Sunday, August 9, 2020


To convey the point of anything
depends, with a meticulously
unapologetic accuracy,
on displaying it.
So inimitably true, that
were the point the revelation
of the role of being idiosyncratic
you, nobody else could be portraying it.
Oliphant was all display. There was
nothing else for him to do or say
but to be looked at. To stand
there like a sacred icon,
with no expectation other than
what he was sure he would and did
receive: endless queues of worshippers
who wouldn’t leave.

Wednesday, August 5, 2020

Gender Fluidity, Ghosts and a Plague
“A ghost has just formed to the right of my head,”
Bette decides to confide to her date, the transsexual Fred
(f to m) who tells Bette (m to f) it derives from Samarkand,
an ancient and opulent city in southern Uzbekistan.
Back when Fred ran refreshments (his kale and mint frappe
was a smash – over there where they now offered crap
like a fig newton chili that made you rip open your collar)
the spirit of Ibn Battuta arrived: fourteenth century scholar,
a Muslim whom many admired. Wikipedia lauds him;
and often when Fred says hello, he applauds him.
But Bette was regaled far more now by the fab tricks
Batutta brought off: a sense in the night that rare fabrics
enfolded them lightly, dreaming in gleaming embraces
Batutta said he’d undergone in the most sacred places
where people who, struck by the plague of the day,
would first pray to recover, and then simply pray.
Fred said that Batutta was drawn by our masks,
which he thought signaled gender fluidity. He asks
“what’s it like, Bette, to be reborn and become one another?”
“At once,” she replies, “we’re sister, brother, father, mother.”
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Monday, August 3, 2020

The World Was Never Simple

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The world was never simple.
It never promised bliss.
So say the brothers Dalrymple –
Horace, Joe and Chris –
consumed by planting runner grasses
from the genus Chloris,
"which all but shoot out of our asses,"
snorts the frazzled Horace.
They sow their seed from Ulm to Rome
but like abandoned orphans
the runner grasses run back home
to boost their grass endorphins.
(True home has no equivalent.)
Stress on Horace, Chris & Joe
expands beyond ambivalent.
What’s ahead? What can one know?
Doing, being, going! That or there
or this! It may not reassure these three
to learn they are exactly where,
have always been what, they should be:
at the brink of fresh disasters
pulling at them – with dependable
demonic tricks each brother masters
to make them seem emendable.
But say to the Dalrymple boys,
brave Horace, Joe and Chris:
The world has complicated joys
wherein sometimes there’s bliss.

Sunday, July 12, 2020

Sam Hammond

What a magical time - seeing Peter Hammond’s beloved son Sam - who drove in from Iowa in a van and whom you see here eating pierogi at Veselka. I first met Sam, now 21, when he was 3 months old, when I remember holding him in my arms. Peter then decamped to Iowa where Sam’s mom was from & where Sam grew up. But determined to give his son New York City, Peter brought him back to Manhattan and Brooklyn virtually every year from when Sam was about 3 yrs old to 14. It worked: his love for this city is now palpable. First time I’ve seen him since then. A golden soul like his father. So much laughter and love. Unforgettable evening.

Sunday, June 21, 2020

Peter Hammond

I learned that one of my closest friends Peter Hammond killed himself - got word yesterday from his son, Sam. I just wrote this about him.


In Loving Homage to Peter Hammond

Guy Kettelhack, June 21, 2020


“On the Death of Dr. Robert Levit”
Samuel Johnson (final stanza)

Then with no throbbing fiery pain,
    No cold gradations of decay,
Death broke at once the vital chain,
    And freed his soul the nearest way.

Peter and Sam

Peter investigating what Sam described as
"a totem's open grave on the beach in San Francisco"


My friend Reed Woodhouse sent me the Samuel Johnson poem which features this final stanza when he heard from me that Peter Hammond (whom he’d met & liked enormously) had died. Reed cautioned me not to decide Dr Johnson’s outwardly cool tone had anything less in it than a whole human mind and feeling heart. But I readily felt its pulse, particularly in this final stanza.

“And freed his soul the nearest way” - why is “the nearest way” so satisfying and consoling a phrase? That in what had to have been for Peter an extremity beyond even the nth degree of death as the blunt finality we all of us will face - given his collusion in causing it (he ended his own life) - that somehow suicide opens up “the nearest way” as much as passively surrendering to the body giving out (why shouldn’t it?) - suggests to me that all final exits are blessed in their simplicity & completeness: all deliver us from evil.

The Brooklyn-born & in the last decades of his life transplanted Iowan Peter Hammond occasionally gently leaned on me in the last months of his life to keep writing to him - as I peck that out on my tiny iPhone keyboard I feel a sharply poignant ache of possibly having let him down. It was the voice of a child in anguish, seeking love from a source the child trusted. Something like a membrane of defense in me seems forever alternately to thicken toward opacity and to thin toward transparency; draws me near to, then pushes me away from outward connection — similar not seldom in Peter as well — but it never deadened me against “feeling with” him. On his brief returns to New York (always bringing his handsome smart chess-playing son Sam from toddlerhood through high school) it was such a delight always to see his face brighten to see me - shocked though I was at the idea that he saw something in me useful to help heal anything.

I spent a few hours today commencing to knit together from their hiding places in my laptop Peter’s and my correspondence over the years - mostly to give to his son Sam who I know will ‘get’ his father’s voice so very richly from it, and who has turned to me with such love - reflecting his father’s love for me. Well, it’s something, isn’t it, discovering one’s capacity to care is as vast as it can turn out to be. Ours was a vast shared caring.

Peter’s wife Brenda and Peter’s closest friends (two other men besides me) will convene with Sam in New York sometime  in July to cast Peter’s ashes into some body of water abutting or running through Brooklyn - the ocean? a canal? - presumably according to Peter’s wishes though (out of ignorance) I can’t quite imagine him expressing any of that sort. But I do immodestly & irrelevantly proclaim that the Hammond & Kettelhack backs-and-forths in our emails are marvelous. They pop with our enjoyment of one another. There were however long gaps in that correspondence - it sorrows me sharply to think that if I’d thrown a rope or flashed a light from my rowboat to him during the most recent dim-out it might have helped to keep him here.

What an astonishing sexy funny darkly deeply Irish creature he was - full of a fierce inimitable morality, a great proclivity for sudden gloom and wicked humor, and a compassion so deep and so efficaciously connected to his mission of helping the most down & out so-called Bowery “bums” - whom Peter knew to be people - that they actually WERE often lastingly helped. Peter himself had over the years become a registered nurse, a kickass guitar player, songwriter and singer in Iowan bands, a formidable poet, and an all-round ‘handyman’ during which tenure there didn’t seem to be a building or plumbing etc task to which he didn’t make himself equal. He’d taken courses in literature and writing at Hunter College finding at one point a particular devotion to Philip Roth (Portnoy’s Complaint) with whom he studied. He saved up to prod himself to travel through Europe and Latin America. He was hungry for it all. And unfailingly sensitive to every aspect of each skill he taught himself and mastered.

He was blind in one eye. Through his working eye he’d spotted me (he once reported) striding by 25 years ago on East 9th Street (from his Veselka breakfast window perch where he sat with whoever his intensely loved ladyfriend had been at the time; he’d known many) and reported that I glowed like an angel. In an email just three months ago he said one of my poems made him believe in language again. He made me believe in the miracle he was. I love him as much as I’ve loved or can imagine loving anyone in my life.

Wednesday, June 10, 2020

Overarching Intimations

Overarching Intimations are a Blast.
They promulgate a fantasy of Past.
I try to lock them up so they will last
but when I find they do,
I am aghast.
The myriad mistakes I make are vast.
All the plays I’ve staged have been miscast,
misbegotten plottings holding fast:
Again my failure proves
it’s unsurpassed.
I’ve never gone on a vacation,
nor won any recommendation.
Troubled, supine, unbubbled by wine
or elation. I win at these stakes:


Wednesday, June 3, 2020

Ichabod, vidded

Ichabod (who appeared a few yrs ago) never got vidded. He just let me know how left out that made him feel. So now he's got a bright new YouTube and you can almost detect a tiny bit more of a smile on his recalcitrant face as a result. At least I can.
Ichabod knew others found him odd. In fact, from their restricted
measure of the strange, he knew and understood the range of reasons
why they would. But Ichabod found only one thing odd. That no one
grasped the most overt phenomenon of all: that everything they saw
or smelled or felt or thought or touched or looked at was a miracle.
He’d sometimes grow satirical in livid diatribes he’d orate to himself,
imagining he’d change the lives of these unknowing tribes with itemized
accounts of evidence of all their mindless blindness. But no, there was
no laugh in that. It would be like naming all the evidence to Money
of the impotence of Money. Wasn’t funny. He didn’t want to rain on their
parades – or spoil the charades they took as living. He had no taste for
public strife. He liked instead to let his rife Imagination hop through all
he saw or smelled or felt or thought or touched or looked at like a bunny.  
A case might well be made, if ‘they’ were right that some Big Bang had
set our whole thing into flight, and therefore also had to be the genesis
of light, that life by definition was, and ever would be, sunny.