling, the function of the circles traced

by my right toe relative to a fixed point on the plane

of the road as the bike rolls forward.  Counterpoint hum

 

of tire tread and zip of the chain connecting pumping legs

to the spinning hub at the center of the 26-inch wheel rolling

downhill at a constant speed because the forces of pedaling

and gravity exactly equal the frictions of air and roadway

on this ball spinning though space like a charged particle,

an electron orbiting the nuclear sun under storms of green ions,

 

and the sound of rushing water as I ride the waves.

 

April 23, 2003

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My life (winter)

Your old fur coat

 

Lately my life’s like your old fur coat

small skin squares stitched together

in the shape of a human torso and arms

frayed and coming apart at the seams

a bit shabby and neglected and overdue

for the needlework of diligent hands to

stitch me up and make me whole

or better yet just pull me close

across your red sweater this cold

cold night won’t get me down

because now I see it’s the body within

that warms the coat and gives it shape

and nothing else except of course

a matching fur hat.

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Song

MARQUETTE

 

 

D                        A                  G                   D

Justin’s juggling 3 girls, they all are named Danielle

D                                 A               G                A

And they don’t know about it, as far as I can tell

G                       A                    D                              G

Stacy stumbled in last night, bumped her shin and fell

D                             A                     G                    D

Momma found her on the couch, drunk on muscatel

D                                             A

On ne sais jamais comme les choses vont tournee

                 G                                D

Who can say how it all will turn out

        D                                             A

I’m cracked like the windshield of Dad’s Chevrolet

           G                                   D

Cuz I can’t see what life’s all about

         A                 C                   G                       A

I’m looking for a reason, but I haven’t found it yet

                  C               G                         D

And it’s a long, long way…        to Marquette

 

****

         D                       A                 G                   D

The crows are in the garden, the boys are in the street

         D                        A                   G                   A

The girls are on the porch swing, their voices sound so sweet

              G                       A             D                   G

My momma’s in the kitchen, the dogs are all in heat

           D               A                           G                   D 

Whenever Stacy calls my name I’m staring at my feet

D                                              A

On ne sais jamais comme les choses vont tournee

                 G                                   D

Who can say what will happen to me

         D                                       A

I’m green like the paint on my Dad’s Chevrolet

              G                                 D

Cuz I’m jealous of who I can’t be

       A                    C                      G                         A

I’m looking for a girlfriend, but I haven’t found her yet

                 C               G                          D

And it’s a long, long way…        to Marquette

 

****

D                    A                       C                       G

Rivers flood, hearts go thud, separate fates enlace,

D                        A                             C                          G

Airplanes crash, colds winds lash, I dream of Stacy’s face

 

****

          D                       A                 G                   D

Last night I rode the ferris wheel high above the fair       

 D                                         A               G                   A

The stars were blurred like dandelions hanging in the air

              G                       A                D                  G

Now Justin and Danielle are sitting on the stair

           D                   A                  G                     D 

And Stacy’s at the kitchen sink, washing out her hair

D                                              A

On ne sais jamais comme les choses vont tournee

                 G                              D

Who can say what will lie up ahead

         D                                  A

I’m changing the oil on my Dad’s Chevrolet

                  G                                   D

And I’m shaking the dust from my head

       A                    C                      G                            A

I’m looking for the car keys, and Stacey’s hair’s still wet

               C               G                           D

And we just might drive…        to Marquette

 

And it’s a long long way to Marquette, etc

 

 

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Are you curious?

Curious Kai

  

            “Daddy, daddy, yet’s read dis big big big dump truck book.”

            Kai climbs onto my lap and nestles in for a story.  I study the cover of Margret and H.A. Rey’s classic work, Curious George and the Dump Truck, an acknowledged picaresque-genre masterpiece and a defining treatise on the “collective psyche,” if you will, of mid-20th century America.  As Truly Composte states in his noted essay on post-World War II literary currents, “Atomic Age Lit” (1954), “Curious George is the optimist’s refutation of (Arthur) Miller’s Willy Loman.”  Kai is unaware of literary criticism and the subtextual themes in this great work.  Like its protagonist and title character, the young chimpanzee, Kai is innocent, and out of this innocence arises naturally in him curiosity.  When you’re young, you taste the fruits of the garden in great gulps, peel and all, the whole banana.

            As I open the book and read those familiar, fateful first words, “‘I have to go to town, George,’ said the man with the yellow hat. ‘You can come along,’” Kai pulls on a cherubic blond curl.  He is so much like young George, of whom Till Itchy writes, “…a Christ-like goodness, a saintly countenance upon simian features” (Animals of the Gospels, page 29).  Itchy regards the Curious George series as “a modern collection of parables written in an updated style, but with subtle echoes of the Greek translations of early Christian texts” (34).  I see George as more of a man of the world, albeit a very small man, and I refer you to Gnome Chimpsky’s excellent postmodern analysis, “Hesse’s Sidhartha, Rey’s Curious George, and Sabu the Elephant Boy: Three Buddhahs.”

            Many scholars have previously expounded on the psychosexual imagery of the Curious George series.  Who among us can deny that H.A. Rey compensated for his personal doubts about virility and gender identity by bestowing (equipping?) the “man in the yellow hat” with the tall, (always erect!) yellow hat; the blue convertible sports car and the freedom and promiscuity it implies (where was he always driving off to when he left George alone to get in and out of trouble: the classic absent father); the phallic symbols that decorate the page like fezzes at a Shriners convention. 

            This text is no exception.  In fact, the male symbol is a central plot device of Curious George and the Dump Truck.  When George climbed into the dump truck, he “was curious.  What were all those levers?  He pulled one after another”(9).  (Many Freudian analyses have identified George as in the Oral Stage of psychosexual development, while missing the fact that his comfort food is the banana.  Clearly George is in the Phallic Stage, commensurate with his other character traits typical of a 5 to 6 year old boy.)

            George’s curiosity (or the fulfillment of the urges of the Id) leads him to the discovery of pleasure, climaxing in the spilling of the truck’s contents onto the street (10).  Accompanying the text (“It dumped sand all over the street.  The sand spilled over a lady in a flowered hat” (11)) is a scene of blatantly sexual imagery.  Trapped by the spilling sand – the product of George’s autoerotic awakening – are a woman clutching groceries, a man with bow tie and umbrella, a girl, and a dog.  Anyone with even a passing familiarity with Chapter 10 of Freud’s Introductory Lectures on Psychoanalysis will surely recognize the bow tie as male genitalia and the flower as  the  corresponding  female  symbol.   The hat is  half sunlit and half shaded, suggesting the Pre-Conscious State as it embodies equal elements of the Conscious and Unconscious.  In the background are two storefronts.  One store sells pipes, an allusion to Freud’s own oral fixation as manifested in smoking; the other sells books, including a barely visible copy of The Interpretation of Dreams.  I leave it to the bolder among my fair readers to consider how the girl and the dog relate to this graphic scene.

            But, as I said, Kai is unaware of all this, at least on a conscious level.  Would we expect a two year old to understand why Hamlet’s Oedipal lust for his mother, Gertrude, impels him to plot against Claudius –

            “– Yook-it daddy, I’m a big fast dump truck!”

            Does he mean that the protagonist is not George, but actually the dump truck itself?  I realize that H.A.’s sister, Doe (Rey) Mead, wrote the famous deconstructionist analysis of the role of Marxist ideology in the underpinnings of the theory that the Mississippi River is the true protagonist of the Adventures of Huckleberry Finn in her essay entitled “A Deconstructionist Analysis of the Role of Marxist Ideology in the Underpinnings of the Theory that the Mississippi River is the True Protagonist of the Adventures of Huckleberry Finn.”   As Huck and Jim float farther away from innocence down the proverbial River of Experience – but wait! – I see something on page 17.  Look at the laborers.  They remind me of WPA workers pouring concrete for the Hoover Dam.  And there, on page 23, doesn’t the red van used in the jewelry store robbery look a lot like the elephant on Hoover’s 1932 campaign pin?  And the green bandana on the face of the robber on page 25?  I’ve always wondered why Margret Rey strayed from primary colors on this particular illustration.  Now I see it.  It’s Woody Guthrie, who wore the same green bandana in the cover photograph of the original edition of Bound for Glory.  The policeman on page 26 even resembles young FDR when he was governor of New York.

            “Hey Daddy, yet’s yisten to some moosic.”  I know just the song.  I go over to the records and choose “Planet Waves.”  I think about when my father used to read the Sunday comics to Sharon and me, and make funny voices for the characters.  He read Blondie’s parts in falsetto.  This was before anyone had heard of Deborah Harry’s band, before I recognized Mr. Dithers as John D. Rockerfeller, before I knew why they called the artist “Chic” Young.  Before, for that matter, I had heard of Neil Young, and his sad farewell to innocence, “You can’t be twenty on Sugar Mountain, though you’re thinkin’ that you’re leavin’ there too soon.”

            Seeing Woody’s face has made me nostalgic, and so I drop the timeworn needle into the pre-digital groove and feel the raucous rhythms of Dylan and The Band fill the room.  A harmonica whines above the din like a sour wind blowing down the hills of old Duluth, and then the voice of my generation, the Bard of the North Country, joins in:

            May God’s blessing keep you always, may your wishes all come true, may you always do for others and let others do for you, may you build a ladder to the stars and climb on every rung, and may you stay forever young –

            “Yook at me, Daddy”

            – Forever young, forever young –

            “Yook at me”

            – And may you stay forever young.

            “YOOK-IT DADDY, yook at me, I’M DANCING!”

 

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war weary

If You Could Call a Time

 

Especially on Monday

when lunch-abiding citizens

at the All-American Diner

agree on the Cheeseburger

Casserole – it’s a

needle in a haystack

says the radio man

but the haystack is a lot smaller

and it’s on fire… parachuted radios

preaching the Gospel

flutter like angel wings

or tumble like dying doves

through the peyote-blue

Zacatecas sky…

Cave by Cave

and Soul by Soul

the Free and the Brave

will Take Their Toll –

too much talk is bad for digestion.

King Lear said

if you could call a time

The Worst

it was not.  Justa sip

more coffee.

Let’s roll!

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1996

bodypierce

 

 

the snake swallows its tail and is (w)hole

 

like the ring that marries all things

and is nothing

but a continuity

hemoglobin

frothy

mouth

  eye

anus – el anillo: the ring

your sex

 

the fangs that pierce

   your lips

            nose

            brow

            ear

            tongue

            navel

mammalian nipple

and inject reptilian venom

infused with meaning

 

and the burning need

        to bite

            suck

            drink

eat

            make love

            be loved

 

to chase and to flee

to reach for

                        the light

 

even if it’s the harsh glare

in the tube above the bathroom sink

and the cool steel icy dagger

gripped nail-white tight

because

                         you

                                                 are

 

the priestess of the obsidian blade

and the body you sacrifice is your own

and the beating heart cut free of its cage

held high for the faithful and the fearful

is your own heart

and the salt you taste is your blood

and the pain of the needle purifies

and the ring is a reminder

 

that you are part of the great circle

and the snake that bites

can also kiss

and the hole

 

can be the whole

 

 

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