Hocus-Pocus

“Hocus-pocus, you’re a crocus!”
a sudden flash of purple said.
My thoughts must turn to Spring because
I carry dirt inside my head.

Of Spring, I sing

It is coming painfully slowly this year, isn't it? Summer isn't even on the radar.

I had a brief foretaste of warmth when I visited Yasu in Houston last month, as he was helping set up an exhibit at the MFAH, but all that lovely, ambient warmth re-crystallized back into snow, in my mouth, the moment I stepped off the plane at LaGuardia. And then, this morning, waiting for the 7 Train in Jackson Heights, the wind cut through my pants like a knife.O, for a beaker full of sunburnt mirth, or something...

Maybe a little skin in a speedo.

Now there's an idea for a poem...Astoria Pool
August 12th, 2003

Resting my elbows on the silver rail
curtailing the promenade above the pool,
I count twelve swimmers and one white sail
sailing through the sycamores. As a rule,

I don't pass through this park most mornings on
my way into Manhattan. But today
a chlorine breeze beckons me. I iron
my kakhis very quickly—jump into gray

briefs. I have some trouble picking a tie.
Summer ties look terrible on me
for some reason. I check the knot as I
press the little moon-shaped dial key

on my cellphone. I should have called you.
Unfortunately, I tried to inform
Robert of all the cumulonimbi to
the South, ascending the diving platform.

All Robert wanted to discuss was dicks.
“Fuck the clouds,” he said. “Can you see
any lifeguards? Take some pictures—quick—
before it starts raining, you retard.”

The Idle Brain.

Not much to report today--at least not here, my friends--not here in River City.

The world is surpassingly beautiful. The sun is out. The azaleas are out. There is a white cabbage butterfly hovering over the horseradish patch. And the fiddlehead ferns near the air conditioner have started to unfurl.

A zen-like Zephyr is sprinkling sakura over the flagstones leading from the porch into the backyard. The rusty core of an apple sits on a small plate to immediate right: my passport out of Paradise.

Before the Heavens alter these details beyond recognition (there are thunderstorms in the forecast for Tomorrow), I thought I should try to capture at least the furtive flavor of this moment before the rains arrive. The air is thick with the intoxicating odor of lilac.

Yes, the lilacs, with their deep green, heart-shaped leaves. They have us practically surrounded. Aren’t they lovely? I have just come back into the house from clipping a cluster. They now sit in a crystal vase on the dining room table.

While I was busy with the shears and the bushes out back, I put the finishing touches on a villanelle that rubbed his eyes open yesterday morning. It all began quite innocently enough, as many of my projects do: as a very ordinary, very commonplace hard-on.

While I cannot say what happened to that hard-on over the subsequent 24 hours, I can assure the curious reader that I dedicate this poem to no one’s anatomy in particular, just the glorious, transformative power of Music!


Variations in the Key of C
A Baroque Masterpiece

When I consider the curve of your cock—
In even this mild, mathematical way—
I notice strange images start to knock:

Sticky things, mostly, things made of rock—
A petrified marshmallow showed up today.
He either was stale, or scared by your cock,

So, I sent him away. A while back Bach
Appeared at my door. He started to play
A sort of pipe organ. Bach did not knock.

Nor did his friends. He arrived with a flock
Of cherry-faced cherubs and a golden bidet
With the weirdest fixtures—curved like your cock.

Now, very few stores keep these in stock:
Which is why I thank God for Bach and eBay
Whenever strange men with strange instruments knock...

Speaking of knocking, I think I forgot
To mention something. What I meant to say
Concerned a key, more than it did a cock:
This is for you. No need, you know, to knock.

Nuts.

Well, she certainly seems to be having fun; but as you can tell from the portrait on the left, the flowers have not yet begun their riot of color, not in our corner of Connecticut. And yet I feel certain that the reds, the blues, the oranges, purples, and even the whites, are about ready to pop: the forsythia have already hung inflammatory banners over the wall, as a warning. May Day is coming. All nature awaits a sign.

Even within me, your humble correspondent, I can feel a surge of sap returning to my limbs from hitherto frozen lakes and unfriendly ground. It is a nice feeling. I find myself walking more, swimming more, writing more, smiling more at strangers. It is the smiling, I think, which feels the best. Life is returning to life. It began in Japan, a few weeks ago.

During the past week, when I haven't been at the gym, or going to job interviews (more about THAT later) I have been spending an awful lot of the time on the porch, laptop on my lap, staring at squirrels, listening to lawn mowers, dreamily attempting to tap out a new poem.

...

On Thursday night, while visiting a friend in New Haven, we happened to drive past a very ominous, gray Gothic building. On our left is the edifice where the secret, Satanic rites of the Yale Skull and Bones Society are carried out. I have no idea what these rites are, or their relation to the Spring, but now I am aware of where they take place. No knowledge I acquire is ever wasted.

We happened to be discussing writing classes--words in general--what our favorite words were. He told me about an assignment in a college writing course where he had to pick out his favorite words in English and incorporate them into a story. One of the words he chose was brouhaha, which is a pretty hilarious word when you think about it, containing as it does the very seeds of laughter.

As for me, I was kind of caught off guard when he asked me what my favorite words were. I know I should not have been, but perhaps I was distracted by the radio display, shifting gears, or something else in the car. The only two words that immediately occurred to me were adjectives: the words anthropophagic and celestial.

The stars I need not explain. But I have no idea from what chthonic depths the word anthropophagic arose; except that I can remember feeling kind of hungry, and maybe slightly cranky as a result. I do know that the word celestial occurred to me first, which I find rather re-assuring. And it was the one I uttered.

...

Later, after we said goodbye, and I caught the 11:18pm local back to Stamford, I went back to the white wicker rocker on the porch. I flipped open my laptop, and I began to piece together the evening. I had had a good time.

I don't often seem to talk shop with other writers, no matter how garroulous I appear on the subject here. The word celestial kept ringing in my ears. And the forthcoming brouhaha among the flowers--especially the syllables ha and ha. And suddenly, as I sat sipping a tall glass of orange juice (my nightcap of choice), everything seemed to slip into place in my subconscious: the Spring, the sky, the lawn, the laughter, the squirrels, you and I.

I know it's extremely unusual, but isn't it nice when things work out perfectly?

It certainly is for me.


The Squirrels
For A.T.

They act a lot like we do, in a way.

Once, while I was studying some porn
I had discovered in an old suitcase,
I came across a slightly cracked acorn.
I can remember thinking, “What a place
To store your nuts.” Don’t attics get too warm?
And is an old suitcase the ideal space
For storing nutrients—like nut protein?
No wonder all those squirrels look so lean…

This was my thinking at the time, okay;
I probably had missed my morning nap,
Or something similar. I cannot say
I was delirious. Or curious. The crap
I do—I did—astonishes me today:
I had a dozen lovelies in my lap,
And far from having a hard-on, or stroke,
I ran outside to plant myself an oak.

While nothing very shady was forthcoming,
I lay there, on my stomach, with my spade,
Yawning, pelting birds, and maybe humming—
My other activities all seem to fade
Into oblivion. I am running
Over some details of this escapade:
The time, position of the sun, my age.
To Time alone, I have devoted page—

Page—page—well, I can’t seem to find it.
I’m sorry. It was remarkable—a classic
Piece of metaphysics. I designed it
First to entertain—which is the basic
Premise of this poem. And behind it
Lies no philosophy—no specific
School of thinking that I can remember.
This doesn’t mean those moments I surrender

To retrospection—in my reverie—
The sharper edges of the Past will soften.
My spade does not get duller, although we
Do get dirty in the garden. And, often,
We dig up buried treasures. Do you see
That bloke behind the oak—the hard to love one
Who could use a slightly closer shave?
That’s you. (I would pull up my pants, and wave.)