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...

Part III, The Beginning

I am not entirely certain about this as a beginning, since it seems to conflict with a few assertions I made about Time in Part I. But I will think about it over the weekend and see if I can come up with a solution.

Not right now. I am finished with writing for today. I am tired and cranky and want to go home to bed.


Takaaki, part III


Becoming human takes a bit of time.
Nobody knows exactly how we do it.
We classify the clock as the enzyme
Responsible—the catalyst. Through it
We cease to be that seemingly divine
Lump of life, we call “a baby.” Fine.
We can cope with grown-ups pretty well.
What gives Society headaches from Hell,
However, are the differing results
We get: when lanky Adolf, after school,
Shows up with smoky goggles at the pool—
Gene pool—our stomachs will do somersaults.
"Perhaps he’ll drown," we hope. Hope never helps.
Hitler makes History like Michael Phelps.

It's true, careers of creatures like him are
Olympic in brutality, but short—
From the perspective of a stone, or star.
Were we less human, pain would not distort
Our memories: they would be equal. Stones
And stars. Our graveyards would be free of bones
Also. Unless you count the grains of sand
Twinkling between your toes, when you stand
At Coney Island, watching the Cyclone—
The roller coaster—going up and down,
As salty waves insidiously surround
Your feet, washing it away. It’s gone.
The twinkling. The stars and stones stay here
As monuments. The twinkling disappears.

Thanks.

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.

That was easy.

Dissatisfied with what I had written yesterday, I re-wrote the ending of the terminal (terminal in so many ways) stanza in yesterday's post. All I needed was a little sleep and a little coffee to help clarify what I was thinking. And once I figured out what I was thinking, I was able to compose another stanza this morning (in my head) while printing out some cases from Lexis. I think that today's stanza probably completes the second sequence in "Takaaki."

I will post the complete, revised version of Part II here.


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, just like those strange 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?”

“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 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.”
“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 no-win scenario from Altair Six—
The bane of all Starfleet cadets, but one—
Who counts the Kobayashi Maru among
His greatest triumphs. But Kirk’s victory
Pales before my own: I am the first
To work the Kobayashi into verse—
In a surprising twist of History.
The other meaning of ‘maru’ I found
Insulting: ‘maru’ also may mean ‘round.’)

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.
Takaaki has a funny sense of fun.
Letters at sunset. If this is a duel,
Should I tease my way into his tiles—
Turn phrases, like these 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 the best analogy. I pick it
Because war has no ceiling, now, no floor—
Also like love—no limits. Not the sky,
The stars, the earth, the sea. The tear-filled eye—
So useful in the writing 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. Each individual, each city
Destroyed since Eden—Troy, Nagasaki—
Goes back to one, Cain-raising kiss. Takaaki

Slowly shut the water off. He dried
Pink 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.

Sonnet for today...

Here is today's contribution to Pushkiniana. I hope it adds some lustre to his reputation. It has done nothing for mine.

[I include a few other stanzas as well, for context. Today's is the last.]


“Sweet Jesus! What’s got into you?”
I thunder 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.
He has a peculiar sense of fun.
Letters at sunset. If this is a duel,
Should I tease my way into his tiles—
Turn phrases, like these 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 heart 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 the 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 his 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
Is our closest analogy. I pick it
Because war has no ceiling, now, no floor—
No boundaries. No limits. Not the sky,
The stars, the earth, the sea. The tear-filled eye—
So useful in the writing of romance—
Is like the language—wine and cheese—of France:
A luxury. Like poetry. Like pity—
Whose demotion to superfluous emotion
Occurred among the corpses of World War I—
Not above New York—not this city—
Synonymous with cruelty—concrete.
With love and war: it's lather, rinse, repeat.