oh, the ode to joy swelled in him.
it rose up his back, and filled his cranium.
a rising flooding wind,
(thank you dostoevsky.)
it made his hairs stand on end.
he played it to, within, himself,
over and over and over again.
achieving an expanse of imagination
equal to Berlin itself.
The greatest concert hall
and conductor,
verging on intimidation,
'should we try it?'
The meek do best.
Though, to Von Karajan's credit,
we might have some gratitude.
one two three four five
six seven
eight nine ten and one and four,
one two three four five six seven
eight nine ten and ten and more.
Four and five and six and seven
eight, nine, ten and nine and four.
one two three four five six seven
eight nine ten and one and more.
In and out, he knew it.
It kept him company.
He knew it as a statement of
something very important.
And yet, there is not a single record,
of the maestro humming this folk song
to himself.
He must have let it sit
under our noses,
as if indicated by the small hairs
on the back of his hands
or however else he could have gestured
to his fellow human,
not to care if less was thought of him.
Smiling, even at that.
One two three four five six seven
eight nine ten and ten and more.
Four and five and four and three and four and five and two and four.
One two three four five and six and four and
Four and five
and one.
Six, five and four!
Seven, six and five!
twelve eleven six and seven
six, eleven, seven, four and three and four and three.
ten and eight and ten and eight
six four or five six four or five
seven seven eight and eight
and ten and nine and ten and nine.
Freude, schoener Gotterfunken,
Tochter aus Elysium.
Language,
deaf to him,
a part of his childhood.
one two three four five six seven
eight nine ten and ten and more.
Thursday, November 12, 2009
Lincoln sat on a Persian rug,
his legs folded,
almost lotus style.
The rug, it seemed to him,
soft,
and in the darkness,
the pattern seemed to him
like stars below him,
so that he felt like he were hovering
above the firmament.
Real Persian red,
with black,
and in the night, without light,
except candle flame,
like the black above.
They didn't have rugs like that,
back in New Salem,
or Illinois.
He sat there,
and sang a song to himself.
Of which we have no record.
But hovering above,
not really,
above the rug,
he felt good,
about his ideas, and who he was,
and where he was.
His thoughts,
unlike ours, were light,
agile, responsive as the axe
taking apart a good dry log, sinews force,
eye's good shine,
crinkle of a smile.
I am Lincoln.
I have been here forever. And will remain.
I've waited on people, in taverns,
and endure, equally, being President.
Many have died, because of me,
but here, on this rug,
I know why.
Persians have been making rugs,
just so I would feel
all that would be deprived of me,
the sense of floating,
stars and all the changing light and colors of
the firmament, residing below me.
His face shows him so.
It made him an easy target.
But coming up with things
was easy for him,
and his eyes were bright,
and he knew it, humbly,
and honestly, about himself.
His ghost now walks about.
He hovers very sadly,
dejectedly.
How could people be so?
How could people be so?
his legs folded,
almost lotus style.
The rug, it seemed to him,
soft,
and in the darkness,
the pattern seemed to him
like stars below him,
so that he felt like he were hovering
above the firmament.
Real Persian red,
with black,
and in the night, without light,
except candle flame,
like the black above.
They didn't have rugs like that,
back in New Salem,
or Illinois.
He sat there,
and sang a song to himself.
Of which we have no record.
But hovering above,
not really,
above the rug,
he felt good,
about his ideas, and who he was,
and where he was.
His thoughts,
unlike ours, were light,
agile, responsive as the axe
taking apart a good dry log, sinews force,
eye's good shine,
crinkle of a smile.
I am Lincoln.
I have been here forever. And will remain.
I've waited on people, in taverns,
and endure, equally, being President.
Many have died, because of me,
but here, on this rug,
I know why.
Persians have been making rugs,
just so I would feel
all that would be deprived of me,
the sense of floating,
stars and all the changing light and colors of
the firmament, residing below me.
His face shows him so.
It made him an easy target.
But coming up with things
was easy for him,
and his eyes were bright,
and he knew it, humbly,
and honestly, about himself.
His ghost now walks about.
He hovers very sadly,
dejectedly.
How could people be so?
How could people be so?
Tuesday, November 10, 2009
Poets.
Poets fuck up.
They use language differently.
They get misunderstood.
Poets speak from understandings,
From Children's books.
From Richard Scarry, Huckleberry the cat,
About a town, the people, professions, identities,
All pictured in the windows of a big house,
Amidst the sunny functions of a day.
Even the poet gets his own little upstairs window,
And you feel he is special.
They are hopeful creatures, poets, of the children’s book sort,
living within their simple
Happy understandings.
Remembering a book mom and dad read to them
When they were small and infinitely fresh,
Happy beliefs they do not part with,
Having no clue how to.
This is why Scandinavian countries get along,
Their happy children’s stories
And those stories a bit grown up.
Vintage Danish erotica style.
Dickens' hopefulness, Marx's thoughts.
Irish songs and tales process the day’s events, along with wine.
The stories we tell our children offer how we all can get along,
A fundamental belief in what’s good.
Saturday Night Life. A beer ad from an old Life magazine.
We’d be nowhere, or in Hell,
in a Police State,
without them.
But the shrewd adults, let’s call them that,
take advantage of the poet, most every time.
So are you victimized,
Outsmarted, your generous words dismissed,
If not thrown back at you.
They have kids, you do not.
They get rich, you get poor,
Even when you provide them the most essential service there is.
Good for them. Thanks a lot.
They cannot listen to the tale.
No one told them as well, when they were kids.
Not their fault. What can you do.
Fuck ups are chain events, one thing after another.
Because of this, that. Because of that, this.
Because of another, oh, then this.
Like Jesus’s life. Also a children’s tale,
But for all of us.
Poets fuck up.
They use language differently.
They get misunderstood.
Poets speak from understandings,
From Children's books.
From Richard Scarry, Huckleberry the cat,
About a town, the people, professions, identities,
All pictured in the windows of a big house,
Amidst the sunny functions of a day.
Even the poet gets his own little upstairs window,
And you feel he is special.
They are hopeful creatures, poets, of the children’s book sort,
living within their simple
Happy understandings.
Remembering a book mom and dad read to them
When they were small and infinitely fresh,
Happy beliefs they do not part with,
Having no clue how to.
This is why Scandinavian countries get along,
Their happy children’s stories
And those stories a bit grown up.
Vintage Danish erotica style.
Dickens' hopefulness, Marx's thoughts.
Irish songs and tales process the day’s events, along with wine.
The stories we tell our children offer how we all can get along,
A fundamental belief in what’s good.
Saturday Night Life. A beer ad from an old Life magazine.
We’d be nowhere, or in Hell,
in a Police State,
without them.
But the shrewd adults, let’s call them that,
take advantage of the poet, most every time.
So are you victimized,
Outsmarted, your generous words dismissed,
If not thrown back at you.
They have kids, you do not.
They get rich, you get poor,
Even when you provide them the most essential service there is.
Good for them. Thanks a lot.
They cannot listen to the tale.
No one told them as well, when they were kids.
Not their fault. What can you do.
Fuck ups are chain events, one thing after another.
Because of this, that. Because of that, this.
Because of another, oh, then this.
Like Jesus’s life. Also a children’s tale,
But for all of us.
Tuesday, November 3, 2009
Why is it that tea made yesterday, while welcome upon rising to do yoga and the day, just isn't the same as fresh? Do the little caffeine genies and anti-oxidant angels fly away as the brew cools? Yes, fresh tea, is so much better, so much more soothing, so more cleanly to one's ills, causing a welcome burp, steadying the hand's nervous shake. (Sorry. Too much information.)
Mad Men ii.
Yup. I was right. The bloody foot from the John Deere tractor, guess what, was indeed a precursor to, as we all knew somewhere, a very bad sad awful low incomprehensibly unexpected jarring sickening day to even remember.
We have to say, Madmen used the TV coverage of the day, far more than one might have thought, and with great effect, and better than even the History Channel does. Where did they get all those clips? Usually you just get Cronkite, taking his glasses away, after looking up at the clock, the word, apparently official, from Dallas, ... But here we had the precursor, not just the newsflash something was up, but step by step, an ominous, President face down in the car, according to eyewitness.
How moving, though, the punch from the old black and white clips, somehow rendered here on real old TV sets so you can get an idea of what it was like to watch.
That is a real television achievement, truly. Where clips have been seen of the coffin being taken off Airforce One, the weird lights, the lift, jarring and enough to get all the personal point across, even before the dumb ambulance arrives with Bob holding Jackie's hand, everyone numb, awful, the metal quality of the box a body is in, death of vital force, here we got walked through, quite well, what it may have been like to be watching the tube that day, and the day after, and the day after that.
Not heard yet, where the drums tapping in the still air.
All of this is obvious. All of this we expected, somehow would fit into our plot of Ancient Rome and New York. It was done well.
Or, rather, it was simply shown. The coverage of the day capturing all that was going on. Moment to moment. Even Oswald, being shot, and the later commentary by news people.
The news is, in strange rare circumstances, just told to us, by people equally as shocked as ourselves.
The horrific really came across, perhaps leaving us more shaken the day after, the day after the numbness and raw tears.
We have to say, Madmen used the TV coverage of the day, far more than one might have thought, and with great effect, and better than even the History Channel does. Where did they get all those clips? Usually you just get Cronkite, taking his glasses away, after looking up at the clock, the word, apparently official, from Dallas, ... But here we had the precursor, not just the newsflash something was up, but step by step, an ominous, President face down in the car, according to eyewitness.
How moving, though, the punch from the old black and white clips, somehow rendered here on real old TV sets so you can get an idea of what it was like to watch.
That is a real television achievement, truly. Where clips have been seen of the coffin being taken off Airforce One, the weird lights, the lift, jarring and enough to get all the personal point across, even before the dumb ambulance arrives with Bob holding Jackie's hand, everyone numb, awful, the metal quality of the box a body is in, death of vital force, here we got walked through, quite well, what it may have been like to be watching the tube that day, and the day after, and the day after that.
Not heard yet, where the drums tapping in the still air.
All of this is obvious. All of this we expected, somehow would fit into our plot of Ancient Rome and New York. It was done well.
Or, rather, it was simply shown. The coverage of the day capturing all that was going on. Moment to moment. Even Oswald, being shot, and the later commentary by news people.
The news is, in strange rare circumstances, just told to us, by people equally as shocked as ourselves.
The horrific really came across, perhaps leaving us more shaken the day after, the day after the numbness and raw tears.
Monday, November 2, 2009
M.G.
Mel's an emotional guy. You can see it in his eyes.
He rants like a child, I'm sure, sometimes. (Well, we know that, don't we.)
He's a dad, to a new kid.
Wish him well.
He rants like a child, I'm sure, sometimes. (Well, we know that, don't we.)
He's a dad, to a new kid.
Wish him well.
Sunday, November 1, 2009
Halloween
I am too polite to come across with much more than the obvious in first meetings shouted over the DJ's records. Or maybe it's just my ancient value system, dull to modern ears.
But the world is over-marketed, to the point of being sterile, were it not for the inherent vitality that pops out in the creature.
A book gets judged by its cover.
"You're forty-four. Oh."
(Should'a lied.)
I drank too much anyway, after having been stuck with the great strain of working a bar on a holiday, my own personal bully, the booze sometimes, keeping my creative side stultified.
The night ends. Walk up U Street, finally get a cab in the pouring rain, one of the two wild and crazy guys.
To risk sounding like later Tolstoy, I have met the eyes of forty-thousand strangers, asked of them what they might like, waited on them. Washed their feet, if you will. If the salt of the earth loses its savor, what then? But I know it's not much of a life, for you, I mean. That I understand. Fair enough, your skepticism. And yes, I thought I was tougher than I actually am, that I could handle it, that I wouldn't get so sucked into it, or that it was a writing life, when really it wasn't so much. Yes, I should have been a teacher, of some sort. That might indeed have been more useful to people.
But the world is over-marketed, to the point of being sterile, were it not for the inherent vitality that pops out in the creature.
A book gets judged by its cover.
"You're forty-four. Oh."
(Should'a lied.)
I drank too much anyway, after having been stuck with the great strain of working a bar on a holiday, my own personal bully, the booze sometimes, keeping my creative side stultified.
The night ends. Walk up U Street, finally get a cab in the pouring rain, one of the two wild and crazy guys.
To risk sounding like later Tolstoy, I have met the eyes of forty-thousand strangers, asked of them what they might like, waited on them. Washed their feet, if you will. If the salt of the earth loses its savor, what then? But I know it's not much of a life, for you, I mean. That I understand. Fair enough, your skepticism. And yes, I thought I was tougher than I actually am, that I could handle it, that I wouldn't get so sucked into it, or that it was a writing life, when really it wasn't so much. Yes, I should have been a teacher, of some sort. That might indeed have been more useful to people.
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