Out of Doors

For Gavin

Not being a sleepwalker by nature, I
seldom find myself wandering into brick
shithouses by moonlight. I will drop by
the fridge to gnaw on a cold drumstick—

now and then—seized by hunger pangs—
the result of the treadmill. I’ve been doing
so much running. I want to look good for you
in Frisco, or Black Mountain, wherever

pale asses glow most poetically by night.
I am thinking of myself here. I see
me—for no good reason—because I am
incarcerated in a gray cubicle—

abandoning treadmills for roads—doing
dirty things out doors: lying under
a tree, sharing a green sleeping bag—
well-fed, well-fucked—well, wondering if

this sort of life would make me happy—
if, God forbid, this fantasy came true.

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...

On Hats

Today I was very disappointed that I was not able to find a hat, one that would be the perfect complement to my light summer wardrobe. I traveled all over Manhattan to no avail. Not a single hat I liked. All the baseball caps I tried on left lines on my forehead that made me look like a pygmy Frankenstein. I really need no help there, thank you, given my present sepulchral pallor. I blame global warming. After 6 months of shoveling sun out of the driveway each morning, one is apt to look a little wan.

Of course, I wish I could say my inability to find a hat was the fault of capitalism failing to produce the one article of headgear vital to my continued health, prosperity and happiness, but I can't: I found many hats, it's just that none of them fit: a clear case of supply and demand. Half of the time my head was too small, the other half it was too big. By about 3:00pm, I was beginning to feel like some sort of middle-class cephalic monstrosity.

Therefore, I have written a letter to the President on the subject of the hat crisis and the middle-class. I urged the President to forget taking over the banks, the auto industry, the health care system, our mortgages, our credit cards, energy production, egg production, chicken production, the Moon, Mars, and the Sombrero Galaxy, the silliest galaxy ever to take shape in space [see illustration above]. What we really need right now are medium-sized hats, Sir, I said, speaking on behalf of my fellow citizens. Healthy heads require healthy hats. A man can only do so much about the shapes of gallstones and galaxies, Mr. President, I reminded him, even a man so gifted in gallstone and galactic formation as you.

Even though I was not his supporter in the recent election, I tried to maintain the respectful, reverential tone of address appropriate to the divinity his office. But I am not sure I always succeeded. I did try, I assure you. The fact is, it's rather difficult to write a letter to a public official of President Obama's exalted stature when you are somewhat vertically-challenged, like I am. It is well nigh impossible to do it when you are not wearing the appropriate hat.
I hope the Secret Service will understand my predicament and not take it amiss.

Ex Nihilo

I wrote this about 8 years ago and I have never been able to find a place to put it. It is written in the rhyme scheme of ottava rima (abababcc, for you poetry junkies), and I always hoped that I would be able to integrate it into a larger poem.  But it seems to stand rather shakily on its own.

So, I publish it here, out of context, in the the hope that it will find a place on the Internet, if not in your heart or in your memory.


New York: A Fragment


Nothing in this City lasts; nothing is

       This dust, impossible to dust away—

Pollen, maybe, pulverized asbestos—
       The gulf between today and yesterday.
But nothing’s more insidious than this—
       This feeling of despair—what can I say?
Yet out of nothing, next to nothing—silt—
You and I, our Universe is built.

A fine and private place...

Hi.

I’m sorry it has been so long since I've written. I am afraid I haven't had anything to say. I have been in a funk, as it were. Winter has been getting me down. I hope you haven't been sitting in cyberspace all month, sighing, and waiting for me to write.

The fact is, I have been drawing a blank since the day after New Year’s Day, and I don't like to write when I don't have anything to say—just to fill up some space—it seems like such a terrible waste of effort. I know that this is probably just a seasonal thing, related to the nakedness of the trees, the lack of sunshine, frozen rivers, ice, and snow but it doesn't seem like an ordinary blank either.

It reminds me one of those big blanks they like to hang in museums: a vastly underpopulated plain upon which any passing vandal with a sword may inscribe anything he wants. What I wouldn't give for a couple of good leafy Gainsboroughs right now! Just to confront this ghastly gloom! Just look at the expressions of confidence on those faces—even the dog's. Who cares where they were going, off to their bedroom or off of a cliff. In the 18th Century, some people at least appeared to have a purpose!

Sigh.

I had had the idea about writing a few things about the Gainsboroughs, about lovers in general, using as a point of departure, Andrew Marvell’s poem, To His Coy Mistress, my favorite poem of all time. I fooled around with the concept for a few days, before I finally abandoned it with a shrug. Nothing amuses me now: not him, not her, nothing. I could get no further with my original idea than borrowing two lines from Marvell and calling this pathetic posting, “A fine and private place...”

The grave's a fine and private place,
But none, I think, do there embrace.

...

Normally, I have very little time to spare for regrets, but somehow I wish I hadn't erased those early ruminations on Mr. and Mrs. Gainsborough, Andrew Marvell, or his mysterious muse, his Mistress. If only I had followed them, their example, they might have lead me somewhere besides this terrible spiritual cul-de-sac. They seemed such a lovely couple. At least he did. I really didn't get to know her...

My biggest trouble is that I tend to obliterate everything that I create which I do not personally consider perfect. And, as I am sure you will agree, my literary criticism is decidedly second rate.

Usually, I try not involve other people my artistic program. I am a quiet person, not at all political. When I lose my way in a work, I press a button on the right hand side of my computer and delete the document I have been working on. I don't mind starting over. I must have started my life over a zillion times. This is one of the benefits of being an American, I guess. You can always tear up the past and start over. It is a very simple action—a bit like turning out the lights: clean, neat, and—unless you get a shock from the carpet—relatively painless.

And yet, I still get emotionally attached to certain metaphors from time to time, and always against my better judgment. I can't help myself.  I am sure you have enjoyed similarly pointless relationships. They are fine as long as the flowers are fresh and the sex remains satisfactory. But eventually...

I always wind up on the phone with mother, soliciting her advice. Our conversation is always the same:

She says, "Don't be an idiot. What is this bitch to you? Your mind is full of metaphors, you fool. You can always manufacture more."

"But mother," I plead, "this one is so enormously original, so pink and pretty, it seems a sin to destroy her..."

"You are just as bad as your father—all guilt and gonads—that man was. My sister was the lucky one. Your Aunt. Just look at her now: Queen of Scotland. I should have married MacBeth."

Maybe she should have. But then, we wouldn't be here, would we? I don't know. All I know is that after a beer and bit of judicious editing, I usually feel better in the morning.

...

I hope you can understand better why I think it is fortunate that I am a poet, and not a politician, novelist, professor, or other grossly over-paid, over-indulged kind of gasbag. I know from hard experience that I cannot afford to be promiscuous with my powers. If I want my voice to be heard, I must be economical with my images. I must make the most of the fact that I am a Nobody, and that the influence which I retain in Society is purely imaginary. I am a poet. All I have is a voice.

...

Over the years, I have learned to control my voice, mostly through trial and error. I have also learned that only in very rare instances are words indispensable to anything, or anyone. Words can be replaced. Words are not women, after all, or children: words are more like men. At least the words that I have dealt with are like men. Many have hidden lives, hidden meanings, hidden messages. None are ever straightforward. Some, particularly verbs, even have minds of their own.

But linguistics is such a miserable science. I bet that we, you and I, could burn Bibles and dictionaries day and night for a 1000 years, and still not discover a workable definition of the truly terrible depths to which some words would have us stoop. My mother is a harsh woman, but I am also afraid that she is sometimes right. This is why I do not feel guilty when I delete a million words at a time.

This has been a very difficult lesson for me to learn, as an artist. My earliest efforts at making music involved only tears. I grew up in the 20th Century, you understand. And my notes from those frightening years—living on the kindness of strangers— prostitution and potato peels— are very sparse, very chaotic, indeed.

...

And here, I think, for the first time in this tedious post, we may be able to discern the tinkling skeleton of a theme...


Coffee in Chelsea

I had a lover’s quarrel with the world.
-Robert Frost


While taking a transfusion of caffeine
Extracted from a scorched Arabic bean,
I may select a slice of yellow cake
By pointing to biscotti by mistake.
A spongy cube (about four inches thick)
Is dropped demurely on my plate and, sick—

The side with chocolate frosting flops face down—
A diabolical, soft-plopping sound—
Which I do not propose to imitate
If this is to be our final date.
How do you feel about the soft, peach light
Gilding parking meters here tonight?

I know the present focus of my life
Should be some napkins—nay—a fork and knife—
And not these little crumbs of loveliness.
My manners are Medieval. I’ll address
That bit of barbarism momentarily.
Forgive me if I use my tongue. You see,

Beyond the purple lip of this French door,
The world is wandering toward another war.
Each day we find it harder to be nice.
My heart has not quite started pumping ice,
But something has been thickening in there.
Okay, it’s curdling. I don’t really care.

My point is this: one small, atomic spark
Incinerates the elms in Central Park:
How will you survive the Holocaust
That follows? Will anyone lament your loss
Except for maybe me and, I don’t know,
Some crazed curator putting on a show?

Well, what’s a civilized person to do,
When he is forced to bid his faith adieu?
I think that vital questions such as these
Deserve much more than your dismissive—Please!
There are times I look into your eyes
And I see nothing to immortalize.

That must be why I turn to Mercury,
Who’s modeling, this evening, a T-
Shirt thin as tissue paper—ghostly gray.
Just on the verge of cycling away,
He switches gears: he straddles his crossbar,
And lights a Marlboro, like a movie star.

The other Messengers don’t seem to mind.
Okay, one pedal whirls with a whine
When lover boy rolls up—but no one slits
A single throat when they eventually kiss.
Most men are angels in this universe.
The worst they do is smile here. The worst!

A Disclaimer

The man to my left is Housman. And today is a Tuesday.

And since you have probably stumbled across this site, like me, while looking for something else, let me welcome you.

This certainly isn't paradise, but I do hope that my world isn't all that different from the planet you inhabit, except perhaps that things rhyme more here, and certain stale, artistic odors have been eliminated—thanks to the modern magic of musical ventilation!

The title of my blog, When I was One and Twenty, is taken from a poem by A.E. Housman:

When I was one-and-twenty
I heard a wise man say,
'Give crowns and pounds and guineas
But not your heart away...

While this is not my professional opinion as a poet, you must admit that these four lines have a certain simplicity and charm that makes them easier recall than your last, and most disastrous love-affair. And isn't that the nice thing about Art: it is so much less painful to contemplate than...

Anyway, before I lapse into anything so ludicrous as aesthetics, or philosophy, here's something I hope you can have some fun with for a few minutes. Which is not so bad an accomplishment for a poem, I think.

Or a life...

Preface to A Life
For M.A.

Fair seed time had my soul, and I grew up…
-William Wordsworth, The Prelude.

I have a dirty secret to disclose
Before we start here. Can I be candid?
This isn’t the profession which I chose.
I’m no poet. I don’t understand it.
As a child, I dreamed of writing prose:
My box of cereal, The Daily Planet,
Proust—they spoke to me. And poetry—
It seems an awful way to treat a tree.

Poets only have three subjects: love,
Despair, and death. And maybe the odd flower.
My numbers here are estimates, and rough:
I have just drawn zero for an hour
Which seemed like an Eternity—enough
Time to admit the limits of my power:
The Muses call me, but I cannot sing.
Sure, I can give you Shakespeare, gargling,

That’s simple: he is in this huge bathroom,
A Dixie cup in hand, an inch of Scope
Bubbling in his throat. Scope, I presume,
Not Listerine, which kills bacteria, Hope,
You, and me, and everything—ka-boom!
He was hygienic, William, not a dope.
I once was his—you should call me his guest—
Since I was underage, and such a pest.

My own facilities are less extensive:
I’ve got the standard toilet, white, a small
Bathtub, a sink. The scent of talcum gives
The place a pale, late Roman air. Each fall
That fragile autumn light, for which I live,
Will form a golden window on the wall
Right above the faucets—there. I’m sorry
Faucets don’t figure larger in my story,

But try to let your mind fill in these gaps.
Use whatever odds and ends you wish:
Your own experiences, marbles, maps,
A plum stone glistening in a glass dish,
Your favorite pair of underwear—those chaps
Left over from your rodeo in Bliss;
A big Bermuda onion—I don’t know.
Something should suggest itself. Let go.

Doodling is what I often seem to do
When I have these imaginary needs.
Most authors have a strategy or two.
John Milton summoned scrolls, papyrus reeds,
Imported at great expense from the past. It’s true,
Lord Byron also dabbled in some deeds
Of great antiquity—at least on paper—
But I deny involvement in that caper.

Don Juan, I’m not. I wasn’t meant to be
So pretty. I was born in Buffalo,
A rusty suburb of Reality,
A town called Tonawanda. Yes, I know,
The place did not exist till you met me.
We processed lots of lumber, long ago.
Nothing much goes on here anymore.
Luckily, our taverns close at four.

Here, Mendelssohn wed Edwin to Kathleen
Around the time of my conception in
A battered Skylark. Pop was a Marine,
Lance Corporal. Loyal, like most Marlboro Men,
I hear he shot a cigarette machine
On Okinawa, from frustration, when
A pack of twenty Camels tumbled out.
Yet, I never saw him smoke, or shout.

My mom insisted that he switch to snuff
When I was born. They slowly separated, and
I only knew my father long enough
To miss him really—hold his massive hand.
The mess he left made life extremely tough.
Some kids need discipline, you understand.
Mom did her best. She did not spare the rod—
Her special spatula—the Wrath of God.

That spatula and I, we still survive.
We pass strange things along in my family.
Ghost stories, mostly. Like who dropped the knife
(This bayonet—my father’s legacy)
Down the laundry chute. It’s my belief—
And here my mother and I disagree—
The thing was cruddy. And so down it slid.
It needed washing. That’s what mothers did.

It nearly killed her. I was sent to bed
One hour early. That rather shocked me, too.
I’m sure that in my future you saw red—
A bloody end, involving scarlet dew-
Drops, total melodrama. No. She said,
“Do you know how I got this big boo-boo?”
I nodded very meekly—in this style—
And pointed sadly at my brother, Kyle.

“Man hands on misery to man,” of course,
Nothing could be easier than THAT.
Happiness is harder, and a source
Of great perplexity to poets—at
Least those creeps who scatter metaphors,
Like tears, across each page, without éclat,
Éclairs, or anything more pleasant. I
Sincerely hope I am not such a guy.

My mother heaved the huge, eye-rolling sigh
She usually reserved for The Three Stooges.
Despite my innocence, and cuteness, I
Was tucked in tightly. Kyle burped brown juices
On his bib, not quite comprehending why.
You know, that wicked child still refuses
To admit his guilt—now that he can talk.
And walk. He’s even lost his taste for chalk.

Well, before we fix him, it is clear
I need to straighten out this dialogue.
Now what were we discussing? Proust? Shakespeare—
He once permitted me to walk his dog
When I came over. It was pretty weird:
My mind filled up with music, then a fog,
This mist precipitated in my eyes—
I thought it was just raining. Big surprise:

I was back in my old neighborhood,
And Heaven only knows how I got there.
We moved a lot. But I was pretty good
At climbing out of trouble. My highchair
Proved to be a problem though. I could
Not master gravity. Perhaps the air
Malfunctioned. Or my wings. At least I tried.
I cracked my cranium, and cried, and cried.

God, curiosity must be the bane
Of man's existence. Take this incident:
A bawling baby with a bit of brain
Exposed. Was this a portent, or the dent
Death left inside my consciousness? For pain
I received kisses, not the monument
I wanted, carved in marble, “Tragedy.”
I’m glad nobody took me seriously.


Finis