Found palm, Sophie's spelling words

trail of tears

My friend Dee Casalaina sent me a poem I sent her in 2007, the last year of Bush presidency. I don't remember writing it, a rushed, frustrated, weird apostrophe, obviously written off the top of the dome, but I thought it was interesting that it mentions Trump. I guess even then he was a symbol of greed for me.

Trail of Tears

America, it is time for a new aesthetic,

one based on rhythm and harmony.

(A thousand poets are writing through me.

It's a bit uncomfortable. Quit needling me, Berkson!)

America, count your blessings.

Count your antique roadshow baubles,

count your heritage! America, your heritage

is the future. The past should rest in peace,

well tended the grave. We love you America,

with your Elvis and soft serve and especially

jazz, and most especially that weird folk stuff

from Harry Smith's Anthology, and also

Buddy Holly, Little Richard,

The Meters, The Ramones,

Bonnie Prince Billy, Lou Reed,

Billy Holiday, Bill Monroe,

Abercrombie and Fitch. Whoa!

And there's the glitch

that stops the flow that stops the go

of Mr. Toe. Okay, what gives America?

I mean, this morning I'm wondering

what stick is stuck in that wheel?

Greed? Greek Tragedy!

I'm just wondering if we should look around.

Hey, there's Ivan Suvanjieff.

What's ya doing, Ivan?

"Laying water pipes in India with the Dalai Lama, man.

There's a horrific water crisis happening here right now."

Let's go to India with Ivan. Sounds like a good plan.

Hey, there's the King!

Hey King George, why are so many good people dying by our hands?

He's covering up his ears.

Dear God of him, please help him the death throws hear.

Hey, there's Ed Dorn.

The old gunslinger is singing,

"Hey America, this is Poetry calling."

I'm disguising myself as prose,

America, so I may speak Frankly to you.

Let us rally a different kind of troop, a dupeless troop

who scoops up the scuds and transforms them into doves

Let us, upon a tired trope, sprinkle nothing but poesy,

pulled out of the mouths of the dying swans,

such I mean, go to the country with William,

drink from the lake, taste weed and dirt.

Hey, apostrophe, over here!

The Trump of the Stationation,

the MTV Sweet Sixteen,

recently referred to by Jason Heller

as pretty much the most pure manifestation

of evil ever, and yet we can all laugh

because it's funny, because it is funny though,

Berrigan, it's a laugh riot. No? It's really

very boring, gosh! cloying, somebody

hand me a guitar...

Where was I, America?

I was calling on you, in doggerel,

shouting to you, to come to arms,

to fall into our arms, tired and poor,

and we will nurse you back to health,

amuse you back to mirth, birth

you back to self, and then, America,

when you are well fed and well rested,

we will send you out to help.

Raise your arms!

This is an arms race.

That look in Henry Marks' eyes
as he raises "We Rise" at the protest
in front of Trump Tower, having marched
all the way from Sunnyside Queens today
with his concerned parents.

There is no smile in those eyes,
but neither is there fear.
Just determination.

It gets me where I live.

Rise up!

That refrain is from the musical Hamilton
who's cast entreated VP elect Mike Pence
for fairness to minorities last night,
causing The Don to ask for an apology today.

The irony is thick.

So many hate crimes are being committed
that the Anti-Defamation League
has declared a state of emergency.

Rise up,
I have to tell myself everyday now,
the Hamilton soundtrack on repeat in my head,
my mind's eye now fixed on Henry Mark's determined face,
the future. That face brings tears up from deep wells,
from a mysterious place deep under the surface,
rising up from sadness at having watched a tyrant
get elected and given so powerful a position in our lives,
sadness at knowing full well that power will be abused,
is already being abused.

I don't believe that power
is more powerful than Henry Marks though.

That power is nothing compared with this love.

Love finds a way
like grass grows through the cracks in the cement,
rising up, like the son of a poet
holding up a sign...



That look in 7 year old Henry Marks' eyes
as he raises the sign"We Rise" at the protest
in front of Trump Tower, having marched
across the Queensborough Bridge
all the way from Sunnyside Queens
with his concerned parents.

There is no smile in those eyes,
but neither is there fear.

Just determination.

It gets me where I live.

So many hate crimes are being committed
that the Anti-Defamation League
has declared a state of emergency.

My eyes now fixed on Henry's determined face,
the future. That face brings tears up from
a mysterious place deep under the surface, tears
of sadness at knowing that power will be abused,
is already being abused.

But also tears of hope.
I don't believe that power
is more powerful than Henry Marks though.

That power is nothing compared with this love.

Love finds a way
like grass grows through the cracks in the cement,
rising up, like a boy holding up a sign...

Dolores

I don't want to be stuck in a story

I want to live in the moment

Today Unfinished

TODAY UNFINISHED

Fieldtrip this morning with Lucia to see a play wherein
Tobias Turkey learns the value of determination.

To get fat.

Then lean again!

Lean in.

On the bus there had a conversation with a Muslim dad
about the Pres. elect's desire to deport three million
immigrants. He was all for it. Because he thinks
it will only be the criminal element that get sent.

Then he talked about how
Islam, Judaism and Christianity all came from Abraham.
That we are all one religion with three books.

I remembered this song from church when I was a child:

"Father Abraham had many sons
Many sons had father Abraham

I am one of them and so are you
So let's just praise the lord.

Right arm, left arm, right leg, left leg
turn around, sit down."

That song's subversive for a church song
because the subtext is that
we all come from the same place
have the same origin
and therefore let's forget about differences
and just praise the origin of said origin...
Wherein praise basically means dance.

Encouraging.

After the field trip, went to the park.

Talking with the au pair of Lucia's school mate, Ada.

The au pair's name is Paola. She's from Spain,
where they pronounce it "Powla."

I said her name packed a pow.

I told her about my daughter Lucia's name,
the way I pronounce her name with an S sound,
but her mother pronounces with a "ch."

Lucia means light, so onomatopoetically,
"ess" is lighter, and therefore more transparent to light,
whereas the "ch" sound is like a film on the window pane.

But "ch" gives the name strength too, toughness,
so I still find it beautiful either way.

Paola pronounced Lucia's name with a soft th,
and that was somewhere in between.

I told her the story of Lucia's name,
just like I'm about to tell you now.

Lucia's full first name is Analucia.
"Analucia" derives from "Andalucia"
because my best friend had a dream he was the king
of this beautiful place, something about the art, but what?
and I was drawn to Andalucia after that,
and so the name for our daughter.

But, alas, on the day she was born, my mother said,
"I have one request, please don't call her Andalucia!"

Why, Mom?

"Because my friend dreamed
(her best friend dreamed?)
that an evil spirit inhabited Andalucia."

Mom, what?! That's absurd,
we're talking about a whole region here.

And she said, "Nevertheless."

And I was pissed.

Yes, it was true, this whole region was a mess,
infidels on both sides, two thousand years
of distress over beliefs, from one grandfather
these two tribes, coming together and
killing each other en masse,

Inquisition style.

So yes, I'd say there's an evil spirit of sorts, mom!

It's called murder in the name of belief.

I grew up with it, in my own way,
with the subtle idea that I'd be worse than dead
if I didn't believe as she did.

That sounds dramatic,
but I ratchet it up to make a point,
because there was an underlying sense
that if I wasn't a "child of Christ,"
didn't share her belief,
I was banished from her heaven
to hell.

I think that's why I yelled at her
on the phone the next day
for putting an "evil spirit" hex
on the chosen name of my daughter.

She was one day old
and we still hadn't named her yet.

Tired of my ranting she said,
"What is it you want me to do?"

And I screamed back,
"I want you to love Muslims!"

Meaning, mostly, I want you to love me,
but also anyone else who may believe differently.

I want you to love, which doesn't mean pity,
but merely accept, like any barnyard animal
accepts their own unconditionally,
without original sin, or any sin,
with only love, me.

Can you even do that?

Or do your beliefs get in your way?

That's the question, the meditation
the "prayer," if you will.

So here's what happened with the name.

I did a little research and get this:

The southern part of spain, Andalucia,
was originally called Vandalusia,
Arabic for "land of the Vandals,"
named thus by the conquering Muslim Moors
200 years after an earlier captor of the region
the Vandals, conquered the area in 100AD.

The Vandals were brutes,
thus the current meaning of the word vandal.

So imagine the implicit insult of one set of ruthless invading overlords
calling a people by the name of the last set of ruthless invading overlords.

But then something happens, something conciliatory, over time,
something I discovered myself in the very process of naming my child,
something remarkable.

Eventually the language of the people
drops the V from Vandalusia,
softening the violence of that hard vee sound
and opening the word up to it's vowel, it's air,
the ahhhh sound, Ahhndalusia.

This happened from within
seemingly from the unconscious will of the people.

And then there was another evolutionary mutation
to the name. It began, rather recently too,
to be commonly known as Andalucia instead of lusia
The latin "lucia" (light) instead of the arabic "lusia" (land.)

Light over land.

Which is shorthand here for: love over possession.

So now you have "lucia" for "light," which enables
"Anda" to take on the meaning of the verb "andar,"
the third-person present conjugation of "to walk."

The name now contains the sentence, "Walk (toward) light."

This is where the words stemming from the heart
eventually may take us. The language of the heart softens.
It goes from the oozy sound of "Lusia," of land,
to the lighter ess of "Lucia," meaning light.

And that's what the word itself does over time,
it walks into light. Walks from Vandalusia to Andalucia.

So, you go with it, with the word,
and the whole country does too,
because now she blends what is beautiful
in both the Muslim and Christian world
into something rich beyond compare.

And so we named our daughter Analucia,
(took out the "d", which softens the word even more)
named her what she actually is; walking light,

Father Abraham had many daughters...

If not too prosaic, after all that
here's how I ended the night:

There was a cross school G&T seat fight
at the CEC about the DOE
A101 ruling, local school politics,
3 hours worth of sound and fury. Right?

And then I finally ended up, exhausted, brain dead
around a fire pit with some neighborhood dads
drinking Aperol and lemonade
and arguing about politics.

Broom Clean


Bus the kids

Dear Julien

sorry to respond in e-mail

and not snail

which I will, fool

me once, shame on you,

twice and you're Bob's uncle.

I read You (and what army)

twice now, first time sober

and I still liked it!

second time on puffballs

and I fell in that warm soapy bath

while shaving your only leg

not withstanding

the ecstacy coming to me

singing and babbling together

like a dead sexy monk ringing

in a pair of funky stolen pants

in the trunk

Burray for Bollywood (for Nada Gordon)

Well, petulant is loaded connotatively. I suppose there is something driving those feelings and your ability to put that into art helps to unmask the shade. So maybe it's brave at some level, a courageous way to meet insecurity. I tend to just mask most of mine, often behind art! But I've also managed to transcend most of it through sheer breathing. And while I was breathing last night we were an It Girl. Just saying.

lines from a nap

the night is full of fire.
the falling stars wed him
whom weather won't.

I'm With Her

Why I'm with Her


I took a careful look at all the hard won
good in the world she's done

The list is long
Much longer than mine

Longer than most I'd bet-
And the bad? Fine

it's longer too; the growing pains
leaders often go through-

I suspect it's the high cost of becoming so
involved with the political status quo

Though from where else might one
more effectively plant the seeds of

a movement rooted in the love
of women and children first?

I see warmth in her laugh-
how full it is of life

And even in her anger
I sense a mother's fierce care

But most important to me, regardless
of what you may think of her

She's going to inspire confidence
in young girls everywhere.


Why I'm with Her


I took a careful look at all the hard won
good in the world she's done

The list is long
Way longer than mine

Longer than most I'd bet-
And the bad? Fine

it's longer too; the growing pains
leaders go through-

But there's warmth in her laugh-
how full it is of life

And even in her anger
I sense a mother's fierce care

And most importantly, regardless
of what anyone may think of her

She's going to inspire confidence
in young girls everywhere.

Maturation Process

the vibrations from the bass speakers
create an attraction between
the wood and the spirit.

You are in the bass trap.

grandpa

Elegy for Grover Cleveland Franks Jr.

The moment I got the text from my mom
saying "daddy's gone"
I felt that
Somehow
In the most subtle way

Here He Is!
stronger than ever
It was as if all the spirit
that had been caged
in his infirm body
had been unbound
and was now swelling up to
it's true
and vast proportions
expanding
and reaching out to me
Reaching out to me
And speaking inside of me
(Like Obi One Kenobi
if instead of a Jedi
Obi One had been a preacher
and telephone repairman
from Southern Missouri.)
I loved Grandpa's voice
It rings in my ear
even clearer now
somehow
than before
the rhythmic booming voice
of the preacher coming through
the "telephone" wire loud and clear
I can still hear
clear as day
the lilt of his long
sonorous vowels
the way he would
caress the words
stretch them out
for emphasis
the creak of his baritone
as the cadences of his speech
rose up into a kind of song
For me Grandpa's essence
could be heard in his tones
It was even there
in his grunts
and his groans
It was there
in his sneezes
the loudest sneezes
I have ever heard
And it was there
in his explosive laughter too
But mostly it was there
in the Way he said things
He could really talk so beautifully!
I may not have always agreed
with what he was saying
but I always agreed
with the way he said it
In fact it was when
I learned to just listen to his voice
instead of argue with his words
that I learned how to love him
for who he Really was
free of the expectation
of who I thought he should be
That was such a liberating moment
Moving
from anger into love
from disagreement
into acceptance
letting go
of difference
and just listening
to the entrancing music
Of his cadence
That was when I went from
avoiding those seemingly endless sermons
To asking for them
To wanting to sit and listen for hours
hoping they would never end
I remember being
completely and utterly lulled
in the rhythms of his words
the waves of words
the emphatic Nouns
The Force of the verbs
I learned to love
the push and pull
of language
itself
the very pulse
of it
When I was really listening to him
I could sense
a transformation
in Grandpa too
He slowly began to
come through the words then
emerge from the words
When he first began talking to me
he would often begin by preaching
It was a kind of habit I think
But left alone to talk
for long enough
he eventually began
to just be in the moment
And in the moment
he would become more human
and the more human he became
it seemed to me
the more free
As he was listened to
he was released
All of the listening
I did then
helps me hear
him better now
He feels more
alive to me now
Somehow
than he did before
I love him now
Even more

poem as business plan

 

10 Ideas

1. To write down 10 ideas.

2. To follow through on those ideas. Now there's an idea.

3. Like this one: start a Mixtape festival. A saturday matinee of a mixtape worth of videos.

4. Talk Museum of Modern Image to give me a monthly series called "Mixtape: The Movie"

5. If MOMI won't do it, go to the SculptureCenter, then PS. 1, etc.

6. Finale of each MIxtape Movie=live musicians playing an original soundtrack for a video.

7. Week one might look like this (in handwritten titles.)

     Side One

1. Luluc Small Window

2. Bon Iver, God, 29

3. Bon Iver #Stutford Apts

4. Bon Iver, Creeks

5. Visit, I Don't Want to Die

6. Bonnie Prince Billy, Quail and Dumplings

Intermission

    Side Two

1. play audio of Bonnie Prince Billy telling the story on KWFMU about showing up at Zach Galifianakis house after walking out of a Vipassana retreat and ending up in a Kanye Kanye West video

2. Kanye West (featuring Bonnie Prince Billy)

3. Kanye West (featuring Bon Iver)  
4. Kanye ballet
5. Die Antwoord, Banana
6. Die Antwoord, Freaky

   Bonus Track: Flushing Remonstrance playing live to Kenneth Anger film.

8. For season 2, Mixtape shows curated by visual artists I admire: (Thurston Moore, David Byrne, Bjork, etc.)

9. Season 2, beginning January 2018, go national by beaming Mixtape to indie theaters, think global. Why not? Make your living curating video art.

10. Share what you love and live free.

PARTITA

pOYM FOR THE fantastical RAYMOND PETTIBON


"Deciphering the content of the Bach Partitas and figuring out how to communicate it with passion and conviction requires knowledge, hard work, discipline and endless imagination. The fact that there is flexibility in the assembly of this musical puzzle, and more than one right way to do it, is endlessly fascinating, challenging and a joy." Miriam Fried

I play a Bach partita on guitar. The piece is in basic 3/3 time, but I realized at one point that I could play it in 5/5 time, which I can't even quite fathom mathematically. Is that even possible? But it worked and became something wholly other. I somehow just slipped into it while I was playing it one day. Total mind bender.

BTW I disagree with Fried on the "knowledge, hard work and discipline" part. You just keep doing it because you love it. But the endless imagination and "more than one right way to do it" is on point.


cut fown to essential

"The fact that there is flexibility in the assembly of this musical puzzle, and more than one right way to do it, is endlessly fascinating, challenging and a joy." Miriam Fried on the Bach Partidas

I play a Bach partita on guitar. The piece is in basic 3/3 time, but I realized at one point that I could play it in 5/5 time, which I can't even quite fathom mathematically. Is that even possible? But it worked and became something wholly other. I somehow just slipped into it while I was playing it one day. Total mind bender.

three crossroads pics from anselm.

point of the cape

48

When I blew out my birthday candles this year it seemed sacrilege to wish
for anything beyond the moment itself. I just blew. No wishes...
Dexter and Nori brought a bottle of Hudson Valley Bourbon,
best I've ever had, with a burnt caramel flavor, wood smoke,
pass it around, get a magic 8 Ball from KC Trommer, kids go crazy,
Lilla brings a peach torte from patisserie, Amy brings a peach pie,
Cristina, fancy snacks and socks, Therese a painting of a hummingbird,
Catherine a handle of rum, Nonna and Papa delicious boursin cheese,
Marco oak aged beer, Quinn guitar strings, picks and a pear,
Tyler and Karen, wine and a watermelon: and more I'm forgetting,
suffice to say it was superabundance. Just so happens
that Flicks & Jazz in the Garden was scheduled on my birthday.
Big band jazz plays for an hour. Meanwhile I throw a giant frisbee
high so it comes back to me, as if I was playing catch with the sky,
while dozens of kids swirl around me trying to catch it too.
After the big band jazz the Brooklyn Raga Massive plays versions
of Beatles and Zeppelin, with the Pyeng Threadgill singing
(daughter of jazz great Henry Threadgill who just won the Pulitzer.)
I danced with my daughter Lucia and she was so fantastic!
It was the highlight of a night filled with highlights.
Then my favorite new band, The Flushing Remonstrance,
played soundtracks to old experimental films,
including George Melies' Trip To The Moon.
This was followed by old Felix The Cat Cartoons.
Soon it was 10pm and the girls were both lying on me
comfortably, while we watched cartoons outside in the park. Perfect.
A wild Austrian neighborhood kid, Hans, hanging around my neck too.
I hardly know him, but it seemed natural, and no one, least me, objects.
It was a warm night, with a cool breeze. Full harvest moon! No bugs!
Better than I could've imagined, like when Whitman says,
" O public road! I say back, I am not afraid to leave you-yet I love you;
You express me better than I can express myself; You shall be more
to me than my poem." The night expressed me better than I could.
Or when Seamus Heaney says, "And what happens next is a music
that you never would have known to listen for."
We end Saturday evening drinking port that brother-in-law Matthew
hand delivered from Portugal, Dow special reserve. Best port
I've tasted, with distinct flavor of strawberry, raspberry, plum
and chocolate. We paired it with Lilla's peach torte. Now that's the life!
Sunday, the weekend extends still further with a Doppio Giallo style
doubles tennis tournament in the park, a fundraiser for earthquake in Italy.
I'm curious what Doppio Giallo means. Carlo says it means Double
Mystery. But doesn't giallo mean yellow I asked? Carlo says yes,
but yellow in Italian also means mystery. Do you know why, I ask,
but he doesn't. So now we have a "giallo" giallo,
why is mystery in Italian the color yellow? It's a mystery.
Afterward off to see the opening of Mierle Laderman Ukules' show
at the Queens Museum. Gen and I were so tired after night before
and the doubles tournament that neither of us really wanted to go,
but we rallied, and so glad we did. Such a great show. So inspiring.
And doubly glad that we got to meet Mierle. Do you know her?
Now thoroughly tired, and pinching myself to see if this all
might be a dream, but instead of waking up, I fall asleep!

48 Reach Peak

My 48th birthday was better than what I could've imagined.

When I blew out my birthday candles it seemed a sacrilege to wish

for anything, for anything beyond the moment itself. I just blew. No wishes...

Friday night watched "Popstar: Never stop never stopping" in bed with Gen. Laughed.

Then a hard lost tennis game to Kevin in the morning. Would rather lose than win.

And then spend the day preparing for party.

Around 4:30pm friends and family come to the Sunnyside Gardens.

Dexter brings a bottle of Hudson Valley Bourbon.

Best bourbon I've ever tasted, with a burnt caramel flavor, wood smoke.

Pass it around. Get a magic 8 Ball from KC Trommer,

Lilla brings a peach tort from patisserie, Amy brings a peach pie,

Cristina brings fancy snacks and socks, Therese a painting of a hummingbird,

Catherine a handle of rum, Nonna and Papa some delicious boursin cheese,

Marco oak aged beer, Quinn guitar strings, picks and a pear,

Tyler and Karen, wine and a watermelon: and more I'm forgetting

suffice to say it was superabundance.

Strikes me that 3 of the neighborhood friends, Justin, Tyler and KC

I also happen to know through poetry circles, Venn Diagram bonanza:

friends, parents with kids the same age as ours and poets. 3!

Just so happens that Flicks and Jazz in the Garden is scheduled on my birthday.

Hard not to take things like this personally. Because it feels personal. 

Big band jazz plays for an hour. Meanwhile I throw a giant frisbee

into the air so it comes back to myself, as if I was playing catch with the sky,

while dozens of kids swirl around me trying to catch it too.

After the big band jazz the Brooklyn Raga Collective plays versions

of Beatles and Led Zeppelin, with the great Pyeng Threadgill singing. 

(She's the daughter of jazz great Henry Threadgill who just won a pulitzer.)

I danced with Lucia in front of the crowd and she was so fantastic!

It was the highlight of a night filled with highlights.

Then my favorite new band The Flushing Remonstrance

played soundtracks to old experimental films,

including George Melies' Trip To The Moon.

Followed by old Felix The Cat Cartoons.

10pm and the girls are both lying on me comfortably

while we watch cartoons outside in the park. Perfect.

A wild Austrian neighborhood kid named Hans is hanging around my neck too.

I hardly know him, but it seems natural, and no one, least me, objects.

It was warm night too, with a cool breeze. Full harvest moon! No bugs!

Yes, better than I could've imagined, like when Whitman says, " O public road!

I say back, I am not afraid to leave you-yet I love you; You express me better

than I can express myself; You shall be more to me than my poem."

The night expressed me better than I could've expressed myself.

Or when Seamus Heaney says "And what happens next is a music

that you never would have known to listen for."
\
We end Saturday evening drinking port that brother-in-law Matthew

brought me by hand from Portugal, Dow special reserve. Best port I've ever had,

with distinct flavor of strawberry, raspberry, plum and chocolate.

Pairing it with Lilla's peach tort. Now that's the life!

Sunday, the weekend extends still further with a Doppio Giallo style doubles

tennis tournament in the park (can you believe this park?)

as a relief for earthquake in Italy. I'm curious what Doppio Giallo means

and Carlo says it means Double Mystery. But isn't Giallo mean yellow

I ask? Carlo says yes, but yellow in Italian also means mystery.

Do you know why I ask? But he doesn't. So now we have a giallo

giallo, why is mystery the color yellow? Afterward off to see the opening

of Mierle Laderman Ukules at the Queens Museum, thanks to a tip

from our friend Noel Black. Gen and I were so tired after epic night at park

and the doubles tournament that neither of us really wanted to go,

but we rallied! And so glad we did. Such a great show. So inspiring.

And doubly great  that we got to meet her! Lucia even got an autograph.

Now thoroughly tired, and pinching myself to see if this a dream I go to sleep.

Further Edit

When I blew out my birthday candles this year it seemed a sacrilege to wish

for anything beyond the moment itself. I just blew. No wishes...

Dexter brings a bottle of Hudson Valley Bourbon.

Best bourbon I've ever had, with a burnt caramel flavor, wood smoke.

Pass it around. Get a magic 8 Ball from KC Trommer, kids go crazy,

Lilla brings a peach tort from patisserie, Amy brings a peach pie,

Cristina, fancy snacks and socks, Therese a painting of a hummingbird,

Catherine a handle of rum, Nonna and Papa delicious boursin cheese,

Marco oak aged beer, Quinn guitar strings, picks and a pear,

Tyler and Karen, wine and a watermelon: and more I'm forgetting,

suffice to say it was superabundance. Just so happens

that Flicks and Jazz in the Garden was scheduled on my birthday.

Big band jazz plays for an hour. Meanwhile I throw a giant frisbee

so it comes back to myself, as if I was playing catch with the sky,

while dozens of kids swirl around me trying to catch it too.

After the big band jazz the Brooklyn Raga Collective plays versions

of Beatles and Zeppelin, with the great Pyeng Threadgill singing.

(daughter of jazz great Henry Threadgill who just won the pulitzer.)

I danced with Lucia in front of the crowd and she was so fantastic!

It was the highlight of a night filled with highlights.

Then my favorite new band, The Flushing Remonstrance,

played soundtracks to old experimental films,

including George Melies' Trip To The Moon.

This was followed by old Felix The Cat Cartoons.

Soon it was 10pm and the girls were both lying on me

comfortably, while we watch cartoons outside in the park. Perfect.

A wild Austrian neighborhood kid, Hans, hanging around my neck too.

I hardly know him, but it seems natural, and no one, least me, objects.

It was warm night, with a cool breeze. Full harvest moon! No bugs!

Better than I could've imagined, like when Whitman says,

" O public road! I say back, I am not afraid to leave you-yet I love you;

You express me better than I can express myself; You shall be more t

to me than my poem." The night expressed me better than I could've.

Or when Seamus Heaney says "And what happens next is a music

that you never would have known to listen for."

We end Saturday evening drinking port that brother-in-law Matthew

hand delivered from Portugal, Dow special reserve. Best port

I've ever had, with distinct flavor of strawberry, raspberry, plum

and chocolate. Pairing it with Lilla's peach tort. Now that's the life!

Sunday, the weekend extends still further with a Doppio Giallo style doubles

tennis tournament in the park as a relief for earthquake in Italy.

I'm curious what Doppio Giallo means. Carlo says it means Double

Mystery. But isn't Giallo mean yellow I ask? Carlo says yes,

but yellow in Italian also means mystery. Do you know why? I ask

But he doesn't. So now we have a giallo about giallo.

Why is mystery the color yellow in Italian? It's a mystery.

Afterward off to see the opening of Mierle Laderman Ukules

at the Queens Museum. Gen and I were so tired after night before

and the doubles tournament that neither of us really wanted to go,

but we rallied, and so glad we did. Such a great show. So inspiring.

And doubly great that we got to meet Mierle! Now thoroughly tired,

and pinching myself to see if this all might be a dream before fall asleep.

I'm sick of no poetry

I’M SICK OF NO POETRY

G6, set the record straighght.
I've kept my eyeye on Strawberry
and her sister Cream of crop circle fame.
As the nephews sit and vegetate
on roundelays of fate and Shakespeary
farce, which always ends well enough too late,
I'll send a note to the stage and tell them to stop
by. The shines outsize like a demo brought home.

On the point of the cape

The moon
Lights up the clouds
Like a sunflower at night
Through the round glass window
With the Diamond pattern open
So the flies can come in and land
On the solitary blue chair below
The monkey puzzle tree
With white honeysuckle draping over
Like a blanket of perfume
As mommy and Ed walk
Out the gate to the piano bar
Where the show tunes seem old
Until the wine gets past
The row of four lighthouses
On the point of the cape.

At 41

At 41

I almost went

into a trap

but was sent

a map

of the senses

by the deuses

ex machina via

a phone call

so I went out

dancing alone

into the glance

that becomes water

Leave weddings

for thunder

and alight like the summer

despite winter warnings

Abate and desist

in orderly fashion

Soon we'll insist

on therapist sessions

Who has the time

has water is water

and who comes after

is on time every time

Dave Outhouse asked me for a poem for him to submit to Seattle buses. Theme is "our body of water." So I sent him these three.

Sea Shanty

I'm covered up with sand and

all the weight of the Puget Sound

With words harder than rocks

for getting off my chest

but boulders are swayed by waves

and waves swayed by tides

So I give whatever I take
and take whatever is best

Words May Be

Webbing in which
vertical tiers maintain
horizontal buoyancy

or

The very shears to snip
the strands to sink ourselves
in the roiling sea

(I love how that poem's form matches content, the way the latinate words buoy up the first stanza and then the second sounds like something sinking fast.)

Last Night


Glowing phosphorescent footprints

receding before me as I

walk backward

into the

sea

(and another where form matches content)

Hart Hits The Koop

Hart Hits The Koop

The beer of some dear friends

is made with sheer hops

(the will-'o-the-wisp

in the lion's den)

with happiness and bliss

so real and intense

it's like new love.

The holy drunk at

the happy dumb show,

a way to agree, three

and you're full, four

and the keys to

the universe are yours.

A memory can be

erased forever? So then

do it again! Men in black

erased your memory, an epic day,

somebody happened, but who?

The bartender's listening,

she doesn't want too many

question marks or

exclamation points.

She pours us another beer

and then the archer,

the flickering candle,

and the point of the arrow

finally arrives.