An Anthem For Orpheus

Some animals were gathered in a ring
around a rhapsode playing with a song.
He sighed and plucked a solitary string,
“It’s music. What could possibly go wrong?”

The lion lying there, beside the lamb,
drifted off to sleep in the tall grass;
brooks trickled in, and so did boulders, and
the audience stood up, as if at Mass.

He handled his equipment with such skill,
he held a brief monopoly on sound.
He plucked another string, another—til
a mushroom cloud erupted over town.

Some say this was the first experiment
to mix religion, politics and art.
The town was made of music, not cement.
Construction in cement had yet to start.

John Milton Interviews Satan For Entertainment Tonight

[Transcript from an interview soon to be broadcast on Entertainment Tonight.]

Milton: Since Halloween falls on a Monday this year, and this is his birthday weekend, I am here talking with Satan, on Skype, from his holiday villa “Pandaemonium” deep in the depths of Hell. Satan, let me be the first fan in England to wish you a big Happy Birthday!

Satan: Gee-wiz, thanks, John. So kind of you to call. I am touched, really, I am. I wouldn’t be here today if it weren’t for you. And may I say you look marvelous for a 400-year-old? What is your secret? Who is your surgeon? You could pass for a teenager. It must be the poetry—Paradise Regained.

Milton: [Blushing.] Such a sweetheart.

Satan: By the way, I enjoyed your pamphlet on free speech. Areopagitica—great title. I can’t wait for the movie.

Milton: [Even redder now.] No wonder Eve fell for you. Satan, I know you are in Hell and everything, but you sound so mellow, so relaxed. Why is that?

Satan: I am not religious, you see. I love where I am in life. I always have. This is my home. Hell is all in the mind. So is Heaven. As long I have high speed internet access, a hibachi, a Ken doll to grill and somewhere to surf, I am in Heaven. Malibu Barbie never had it so good.

Milton: When you say you are not religious, what do you mean? Are you saying that you don’t believe in God?

Satan: No, not exactly. I believe in God. I just wish that he believed in me.

Milton: I heard about your break-up. I didn’t want to ask about it directly. Worse than Jen and Brad’s?

Satan: I wouldn’t say it was as Earth-shattering as that, not by Hollywood standards. But it was certainly all over the tabloids at the time. It was bad enough.

Milton: Are you bitter?

Satan: No, not bitter. Just a little sad. Look, don’t get me wrong. I think God is great. “Akbar” and all that. I wish I could do more to help him—justify his actions, so to speak. Nobody adores God more than I do—even after what he did to the Amalekites in that bar in Seattle. I understand lashing out. I have felt that way about the paparazzi myself. But genocide? Jeez Louise, God, get a grip.

Milton: Are you still friends?

Satan: In the biblical sense, sure. It can get complicated around the holidays. God and I still get together for brunch whenever I am in town.

Milton: I always suspected God was gay.

Satan: He’s not. Not exclusively. I believe God is bisexual. He loves almost everyone. Even the Amalekites, maybe. I am not so sure how he feels about the paparazzi though. He has a hard time with photographers. I wish they would leave him alone.

Milton: [Nodding sympathetically.]

Satan: [Leaning forward, confidentially.] Off the record, John, between you and me, he has this kid and some mysterious woman in Rome he is paying alimony to. Or blackmail. Possibly a transsexual. You know how those Italians are. I never saw the name on the envelope, but he used to cut her a check—10% of his residuals—every month. He is a nice man, a lovely man, but an unholy financial mess.

Milton: Off the record. Sure. [Clearing his throat.] So, when you say you are not religious, you don’t mean to suggest you are an atheist?

Satan: No. Far from it. There is no system of belief more suicidal to happiness than atheism. A pile of dust—what kind of future is that for an ambitious angel to look forward to?

Milton: Not much of one, I suppose.

Satan: Hell, no. Give me Malibu and my hibachi.

Milton: About religion then.

Satan: Oh, yeah. I mean, I hate organized religions. I am a firm believer in the separation of church and state. I don’t believe in unions—reunions—collectives of any kind—artistic, intellectual, political. Sex is a different matter. I am all for that—consenting individuals. But I would rather stick my head in a wood chipper than be caught in a cheering crowd. I am a small ‘d’ democrat. The ‘d’ stands for ‘devil’.

Milton: [Smiling.] Very funny. Speaking of crowds, what do you think of the Occupy Wall Street movement?

Satan: I honestly feel sorry for the kids. Lied to everywhere, by everyone. No place to poop. But I think their leaders are idiots—they should be pissing on their professors’ lawns instead of in Zuccotti Park—especially the English majors. Who spends $100,000 at a spa studying Foucault for 4 years? Insane.

Milton: It is rather.

Satan: You can buy houses all over America for that much and still have money left over to open a coffee shop, learn HVAC repair, and stage a guerilla theater production of Coriolanus in Washington D.C.—complete with puppets. [Sipping herbal tea.] It’s like I said about Heaven and Hell: you make your own Malibu. There are always dues to pay to some bare-knuckled thug or wild-eyed zany somewhere down the line, if you don’t.

Milton: Can you give us an example?

Satan: [Thinking.] I was going to mention Bush and Obama, but they are more like Laurel and Hardy, aren’t they? The two smiling sides of a counterfeit coin. Nobody takes Republicans and Democrats seriously anymore—not in the real world—not in the world I live in, anyway.

Milton: In Hell?

Satan: In California, John. Ken—wave to the man. I know he can’t see you, I know he is blind, I know he’s a poet, but be a doll, Ken, and wave to Milton anyway. [Ripping off Ken’s left arm and still trying to think of a good example of a thug or a zany.] Ken is waving to you, John.

Milton: Hi, Ken!

Satan: [Using Ken’s severed arm to scratch his back.] See, take the French Revolution. Take the intellectuals. Take the guillotine. They get rid of Schwarzenegger and what is the first thing the smart people do? They anoint Jerry Brown Governor: they install a moonbeam as god and immediately lose their minds. Jesus, you might as well hand over your house keys to the chief lunatic in the asylum. [Rolling his yellow eyes in disbelief.]

Milton: Speaking of Jesus, I have always wondered, do you know him—Jesus—I mean—personally?

Satan: I do. [Tossing Ken’s arm into a river of lava.] He will always have a special place in my heart. A nice boy. Red hair. Constantly climbing trees. A dead ringer for Opie Taylor—the young Ron Howard. Jesus was always being followed home by lost puppies—wherever he went. I think the divorce hit him hard and the puppies sensed that.

Milton: The divorce? Oh, the lady [?] in Rome.

Satan: Yeah. Her. Animals are like that. They know things. They remember things. The other kids are really going to crucify him in high school, of course, if he doesn’t lose those strays. I have half a mind to tell him the puppies can stay down here in Malibu with Ken and me.

Milton: That’s awfully generous.

Satan: It’s nothing. Jesus texts me all the time. God is hopeless with numbers, so I help Jesus with his math homework. He is learning fractions now. He thinks of me as his second father, I guess, Pandaemonium as his second home. God used to bring him down to Malibu from L.A., you know, for long weekends. We made quite a happy family, really. The three of us would play Monopoly together. [Wistfully, as if remembering happier days.] Jesus liked to be the thimble. Being the bank, I preferred the top hat.

Milton: And what was God?

Satan: God? Oh, God. What was God? Let me see if I can remember. Christ was the thimble. I was the hat. [Long pause.] I’ve got it: God was the dog. He was the dog. Of course, what else could God be?

Milton: The dog. Of course.

Together: Happy Halloween!

Some Further Thoughts On Cock Sucking

Yesterday, I offered a disquisition on the problem of what makes a gay writer gay. Today, I should like to amplify on those remarks and arrive at few general guidelines for students of literature.

I prefer to apply the word cocksucker instead of gay to myself, since cocksuckers are so universal a phenomenon and so well understood. One may be a cocksucker regardless of his or her sexual orientation. Indeed, like your local library, the telephone directory is packed with cocksuckers, male and female: page after page of them. The cellphone has merely expanded the reach of their mouths. Cocksuckers are often found sucking cock very loudly on crowded trains, particularly the 7-train.

Intellectually, artistically and emotionally, I feel that the majority of my readers can relate better to the term cocksucker than they can to gay or queer. I am sometimes unhappy. So are they. How can we be unhappy and gay? It is semantically impossible. Besides, let's be honest. After a few beers, even the most saintly, patient, inclusive and understanding people will freely acknowledge that 90% of their neighbors are, to one degree or another, cocksuckers, regardless of race, religion or ethic background. The other 10%--the nice ones they never mention--are probably aliens, most probably from Andromeda. Their customs are certainly queer. They may even be gay.

As for myself, in addition (obviously) to being a cocksucker, I also happen to be a writer who sucks cock. This probably lends a slightly fruity flavor to my work, depending on the soap you used this morning. (I favor the savory ginger bath bar from Origins.) It is a taste which may not be to everyone's liking, I admit. But I appreciate your efforts to meet me half-way on the subject. Especially the soap. Thank God for that. Even so attentive a lover of Man as myself cannot suck off the entire human race. I have dishes to do and poems to write.

Regarding the original cock sucking question, What is a gay writer?, my rule of thumb is this:

A gay writer may be less than great and still write well. But a great writer is always more than gay. He is very likely a cocksucker, just like everyone else.

Here endeth our foray into Fairyland—the philology of fellatio. Go forth, you sexy beast, and sin no more.

The President

For T.N.
After Lewis Carroll

’Twas brillig, and the citizens
Did gyre and gimble in the wabe;
All mimsy were the democrats,
And the republicans outgrabe.

“Beware of governments, my son!
They bite: they tax, they spend, they bitch
If you complain. Before they’re done,
We’ll all sleep in a ditch!”

A mashie niblick in my hand,
Long time the loathsome foe I sought—
So rested me by a Palin tree,
And stood a while in thought.

As in Alaskan thought I stood,
The President, with eyes of flame,
Came putting at me through the woods—
What a grotesque golf game!

One, two! One, two! What could he do
Against my mashie? Zilch. Talk smack.
His polls fell like a lead balloon,
The Hindenburg, in fact.

“His head was full of hydrogen,”
Dad said. “Come to my arms, my boy!
O frabjous day! Si, se puede!”
We chortled in our joy.

’Twas brillig, and the citizens
Did gyre and gimble in the wabe;
All mimsy were the democrats,
And the republicans outgrabe.

The General

Appalled by all the savages abroad,
They found a race of sheep to rule at home;
They give the fleecing of their flocks much thought,
Needing togas for their parties. Rome

Provides a tailor-made example: men
And women with this ancient fashion sense
Fill the legislature. What they spend
On orgies! Their political events

End in cries—More circuses, more bread!
Let us see our neighbors being stripped
Naked—defiled! So much for Rome. You’re dead.
My armies are alive. We are equipped.

We pass through every river, like a test:
The Delaware or Rubicon? Guess.

Going to Bed

Some lines of Auden bouncing in my head,
Before I climb in, I shut off the light.
I become invisible. And my bed
Feels cool and empty—temperature just right.

I like it cold. The emptiness means peace—
No fumbling with faces, no bad breath,
No silent, secret wars for space, for sheets.
The pleasures of oblivion. Death

Is easier to contemplate than life.
Death is the ideal—the perfect State.
Everyone is equal. Man and wife,
Gay and straight, black and white, we mate

Forever. We grow fonder of the food
As time goes by. When dirt is passed around,
We say we love it: how nutritious—good
For bones and teeth. Minerals abound.

If stars are somewhat rarer overhead,
Nobody misses them. Now that they’re gone,
Dark is distributed among the dead
More efficiently. Pack up the sun—

There’s nothing left to see: no cosmic dust,
No cakes with little candles, no Zippos,
No supernovas. Light’s too dangerous
A toy to play with anyway. Shadows

Suggest a world where different rules apply:
Where monsters lurk, where so much is unknown,
Where we could be so happy, we could die
Exploring what is out there. All alone.

Perpetual Motion

Perpetual motion is still a dream
Pursued by kooks, mad scientists and crooks—
The statesmen of Utopia: a machine
So natural they paint it green. It looks

So good on paper: dark panels unfold
To soak up sun, windmills whirl, and Friction—
The great galactic menace—shivers, cold,
Imprisoned in a cell—in science fiction.

Nothing nuclear, like entropy,
Seems to appear in government designs;
Nor do too many numbers, I can see,
Besides those taxes, surtaxes and fines

We pay to keep Utopia painted
Green, gears greased, politicians sainted.

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.

In Memoriam

It has been a difficult couple of days here at Wheniwasoneandtwenty. First, we lost Arthur C. Clarke, on Wednesday. Today we turn over the New York Times to discover we have lost the actor Paul Scofield.

Paul Scofield is most famous to audiences for his portrayl of Sir Thomas More in the movie A Man for All Seasons. More, of course, being the the 16th cenutry jurist, author, intellectual, friend of Erasmus, Lord Chancellor of England, and confidante of Henry the VIII. More was the author of Utopia (literally, "Noplace," in Greek), the grandfather of novels like Erewhon, We, Brave New World, 1984, a whole genre of Utopian and Dystopian literature. More was beheaded on July 6th, 1535 for treason--which, at the time, could be construed as a polite refusal to recognize Henry the VIII as supreme head of the Church of England.

I first saw (and read) A Man for All Seasons in my 11th grade English class. (For which I will be eternally grateful to the otherwise somewhat distasteful Miss Tracy.) I would not say the play changed my life in any material fashion. But Mr. Scofield's performance did have an intense philosophical, even spiritual effect on me as a boy. Especially the following exchange between Sir Thomas and his son-in-law, William Roper:

William Roper: So, now you give the Devil the benefit of law!

Sir Thomas More: Yes! What would you do? Cut a great road through the law to get after the Devil?

William Roper: Yes, I'd cut down every law in England to do that!

Sir Thomas More: Oh? And when the last law was down, and the Devil turned 'round on you, where would you hide, Roper, the laws all being flat? This country is planted thick with laws, from coast to coast, Man's laws, not God's! And if you cut them down, and you're just the man to do it, do you really think you could stand upright in the winds that would blow then? Yes, I'd give the Devil benefit of law, for my own safety's sake!

A man of conscience, certainly, and an idealist. More was also a contemporary of Machiavelli. More was a jurist, a lawyer who recognized something about the seductions of Princely power, and the consequences for religion, and for the rest of us. This realization and his stubborn refusal to stick to his conscience--to die "the good king's loyal subject, but God's first"--cost him his life. More slipped into my early pantheon of Heroes.

Thank you for bringing him to life, Mr Scofield.