A recording of the poem--and here is the . . .
LINK
Friday, February 24, 2012
Wednesday, February 22, 2012
192. Incredible Deals for a Limited Time Only
The advertisers proclaim that their offers are for a limited time only.
I want offers to last forever.
I want a red sofa to be sale even after the sun is spent and has become a red dwarf.
I want that weary red dwarf to have the chance to get a free large cola to sip as it eats a specially priced astral sandwich.
No one, brothers and sisters, should feel compelled to hurry down to take advantage of deals that are incredible.
If a deal is not to be believed, then I say let it be a falsehood for all time.
I want offers to last forever.
I want a red sofa to be sale even after the sun is spent and has become a red dwarf.
I want that weary red dwarf to have the chance to get a free large cola to sip as it eats a specially priced astral sandwich.
No one, brothers and sisters, should feel compelled to hurry down to take advantage of deals that are incredible.
If a deal is not to be believed, then I say let it be a falsehood for all time.
Tuesday, February 21, 2012
191. Used Experiences
He needed cash, and he'd collected a lot of experiences in his life, so he took some of them to a Used Experience Store and tried to sell them.
The proprietor went through the experiences with the chill haste of the unsentimental expert. Then she said, "I'm afraid these aren't worth much. They're very common."
He didn't believe she was afraid.
He was tempted to protest but he knew doing so would only enhance humiliation.
She said, "I can't give you any cash, but I could give you a bit of credit to use as trade for other experiences in our store."
He said No Thanks and packed up his experiences in the brown cardboard box (with faded red lettering) of his memory and went home and felt bad about his life, parts of which had seemed vivid and rare to him before today.
His place felt cold and drab. He experienced that. He had no idea what experience he should have next. He didn't really give a shit one way or the other now.
The proprietor went through the experiences with the chill haste of the unsentimental expert. Then she said, "I'm afraid these aren't worth much. They're very common."
He didn't believe she was afraid.
He was tempted to protest but he knew doing so would only enhance humiliation.
She said, "I can't give you any cash, but I could give you a bit of credit to use as trade for other experiences in our store."
He said No Thanks and packed up his experiences in the brown cardboard box (with faded red lettering) of his memory and went home and felt bad about his life, parts of which had seemed vivid and rare to him before today.
His place felt cold and drab. He experienced that. He had no idea what experience he should have next. He didn't really give a shit one way or the other now.
Sunday, February 19, 2012
190. In the Dream About Partying With Women
In the dream about partying with women, Hiram is high on hashish. He dances on a terrace with different women, various women, who are deftly desirous unlike men.
Just off the terrace are apartments with red rugs and many bedrooms. In the dream, the hash has occasionally but subtly disoriented Hiram. He experiences slight hallucinations that alter flow of time. It is of no concern to him. Now different women take him to different rooms, where nudity and sex realize ambitions that involve Hiram, who is amenable.
In the dream's last scene, Hiram dreams he is sleeping. A woman he vaguely knows wakes him by lying atop him, naked, in the 69 position. He responds. He laps the lovely wetness of her secret place.
Just off the terrace are apartments with red rugs and many bedrooms. In the dream, the hash has occasionally but subtly disoriented Hiram. He experiences slight hallucinations that alter flow of time. It is of no concern to him. Now different women take him to different rooms, where nudity and sex realize ambitions that involve Hiram, who is amenable.
In the dream's last scene, Hiram dreams he is sleeping. A woman he vaguely knows wakes him by lying atop him, naked, in the 69 position. He responds. He laps the lovely wetness of her secret place.
189. Politics
Visible only for a while longer: a white, blue, red political candidate's sign, the candidate's name now inscrutable, lodged under a green, brown, yellow mass of blackberry vines, black brush, and ferns.
188. Meatloaf Writers Conference
At the Meatloaf Writers Conference, famous authors call each other by nicknames and speak in complacent ironies.
A homeless man sneaks into the conference to get some food. He has blood stains on his soggy garments.
Security escorts him out. He says, "There must be some mistake. I write! And where's the meat loaf?"
A famous editor floats by in khakis and top-siders. He knows exactly how to behave. He knows exactly what to say. He says nothing about the small disturbance--Security with homeless man. How very strange!
The famous editor encounters some very old dear friends indeed. Longtime shadows groan because they know he is about to tell a story. A practiced story--well balanced, appropriate, and well capitalized. Everything is as it has always been.
A homeless man sneaks into the conference to get some food. He has blood stains on his soggy garments.
Security escorts him out. He says, "There must be some mistake. I write! And where's the meat loaf?"
A famous editor floats by in khakis and top-siders. He knows exactly how to behave. He knows exactly what to say. He says nothing about the small disturbance--Security with homeless man. How very strange!
The famous editor encounters some very old dear friends indeed. Longtime shadows groan because they know he is about to tell a story. A practiced story--well balanced, appropriate, and well capitalized. Everything is as it has always been.
Friday, February 10, 2012
187. "Youth and Beauty," by Al Akhtal
"Youth and Beauty," by Al Akhtal, Arab poet, circa 650 A.D., from Mesopotamia/Syrian desert:
"Youth and Beauty"
"Youth and Beauty"
Monday, January 30, 2012
186.That Town's Whistle
After the railroad company stopped sending trains through that town, the tracks got overwhelmed with red rust, gray grass, black brush, and green trees.
The townspeople eventually purchased a a big whistle--a horn, actually--that sounded like a train because almost everyone missed that sound.
Now people take turns. One person goes down there one night a year and makes the horn make that sound. The horn is housed in a little shed, with ventilation to let the sound out.
Oh, now, if the train could only hear that sound, maybe the train would return. But--no, it's been gone too long. It's too far away. In the town's imagination, the train passes through an eternal red-rock desert, hauling its steel boxes of freight to the lip of an abyss, unloading.
The townspeople eventually purchased a a big whistle--a horn, actually--that sounded like a train because almost everyone missed that sound.
Now people take turns. One person goes down there one night a year and makes the horn make that sound. The horn is housed in a little shed, with ventilation to let the sound out.
Oh, now, if the train could only hear that sound, maybe the train would return. But--no, it's been gone too long. It's too far away. In the town's imagination, the train passes through an eternal red-rock desert, hauling its steel boxes of freight to the lip of an abyss, unloading.
Friday, January 27, 2012
185. Migraine
After doing carpentry or carrying hod for 8 hours in summer Sierra heat, I'd sometimes know a migraine headache, which announced itself with a red curtain behind the eyes.
I'd go home and lie on the floor of a room built of concrete blocks: cool and dark: eyes ready to scream at any hint of light, head warning, "Don't move me." Sometimes the headache subsided slowly, leaving a grudge behind, a thumping reminder. Sometimes I'd see an aura--white, tinges of yellow, faint threads of red....
...And the ache then would burst, eyes going grainy, sandy, and relaxed. By then all the evening birds were singing, and swallows--black coats, rust-colored breasts--swooped gloriously over the pond as sunset came.
I'd go home and lie on the floor of a room built of concrete blocks: cool and dark: eyes ready to scream at any hint of light, head warning, "Don't move me." Sometimes the headache subsided slowly, leaving a grudge behind, a thumping reminder. Sometimes I'd see an aura--white, tinges of yellow, faint threads of red....
...And the ache then would burst, eyes going grainy, sandy, and relaxed. By then all the evening birds were singing, and swallows--black coats, rust-colored breasts--swooped gloriously over the pond as sunset came.
184. Sir Realism
Sir Realism, Knight of the Spherical Table, quested for pleasure, loved to watch orange of carrot vanish once it touched the elaborate mechanism of his horse's mouth, enjoyed kissing the red tongue of the queen. Self-knighted, he disliked juxtaposition of monarchy on the vibrant blur of masses. One night a star morphed into a golden spoon and swooped to Earth.
Sir Realism, armored in found objects, jumped aboard the spoon, applauded frogs and their croaked chorus in luxuriant dew, and embarked--became a levitated image in someone's dream of a dream.
Sir Realism, armored in found objects, jumped aboard the spoon, applauded frogs and their croaked chorus in luxuriant dew, and embarked--became a levitated image in someone's dream of a dream.
Friday, November 4, 2011
183. Academic Dinner
When he's invited to a formal academic dinner, he's asked (not in so many words) to play the role of guest and the role of performer and the role of audience for the Famous One, who is in town for one night to make what seems to some a lot of cash.
At the dinner, more than one person out of, say, 15, will fawn. More than once he's noticed the fawning and felt badly. He feels like a grubby hick and double-checks to insure his elbow is not on the table. He keeps an unobtrusive eye on the Famous One.
Out of nervousness, he will inhale the food, which always has too much sauce on it. Usually he cracks one good joke, just sophisticated enough, and he asks one question the Famous One likes answering. He earns his keep.
Outside, finally, he gulps cool air in darkness, loosens the noose of his red tie, gets the blazer off. He disappears from the group. He drives away like a burglar who got nothing but escaped arrest.
At home, more often than not he gets out of the car and stands behind a tree in the dark. There he opens his trousers and pisses. As he pisses, he breathes easy. He stares into rain or fog, or up at stars. He knows he will never master the art of being an academic.
At the dinner, more than one person out of, say, 15, will fawn. More than once he's noticed the fawning and felt badly. He feels like a grubby hick and double-checks to insure his elbow is not on the table. He keeps an unobtrusive eye on the Famous One.
Out of nervousness, he will inhale the food, which always has too much sauce on it. Usually he cracks one good joke, just sophisticated enough, and he asks one question the Famous One likes answering. He earns his keep.
Outside, finally, he gulps cool air in darkness, loosens the noose of his red tie, gets the blazer off. He disappears from the group. He drives away like a burglar who got nothing but escaped arrest.
At home, more often than not he gets out of the car and stands behind a tree in the dark. There he opens his trousers and pisses. As he pisses, he breathes easy. He stares into rain or fog, or up at stars. He knows he will never master the art of being an academic.
Wednesday, November 2, 2011
182. The Mapes Hotel
And I recall the Mapes Hotel, Reno, first hotel in which I ever stayed, 9 years old? --The weird harmless hell of casino bells, fizzing lights, jangling coin-vomit, tobacco smoke, red carpet, red everything. That smell, how I loved it: notes of whiskey, sweat, grease, old carpet, trapped air. And Elevator: first one I'd ever ridden on; it was simple, absolute magic:
step in, be in (solemnity of those moments & engine whirring), then be elsewhere suddenly. Because of the Mapes Hotel, I remain enchanted by elevators. And by Keno women.
Then there was, there is, the Idea of a Hotel Room: bad art that looked so good back then; massive lamps; beds better than what we had at home but still sad like abandoned cars. Garish drapes as heavy as lead. Stationery, envelopes, post-cards, pens!
...And the hotel detective, whom I saw just once, bulging arms in a shiny suit, hair slicked back, a red mole on his neck, a shiny forehead, and on his face what I would learn later to call a smart-ass smirk. He was rushing to the elevator--trouble somewhere in the Mapes Hotel. But he saw us and let us get in. He took the stairs. Down, down.
step in, be in (solemnity of those moments & engine whirring), then be elsewhere suddenly. Because of the Mapes Hotel, I remain enchanted by elevators. And by Keno women.
Then there was, there is, the Idea of a Hotel Room: bad art that looked so good back then; massive lamps; beds better than what we had at home but still sad like abandoned cars. Garish drapes as heavy as lead. Stationery, envelopes, post-cards, pens!
...And the hotel detective, whom I saw just once, bulging arms in a shiny suit, hair slicked back, a red mole on his neck, a shiny forehead, and on his face what I would learn later to call a smart-ass smirk. He was rushing to the elevator--trouble somewhere in the Mapes Hotel. But he saw us and let us get in. He took the stairs. Down, down.
Saturday, October 22, 2011
181. Woman In An Elevator
She entered a stainless steel elevator, ghostly florescent light behind the ceiling's translucent plastic. In the elevator was an empty chair, black fabric, reddish-stained wooden arms, wee black wheels. As the elevator rose, the woman looked at the chair and thought many things. Imagine, please, selections from the variety of what she thought then in the steel elevator, a large box. Out of the elevator after it moved, she ceased thinking about the empty chair inside it. Scenes of our lives change quickly, constantly. The woman in the elevator thought this, thought we have no control, but knew then she would move through her day as if she and we did have control because that is how we must move most of the time. Up and down went the chair in the elevator.
Friday, September 23, 2011
180. Boulder Man
Nothing but a boulder-man now, that's me. I've become a rock in the road I used to travel. Pry and roll me, young vagabonds--tip me over the side. I'll smash some brush or hit a tree--hell, maybe bang into the red-rusted chassis of a '54 Ford, all covered over with weeds. And you if young may think, Wow, cool--that sound!
It's just me, boulder-man, me and gravity--one dance before last call, tumble-tumble: one dance.
It's just me, boulder-man, me and gravity--one dance before last call, tumble-tumble: one dance.
Tuesday, September 6, 2011
179. Is, Was, Lew Welch, Weldon Kees
You live in Is but think in Was. To Be has become something of a joke, a narrow corridor with doors at the end opening on to a bone-yard.
Was isn't, but you may pretend it is. What is consciousness besides memory?
Details fatigue: a gray sparrow on white gravel in what was East Berlin; a sauna full of nude, genial people in Uppsala; a red bloody torn lip in Sacramento; a coiled rattlesnake beneath honey-smelling brush, Sierra Nevada.
To live in Is is to complete tasks and then wait. Boredom and fear compose ennui, a cold French stew.
Politics numbs because it's corrupt, often evil, but also deadly boring. Deadly.
You wonder where Lew Welch's remains ended up, the .30-.30 rifle next to them in some Sierra Nevada ravine, not far from the South Fork of the Yuba River. Was he wearing Levi's with red thread? Lew's move is not a move you want to imitate, but it was a move. Was. Somebody will stumble on a bone or two.Will.
Not so with Weldon Kees, the car left on the red Golden Gate Bridge, the gray current below, so terribly efficient--like life itself. Play us some going-home music, Mr. Kees. A great chord on a golden piano.
Was isn't, but you may pretend it is. What is consciousness besides memory?
Details fatigue: a gray sparrow on white gravel in what was East Berlin; a sauna full of nude, genial people in Uppsala; a red bloody torn lip in Sacramento; a coiled rattlesnake beneath honey-smelling brush, Sierra Nevada.
To live in Is is to complete tasks and then wait. Boredom and fear compose ennui, a cold French stew.
Politics numbs because it's corrupt, often evil, but also deadly boring. Deadly.
You wonder where Lew Welch's remains ended up, the .30-.30 rifle next to them in some Sierra Nevada ravine, not far from the South Fork of the Yuba River. Was he wearing Levi's with red thread? Lew's move is not a move you want to imitate, but it was a move. Was. Somebody will stumble on a bone or two.Will.
Not so with Weldon Kees, the car left on the red Golden Gate Bridge, the gray current below, so terribly efficient--like life itself. Play us some going-home music, Mr. Kees. A great chord on a golden piano.
Friday, August 26, 2011
178. Red in Love
There's something red in love, in making love, in sex. "Making love." (?) That sounds like manufacturing.
But back to something red in love--there is. It could be vision or toe, tongue or nipple, or down there in crucial climes, our intemperate zones.
It could be a dream of a red pillow as vast as a mansion. It could be a sulfurous match-tip struck, afire, and introduced to tabak or to Santa Maria Juana.
It could be a question lined with red velvet. "Do you want to dance?" "Do you want me to . . .?" "Do you want to go swimming?--yes, yes, of course, nude."
It could be anything red in love. It could be anything--red in love. It could. Could be. Red. Red in love.
But back to something red in love--there is. It could be vision or toe, tongue or nipple, or down there in crucial climes, our intemperate zones.
It could be a dream of a red pillow as vast as a mansion. It could be a sulfurous match-tip struck, afire, and introduced to tabak or to Santa Maria Juana.
It could be a question lined with red velvet. "Do you want to dance?" "Do you want me to . . .?" "Do you want to go swimming?--yes, yes, of course, nude."
It could be anything red in love. It could be anything--red in love. It could. Could be. Red. Red in love.
177. People and Things
People and things, child. People with things. People with people and things. A red thing: dot.
People-made things. Tools, child. Things not people-made: a cardinal in Kansas.
A red thing: tip of a lit cigarette in dark. Sigh of lungs.
Oh, child: a rug dyed red.
The People of the Things: think of all the things in just one American home. The home's brick chimney, red.
Things people know/don't know/deny/believe/don't want to know. They don't want to know, child.
Dear People,
Well, here we are.
Sincerely,
Things
P.S. Red light!
People-made things. Tools, child. Things not people-made: a cardinal in Kansas.
A red thing: tip of a lit cigarette in dark. Sigh of lungs.
Oh, child: a rug dyed red.
The People of the Things: think of all the things in just one American home. The home's brick chimney, red.
Things people know/don't know/deny/believe/don't want to know. They don't want to know, child.
Dear People,
Well, here we are.
Sincerely,
Things
P.S. Red light!
Tuesday, June 14, 2011
Thursday, June 9, 2011
Monday, May 30, 2011
174. Red-Cedar Think
Think red cedar consider aroma mountain geology owned science Descartes God wheat bread ground fire husbandry gather stay goat dog domesticate darkness fear myth anything can kill hope medicine faith.
Cedar consider stare wind touch-red-bark, smell cedar-sap. Memory light/no light, life/no life. Red resin. Consider cedar. Think cedar your life memory green memory red thick bark. Yellow pollen wheat faith science knows nothing sure is ground fear darkness and cold death faith cedar rooted in ground in soil in rock. Water.
Cedar consider stare wind touch-red-bark, smell cedar-sap. Memory light/no light, life/no life. Red resin. Consider cedar. Think cedar your life memory green memory red thick bark. Yellow pollen wheat faith science knows nothing sure is ground fear darkness and cold death faith cedar rooted in ground in soil in rock. Water.
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