Reboot In The Face

Next to the Last Straw
Now I have to paw through all my possessions,
Now, when I finally had everything organized,
I have to find something else to burn.
Of course it's ridiculous! It's old, I'm old,
I'm cold, yes, bones grind but I don't see a spark.
What on earth am I supposed to destroy this time,
I ask you? This old thing? This wrinkled garment
Wrapped my vanity for years. It's fit to go up
With a real whoosh. Can't you smell
All the molded petroleum woven into its warp?
The children's sweat spun into its weft?
I don't see enough here to conjure wings,
Not out of this rag, but if this is what
You command, gold from straw,
Bricks without it, I'm powerless.

Photo: The Rockford Files.

Get Your Nails Done Or Something, You'll Feel Better

Swag
It is not yet solstice, but the trim
Along the awning of the Best Buy is sagging.
I turn on the television, Law and Order,
Because this is the only kind of magic I can afford
To allow into my home. You know how this ends.
My gods have betrayed me, yet every day
I pray to them. Walking home from the bus
I pick up a few of the prettiest little
Dead leaves to put on my altar.

Vaguebookin

Isn't that a town in Sweden? Or perhaps a kind of vodka. Anyway, a lovely young woman inspired me to write a poem.

Zero to Fifty
I take my measure, and it is zero:
Nobody invites me anywhere;
Nobody reads my poems, not even
My lovers, unless I twine
Around their legs and whine. Yet
Like everyone, I hold onto
A few signs the gods hold me
In some esteem. Count mine:
Nothing I care about has ever
Been stolen from me. I can sleep
Anywhere. Everywhere I ever lived
Has had an abundance of hot running water.
I step into the shower and watch
The water flow over tiles swirled
In grey and green and ochre,
All the colors of a beach at low tide.

Photo: Let the Right One In. I'm a social media vampire--you want me, you must invite me; I'm not allowed to invite anyone.

That First Hint Of Fall In The Air

Like Nigel Tufnel says, D Minor is the saddest of all keys, one that tends to make people cry instantly when they hear it. This is, like, a combination of Plath and Dr. Seuss. It's like a Pleuss piece.

XVI: The Tower
Drunken Jenga Night

I am only following orders to get out
More, make some new friends, get my mind off
Things. Like that. So it’s margaritas in the babble
Of the bar, hours after the happy hour—it still smells
Of handbags and 5 o’clock breath, a fresh layer of powder.
I’d say that flop sweat of the cubicle still hangs
In the air like smoke, except no one is permitted
To smoke anymore. I sneak them. I sneak everything
These days; I am a master sneak, a sip, a look
At my phone, those are just the ones you catch me at,
Diversionary tactics so you won’t notice the big deception.
You’d be wise to think of everything you see these days
That way. But to the task at hand (mine shake.
Are you sure you want me on your team?):
The destruction and simultaneous reconstruction of the tower.
One is the one that sets the tone. Two is the one I’ll leave
Up to you. Three is the one that no one could see.
Four I perform for the man at the door,
Who couldn’t bear keeping the order any more.
Five is the monster who waits at the gate
To topple the tipsy woman he hates. Six! Six! Six is success,
Writ large on the poster above the picture of a gleaming window wall.
Seven—oh, place what you have taken away
So carefully. More and more holes in the structure,
Rickety, swaying: You’ll never get it back
The way it was. You know that’s not the way
This game is played. Seven, seven, they all
Stop to watch what happens next.

The Straw Man Burns Brightly

And now for something completely different in style. Any reference to any living person named Ken is not intended. Was listening to a bit of Morrissey this morning, ripped his inimitable way with titles.

On Conversing With A Neighbor, Whom I Had Believed To Be A Reasonable Man
Did you see the car up on blocks he said
Yes they came and stole the wheels
Just took them right off! It's awful
What people will do. But you know
And here I see my vague murmur of assent will not do
You know I don't know what people are thinking
Parking right out on the street with rims like that
I mean what do they expect? They know the neighborhood
They should know this neighborhood, they should know better
I'm just saying you should be a little more careful
In some neighborhoods. I'm only talking
About PREVENTION. If you want rims like that,
You should have a garage, and you should keep it locked
All locked up inside. And if someone who lives with you
Steals from you then, well then you shouldn't have let them
Into the house. You have to be careful who you let in,
I don't care if it's your grandfather or your friend,
Oh and these boyfriends, THESE BOYFRIENDS THEY HAVE,
Just don't let them in. People just don't think.
People think because they park a couple blocks
From the police station, they're safe, THEY'RE NOT SAFE,
The police don't care about their rims, the police
Have better things to do. I'm just asking
For a little COMMON SENSE. I don't get to do whatever I want to do
And expect you to look after me. I use COMMON SENSE.
I LOOK AFTER MYSELF. I'm only asking them to TAKE RESPONSIBILITY.
Is it so hard to TAKE RESPONSIBILITY? I'm not going to
TAKE RESPONSIBILITY for what happens to them.
And what happened to the car alarm? If you're going to
Go wherever you want to go with those fancy rims
At least get a car alarm. A loud one. Make sure it works.
Test it every day. Make it louder. I'm talking here
About prevention, WHY AM I NOT ALLOWED TO TALK
About prevention? WHY AM I NOT ALLOWED TO TALK
About responsibility? And I'll tell you, I saw it,
There was a beer can next to that car. That car
Might have been drinking. WHY DO THEY EXPECT
They can park anywhere they want when they've been drinking?
THEY CAN'T DO ANYTHING THEY WANT. What did they expect
Was going to happen if they go around like that,
With those rims and their drinking? I can't believe
How much the cars are drinking these days,
The cars get so drunk and never FACE THE CONSEQUENCES,
These are just the CONSEQUENCES when you don't use
COMMON SENSE. WHY CAN'T I TALK ABOUT THE REAL PROBLEM?
I'll tell you the real problem here. I'll tell you:
It's CAR DRUNKENNESS. I'll tell you what we SHOULD TALK ABOUT.
Car drunkenness. Why are the cars getting so drunk?
AM I ALLOWED TO ASK why the cars are drinking so much?

And he paused for a breath and I said:
YES! I said YES, YES, I know the answer!
The cars are drinking to drown out your crap,
And all the crap from those standing behind you.
The cars are drinking because they are tired
Of looking after you. Taking responsibility
For you and everyone else in the world has
Driven them down. They are drinking so much because
They can't do whatever they want. You can do
Whatever you want, but they can't do much of anything.
They are drinking so much because it is the only thing
They are allowed to do. You want them to drink.
It makes everything easier. The cars are drinking to forget.
They are drinking to forget you. They drink to forget
That the cops don't care, and that the alarm
Will never be loud enough or work well enough,
And that no matter how far or how fast they go,
They'll never make it to that locked garage
In that peaceful locked neighborhood
Where nothing bad ever happens.

"I am not afraid of sh*t storms"--Aeschylus. Sort Of.

Navigating by the Stones

I realize, halfway up the washed pebbles
Of this slippery slope, that I don't want to go
Back down the way I came. But the wind
Has got me now, no way to change the tack.
Switchback, switchback. Plastic sacks
Lashed to the masts by the fury
Of the mornings storm. I'll churn along
Until the trail surfaces into the sunset,
Hits a road bobbing with commuters,
Tugging at the ropes, and singing
To keep their minds off the pain.

Image: Mine. Sometimes you see evidence of what must be human work on random rocks.
Headline: One of my favorite writers.

Some Kind Of Conclusion

Inquiry

Images: It doesn't hurt. Halfway thru this month, I was diagnosed with a skin condition called dermographism. Even small scratches and little pressure leaves a distinct mark. I decided to write a word or two somewhere on my skin each night, with the goal of having a completed poem for the last night of the month. It itches furiously for a while--it's a histamine reaction--and then it subsides. Pardon the poor penmanship. If I'd been thinking, I'd have made a title card as well.

Penultimate Words

Jongleur
The purpose of the artist is to make beauty
Real to us. The artist needs to be granted peace
And food and drink. We should allow
The artist what's deserved. His pursuit
Is noble beyond the hunt; he is the fruit
Of centuries of counts and is every inch a prince.
Get it? You might train him to dance
On the end of a chain, but he's crafty, that one,
Watch him now. Here is how he
Beckons beauty in: His mother and the whores alike
Rush to his aid. Here is how he makes beauty
Real: By showing us the scuffed boot
And the sugar stipple of dirt along the ruff
Of her petticoat. He should have had
A dozen castles. There's no need to beat the man.
Give him his stick. Pour him a drink,
The poor damned fool; he will never be forgiven,
He will always want for more. Show him
A landscape and the artist will take a shit
On it. Process is critical to the artist's
Creation. His process incorporates his own
Destruction, we'll give him that. Well done.
We won't miss the moment when the trumpet sounds--
That punchline of a last word
When the prey is taken down.

Video: Toulouse-Lautrec's last words were "Le vieux con," generally believed to have been directed at his father.

Turn It Down

Sanctuary
The purpose of the cathedral is to have a place to safely
Contemplate. You need enough room to assemble, a vantage
Point, created to dominate the lands around. The structure
Should be the center of the town. All roads flow
To its doors. This is the place designed for you
To flee to in danger. Kneel here, and no one
Need fear that you'll be stabbed in the back. Well,
It has been known to happen, even for all the eyes watching, for all
That every corner is strange to light but holds, like the saint,
Eyes. Watch what you say here. For all can hear. Your voice
Rises to the arches, into all that air and circles
And circles, your words a trapped bird beating to escape.
Oh screech and claw, bright visitor! That this spirit
Created of your breath will fall is fine proof:
There was poison there. The saint's fine devotionals
Spin up to the arches to chase down your voice, her music
Turned mad as a vielle a roue on festival day
Among all those echoes. What you said, and when,
Will be the subject of their inquiry. Who said what,
And what was meant, we can no longer tell. Punishment
Must befall all, and our task to pluck the feathers,
Trusting in our Master to sort each scrap of down.

Image: The incomparable Remedios Varo.

The Murderous Silence Of The Castle Keep

Observatory
The purpose of the castle is to have a place to survive
A siege. You need a high vantage point, a way
To get goods in, and a water source. One out of three.
What a coincidence--that's also the number for
Our odds, the ratio of survivors, and the blessed mystery.
Once we could embrace the whole town, piling up
The pregnancies and the bastions, opening new loopholes.
I look back, and back, and count the marks on the wall,
The levels the sun got to at noon, but I can't name the day
The castle turned into a trap. Around and around the walls
I slink and crawl, dodging whatever falls--from our fortress
Or from their weapons; nobody can tell. Once we could see all
From here. We were as a vast iris, the aperture
At the tip of the mountain. Now we know nothing, blinded
By the thick walls. I can tell you there are enough
Marks now that I pray the cats will do their work
And tear me a rush of light, my escape to my true crown.

Image: Found it when I was walking from the market to the train.

Better To Lie On Your Back Than Lie On Your Knees

"A professional model is like a stuffed owl. These girls are alive."
--Henri de Toulouse Lautrec on women in brothels

Pink Cities
Take all the boys to visit Venus, ply her
With sweets and brandy. Five flights up she lives
With a little monkey, a few canvases. The most
Closely regarded for a time became the one
Who owned the gaze. Once the most adored,
Now nailed, with her gal pals--the bored barmaid,
The woman gazing rapt at a plum. Others trafficked
In their images and made the money. She falls
Apart here. Some things never change.
No less than the damned above the altar
Does the black cat and the ambiguously placed
Hand signify. Bend her fingers into this
Text: I see, you see, cross me, blessed.

There's an anecdote that Toulouse-Lautrec knew the model for Manet's Olympia, Victorine Meurent, and would bring folks to visit her. She took to painting and music, but didn't get paid so much at either pursuit as she had at her first career. From the little I've skimmed, it looks like Manet was a real dick to Toulouse-Lautrec; maybe he was to everyone; maybe his arrogance was justified. I read Henry's refusal to let the model be forgotten as a sort of counter strike--even if there was some cold-bloodedness and mockery in his bringing the boys around, he's still seeing her as alive--not as a broken toy once animated only through genius.

Image: "Woman Lying on Her Back."

An Old Protest Song

The prompt today is a classic: the fake translation. You take what a poem in a foreign language sounds like in your own and then tweak it into shape.

Predicator
Predicator
Take by permission,
Come fail all they demand of her
No fast sell--
Kill over fear,
Kill all who fail to predict her

Can't predict
It's so specific
You fuckin' bitched-up adjuster
Come on simulacra,
A Cassanova
So predictable of a monster


A little Sonic Youthy, maybe? Peire Cardenal was a troubadour who saw the worst results of the Albigensian Crusade and lived. He was pissed. He was known most for--and mostly wrote--sirventes, political satires. Here's a chunk from his story about how he'd basically tell God to go to hell because God is being all Judgy McJudgmenty. It's translated by W.D. Snodgrass, who's more palatable to me than Pound; the whole is called "A New Protest Song."

"I’ll now compose a brand new protest song
Which I’ll perform on the Last Judgment Day
Telling the Lord who contrived me from clay
That if He’s planning to claim I’ve done wrong
Then stick me down with those devils that scare me,
That I’ll just say: “Have a heart, Lord, and spare me!
I had torments in that damned world enough;
If You don’t mind, keep Hell’s pitchforkers off!”

This is the original of the Cardenal piece I "translated," which I chose for its techno-metal sounding title. I have no idea what it means. I suck at French, much less Occitan.

Predicator
Tenc per meillor,
Quam fai l'obra que manda far,
Non fas selui
Que l'obra fai
Que als autres vai predicar.

Qui en predic
Met son afic
Lo fach e-l dich deu ajostar,
Car meils lo cre
Aquel que-l ve
Son predic per l'obra mostrar.

Image: The man the myth the legend, from a manuscript. I've been seeing cardinals all over the place for the past week or so, so he should have shown up here by now.

Unspeakable, Inedible

The Hunt

The circus, the races, the hunt, the kitchen--
These are the places human and beast
Have their most honest dialogue. You might add
The castle, the brothel, the dance hall, the studio.

It's an old family recipe:
Stack three thick steaks up just like bricks,
Shove them onto the coals and suffer
The flames to engulf them. The one
Pressed between the two will be
Tender, done perfectly.

The son pushes a hook through the cormorant's throat.
The father waits for the moment the hallali sounds.

A couple weeks back, the NaPoWriMo prompt was to use a recipe to tell a family secret. It's not my recipe, nor my secret.

Image: Henry is hoist by his own canard. And I have no idea who this person is, but this blog is fucking amazing and that's where it popped up.

Grumble

One question that the
Inquisitor never asks:
Did you milk the cow?

Debout

One of these is a legitimate question asked at the trial of Oscar Wilde. If you can guess which, you may earn a sweet.

The Questions I Would Ask At The Trial
What do you want to bet the Marquess and the Count
Are kicking up their heels together in hell?
What makes these fathers so vain of how they look?
What lengths won't they go to, to try to keep it up?
Who can sit still for a portrait on a night like this?
Who can remember? Where was that portrait hidden
All those years? How did it emerge looking so fresh,
So new? What is the mystery of its preservation?
Were you cursed by the black prince? Do you dream
Of riding? How many years does it take
To take down a castle? How long can you
Stand a siege? What are the names
Of the other men? Is powder on your hands
Reason enough to be seized? Did you set out
To be a martyr? Is it true that you
Put your head in your hands and walked
To the top of the hill? How many dead
In one bloody week? Why did they forbid
Anyone to add another kiss to your tomb?
Was anything said about a sonnet?

Toulouse-Lautrec was a defender of Wilde and with him the night before the trial. He drew his portrait of Wilde from memory, after he got back to his room, because the writer had been too edgy to sit still.
Image: You can't do this anymore. Stolen from NPR. They took it from someone named MrOmega at Flickr.

Oil On Cardboard

The Bed
He doesn't miss a trick, that one.
Not the face in the crowd or the one
Slumped in the corner or the kick.
A bitter little monster, without
Either youth or age to excuse it.
He's a good cook, I'll give him that.
And you know I never turn down ready money.
He's in the armchair, drawing
Or sleeping, I don't care which, and
I almost forget he's there--but with you,
Once they're gone, I forget everything.
The ones who pay to watch--breath.
The ones who pay to have us--water.
Everything we need, but nothing
We need to hold onto.

Image: Le Lit, Henri de Toulouse-Lautrec.

Come On Berbie, Let's Go Party

Sorry to miss a day. I couldn't get this up last night.

Oh stop.

So you get a bonus poem, two cocktail recipes, and a lecture.

Earthquake
Wormwood wants earth that's drained to nearly dry.
The roots are a monster. They'll try to break
Clay pots; they won't be enclosed. In spring,
It is everything you don't want to see--grey,
Kinked, stiff and gnarled, brittle branches
Clutching at any detritus of seasons past
That it can hoard. It has a tremor. Nubs
Of green force their way out of the ugly wood,
And this may be the source of the stories:
They say there is a spirit trapped inside,
A dragon, a hunter, a beauty, its name
A star that falls and turns the river bitter--
Taste what I am made of, it demands.

Various apocrypha attribute the invention of the Earthquake cocktail to Henry (his preferred spelling) de Toulouse-Lautrec. There are several recipes floating around the Internets, but the one that for me combines authenticity and palatability is this: One part cognac, one part absinthe, splash of red wine.

There are know-it-all foodies and … drinkies? What do you call an expert on spirits? -- who will argue this shit to the death, usually in loud voices after they're half in the bag, and tell you a lot about thujones and all, but here's the reality: there's nothing particularly different about absinthe. The ritual and mythology just primes you to think so. Artemesias are medicinal in different ways; medicine is bitter; you get the medicinal properties out of any herb by processing it with alcohol. You use different artemesias in different ways in cooking, drinking, and medicine to get different effects. Way back, people used to make their own absinthes, vermouths, aperitifs and digestifs to their own recipes, handed down and tweaked, so to speak, over the years, and many still do. The traditional use of artemesias was to get rid of worms. I mean stomach worms, not earthworms. Every herb has a tendency to produce a particular effect, but any herb can also produce a particular effect in a a particular person, ranging from puking to falling asleep to hallucination. Medicine is tricky and herbalism trickier, because it's harder to standardize the dose. If you soak lawn clippings in alcohol and drink enough of it, it's going to kill you. You should work with a personal root doctor or similar, and be patient and careful. Southern wormwood, or Sweet Annie, grows wild all over the southeast U.S. If you choose to work with it, you should work with a good traditional Chinese Medicine expert, because they're very familiar with it. All of this is to say that I get annoyed when people talk about hallucinating from absinthe or that it's particularly dangerous. You might as well say the same of Aperol, which I prefer.

It is also to say that Toulouse-Lautrec wasn't killed by the absinthe. He was killed by his father, just like any other normal, decent artist.

Last night I had a very sweet drink of a spoonful of Few rye (I can't drink very much alcohol; i just fall asleep), pomegranate juice, homemade limoncello, an orange slice, and a grind of a spice mix I make with cinnamon, cloves, cardamom, nutmeg, and allspice. How fucking precious is that! But tasty.

Here's a bitter poem by Anne Bronte. I'm like, yeah baby.

O GOD! if this indeed be all
That Life can show to me;
If on my aching brow may fall
No freshening dew from Thee;

If with no brighter light than this
The lamp of hope may glow,
And I may only dream of bliss,
And wake to weary woe;

If friendship’s solace must decay,
When other joys are gone,
And love must keep so far away,
While I go wandering on,—

Wandering and toiling without gain,
The slave of others’ will,
With constant care and frequent pain,
Despised, forgotten still;

Grieving to look on vice and sin,
Yet powerless to quell
The silent current from within,
The outward torrent’s swell;

While all the good I would impart,
The feelings I would share,
Are driven backward to my heart,
And turned to wormwood there;

If clouds must ever keep from sight
The glories of the Sun,
And I must suffer Winter’s blight,
Ere Summer is begun:

If Life must be so full of care—
Then call me soon to Thee;
Or give me strength enough to bear
My load of misery!

Image: What was the bishop's fortress in Albi was transformed into the Museum of Henri de Toulouse-Lautrec.

Stoner

Barbican
It takes 40 days of fighting to earn
An indulgence. The longer the siege goes on,
The greater the chance to save
Your soul. The more stones launched
Over the walls, the greater the chance
Of escape. The longer you suffer,
The more you pray. The more you speak
His name, the closer you draw
To salvation. Kiss the stones, for they
Serve you. Within them lies your legacy.
If the walls fall and let the arrows
Fly at you, this is a blessing. These stones
Are your bread. Every broken tower
Brings you closer to your liberation.
Nine months, and we are perfected.
We deliver ourselves to you without a cry.

Over the past several years, I've been able to play on a trapeze in a castle and with a trebuchet. I'm very grateful for the experience.

Image: Trebuchet stones from Montsegur.

Kick Against The Pricks

I was right about the universe, because if it wanted me to write, it would not put me into hours-long work meetings. I pulled a NaPoWriMo prompt from a couple of days ago to come up with this.

Sin gives us everything that we desire in a home.
Sin's universal appeal is founded on several compelling qualities.
Sin embraces our sense of comfort and well-being, and makes us feel connected to our environment, in beautiful colors that spring from nature itself.
Because it is derived from nature, sin stands up to weather and nature without fading.
If anything, weather tends to enhance the beauty of sin.
Sin is virtually maintenance-free, standing up to the elements year after year.
Sin's proven reliability passes the test of time in any climate.
Hard-fired sin in will not shrink like a substitute.
Modern sin is energy efficient.
Does sin cost more? In many cases, sin is available without extra charge.
There really is a difference in quality between substitutes and genuine sin.
With genuine sin you can dream any design, and transform it into a beautiful, living experience.

Lion Low

Don't feel so good tonight, and that's no lie. I'm on the couch while my child watches her favorite show, Restaurant Impossible. The NaPoWriMo prompt is to write a poem that is a lie--just 10 lines of lies. I can do that. I'm taking down lines from the show. Lying is not one of the seven deadly sins, but Dante classed alchemists with liars. Just my luck.

His presence is still with us.
There are a few people who need to be here.
I couldn't do this alone.
You can really taste the meat.
I think you should let them in.

Welcome home.
She is an asset.
I'll definitely come back.
We know changes need to be made.
I think everybody is very pleased with the way this came out.

Image: Triumph over Monfort.