Sunday, June 25, 2017

Unwelcome Attentions


All attention is welcome. Except for
the hell from these two, who pursue
every woman they learn is named Sue
because both had been dumped by a Sue, 
of which moniker and of no matter 
what woman who’d had the bad luck 
to be called it, they took a dim view,

on a principle, they now believed,
had unquestionably through their
wounding experience proved to be true,
which assessment leads them to make
nasty remarks to all women named Sue –
least of which, and a cliché to boot,
but the only one we can repeat,

is that each was a shrew which since
each was named Sue, they already knew.
They’ve therefore spent numerous nights
in small jails which avail all the Sues
who refuse to put up with their rudeness,
and lewdness and puerile abuse.
But when last they got out we heard

someone report they’d resorted
to seeking out all men named Bruce.
And not, we are told, upon whom they
heaped any abuse. We hear that they like
the name Bruce, which they’ve left
un-defamed because that’s what
the both of these dodos are named.


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Saturday, June 24, 2017

Including When I Look at You



Oh, the endings
& beginnings
we believe
we see!

We’re
never not
examining
infinity.

Including when
I look at you
& when you
look at me.


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The Contagion of Delight

 


Writing is a very strange business, isn't it. IMing a text or even tapping out a long email suggest something of the relation to an essay or a novel that chatting does to good acting. Both partake of using words - indeed part of the strangeness of the enterprise of writing is that it may seem at first glance to be a kind of 'oh anybody can do that' thing since one way or another nearly everybody does. (The 'nearly' is alas poignantly necessary: in fact a lot of people now lack even rudimentary literacy, but let's pretend for the moment that everybody CAN write down words.) Indeed in Elizabethan England every gentleman was supposed to be able to write a worthy sonnet - and pretty much every gentleman could. Imagine that being the norm!

But there is a magic, isn't there, that transforms random word-streams into something that from its first sentence grabs, moves, arrests - seduces you into attention. I don't know that this can be defined beyond: you know it when it happens. However, to describe its arresting effects maybe suggests something about its genesis.

Which I would say was this: you don't doubt in writing that reaches you that the writer has something to say: more than that, something s/he wants to say - and more than that, to say it to YOU. That, I would venture to opine, is a defining trait of writing that does its job well. It never forgets its primary mission: to connect. In fact, if it does not value the intrinsically intimate nature of this connection - does not in its every breath matter to itself and to its reader the way a love letter would - the reader's eye will cloud over & start looking at something else. I'd go further to say there's no more intimate relation than between the eye and the page. There's nothing to intervene. In most cases (unless you're reading something Groucho Marx wrote) even the voice you hear intoning the words is yours. You're communing at the deepest level with yourself as mediator - no less than you would in a dream. Involving writing will getcha where you live from the get-go. Not just because it can but because you find you want it to. Every 'good' piece of writing - even if it's a recipe for popovers - in some sense makes love to you.

So I would say a writer isn't just someone who writes, but who sees & loves the enterprise of writing as what it most patently is: a communication, a means to reach and move another human soul.

That it may also involve a sheer delight with/in words will only aid & abet that mission. I think it's great to be thrilled by your own writing! In the same way you were thrilled as a child when you first mastered the art of commandeering a tricycle & could proclaim: 'Mommy look at me! I'm driving!'

True delight is contagious.

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Another Push of Pain


Unhappiness ignores the weather: oblivious
to cold or heat, it feathers its dank nest
with the precipitations of its sins – extrapolates
identity from its attenuated certainties: until its mist

begins to thicken and persist – sufficient to insist
on public shows of its inexorable signature: its
blatant bloodlessness. Intoning odes to all its stolen,
borrowed sorrows – declaiming existential poverty

provides another push of pain – a reason to remain,
exist – as if abysses were a wish against which
it was powerless not to align with, a threat by which
it must define itself, if sadly. However it would end,

it would end badly. Beware the dares and come-ons
from the subtle void, with its evaporative violence.
Find the baleful music in the moan.  Unhappiness
does not do well in silence, or alone.



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Thursday, June 22, 2017

The Word Made Word


What is the show? What makes it whole?
Perhaps it’s like the rain, or sun, or snow,
or fog – a sort of meteorologically
unavoidable phenomenon of doggedly
determined soul – evincing temperature
and wind, humidity: tactile haptic certainty –

a palpability that adds to actuality – finding,
filling absence – insisting it’s as indispensable
as air. But now I look and nothing quite like
that is there, or here. Or rather, what I feel now –
what I now discern as real – is more elusive
even than a propagating atmosphere.

The darkest curvatures of night retain a seed
of some full panoply: ready always to incite –
and germinate inside the womb of Cosmos’
eerie light – beckoning whatever whirls,
abounds, resounds, perturbs. New ecstasies
find words. Few nouns – innumerable verbs.




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Wednesday, June 21, 2017

My Pact with You


What is my pact, today, with you?
We cannot do what won’t engage the two
of us in something just as close as it can be
to ecstasy – and not just some banal variety

of blast: the thing we choose must last,
which is to say must meet the test of passing
through, beyond, into that realm in which
a soul might find companionship. Or should

we just abandon ship and swim our solo ways
to separate shores? Ah, but don’t forget:
there are no laws: no distance and no future
and no past and every time we think

that we escape, some new divinity hauls
back her haloed head and laughs. As if there
were a ship, or shore! Here’s the only word

that says whatever I know, boy-o: more.



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Jockstrap Diplomacy



Could you have tabled your distaste,
would it have not erased your calm,

or lent you some alarm, if in 1968
on the label on the waist of your jockstrap

had been placed information that
the garment had been made in Vietnam?

In Twenty Seventeen the world is just
as strange and dangerous as ever it had been

in 1968 – but the collective change and shift
in global scene perhaps permits occasional

remission of its sins, while teasing us
with the ridiculousness of our past.

Let the man in his Vietnamese
athletic supporter run free as the breeze,

embraced by a jockstrap he knows
wins the race, even if he comes in last.


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Tuesday, June 20, 2017

Sometimes, When It’s Thundering


Sun disseminates its rays so lazily
today it doesn’t seem to want
to fade away: surveys the afternoon

for longer than it savored yesterday’s,
perhaps to gaze in mild curiosity
as Summer Solstice beckons light

to stay, create the longest day,
and make the night obey to go away
more quickly than it had before,

less quickly it would tomorrow. Years
appear to wield their less and more,
their loss and gain dispassionately –

shield what they might feel beneath
and won’t betray: no trace of boredom,
joy or sorrow – won’t exalt success

nor get depressed at blundering.
But sometimes when it’s thundering,
we cannot keep from wondering.


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Monday, June 19, 2017

In Abject Terror, Aimless Flight


Given all that I’ve been told is true,
I can’t think what accounts for you.

You’re no robotic product of polarities:
you cannot buy such idiot analyses

or premises like “opposites attract”;
you know they void each other out, attack

complacently, embrace the lame cliché
which gives dichotomy such sway,

and makes us cleave to black or white,

believe in abject terror, aimless flight

so that we conjure up the certainty
that only through some granted mercy, we

can make the trip to paradise. But why,
through tossing up this pair of dice, should I

believe that any outcome must occur?
Choosing new dimensions, I prefer

to think the barest whim, velleity
directly proves simultaneity

of every little sniff and jot and tittle –
cause, effect, sensation, big or little –

in our infinitely savory eternal stew.
But still I can't think what accounts for you.


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Sunday, June 18, 2017

Pangaean Diaspora: On the Strange Business of Seeking & Getting Help



I find an alluring analogy for how any human being’s sense of who she or he is can expand to discover what a varied conglomeration it comprises in the geological model of the supercontinent Pangaea which about 330 million years ago broke up into the continents we now know, sending great chunks of itself out as if in a diaspora to find and create autonomous places on the planet. My continents of self have been at something like that especially these past three or four decades – usefully marked by the deaths of my family members (we were only four to start with) -- first my brother Bob from AIDS in 1989 when I was 38; then my father from/with Alzheimer's in 2000 when I was 49; and my mother from congestive heart failure in 2003 when I was 52. Each centrally occasioned powerful shifts in me within the larger shift of becoming the only Kettelhack left standing. There’s the sweetness of a gift here; no reason to mourn. We’re maneuvering as we must through incarnate life. Moving from only-child to fatherless-child to motherless-child seems to me now to have engendered their quiet release, them from me, me from them. The "less" in father-less and mother-less is almost onomatopoeic for how I felt/’heard’ their absences -- the soft exhalation of something delicate suddenly whisked or brushed away. The delicacy is primary. Whispers here and gone. Death can be an extraordinary clarifier.

As a result not only of those losses but of who knows what other morass of influences, the lexicon to which I resort to describe my experience is significantly different. Meanings of almost everything, even definitions that seemed once for me foregone – man, woman, old, young, winter, spring, summer, autumn, night, day, work, music, art, sexuality, marriage, relationships, solitude, joy, boredom, depression, addiction, anger, hilarity -- have either disappeared completely (no definitions are possible) or morphed into a liquid system of responses that while defying categories evince specific glints of reaction. To cut to a sort of chase, when I reach orgasm these days, I howl so ungovernably loudly I can't imagine that most of Manhattan's east 2nd street's inhabitants around me haven't called the police or an ambulance. In a way, that ungovernable quality describes what’s happened to all my responses – they flit or slink or whisper or howl: nothing justifies any of them and I can extrapolate from none of them any grid of identity. It's just the bob-aloos and bab-aloos of being. It isn’t chaos: but it’s an order I can’t begin to analyze. Well, I ‘begin’ all the time, but so far to no avail.

The net effect of this diaspora of self, ungovernability of reaction has been a dimensional sense of release - not least from Pangea’s imprisoning definitions and categories. It is not a release I have consciously or intellectually pursued. The way I know anything is always after the fact. I rarely, maybe never, learn something because I intend to. I wake up feeling or thinking differently than I felt or thought when I went to sleep the night before. That's how I'm able to say anything -- through a felt contrast of 'change', visited on me moment by moment, but which does not seem to conform to any ideology I can name, beyond some notion of my "temperament." I annoy many people with my assertion Every Idea is Hell. Swallow an idea and it grows all over and through you and suddenly it's doing the thinking, you aren't. I don't like that kind of coercion, and I won't put up with it. Except in those innumerable cases where I do put up with it, but I don't know that I do (or maybe I still like it so I don't care) - that is, until I go to bed and wake up thinking "no, that's not it", and another of them bites the dust. Seams and compartments are dissolving. This does not turn my perceptions of 'reality' to pea soup. I'm not in some amorphous fog. In fact, the opposite. With the dissolution of so many presumptions and assumptions (falling off me because they 'want' to not because I want them to), I get a chance not so much to see a thing for what it really is, as simply to see a thing. Claim it for my own, give it my own meaning. My relation to what I see is more immediate. It doesn't get filtered much. As many people know, it takes me 5x as long to walk any distance in New York as most other people I know. I am besieged by strangeness & beauty every inch of the way. Shadows, fallen leaves, 1880s architectural adornments, trash cans, tree branches, textures of brick and stone. Nothing isn’t riveting. What I see almost always subverts any assumption I once brought to it.

One realm which has undergone for me a kind of utter subversion is that of psychotherapy - from traditional forms of applied psychology to Twelve Step approaches to Alan Watts (whom I name because I treasure the ground upon which he treads, which means – and he is the first to let me know it, his having died in 1973 notwithstanding – I ought to be and have learned to be beyond wary of him: be most careful about people with whom you agree!). More basically it's the realm of needing, seeking and receiving "help." Particularly help for behaviors you have identified as self-destructive and/or which you can't stop doing and/or which you also decide you want or need to change.

Perhaps the most glowing sort of twelve planet solar system in this realm of help comprises Twelve Step programs. The answer the Twelve Step approach offers people seeking help from addiction or compulsive behavior seems to me to be fourfold, and although we are reassured this help is offered as 'suggestion,' to my mind it really gets its adrenaline from an implied (and for some very warranted) "you have to": 1) you have to want to change, 2) you have to stop the behavior you now know is 'the problem' - act your way to it, don't think you way to it & 3) you have to surround yrself with supportive people doing the same thing, 4) you have to see your connection to a greater or higher  'power': the ultimate essential source of help. What I’ve numbered 4 is for most Twelve Step process adherents held to be number 1. And I caution you as Twelve Step literature does that nobody has the last word on it, very much including me. These are just glints of the reflections of my own experience.

But for me "the sticky thing" (as a friend of mine is wont to call everything) about my response to Twelve Step admonitions/suggestions after many decades of reflection and experience and writing about them (again not claiming this gives me any expertise; believe me, it doesn’t) is that it doesn't really accord with the larger effect of my experience over all these years of surviving as I am (largely formed/constituted by what I crave), which begets a less and less arguable truth and beauty: I become less and less alterably convinced not only that I am and will always be who I am, but that I wouldn't want it any other way. I begin to register, maybe, a fuller amplitude of my 'success' (or at least experience) in being me. I really like things as they've managed to keep on being. I do not believe in "shortcomings." I can't imagine, in fact, even what that word could mean. After many years long ago of assuming pathology in so many of my tics and twitches, I just don't see pathology anymore. Provisionally, yes, there are ‘problems’ to be solved, always within the parameters of the moment. Don’t walk past a bar if you’re an alcoholic sort of thing. There’s (probably) always a place for what is known as common sense. But in any larger way, all I can see in anyone, no matter how their behavior annoys or regales me, is a full system response always at work. We are complete and whole and working ingeniously every breathing moment to achieve and sustain homeostasis. If we’re breathing and alive and capable of any connection to the world, we’re in a kind of balance. Possibly even if we’re not.

Am I wrong or right? I can't imagine even what that question means. What reliable measure of that could there be?

"Acceptance is the answer to all our problems," says AA, meaning acceptance as the precursor to being able to effect 'healthy change'. But 'acceptance' to me is a condition the psyche and body birth-to-death insist upon (whether or not I'm conscious of it): it's neither an answer (what would be the question?) nor is its function to help solve 'problems.' There are no problems. There's simply you, alive, in community with others. I'm sometimes tempted to say something like "I no longer believe in 'help'" but I stop myself because I truly don't know what the main-event words ("I" - "believe" - "help") in that sentence mean. I don't see much behind concerted strategies to "help" besides a boorish if often sentimental hubris: a presumption that you know what what's going on & what must be done about it. We often flock to people like that, and (I suppose) who says we're wrong to. But it's all beside 'the point' - which isn't a point but a large unbounded capacity to go on, some of us ever more curious about and conscious of it, 'being who you are.' Which you're going to do anyway! The point isn't to live or die. There is no point. Unless, because you can name it, you call what you want to do "a point." So if, for example, my friend Reed and I have 'points' they respectively include (among perhaps less mentionable ones): turn on the lamp and read a book, or sit down to draw. 

This at least touches on the shift. But words words words, maybe too many words for the send-off. Some gist got gotten, I hope.





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Saturday, June 17, 2017

Her Curves and Ways


Although he’d quickly proved himself adept
at many things, her newly hired handyman’s
command of the vernacular was not spectacular.
When she expressed the wish to be adorned
and dressed revealingly – in other words, to be
a “dish” – the culture Phlumb had come from

only knew the word as meaning shallow bowl
for ice cream, say, or pudding – or a synecdoche
referring, like a trope (re: literary terms, he was
no dope) to what was in the dish to eat. They’d
left whatever else “dish” intimated out. He asked
her (of the two he knew) which dish she meant.

She bent her little pinkie in an answer, as she
glanced at Phlumb and lifted up what she referred
to as “my drinkie”: she favored gin, and liked to drink it
neat. She didn’t miss a beat. She lent to Phlumb
a little smile and wink: “I mean to be a treat. I mean
to be delish.” She got her wish. He served her up

with relish, all embellished, not unflatteringly on
a platter: at first sight of which somebody (from his
culture not from hers) became so quickly famished
for her curves and ways, he slurped her down before
she could convey what we must now presume
she’d have preferred to howl instead of merely say.

Of course, as far as Phlumb knew, he obligingly had
done exactly what she’d asked him to. He queried
Phlamb, his countryman: had he enjoyed the dish?
Phlamb loved to eat. “She looked a treat,” Phlamb
began. “But oh, she tasted more than I’d have
wished like cuttlefish.” Neither Phlumb nor Phlamb

had had a clue how much she’d wanted to be
touched and cuddled, not ingested. The whole thing
would have ended in a muddled mess if Phlamb
had not looked back again, appraisingly, at Phlumb,  
deciding he looked rather yummy. Phlumb is now –
well, we don’t have to tell you in whose tummy.


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Sooth-Fruit Juice



Why did Truth start and then stop?
Did you drop too theatrically down
on a knee overzealously pleading
with her to impart every trick of her
vast artistry? Did you take it too sadly

to heart when she swept her attention
away from the simpering you to relay it
all billowingly out to me? Cannily, I had
uncovered the name she adored being
called, the discreetly Victorian “Verity.”

It conveyed just the right sainted scent
of the sort of acclaim she’d eternally
sought. Music and sense which attended,
with art, her exalted position and fed her
astute philosophic sweet tooth. And oh!

I so wanted to know that she knew that
I knew she believed I believed – for her
her sake, and sooth’s sake – in The Truth!
Forsooth! So, erasing all trace of asperity,
I dared at last to entreat her: “Oh Verity!

Sip with me every last drip I can squeeze
from the juice of the fruits of your Sooth!”
She assented – and now we relentlessly
do what we can to endow all the rest
of the World with the brew: pouring her

wondrous libation (iced) into small cups
for a nominal price to the lost likes of you
(should a sip of the Truth be what you
would pursue), here and there at the odd
summer street fair and carnival booth.



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Thursday, June 15, 2017

It Makes You Think


Although you probably too often start the self-talk
in your head the way you’ll try recording it tonight
before you go to bed and run on talking to yourself
some more, which is to say (how many times have
you loved using that phrase as a diving board?)

to try to parse the ways and means involved in your
investigations of Reality that you convince yourself
are far more interesting to you than all the traps
of little lives and flaps of envelopes and scraps
of torn-up letters from your brother or your mother

in the midst of similar detritus that so many others
find spell-binding – it’s here you wonder where
the sentence you began has gone or wants to go
which normally won’t stop the flow but stops the flow
right now, tonight: as if someone had yelled your

name out: Guy! Suddenly perhaps the least poetic
band of three words which you couldn’t force to scan
if you had stayed up all the night to labor at it through
innumerable tries – their syllables add up to nine –
march out as if they were your yearned-for prize.

“Disappointment is egotism.” It makes you think you’re done.
It makes you think you may have found a spiritual practice.
And you’re not going to rhyme another damned thing.



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Wednesday, June 14, 2017

No Going, Only Coming


Skepticism might not have evolved so fast into contempt
had Ecstasy’s intentions not been so overt, so rash,
so absolutely unalloyed with mediation. Ecstasy alarmed
by its display of what you were quite certain was predation
which however never threatened any prey. It was as if

it ravenously craved to eat whatever it entreated, though
as soon as any yearned-for thing (and every thing was
yearned for) had approached its lips, it got a wet, unbridled
kiss. Ecstasy had very little outward truck with the Abyss –
although if you agreed to go with it you’d find its nth degree

pursuit would be to shoot you to the brink of going over
who-knew-what. Is there a But? Surely there’s a But. No.
Here is what we know: And! Ah! Therefore! Conjunctions,
interjections and conjunctive adverbs are its favorite parts
of speech: the words you didn’t know you reached for

when you uttered or you muttered or you growled or howled
and sprayed the whole wad of your vowels when you came.
Came, that is, of course, to orgasm – and soon, with ecstasy,
you’d find there was no going, only coming, and you lived
without quite knowing you were always being shown

a refutation of the negative. Only then could you begin to roam
beyond the spherical to the unbounded, roving past the kiss
to the ecstatic fission of Existence, the Abyss – blisses with
which Ecstasy is always having not-so-secret trysts. Ecstasy
is not a miracle. It’s the essence of the is. The Big Bang’s fizz.

But skepticism won’t be swayed by that, or any other nth degree
unbackable fiat, least of all a language which illogically asserts
what language cannot say that it can say. From Ecstasy’s
excesses, Skepticism is exempt. It knows another much
more gratifying way to get itself from day to day. Contempt.


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Tuesday, June 13, 2017

Performance Artist


She gathered up what rags were left,
what discards she imagined
she could fool us into thinking she had
searched the world to find –

those correlative objectives
(she liked inverting Eliot’s phrase)
that might suggest some ways in which
her mind was odd and wonderful.

Is this performance art? What isn’t?
She knew her tattered scraps
were woebegone, their colors either
garish or too dirty to be anything but grey,

their conditions so beyond resuscitation
she would have to put them on
in such bewildering profusion
that our blank confusion at the mix

would keep us just sufficiently at bay
to think that maybe what she wore
she had intended to convey
the existential meanings of the trash,

the vast morass of life. After all, the point
of art was posing through that strife.
Supposing, if against the odds, that she
could sway us to believing that her

mission served her gods – that we owed
her, anyway, at least a nod of serious
attention and respect, perhaps she could
succeed in her desired effect.

After all, the point of art was pose,
to put on shows with tatters, untied bows
and unexpected glows. And there
were glows. We hadn’t banked on those.


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Stalking Light


So, light being the voluptuous thing it was yesterday afternoon, I found myself chasing it, stalking it, as if anything it touched were the realization of a sexual fixation over which I had virtually no control – constantly darting in and out of corners or around sides of buildings or behind streetlight poles affecting disinterest while I surreptitiously grabbed shots of light's more outrageous invasions, copped feels and caresses. At one point light's misbehavior coincided with what I understand ignites a very common compelling lust in those members of our population, lesbians and heterosexual men (in neither of whose camps I count myself), who claim for themselves the condition of being leg-women or -men. As I rushed along the sidewalk praying that the batch of naked-limbed young women in front of me might (please!) be kept from their insensibly fast pace for just a few seconds at the corner by a red light and moving traffic (red lights alone would not have sufficed, New Yorkers quite rightly ignore those when they can) – manfully, if that's the word, appearing not to care – at last I was afforded the chance (albeit involving having to zoom in from a third of a block away) to take these. I had never seen early evening mid-June light do what it was doing with the color and texture and capacity for unearthly glow of/on the surface of these young ladies' naked legs!






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Sunday, June 11, 2017

Wherewithal


Walls will buckle, cores won’t hold,
and all will fall apart before we manage,
if we’re lucky, to contrive to learn
to recognize – and then connive to earn –
the wherewithal to subsidize the heart.







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Saturday, June 10, 2017

Miss Garland Died on her Commode


Perhaps she weakly 
reached behind to flush –
and if she did,

from where she sat 
(and where they later 
found her tiny body dead),

and in that silvery plash
of cataract beneath
her little bum,

I wonder if she faintly 
heard not “I’ll Get By,”
but “Frances Gumm.”

Might have been
what made her –
let her – go.





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