Landscape with Cannibals

I was feeling a bit poetical today, so I thought I would post a new poem.

It may not be my best work, but I think it is kind of fun all of the same...


Landscape with Cannibals
For J.L.K.


I’ve never seen one quite so alien
as yours, or so hospitable. I can
imagine diving in—drinking it
all in—toads, twisted trees, citrus,

pancreatic delicacies
cut from beasts I do not recognize;
I hear them crackling on the hot coals,
shared like songs, or stories, round a fire.

I’ve been to other worlds and I have
eaten other things. Stolen kisses.
I’ve plundered planetary systems, too,
for souvenirs. They jingle in my pocket

now, like keys to an apartment I
long ago surrendered. Yes, I know
these teeth open no doors today, nor do
I care. I keep these little trinkets to

remind me where I’ve been, what you contain:
another universe. Full of stars.

Strange Children

After a few remarks from a friend about the logic of  two earlier stanzas, I have made some alterations. I am presently stitching these into my story, Takaaki.

I am not sure if this is a vast improvement on the earlier versions, but I kind of like the rhythm of the second stanza. Maybe you will find something to enjoy in it, too.


Becoming human takes a bit of time.
Nobody knows exactly how we do it.
We classify the clock as the enzyme—
The universal catalyst. Through it
We cease to be that seemingly divine
Lump of life, we call “a baby.” That is fine.
We can cope with grown-ups pretty well.
What gives geneticists heartburn from Hell,
However, are the differing results
We get: when something evil, after school,
Shows up with smoky goggles at the pool
We cease to be responsible adults.
“Perhaps he’ll drown,” we hope. Hope seldom helps.
Evil makes History like Michael Phelps.

The cruel careers of our worst instincts are
Olympic in brutality, but short—
If measured by the life of stone, or star.
Were we less human, we might not resort
To Good or Evil. They’d be words—like stones
And stars. The sea would not be free of bones,
But bones would be more beautiful, like sand,
Twinkling between alien toes, stand-
Ing on Coney Island, watching the Cyclone—
The roller coaster—going up and down.
The salty waves would still drift in, surround
Small feet. Bad children would be taken home.
The sea would sparkle—conscience cold and clear.
Only you and I would disappear.

Namaste

Taking a break from Pushkin, this morning I produce a fresh new sonnet, in honor of a new friend, and my new apartment.

As with any apartment in New York, mine has its peculiar foibles: an asthmatic fridge, a somewhat lumpy carpet, a toilet that cries like the souls of the damned when it is flushed. But, apart from the wheezy fridge and the accursed commode, the place is quiet, clean, compact, and cool, and a steal at $950/month. And I enjoy its proximity to work immensely.

Perhaps the most wonderful feature of this new place is the party of Buddhist monks which appears, promptly, at 8:30 a.m., with wooden bowls, accepting alms from these elderly Asian ladies who live across the street. I see them through the shower window, which I leave cracked about 4 inches, to the let steam out, so I can shave my head.

This intersection of events has occurred every morning (So far as I can tell. I am not always up at 8:30 a.m.) for approximately the last 4 weeks—always at precisely the most embarrassing moment in my morning ablutions—when the plumbing system in the building falls into a maniacal bipolar fit.

I am not sure what the correlation between this beautiful Buddhist ritual and my wonky plumbing is, exactly, but 28 days of preliminary data suggests—to this writer, at least—that there may be more at work in the Universe I share with these hungry monks than pure co-incidence.


Rites and Rituals

Each day, while lathering my balls, six monks
Berobed in chocolate fustian appear
Across the street with wooden bowls, at once,
Mouthing the word, “Namaste.” I hear

Nothing but my plumbing, screaming pipes
Played by a malicious satyr—Pan—as I dance
From “Hey” to “Hot” to “Yaaah—!” I hop from ice
To fire—clutching a comet in my hands.

A lady in pink cardigan places
A Ziploc bag of cooked rice in each bowl
And bows. I hope the bright smile on their faces
Means monks like eating rice, not hearing the howls

Of Hell evaporating from my cracked
Window, when they show up for their snack.

To which, we add a follow up, a sort of "too much information" Petrarchan annotation...


About those Pan pipes pleading in your ear,
The lady with the rice, pink cardigan,
The monks, the balls, the bowls, Shakesperian
Bric-a-brac, et cetera, it’s clear
The fingers on a flute are what you hear:
The sort of sad solo which any man—
Poet, plumber, even mathematician—
Might play upon himself himself. I fear

The fiery ice is harder to explain
Without the use of telescopes or other—
Instruments—designed to extend our view
Beyond the bathroom—to that deep terrain—
Where light was born from night. Maybe a lover
Versed in astronomy could do it, too...