One thing I am always grateful for is the wisdom of my friends. They see things invisible to me in my writing, holes mostly, places where I need do a little work.
I had a little talk with Bill last night and he raised a few points about my story--places where it was difficult to follow. I thought about these narrative weaknesses and added a couple of stanzas to the poem today, by way of clarification. I would also like to thank John and Paul for their scholarly advice and encouragement on the subject of the Kobayashi Maru which is quickly turning into the presiding conceit of this piece.
There may be a few more stanzas added in the future, but I think the general outlines of this section of the poem are becoming clearer in my imagination. I began composing the opening lines of Part III while I was on the treadmill at Equinox this evening. I had to turn my music (Dropkick Murphys) up very loud to drown the poetry out of my head and concentrate on my quads. Will the Muses ever forgive me?
Anyway, at this late hour, here is my contribution for today. I hope it's okay.
[In case it still isn't, I have included some bonus video, as a footnote, at the end.]
Takaaki, Part II
Around a core of elevators set Twelve tall windows in a concrete sheet As crumbly as the Parthenon; let Your panorama start in Brooklyn, greet The Empire State behind a candle (where I sit swiveling in a leather chair), While your eye continues traveling Along gray glass, skyscrapers unraveling, Until the pointy tip of the Chrysler Buil- -ding gently lifts Lexington Avenue, Piercing a silver nitrate mist. Now you Must have this scintillating picture fill The space before your eyes: that is New York. Here, I transfix a carrot with a fork.
“Introibo ad altare,” I will say, While blowing on my steaming vegetable, Adding, “Totemo oishikatta ne,” Hoping that I finally am able To tell Takaaki I enjoy his curry Without entangling my tongue in worry. “It’s okay,” he shrugs, quietly deferring My compliments—as usual preferring A tilted head, a seated bow, the leaner Show of manners honored in Japan, Which can seem strange to an American Inclined to linger too much over dinner, Allowing food to cool and candles run. Before I’d started, Takaaki was done—
Done, so quickly, like those Japanese Cartoons I used to watch in Buffalo. Star Blazers was my favorite one of these. Five days a week, at 3:30, or so, On rusty orange carpet I would sit Watching an Imperial Navy ship, Resurrected and retooled for space, Leave planet Earth to save the human race. At 6:00pm, plate balanced on my knee, I’d see Toyota windshields being battered By men from Chevrolet, lives shattered By something known as, “The Economy.” One guy would wear this map t-shirt: above Japan it read, “Two bombs were not enough.”
Now, the two malignant mushrooms which Sprouted from the belly of that guy Returned as two shitakes in my dish Of curried chicken and vegetables. Why Was that? From a Doraemon candy tin Takaaki took a cigarette. A thin Wisp of smoke and hiss rose from his plate, Typical for your twenty-seventh date. “What do you want to do,” I inquired, “Go bowling? I’ll do anything you like: Get drunk? Get naked?” [Silence.] “Steal a bike?” “I swam forty laps tonight. I’m wired.” He exhaled, emitting a little laugh, “Shall we play Scrabble then and then have bath?”
The carrot on my fork released a drop Of curry—with a thick and oily splash. The precise second my utensil stopped I discerned, across the table, a flash— Something which I hadn’t seen before— Metallic—worth investigating?—or Maybe not: a passenger aircraft Hovering above New Jersey, as it passed Behind Takaaki’s silhouette, gliding in To Kennedy, LaGuardia, Newark— Nothing I need necessarily report. A zero: no aluminium hiding in Those pink cotton puffs above his head— Those thunderclouds. That’s what I should have said.
“Have bath sounds good. But Scrabble, I will pass: You always win, you creep. You clearly cheat,” I said, “It’s obvious. You won the last Nine times. And you’re not going to defeat Me for time number ten tonight.” I put My foot down firmly. There. Takaaki’s butt He then extinguished in the drop of sauce Which recently had claimed his match. “You lost Because you play without strategy: There is no need for me to cheat,” he sighed, As if I were an insect on his thigh Too insignificant to crush. “You see, You always want to find interesting word— Not the word that wins.” My mouth conferred
A moment with a chunk of chicken dyed Cadmium by cumin in the curry— Before I swallowed. “I have always tried To think of Scrabble with you as purely Educational. It is my wish To help you in enlarging your English Vocabulary. And defeating you— Too easily—as surely I must do— Would only be embarrassing. I know How sensitive to that Nihon-jin are: Destruction on a Scrabble board would mar Our beautiful relationship.” “Honto? It sounds like Maru-chan’s afraid to play.” “Well, if you want to play with words, okay.”
(Maru-chan, or Little Maru, is The new diminutive by which I’m known In Japanese. I really don’t exist In English anymore—except at home. Think of Maru as a marine suffix— A damaged freighter out of Altair Six— The bane of all Starfleet cadets, but one— Who counts impossible rescues among His greatest triumphs. Though Kirk’s victory Pales before my own: I am the first To work the Kobayashi into verse— In a surprising twist of History. Present me a no-win scenario, I read the rules. Then change the game. So,
The Kobayashi Maru is a test Of character. You’re not supposed to win. It’s chess. There is no ship in distress, Hull breached, an icy vacuum pouring in; The ship’s a simulation, and you lose Whatever course of action you should choose. The Kobayashi test presumes that death Is built into our programming—like breath- Ing—it is part of human DNA. Live long and prosper? No, cadet: goodbye. Don’t bother asking for a reason why: Logic has the final, fatal say. I wonder if our friend, Spock—over there— Knows love is logic’s great nightmare?)
Takaaki taps a second cigarette On Dora-chan’s bountiful blue tin; I go on eating, watching the sun set Like some enormous, obvious omen. A hush descends across the dinner table, Until a tulip petal that’s incapable Of hanging on lands on my placemat With a soft thud. Five minutes pass like that— So slowly that they feel more like twenty. I trace circles in my curry sauce While he establishes just who is boss. Takaaki asks, “More?” “No, I’ve had plenty, Thanks.” I roll the tulip petal from The mat between forefinger and thumb
Contemplatively as Takaaki takes Dishes to the kitchen. In florescent glass— Bisected cleanly by the Empire State— I watch Takaaki work—efficient as A robot—feeding things to Tupperware Containers, fridge, and freezer—aware I should be helping to put things away. I am lazy—what else can I say? When I see him stationed at the sink I swallow the pale dregs of my iced-tea, Then saunter to the bathroom for a pee, Leaving the door open while I tink- Le, asking, “Hey, would you like me to help? Or do you plan to do it all yourself?”
Before we get to Scrabble we must first Prepare the space for battle. Clean dishes Rest in a rack, while bubbles rise and burst Around Takaaki as he calmly swishes Cutlery though the hot suds. Each plate I plan to dry I first inspect. I scrape A shred of gross organic matter loose From the light, lilac pattern. I peruse Both back and front, then add it to the stack Of china in the cabinet above— Easing my stiletto in with love. This underhanded method of attack Earns my palm a pair of scalding forks Falling from the sky with deadly force.
“Jesus Christ! What’s got into you?” I thundered to a non-existent jury, “You stab me with steel forks out of the blue— I promise to play Scrabble and—” And fury, Rage crystallizing in Takaaki’s eye, “I know when you’re mocking me.” I try Not to reply—permit my mask to slip— Given how I’ve destabilized his lip: It quivers like red jello, in a mold, Before the gelatin’s had time to set Sufficiently. Our eyeballs briefly met While calculating how long we could hold Some dark profanity from bursting out. He placed his boiled hands beneath the spout
Allowing a cascade of cold to run, So his temper had a chance to cool. These Vulcans have a funny sense of fun. Letters at sunset. If this is a duel, Shall I tease my way into his tiles— Turn phrases on him, tiny lighted dials, Listening for that peculiar ping That tells me what’s inside my sonar ring Is not a whale or school of silver fish Darting down into the icy depths— It is his anger, slowly sliding west, Enveloped in the velvet dark? I wish He hadn’t tried to lecture me before About my Scrabble game. I abhor
Violence, like any veteran Who knows what horrors in his soul may lurk. But I’m American, and human, and, Against a submarine, depth-charges work Well—like words—if you deploy them right. But using double-meanings in a fight Is regulated largely by extent Of your technology. Intelligent Tacticians will grade every syllable Carefully, according to its power— Testing terrors, safely, in the shower, Walking, waking, working—if capable— When stepping from their skivvies to make love. I draw the line at—this is getting rough.
Love’s not a game for gentlemen, like cricket. It’s more like dominoes with rubble. War May be our best analogy. I pick it Because war has no ceiling, now, no floor: It’s waged like love—no limits. Not the sky, The stars, the earth, the sea. The tear-filled eye— So useful in the service of romance— Is like the language—wine and cheese—of France: A luxury. Like poetry. Like pity— Demoted to superfluous emotion When Eve and Adam lost their second son To murder. Individuals, each city Destroyed since Genesis—Troy, Nagasaki— Goes back to one, Cain-raising kiss. Takaaki
Slowly shut the water off. He dried His wrinkled fingertips on a fresh towel With November printed on one side, A turkey, goose—some kind of brown, cooked fowl— Emblazoned on the other. He withdrew Another cigarette. (There were just two, I noticed, left inside Doraemon.) I wish I could capture his expression. I left when he invited me to go— Which is not to say that I objected: I understood. In fact, I expected This. Takaaki let his feelings show. I added his heart to my victory arch When he called months later. Back in March.
I was unsatisfied with how I left the Kobayashi Maru yesterday, sort of stranded, rapidly losing air in your imagination, with you wondering where the Hell I was going with it. So I have added another stanza today, which will hopefully begin to point toward our destination.
I do have a very particular end in mind here. I hope you will stick with me for the next couple of days as the difficult part of our story unfolds.
Again, I have included a complete version of the poem with today's addition appended to the end of this post.
Overture
Today, as I was clipping my toenails, I had a small epiphany. I thought, Since I have started fabricating tales, Once I am finished with my toes, I ought To tell a story totally in verse, Like Alexander Pushkin. What’s the worst Thing which could happen to me, if I do? I waste a month, while trying to pursue A dream. Not a great sacrifice to make. But digging deeper, under my big toe, To get a stubborn piece of sock, I go Puncturing an artery by mistake: Administering a pedicure is not The time to be developing your plot.
Although a gallon of fresh blood may prove Absolutely vital later on— Blood being second only to true love As an essential element of fiction; Beyond the story of Philoctetes, Penned by Pulitzer winner Sophocles, Western literature is rather weak When it comes to treating injured feet. There is Achilles, yes, and Oedipus Translates from ancient Greek as ‘swollen foot’— But is my toe the basis for a book, Except for, maybe, my podiatrist, Dr. Silverman? It’s tough to say. The man hates poetry. He says it’s gay.
I mention my podiatrist because— As you have no doubt noticed here so far— Underneath the sterile square of gauze Stuck here to stanch my bleeding toe—there are— I hesitate to call them ‘flaws’ or ‘cracks’— There are—‘some changes’—let’s see who reacts— Which I’ve made to Pushkin’s sonnet scheme Less fatal to the work than they might seem: I add a fifth beat to his four foot line. You may regard the act as criminal Or revel in the extra syllable Like puppies playing out in the sunshine. Pentameter is difficult to ditch If your first love in life was Shakespeare, which
It was for me. There’s not much I can do. If Pushkin’s relatives should get wind Of my two-timing ways, I doubt they’ll sue. They’ll probably ask an unemployed cousin To slit my throat when I’m asleep in bed. I guess I could get used to being dead; As long as you can promise what I wrote Continues living in your heart, I’ll cope With fame and martyrdom quite well. But If anybody offers me some cash To shut up, I’ll consider it, as I’m always short. And having your throat cut By former agents of the KGB Does sound a wee bit painful, actually.
I hate pain. So, I propose a truce Between my critics and their allies in The Russian mob. I’ll borrow—not abuse— A bottle from the bar—that bright horizon— Bequeathed to me—to poets everywhere Who’ve gulped at galaxies we might compare In liquid brilliance to a sparkling word Of Alexander Pushkin. It’s absurd To carry comparisons much further than A single word: our metaphors break down To fizzy giggles—particles of sound That do not look like galaxies, or stand For much of anything, beyond white noise. It’s hard to pour the stars into your voice.
Part I
I’d like a pair of bold anfractous rocks Set somewhere in Cyclades—a spot Totally removed from Time. No clocks. I’d settle for a day in August, hot Enough to melt an Erlenmeyer flask; We might emerge from a cool underpass To catch a guitar weeping, an old song, A crowd of children shrieking, a Great Lawn, Surrounded by people with someplace to be Hurrying to different destinations. “Who comes to Central Park on their vacations?” I would implore the poor, demented bee Circling a can of garbage going sour. Surely, God would not begrudge an hour
Of timelessness unto Humanity— His representatives on Earth. He must Have made us and forgotten us. Maybe. How else would you explain the missing bus, The leaky awning, and the pouring rain, This longing to be elsewhere? Hence, the plane Landing on a distant isle in Greece— Ahead of schedule—the Cyclades— Bathed in Hellenic blue. And far below— Almost invisible on the white beach— There is a tempting red umbrella which I am convinced belongs to me; although, It could be a reflection from the ad For Travelers Insurance, which is bad-
Ly flirting with me from across the street. A fault in one of its florescent lights— Flutter. Flicker. Blackout. And repeat: Ad infinitum. How I hate these nights! These buses! Squishy inserts in my shoe! To say I hate New York would not be true. We have a strange relationship, I’d say, We need each other, sort of, in the way A sad, sadistic cop requires a good, But slightly stupid, buddy on the force To buy Budweisers for him, post-divorce, And hear how he has wrecked his life. This would Make a fine, redemptive movie script, Down to the last, cheesy tortilla chip.
For now, a cone of pink chrysanthemums— To match the dozen frosted donuts I Picked up from Dunkin’ for dessert—some Blocks back, before Zeus unzipped the sky— Will join our little shopping list. “How Much are these flowers,” I ask the fellow Sweeping up the petals, thorns and leaves He has been pruning. “Not the roses—these,” I point sharply at the mums again. The chalkboard with the prices on it had Suffered, like my patience, from the mad Downpour. Slowly the young Mexican Lifts five green fingers in front of his face— His exhausted face. What a place
To hide such beauty. “Yes, I’ll take those, thanks,” I mutter softly, with embarrassment, Pulling out a wet ten, with two yanks, Sending a quarter rolling down the pavement, Directly to the gutter—not the drain. It sits on the grate, shining in the rain Atop a flattened cup—a blue pancake— Supporting crooked letters which I make Out to read, ‘Happy To Serve You.’ Exactly who is happy to be serving Whom lies beyond my powers of observing Because of how the cup is crushed. In lieu Of other parties with a claim to it, I give green fingers a five-dollar tip
And go retrieve my quarter from the cup, Before somebody else does. In this town, Some moments are too precious to give up. A lucky coin can turn your life around Like that: Fortune rota volvitur, Rolling toward the sewer, your last quarter, While on “The Wheel of Fortune” someone spins Above a pyramid of oranges. Who wins? Who cares? I have my quarter and I’m glad. The best ten dollars that was ever spent By any man beneath the Firmament. Do I exaggerate? Perhaps a tad. But just a tad. That magic emerald hand Has turned “The Wheel” into a salsa band
By changing channels. How I love TV! Just think of all the money that we could Save on drugs and psychotherapy If human hearts came with remotes? A mood Is altered just by tapping on your nose, And fine-tuned further, peeling off damp clothes, And fiddling a little with a nipple. A politician still might come and cripple Sex, occasionally, and football Pre-empt a dreary real-life drama With dancing linebackers, or a bomber Blowing up an airplane force us all To interview a few shocked families: But we could always turn off our TVs—
Like that. Returning richer from the gutter, I collect my donuts and cut flowers. It seems the thunderstorm’s begun to stutter— Which I attribute to my quarter’s powers, Patting the faint circle on my thigh Embossed by my good luck. I decide There is no point in waiting. I am wet. I can’t get any wetter now. I bet The guy who drives this bus is named Godot. Assuming this, and better weather later, We say goodbye to Jorge’s cramped bodega. I need to meet Takaaki for a show— War of the Worlds—at quarter after eight. Taka-chan will shoot me if I’m late.
Takaaki entered my life as a leopard Belt being unbuckled at the Y. Until that Tuesday, we exchanged no word Apart from that perfunctory, “Hi,” One naturally nods when in the shower— Never letting eyes fall any lower Than chin, if necessary, collarbone, Carefully leaving ‘well enough’ alone— Lest anything unseemly rise to blur The fragile line of bubbles separating Really clean from curious—creating Questions about conditioners, and whether Grapefruit is a proper manly scent— Even in a Thought Experiment.
I was hooked by how that feline belt Crept through the four tight loops above his rear; It filled me with four-letter words, which spelt, “Don’t ruin your Moon trip.” Although sincere— Poetic even—this injunction—it Does not, I think, seem quite appropriate. We’re not inside a NASA locker room— Pristine and clean and white. We’re in a tomb Below the ground on 47th Street, Surrounded by abandoned towels with A disco scent—that moldy land of myth. I sprinkle fungal powder on my feet, Discretely. As my fairy dust descended, I wondered if his buckle was befriended
By anything besides his fingertips. I could, of course, conceive of other suitors— Beige bedroom carpets, pant hangers with clips Coated in red rubber, folding doors With tiny metal doorknobs cast from stainless Steel. But it was none of my business Where, after leaving his seductive waist, His buckle might intend to hang, how chaste These new companions, if they drink, or stink Of jockstraps, Jockeys, sweaty socks, or hold Silk stockings with more reverence, or cold Hands in handcuffs, or dead cats. (I thank The Lord, this morning, when I dressed, I took A nice new necktie from my closet.) Look—
Zip, that leopard softly disappears Around the tan line of Takaaki’s hips. I had a friend who spent ten thousand years On hips, neglecting to Chapstick his lips; So long he labored he dissolved to dust, Before he could express his love. Or lust. I trust, the stupid use he made of Time Will not be copied in your life. Or mine. Now with three stanzas written on a waist, A belt, belt loops, belt buckle, and no ass, You might suppose your humble Author has Lost you, Takaaki, and his mind. In case That’s what you think, permit me now to state, While you’ve been thinking, I’ve been on a date.
…
Around a core of elevators set Twelve tall windows in a concrete sheet As crumbly as the Parthenon; let Your panorama start in Brooklyn, greet The Empire State behind a candle (where I sit sweating, in a sticky chair), While your eye continues traveling Along the glass, skyscrapers unraveling, Until the pointy tip of the Chrysler Build- -ing rises from Lexington Avenue, Piercing a silver nitrate mist. Now you Must let this scintillating picture fill The space before your eyes: that is New York. Here, I transfix a carrot with a fork.
“Introibo ad altare,” I will say, While blowing on the steaming vegetable, Adding, “Totemo oishikatta ne,” Hoping, after five months, I am able To tell Takaaki I enjoy his curry Without entangling my tongue in worry. “It’s okay,” he shrugs, quietly deferring My compliments—as always—much preferring A tilted head, a seated bow, the leaner Show of manners honored in Japan, Which can seem strange to an American Inclined to linger too much over dinner, Allowing food to cool and candles run. I was shocked to see Takaaki done—
Done like those thirty-minute Japanese Cartoons I used to watch in Buffalo. Star Blazers was my favorite one of these. Five days a week, at 3:30, or so, On rusty orange carpet I would sit Watching an Imperial Navy ship, Resurrected and retooled for space, Leave planet Earth to save the Human Race. At 6:00 pm, with equal bonhomie, I’d see Toyota windshields being battered By men from Chevrolet, lives shattered By something known as, “The Economy.” Somebody always wore this shirt: above Japan it read, “Two bombs were not enough.”
Now, the two malignant mushrooms which Sprouted from the belly of that guy Returned as two shitakes in my dish Of curried chicken and vegetables. Why? (You’ll see.) From a Doraemon candy tin, Takaaki took a cigarette. A thin Wisp of smoke and hiss rose from his plate, Typical for the twenty-seventh date. “What do you want to do,” I inquired, “Go bowling? I’ll do anything you like: Get drunk? Get naked?” [Silence] “Steal a bike?” “I swam forty laps tonight. I’m wired.” He exhaled, letting out a little laugh, “Shall we play Scrabble then and then have bath?”
“Have bath sounds good. But Scrabble, I will pass: You always win, you creep. You clearly cheat,” I said, “It’s obvious. You won the last Nine times. And you’re not going to defeat Me for time number ten tonight.” I put My fork down like a foot. Takaaki’s butt He extinguished in the drop of sauce Which recently had claimed his match. “You lost Because you play without strategy: There is no need for me cheat on you,” he sighed, As if I were a beetle on his thigh Too insignificant to crush. “You see, You always want to find interesting word— Not the word that wins.” My fork conferred
A moment with a chunk of chicken dyed Cadmium by cumin in the curry— Before I ate it. “I have always tried To think of Scrabble with you as purely Educational. It is my wish To help you in enlarging your English Vocabulary. And defeating you— Too easily—as surely I must do— Would only be embarassing. I know How sensitive to that Nihon-jin are: Destruction on a Scrabble board would mar Our beautiful relationship.” “Honto? It sounds like Maru-chan’s afraid to play.” “No. Maru-chan will kick your ass today.”
Maru-chan, or Maru-maru, is The new diminutive by which I’m known In Japanese. I really don’t exist In English anymore—except at home. Maru works best as a marine suffix— A fragile freighter out of Altair Six— The bane of all Starfleet cadets, but one— Who counts impossible rescues among His greatest triumphs. Though his victory Pales before my own: I am the first To work the Kobayashi into verse— In a surprising twist of History. I’m taking charge of that scenario. The life I live is not a game. Oh, no.
The Kobayashi Maru is a test Of character you’re not allowed to win. It’s fixed. There is nobody in distress, Hull breached, black, icy vaccum pouring in; The ship’s a simulation, lie, a ruse, Like love, a logic problem: you must choose A method and a manner for your death— What works for you? Expending your sweet breath, Hovering around the Neutral Zone, Listening to people suffocate, or Will you, perhaps, ignite galactic war, Attempting their salvation? You’re alone. You are the person in the Captain’s chair. I have a Scrabble board I must prepare.
