Fa-la-la-la-la

I am tagging and categorizing this as poetry…maybe i should create a category/tag called proetry.

I was thinking of  Christmas carols.   It happened because I just read a Richard Brautigan novel in which the private eye used to sing christmas carols in the shower.  He lost  a nubile young thing for doing that in July.   He remarked maybe she didn’t like hearing carols in July.  Maybe he should have tried August.   I once worked for a public radio station, jockeying a profoundly eclectic program called Shank of the Morning.  I would play anything.   Every so often I would choose a theme.  Once it was The Greatest British War Movie,  in which i told a war story involving all the classic Brit soldier guys…HMS Defiant, crewed by English longbowmen sailing to Sebastopol with the Bengal Lancers, all accompanied by all that hypernoble sounding march stuff by the likes of Kenneth Alford,  who had two marches in big movies…Col Bogey,  and in Lawrence of Arabia, the Sound of the Guns…he wasn’t given credit in either soundtrack, at least initially, tho he was later.  Anyway, the program was a huge success, with one guy phoning in and asking if i could work John Wayne into it  I said sure, this is radio.  But, now, and this is where the story really starts,  one of the programs turned out to be gigantically successful, and that was one when i said i would do a ‘seasonal’ program..this was in August…and the season i chose was Christmas.   People loved hearing that stuff in one day in August.  Go figure.   I remember playing Away in a Manger, and i started thinking about that manger.  Like, who knows what a manger is?  We just sing the songs.  A manger…duh…comes from the verb manger…to eat.  So Jesus was laid in this wooden troughy thing usually filled with oats and slops or whatever, and i wondered how history would have changed if Mary and Joseph had gone to answer the doorbell, and ended up talking to a canvasser from Oxfam, and when they looked back at the manger, it would be surrounded by oxen or goats or donkeys or pigs looking very satisfied.  No, not likely, they were jewish so there were no pigs around.  Tho, the stable could have been owned by an Armenian rug merchant investing in real estate, and there could have been pigs, then.   Anyway Mary-Joe look around, and lo! the manger is empty, the angelic choirs have gone home, replaced by pimply faced carollers wondering what they are supposed to be singing about, and Pilate and Judas don’t have to worry about their reputations, anymore, and we don’t have christmas carols, and that would royally suck.  They are good tunes.

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Published in: on May 30, 2012 at 5:39 pm  Leave a Comment  
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Six Dreams

so far, at least.  I spend time, every once in a while, taking pencil in hand and trying to copy masterpieces of painting.  It is an interesting exercise in learning about the work in question, somewhat like copying out, by hand, poetry and prose that moves you.  So, this is what happens when the one activity influences the other.  Six Dreams

Published in: on May 30, 2012 at 4:23 am  Leave a Comment  
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At Five, You can Still Play Naked

One of the enchantments of a residential neighbourhood,  at least of mine, at least for a time.At Five

Published in: on May 28, 2012 at 1:37 am  Leave a Comment  
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Time to be Alone

There are times to be alone.

There are periods when loved ones

cloud the brain, paralyze the hand,

lame the foot, make weak the belly.

 

Those are times when the ink will not flow,

it wants to drown the house,

float it away, lose it in ocean.

 

Those are times when you lose all strength.

Those are the times to be alone,

as you know you are, anyway;

all connection is tenuous,

yet seduces to surrender.

 

How can you know yourself,

your ears are full of the words of others;

you cannot hear your own voice.

 

Those are the times to be alone,

so the only lies you hear

will be your own.

 

Then,

write them down,

if you must.

talking about my generation

So, there I was, sitting for a quiet coffee at Hillside Mall, and these codgers happed on the scene.  For some reason, I became peevish and ranted this.Talking About My Generation

Published in: on May 25, 2012 at 6:15 pm  Leave a Comment  
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Clean Your Plate

I step back from my guise as poet/philosopher/hedonist and don my other hat, that of sincere advice-giver to the young and helpless.Clean Your Plate

Published in: on May 24, 2012 at 11:23 pm  Leave a Comment  
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Goldschlager

Sipping Goldschlager

cinnamon schnapps with gold flakes,

24-carat gold flakes float in it,

lots of flakes.

My wife asks me if they do any harm.

We had been talking of food additives,

hormones in meats, dairy products,

that might grow hair on her chest,

or make my voice funny.

I didn’t think the body could absorb gold.

So, what happens to the stuff?

Is is shit out immediately,

my piss doesn’t turn golden,

or does it accumulate

then come out all at once

one huge

gold-speckled

power dump?

All over Italy,

that’s where they make the stuff,

I bet addicts peer into crappers

prospecting for enough flakes

to buy another bottle.

Funny people, the Italians.

Published in: on May 24, 2012 at 5:06 pm  Leave a Comment  
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About my father

Every so often, something like this. Reflections on My Father

Published in: on May 24, 2012 at 12:27 am  Leave a Comment  
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A tragedy

Women are so much more comfortable wearing trousers, than men are wearing skirts.

Make Up Rules, or You Will Think the World Logical

The second surrealish lyric today:

 

Rule:  No one may make waffles with a laptop;

Didn’t you write that to me?

Rule:  When I approach, do not think of Lyme disease;

Whoever imagined Captain McClear’s rat must

have been drunk on cactus.

Rule:  Impossibleness is the only universal;

I remember snapping your brassiere strap,

But you were but five and I was punished.

Rule:  There is a cruel but compassionate

Irrelevance  to hitting with a ruler;

Mathematics is painful in itself,  so avoid the metric edge.

Rule:  The bookshelves must be chock full of

Only one book, with as many titles as copies;

Do not, therefore, try to contain.

Rule:  The pen is mightier than the sword

(but who uses swords, anyway?) but

Not so graceful as a whip;  therefore,

Kiss the girls and make the rye.

Rule:  No one may mature beyond six, without

Gaining elevation;  senescence is but

The expression of puberty.

Rule:  Wear only suspenders to bed, but give

your companion a light socket;  control

the imposition of ballpoints on your fiveplay.

Rule:  No one may write a symphony upon a lyrebird;

A girl’s bottom has no explanation but Venn diagrams.

Rule the last:   Do not start unless you do not intend to finish;

Success is a matter of disintegration.

Please memorize my commandments, burn them, forget them, then learn to live by them; the future will be in your debt.  On the other hand, if you object to credit, tie your camel to a poll.

 

Published in: on May 23, 2012 at 5:48 pm  Leave a Comment  
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