Twelve Set Pieces for Raising Interplanetary Conciousness

1. Do the mad moonlight mambo in the dead of night with the feral cats in fedoras hanging out by the pool tables. If they refuse your request to dance, threaten to take away their cigarettes and catnip.

2. Drink two gallons of Cherry-Berry Kool-Aid as quickly as you can and wait at least 30 minutes without going to the bathroom. Go to the corner and walk down the street backwards while urinating. See if you can do this the whole way down the block without pissing on your suede shoes. Note: This piece does not work well for women, unless they were born in Southern New Jersey.

3. Creature comforts must all be left behind on the journey for personal and planetary perfection. Tighten your loincloth for the quest and take only what can be carried comfortably in the space between your spleen and your kidney. For safety, keep your passport hidden at all times in one of the folds in your large intestine.

4. Rave, rave, then rave some more…like the mad, manic ones who rule the galaxy from afar. If you rave loudly enough the mother ship will suddenly appear to take you back to your homeworld.

5. Every minute of your life is a swift descent into the grave. You can forestall the inevitable demise, but only if you follow the methods of the great Himalayan sadus: Go to the sacred spot on the river where they burn the shrouded corpses, strip down, and spread the ashes of the dead all over your body. Then start walking due north until you come to the place at the foot of the sacred mountain where the holy ones dwell. Stand there perfectly still until the end of the Kali Yuga in approximately 10,000 years. You will be old and decrepit by that time, but your thighs will be absolutely amazing from standing in one place for so long.

6. To prevent gaseous emission from occurring during interplanetary trips—totally unpleasant for your fellow travelers—be sure to get plenty of sleep the night before you depart, eat a healthy lunch of mustard greens with wasabi and ginger no more than two hours before you get on the spacecraft, take 6mgs of Lotromitiozol every four hours to prevent air pockets from forming in your bowls, and be sure to keep yourself properly hydrated during the flight by continuously drinking either diet Dr. Pepper or Orange Squeeze……Or just take a shit instead.

7. Above all else, never, and I mean never, try to kiss the thin-lipped octopuses who sunbathe in the rocky coves on the fifth continent of the third planet in the fourth solar system (no matter how cute they might seem in their bathing suits!) They rarely are satisfied with just a kiss, and you will inevitably loose your self-respect and your reputation. If you find it impossible to say no to their charms, at least insist that they buy you a drink afterwards.

8. It has been said that seed should never be scattered on rocky ground, but this is a lie. I say, scatter yours far and wide wherever you can, and watch as the evil yellow weeds creep up from the cracks in the ground where they fell. Those weeds are strong, much stronger than the shoots that spring from wimpy mustard seeds. They eat mustard plants for breakfast and small children for lunch.

9. Pull the daisy out of your ass. It has already been fertilized, so it should grow fairly quickly in properly prepared soil.

10. On one of the stalls in the men’s restroom at the rest stop off Route 111 on Seti 9 someone wrote: “For a good time, call Schlomo Golberg at 001-000472-234-7707." But anyone who knows Schlomo will tell you he’s definitely not worth the money, even with his additional fifth appendage.

11. When you get back home, and your mother asks you where you’ve been for the past three months, just tell her that you were on an interplanetary mission to explore strange new life on a planet called Earth in a distant solar system called the Milky Way. When your mother slaps you across your fifth cheek with her left dorsal fin for lying to her, tell her instead that you were out on a continual bender with the boys and were unconscious most of the time so you couldn’t call her. This should appease her and may spare you from getting your schnitzula beaten raw with her clitemzola minkscoffy.

12. When you see him, tell Pauley Ragutso that he still owes me $12.50 for the beer I got him last week. If he refuses to give you the money, tie him up in a sack with George W. Bush, and beat the sack vigorously at least 17 times with a tire iron. This will accomplish absolutely nothing but is great exercise for the shoulders and upper back.

Killing Robert Frost

Creative Writing Project Based on Robert Frost's "Stopping in the Woods on a Snowy Evening"

Submitted by: Billy Slotnick [7th Grade]

___________

"Whose woods are THESE

I think I know.

His house is by the village
.............................though (rhymes
..........with snnnnoooow
.............and woe,
.....................but also toe) [Very clever use of rhyme!!!]

He will not see me

STOPPING SHOPPING here

to wacth [note typo!]
his woods fill up with
.........................snow" (also rhymes with
BLOW (ya know?) !!!!!!!!!
..........................!!!!!!!!!!! >>>>>>>>>>

>>>>>

>>>>>>>>>>>>

>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

What sorta SHIT [avoid profanity!]

..............is this

ANY........................WAY

............................................????

Poetry should come from the

.............H

...............E

.................A

...................R

.....................T [very charming!]

or at least from

the little area

...............................between

your belly button

..................................and the

tip of yr -----> [Your what? Be explicit. Remember, poetry is all about detail.]

,not from yr gdamn head, [Use correct punctuation!]
.....................dumbass [Extremely offensive! Robert Frost is one of this country's greatest poets and a true American hero. How dare you besmirch his noble character in such a derogatory manner!]

^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^

^^^^

^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^

Yr so-called posey
............................ain't worth
the price of a
.........diet coke

and that shit's

...poison anyway
just like yr
..................fucking writing
[Now you are insulting the Coca Cola Corporation - a fine American institution - as well as Mr. Frost. Shame on you! And, by the way, I myself am a fan of diet beverages, which I am forced to drink because of glandular problems!]

Frost,
you sorry old,
..........piece a,
..............................pot a,
................pile a
dried up

..........................................mildew, [Surprising imagery. very nice!]
drop the rhyme and meter
and just get on with
the D A M N

..............................point.

I get it

...........already...

The old bugger is

.........sad n lonely.

Well, so the fuck am I, [language!]

but you don't hear me

..................bitching bout it.

Die,

,,,,,,,,Robert Frost,

............. DIE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
[If you were listening during class instead of doodling, you would realize that Mr. Frost died some time ago, although he lives on in the magnificent works of poetry which he has so generously bequeathed us.]

POETRY SUCKS!

METAL RULES! [A dubious proposition to be sure!]

__________________________

Billy, let's chat about this after school. Your poetry shows definite improvement since the beginning of the year, but I still think that you are bottling up your feelings too much. Remember, poetry is about catharsis. Let the lovely child inside of yourself come though in your writing. Why not try writing your next poem about flowers, a luscious verdant valley in springtime, or perhaps the sweet pangs of innocent first love? You might enjoy it!!!

- Mrs. Feldstein

Planet Killer

It just wasn’t right. In fact it would never be right again. The sky was blackened even though it was the middle of the day. The bodies of the fallen were lying on the streets in various stages of decay. The smell was unbearable.
.....All around him was death, destruction and utter devastation. The world he knew had disappeared, almost as though it had never really existed. Love, commitment, the small pleasures of family life….these all belonged to a past that was becoming a fading memory.

.....It was all blackness and despair.
.....But what made it even worse was the reality that he was the one who had caused all the misery around him. He was the destroyer. He was the cancer that doomed the planet.
.....It wasn’t supposed to be this way. All he ever wanted was to live a decent life, to fit in, to be a good American. Just like everyone else.
.....Those lying on the ground rotting were really the lucky ones. They didn’t have to see the fruits of the evil that he had released from the dark nether regions. He did.
.....He really couldn’t escape from the reality of the situation, no matter how hard he tried. Even if he put a bullet into his head, he would still be haunted forever—haunted by the realization that this tragedy could have turned out differently if he had just thought things through a bit more.
.....“If I had just not gone to McDonald's that day,” he thought to himself, “then none of this would have happened.” But the lure of the Big Mac Value meal ($4.99 including large fries and a soft drink) had gotten the best of him. Not only did he have the value meal, but he felt compelled to top it off with a McFlurry for dessert. “That’s what probably really did the planet in,” he speculated to himself. But in reality, any single part of that meal—the hamburger with the goopy sauce and wilted lettuce, the golden fries that tasted like no natural potatoes he ever tasted before, the supersized soda in the reusable “High School Musical” cup, or the sweet, delicious McFlurry with its irresistible toppings—any of these could have been the culprit.
.....He gorged himself that day until his belly felt ready to explode. It was then the strange sensation hit him all of a sudden and without any warning. He made it to the bathroom just in time and thought that his troubles were behind him. But he was wrong about that—tragically wrong. For out of his bowels that day sprang the hideous creature brought to life by the dark, secret experiments of the McDonald’s Corporation® (please note that neither the McDonalds Corporation nor any of its affiliates bears any responsibility for acts of planetary devastation caused by the consumption of its food products). That creature entered the sewer system and joined up with its fiendish friends who had escaped from the intestines of other value meal fans and linked up together to form

A MONSTROUS AND DIABOLICAL ENTITY

THAT ENDED ALL LIFE ON EARTH

AS WE KNOW IT

...all life, that is, except that of the one man who had caused all this to happen in the first place. A man who ironically appeared to be resistant to the nasty pathogen that turned everyone else on the planet into those stinking heaps of genetically modified protein-like substance that were now rotting in the midday heat.
.....“If only I had thought things through,” he repeated to himself, “if only I had resisted the urge to fill my belly with cheap, unwholesome food, then quite possibly we’d all have been spared this. I suppose I could have had a bean burrito instead. As far as I know, there are no horrible, genetically fabricated monsters lurking in that kind of food.”
.....But it was too late for bean burritos now. Or tofu stirfrys. Or veggy lasagna. Or any heart-healthy, ecologically sustainable fare. He had to have McDonald's and now the entire world was doomed to a slow agonizing death and all human achievements were wiped out in the twinkling of an eye.
.....“Well,” he thought to himself, “if the world had to end anyway, I’m glad that I had the Big Mac and not just a Quarter Pounder with Cheese.”

Redemption

The women in the office keep telling me that I’m not sentimental enough. So to prove them wrong, I thought I’d try writing something romantic for a change.


Mr. Morris Jellenick was the ultimate nobody—the kind of fellow who inspired contempt in others because of the utter pointlessness of his life.
.....Every morning for the past thirty years, his wife, Costanza, would remind him of just how insignificant he actually was. “If you were any less of a man,” she’d say to him, “you’d have breasts and a vagina”. Or, “I’d tell you to grow a pair of testicles, but they wouldn’t be any use to you anyway.”
.....And every morning, he would try to ignore her rants, focusing with studied intensity on the high fiber, low fat breakfast cereal he was forced to eat to keep his cholesterol levels down. “I’m just going to eat my breakfast quietly and, as it is written in the Good Book, turn the other cheek,” he’d say to himself. But every time Morris tried to turn the other cheek to his wife’s incessant abuse, she would slap him across the face with her meaty hand.
.....At his job, working as a quality control manager at the local bubble-wrap factory, Morris was subject to similar abuse. “Hey, Morris, “ his colleagues would joke, “what sort of sick stuff do you do those rolls of bubble-wrap you’re always foolin’ around with in the back office?…I hear there’s a lonely roll in the warehouse that keeps askin’ for your telephone number. Har, har, har….”
.....But Morris ignored their cruel barbs and offered his sufferings up to Christ. “If our savior could endure the cross,” Morris would remind himself, “then surely I can suffer this with equanimity.” And he would go on examining roll after roll of bubble-wrap for defects, reciting the rosary in his head to drown out the endless insults of his coworkers.
.....Every Saturday morning, Morris would go to confession at Our Lady of Perpetual Sorrows Church in Perth Amboy to confess his sins to Fr. Marchese, the local parish priest. The problem was that Morris didn’t have any really interesting sins to confess and this irritated Fr. Marchese considerably. One day, Fr. Marchese had more than his normal usual amount of scotch for breakfast, and was feeling particularly sadistic when Morris came into the confessional.
.....“Bless me father for I have sinned,” Morris began as usual. “It has been one week since my last confession.”
.....“Lemme guess,” Fr. Marchese slurred, barely able to hold his head up from all the booze he had consumed. “You weren’t as understanding as you could have been with your bitch of a wife and you bought yourself a cup of coffee at Starbucks instead of putting the money into the collection plate.”
.....“How did you know father?” Morris asked with amazement.
.....“Because, you pathetic piece of shit,” snapped Fr. Marchese, unable to control himself any longer, “you come in here every week, and every week you have the same goddamn idiotic sins to confess. And the sad part is that they’re not really sins at all. I know 70 year old Italian widows who have more sordid things to confess than you do!”
.....“What are you trying to say, Father?” Morris asked completely befuddled.
.....“What I’m trying to say,” said Fr. Marchese, doing all he could to prevent himself from sliding out of his chair and onto the floor, “is that I don’t want to see you again until you have something to confess that is going to provide me some legitimate titillation. You think it’s easy being a priest. This is all I have—well this and the occasional altar boy—and if I don’t get to hear something really juicy, then, goddamn it, you are going to be banned from the confessional.” With that Fr. Marchese slumped over in his chair and began snoring loudly. Confession was over for that particular day.
.....“Well I guess that if a holy man like Fr. Marchese thinks that it would aid my spiritual life to commit some flagrant act of sin, then I suppose I should consider it,” Morris postulated. “Men of God always know what’s best for members of their flock.”
.....When he got home after Church, Morris locked himself in the bathroom to avoid being disturbed by his wife and thought carefully about all the possible sins he could commit. There were a number of options that he though might satisfy Fr. Marchese’s need for titillation. He quickly ruled out murder, blackmail and larceny, because he was just not that kind of person, and eventually settled on adultery as a suitably offensive choice. But who to have an affair with? He married his wife right out of college and hadn’t had much experience with women before or since. Mrs. Castorini, one of his neighbors was a definite possibility, but he struck her off his list when he remembered that she was a heavy drinker and he normally passed out after one or two glasses of wine.
.....But thinking about Mrs. Castorini made him think about another member of her family who might be open to his advances: Zoey, yes, sweet Zoey. Zoey, that wild young creature, whom he had admired for years from across his picket fence as she lounged in the sun on his neighbor’s lawn. Sure, she was a bit young for him, but that just made it all the more enticing.
.....“It’s set then,” he said to himself. “I’ll have an adulterous affair so that I can have at least one decent sin to confess to Fr. Marchese, and it will be with Zoey.” She was young; she was fresh; she was cute; she was feisty. She was everything that he could possibly want in an illicit sexual partner—the complete opposite of his wife in almost every way.
.....The fact that Zoey was the Castorini’s pet Shih Tzu made the prospect even more intriguing. “When I got married, I settled for a woman who was beneath me. If I’m going to have an affair,” he though, “it might as well be someone classy, someone with proper breeding.” And Zoey was definitely a pure breed through and through.
.....He wasted no time making his advances, treating Zoey to gourmet packets of Alpo’s finest treats, and buying her extravagant gifts, like a new diamond studded collar and designer lavender-scented flea powder. Although she resisted at first because of their obvious age difference, Zoey eventually became as smitten by Morris as he was by her. She was even willing to defy Mr. And Mrs. Castorini, who were dubious about the long-term prospects for the relationship. “He’s a married man,” Mr. Castorini would remind her. “And a member of a different species besides,” his wife added. But nothing the Castorinis said could dampen the ardor that had developed between Morris and Zoey.
.....When Mrs. Jellenick found out about the affair, she was shocked that someone as bland as her husband could attract an obviously upscale type like Zoey. “How can I possibly get him back from her,” she wined to her friends. “She’s so sophisticated. Her coat always has such a fine sheen.”
.....“Don’t worry, hon,” her best friend, Magda, counseled. “He’ll get tired of her kind eventually. She may be cute, but I hear from the girls in the neighborhood that she can be a real bitch.”
.....The guys at work were similarly amazed that a devout fellow like Morris would be bold enough to flaunt his adulterous liaison in public, and tried as best they could to downplay Zoey’s considerable charms.
.....“Everyone keeps talking about how hot she is,” said Tony Saccamano in shipping with utter contempt. “But personally I think she’s a fucking dog.”
.....“If I was going to have an affair,” added Bill from accounting, "it sure as hell wouldn’t be with any Shih Tzu. I wouldn’t settle for anything less than a Yorkshire Terrier. Now, that’s real class.”
.....But as much as everyone kept trying to downplay Morris’ achievement in bagging a foxy young thing like Zoey, they really couldn’t help but notice the changes that had come over him as a result of his affair. Even Fr. Marchese was suitably impressed when Morris confessed his flagrante delicto to him during their next session in the confessional. “Well,” Fr. Marchese admitted grudgingly, “if you had to commit a sin, having an affair with an under-aged house pet is probably as good as any. I don’t remember any specific prohibitions against interspecies intimacy in either the Old or the New Testament, but I’m gonna go out on a limb here and say that this does qualify as a legitimate act of adultery. I’m giving you a 9/10 for the effort. Now say ten Hail Mary’s, five Our Father’s, and make sure to come back and see me next week to fill me in on any new developments.”
.....I wish that I could report that Morris and Zoey’s relationship remained as passionate as it was during the first few blissful weeks of their courtship. But Zoey, I’m afraid, was not by nature the monogamous type. One day, while Morris was out getting his morning newspaper, he accidentally spied her sniffing the crotch of a hunky neighborhood pit bull. And that was the end of their relationship.
.....Morris’ story did not turn out as badly as you might expect, however. Following the advice of Fr. Marchese, Morris started cruising the neighborhood in search of a new object for his affections. Although he had a few dates with a sultry iguana he met in a local pet store, he found kissing someone with such a long tongue surprisingly awkward. A blind date with a pot-bellied pig from the local petting zoo proved equally disappointing.
.....Then once day, when all hope seemed lost, Morris bumped into a pious little Chihuahua name Carmen during a novena he was attending at Church. Once they got beyond the language barrier and the obvious cultural differences, they discovered that they had an awful lot in common. Like Morris, Carmen had a special devotion to Our Lady of Guadalupe and a sad history with prior relationships. She had dated a German shepherd, named Gert, off and on for many years, but her mother forced her to break off their engagement because he wasn’t Catholic.
.....Although she was a bit old by Morris’ standards—she had just turned eight in August—Carmen had the kind of maturity that someone like Zoey (for all her considerable charms) lacked. Besides, she made amazing churros. The two were married by Fr. Marchese on the Feast of the Circumcision and have been together ever since. You can often find them sitting hand-in-paw on the front porch together, lazily sipping tequila and lime, and, when the mood strikes them, howling at the moonlight in between decades of the rosary.

Poem # 1742
in which the poet, a brooding fellow, who never forgets a previous slight, cynically reflects upon the ultimate act of betrayal in his life using crass metaphors, vulgar illusions, and just a touch of profanity in order to appeal to the MTV generation.

POW
BLAM

the assault
weapon
inside
me
exploded
yesterday
without any
warning…
POW
BLAM
guts
all over
the floor
and
assorted
bodily fluids—
red, white, and green
just like
the Italian
flag—
splattered
in odd
misshapen
patterns
on the
drab
cement walls
outside my
quaint little
workspace.

it
was
she
who
caused
me
to
internally
erupt
like
a volcano
that had been
dormant
for
centuries,
suddenly
and without
any real
warning
vomiting
it’s sulfuric
shit
into the
stratosphere.
POW
BLAM
the remains
of yesterdays
hastily consumed
big mac
and fries
smeared grotesquely
on
the sidewalk
where passersby
do a little jig
to avoid getting
blood and gunk
and putrid puss
on their fancy
italian leather
loafers.

young children
walk by
and stare at
my scattered
remains
hanging like
christmas
ornaments
on the trees
and shrubs,
and chuckle
innocently
as they use
my bloated heart
as a makeshift
soccer ball.
POW
BLAM
i want to tell
them that this
is a cautionary
tale of
misplaced trust
and
vicious betrayal
and that they should
never,
ever,
let their
hearts
become
too fond
or too open.
but
my
vocal cords
were severed
in the blast
and so the
little bastards
will just have
to learn
for themselves
how fucking
heartless
some people
can be.

it’s a lesson
we all need to learn
eventually,
i suppose,
but few of us
ever do…
until it is
much,
much
too
late

POW
BLAM

Listening In

Yea? / Okay, 15 minutes / I should be ready by then / We’re all out of tahini, so don’t expect any hummus for dinner tonight / Just bring some home from the store / You have to pass by it anyhow on your way home / What are you talking about…It’s right on your fucking way home / GET THE HELL OUT OF HERE, YOU DUMB MOTHERFUCKER! / No, not you…It’s just the damn cat climbing on the counter again / I know he’s your baby, but he’s still a royal pain in my ass / No, I haven’t fed him yet…I just got home / Gimme a minute to unwind first, will you? / What? / What’s that? / I don’t give a shit…Just get whatever you want / What? / I told you I don’t give a shit / Well, who the fuck cares about that right now / If you want it, then get it…just quit harping about it / I’m not cursing / Stop overreacting will you, I’m…. / ….course I love ya, baby; you know I do… / I know I’m tense lately / …. what with all the bullshit I’ve been having to deal with at work / Yea, I’m pouring myself one right now / I know / I know / I SAID I FUCKIN’ KNOW! / When you get home we’ll… / I promise baby / What? / All right, I’m willing to do it, but just once tonight, ok? / I’ve still got sores from the last time / Wait a minute / Hear that? / I think someone is listening in on us again / It’s not just my fucking imagination! / I know what the doctor says, but he’s an asshole / Oh, so just because someone has an M.D., that means they can’t be an asshole? / I know plenty of assholes with higher degrees / What? / Don’t get fucking started with that! / I’ve only had two or three since I got home / I KNOW WHAT IT DOES TO ME! / Just get the hell off my case right now / There’s that sound again / Don’t fucking tell me that someone isn’t listening in on this conversation! / No, I’m not being paranoid / I don’t know who it could be….Maybe it’s the fucking CIA for all I know / Oh, so I’m not important enough for the fucking CIA to be tapping my phone, is that it? / Shows what you know / I had a subscription to Mother Jones in college / Bet they have a dossier on me a mile wide / Stop fucking laughing, you bitch / I tell you I can hear someone breathing on the line / No, not you / It’s a man’s breathing / You bet your ass I can tell the difference between the sound of a man’s breathing and a woman’s / ‘Cause I’ve got a fucking brain, that’s why / Jesus Christ, this is driving me crazy! / I can’t talk any more / I gotta get off the phone and try to figure out why someone would wanna listen to my telephone conversations / Oh, yea, I forgot…dinner…right / Sure, that’s fine with me / If you can’t get any tahini, just get some store-bought hummus / What? / I don’t care what kind…Just get whatever kind you want / What? / No, definitely not that kind / ‘Cause it tastes like shit, that’s why / I know I just told you to get whatever kind you want…just don’t get that kind / What? / ….or that kind either / Stop screaming / Yea, red pepper is fine, but be sure it’s Ten Sheiks, not the store brand / ‘Cause the store brand has transfats, and I’m trying to watch my weight / I’m not being picky / There’s that fucking sound again / Love you too, babe / I’ll have the radishes waiting for you when you get home / You know I do, baby / Click /

Special Operations Report
Date: 11/12/07
Submitted by: Agt. Warren Schiffler

Report Summary: Conversation between suspect and his girlfriend. As always the two argued about the suspect’s paranoid tendencies, but reconciled sufficiently enough to plan intimate activities involving radishes (most likely of the daikon variety). Although there was some evidence of animal neglect, the lack of meat-based protein on the suspect’s dinner menu is highly suspicious. I believe that the two may indeed be planning to move in the direction of a vegetarian, or possibly even a vegan, diet in the future. The suspect definitely fits the profile of a typical enemy of the industrial food complex—overly educated, liberal, effete, and far too health conscious for his own good. If he continues to acquire the majority of his protein from beans and legumes, it could pose a potential threat to our American way of life. I recommend that the suspect continue to be monitored carefully, and, if he persists in his wanton disregard for the well-being of the pork and beef industry, that we consider terminating him and deprogramming his girlfriend.

A Poem About the Meaning of Life

there once was a philosopher who spent his days

in contemplation of the meaning of life,
for he was told that rational contemplation was the key
to understanding the deep mysteries of the universe/

and as he contemplated, he listened for

the voice of Higher Wisdom,
but he was always met by a strange, terrible silence /
and the more he contemplated, the louder this silence became /

and he searched some sign of order in the cosmos,

.....but could never seem to find any amidst the chaos
and he searched for truth,

.....but the acquisition of truth stubbornly remained elusive
and he searched for beauty,

.....but there was none to be found in the plastic world he inhabited
and he searched for goodness,

....but was horrified to discover that good and evil

.....were often one and the same /

and he looked to the great sages who came before him

for answers to his many questions,
but they had no answers to offer him

…only idle words on so many, many pages of dusty texts /

and he strove to make the right conclusions and the proper deductions—
as if that would be enough to lead him to the light of Wisdom—
but all his conclusions were proven unsound

and all his deductions insanely fallacious /

and still he clung tenaciously to logic and reason

as his anchor in this topsy-turvy universe
but all his logic and all his reason in the end

were shown to be sadly impotent
when confronted with the vast void

of meaningless and absurdity that constituted reality/

and, just when he thought he had

finally, finally begun to make some sense of things,
he was stricken by a horrific illness,

...........died,

......................and was completely and totally
FORGOTTEN.

d a r k n e s s

......................from far across
....................the open field
.................i saw her there
...............tiny as a child
............and just as frightened
.........(of what?
......i wondered
...to myself) /
......and i walked across
.........the overgrown lawn
...........till I came to
..............the spot where she stood
.................deep in her own
.....................anguished thoughts
..........................and I told her
........................................................to take
........................................................my hand
........................................................in hers
..........................and everything would
.....................be completely fine /
..................but she looked at me
...............with the sad eyes
............of perfect realization
.........and said

......in a trembling voice
...that nothing would
......ever be the same again /
..........i tried to give her
.............some small shred of hope,
.................but in my heart
....................i knew full well
.......................that she was right /
........................................................and then
........................................................the darkness
........................................................came.

Visions of India

I'm delighted to report that I have survived my second trip to India. Sure, I got the requisite bout of dysentery--on the very day I was supposed to deliver my paper at the conference I was attenting--and suffered the entire time from what I call TIC (Typical India Crud) from the incessent pollution...but, thankfully, I returned with my health more or less intact.

As usual with these kinds of trips, I went bonkers photographing just about everything I saw. But this time, for a change, I also shot a considerable amount of video on my camera. The resulting ten minute montage I put together gives a sense of what I experienced, but to fully appreciate the indescribable mayhem that is South Asia, you really have to go there for youself.

You never fully get what you expect from India. I spent hours on the Ganges watching the bodies burn and participating every chance I got in the ancient ganga aarti cermonies in Rishikesh, Haridwar, and Varanasi. I hung out with the sadhus and woke up at a miserably early time to do yoga and meditation with some very serious--and some seriously freaky--people from all over the world. And I discovered, much to my amazement, that I probably didn't need to travel to the other side of the world to discover higher truths about life and death. I already knew everything important I needed to know before I ever left home.

So, no, I really didn't need to go back to India after all. But I'm glad I did anyway. Sometimes you need a complete and total change of scenery to remind you of what you already know.

Enjoy the movie!

Sunt Lacrima Rerum

There are tears of things
That forever haunt
The fragile human heart

Tears of deeds performed by
Our primeval ancestors
In the mindless madness of
Ancient times

Tears of horrific things that happened
Long before we were ever even
Conceived in our parent's imaginations

Tears of childhood agonies,
Those god awful adolescent follies,
And the pangs of painful losses
That can never be replaced
In this life or the next.

No world without tears
No life without endless sorrows.
It is our human lot,
The price we pay
For our parking space
On this stinking planet.

Erotic Landscapes

he / stuck / the / ragged / end
of / the / cigarette / between / his/ lips
and / sucked / as / much
of / the / sweet / acrid / nicotine
as / he / could / into / his
hungry / lungs /
soon / he / felt / the / usual
burning / sensation / ravaging / through
his / embattled / chest
like / a / sulfur / flare / had / been
set / off / inside / of / him
then / the / violent / cough / cough
and / the / spewing / of / crimson
tissue / out / of / his / mouth
the / gasping / for / air / to / keep / him
alive / for / just / a little / bit / longer /
he / knew / his / habit / would / soon
snuff / the / life / right / out / of / him
but / at / that / particular / moment
(and / what / other / moment
is / there / anyway?)
all / he / could / think / about
was / how / many / more / drags / were / left
on / the / gnarly / cigarette / dangling / from
his / bloody / lips

Therapy Session

The Doctor: How are your feeling this week?
The Patient: The same as always.
The Doctor: And how is that?
The Patient: You know, I still can’t help feeling that life is fundamentally absurd and meaningless.
The Doctor: And?
The Patient: And I just don’t see what the point of all this is.
The Doctor: The point?
The Patient: Yes, what is the point anyway?
The Doctor: The point is to somehow manage to survive it.
The Patient: That’s it? Brute survival…just like any other animal?
The Doctor: Exactly.
The Patient: But I am surviving.

The Doctor: And so your life is not pointless. I think we’ve finished our work here.

Phantasm

There is a nuclear power plant
.......in the pit of my guts,
and ice cold steel in my heart.
If you’re looking for pity,
.......look somewhere else;
if you want someone to listen
to your tales of woe,
.......I’m definitely not your man.
I’ve got more than enough
.......shit of my own
and I don’t need any of yours
.......piled on top.

I have heard the wails of
.......the bleeding fetus
ripped out of his mother belly;
I have seen the outstretched hands
.......of the naked poor
begging for scraps of food
to feed their starving children;
I have tasted the stray tears
of the oppressed,
.......the persecuted,
..............the martyred,
and I’ve turned away,
completely unmoved.

I am a mere phantasm
of a human being,
a thin shell covering
.......sinews and bone,
................but lacking vital organs.
So if you are looking for
A touch of humanity,
then go look
for a human being;
there’s no one like that
.......around here….
just dust and debris,
the tattered remnants of
some feeling creature
who ceased to exist
.............long ago.

Returning to Mother India

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I’ve traveled all over the world during the past twenty or so years and I’ve been to more than my fair share of places. And some places, most definitely, are easier to travel to than others. Europe is a piece of cake (even Southern Italy with all its disorder and rampant corruption is a snap). Japan, Thailand, Hong Kong, Nepal, and Singapore…no problem at all. I barely struggle at all when I’m traveling through countries like these.

But India is different; India is difficult, maddeningly difficult. It’s crowded, noisy, polluted, and squalid. All of your senses are continually bombarded in India: the sites, the sounds, and especially the smells…they’re almost overwhelming. You can’t be comfortable in India, even for two minutes. You walk two feet and you inevitably step in the putrid shit of some fetid, half dead animal; mischievous monkeys swing insanely from the telephone wires, leaping to the ground to snatch food out of the hands of unsuspecting tourists; crippled beggars and con men attack you at every possible turn; even the simplest food item assaults you, overwhelming your taste buds and convulsing your bowels.

That’s why I’m going back to India so soon. I’m sick of cotton candy living. I need my soul to be roughened up a bit. I want to be thrown off balance, so that I remember once again what it means to be ALIVE.

During my last trip, I distinctly recall walking past the burning ghats in Varansi with their endless stream of corpses being offered up to Shiva or some other deity in the endless Hindu pantheon. Bodies shrouded in gold, glowing in the moonlit sky…ashes scattered by mournful family members in the sacred river where the devout purify themselves…the mad, holy sadhus holding court on the rotting, slimy steps of the temples. You sit and watch the spectacle and you are transported to a different time long before our own antiseptic, cellophane-wrapped age. You are transported, not just to a different time, but a completely alternative plane of existence. The physical world with all its mundane, silly preoccupation simply disappears and you awake in the world of Arjuna, battling the Kauravas under the ever-vigilant watch of Lord Krishna.

I am returning to India, not because I want comfort, or cleanliness, or some degree of order—that’s why I go to Germany. I am going back because every now and then in this pathetic little life our ours you need to be forced out of your comfort zone and bourgeois ways of thinking in order to get to the essence of what human existence is all about.

Last time I was in India, I strolled along the Ganges at dawn and sampled the sacred rites that have endured down through the millennia. This time I will gorge myself upon them. I will sit on the steps of the burning ghats in the company of my brothers, the sublime sadhus, and force myself to come to terms with the essential mystery that is the human predicament. And, even if I fail to arrive at any profound conclusion about the meaning of my tawdry life, I will be infinitely better off for having spent even a few moments squatting on the slimy, shit strewn steps cascading down into the sacred Ganges. Better because India does not allow for halfway measures. It’s enlightenment or destruction, spiritual rebirth or cosmic self-annihilation. In Shiva’s homeland you either loose yourself completely or you are lost completely. No two ways about it. And I for one relish in the prospect of loosing myself (if only for a few hours) as all thoughts of worldly concerns slip away like thousands of arti lights flowing down the river into dark, peaceful oblivion.

And that, in a nutshell, is why I must go back to India.

Death Never Comes

death never comes
when you’re waiting for him.
he comes like a
silent cry
in the still darkness
of night—
while you are in the middle
of some fabulous,
wild dream
or at your moment of
greatest triumph.

you can wait
a lifetime for death
to make his appearance
and he’ll fool you
time and again.
but turn your back
for just one moment
and your fucked—
before you can blink an eye
the worms will be feasting
on your
.....vital organs.

Revelation in the Operating Room

Nurse: Doctor, I’m afraid Sally’s dead.
Doctor: Damn it, I won’t loose her, not now.
Nurse: But doctor, the EKG reading is completely flat. There’s no hope.
Doctor: There’s got to be hope. I won’t give up now. She’s my, my…
Nurse: Your what, doctor?
Doctor: (Crying) She’s my long-lost daughter.
Nurse: But I thought that she was Suzie Schwarz’s sister.
Doctor: (Despondent) She was, damn it. She was.
Nurse: But you dated Suzie at one point, didn’t you?
Doctor: Yes. But what has that got to do with anything?
Nurse: You dated your daughter’s sister?
Doctor: (Confused) I suppose I did. But it’s not like there’s anything wrong with that, right?
Nurse: No, unless Suzie was your daughter too…She wasn’t your daughter, was she?
Doctor: How could she have been my daughter…She was Sally’s mother.
Nurse: Suzie was Sally’s mother as well as her sister? How is that possible?
Doctor: She was only her adopted sister. Suzie was really my younger sister, although we pretended that she was Sally’s sister, because I wanted my daughter to have a playmate her own age.
Nurse: So you lost your daughter as well as your niece. I’m very sorry for you, doctor.
Doctor: It’s impossible for you to image how difficult this is for me. What am I going to tell her mother?
Nurse: By Sally’s mother, who exactly are you referring to: your former girlfriend or your sister?
Doctor: What’s wrong with you nurse. I mean Suzie. She’s experienced so much loss lately. You know her son, Carey, died last year, don’t you? So she’s now lost both her children. Tragic.
Nurse: But wasn’t Carey Sally’s former husband.
Doctor: Exactly. You can image how hard it is going to be on her to have lost a daughter, sister, and step-daughter all on the same day.
Nurse: A triple tragedy for Suzie and a double one for you.
Doctor: It's also a tragedy for you.
Nurse: In what way?
Doctor: What I’ve never told you was that Suzie was your sister as well.
Nurse: So Sally was my…
Doctor: Niece
Nurse: And you are my...
Doctor: Brother
Nurse: But, doctor, why didn’t you inform me of these facts before we started going out?
Doctor: Would it have made a difference?
Nurse: I probably would have liked that bit of information just the same.
Doctor: You can hardly expect me to keep every relationship in this hospital straight all the time. I’m a very busy man. I got confused.
Nurse: I’m sorry for being so difficult at a time like this. Well, on the positive side, I now have a brother.
Doctor: But, sadly, you’ve lost a niece and are going to have a difficult time explaining to your sister why you are sleeping with her former boyfriend.
Nurse: Well perhaps she’ll be happy that her brother has found a nice girl. There’s only one real problem I have.
Doctor: What’s that?
Nurse: A few years ago, before Sally and Carey got married, I had a brief fling with Carey.
Doctor: (Shocked) What! You had intimate relations with Carey. How horrifying!
Nurse: Horrifying because he was my nephew or because he was my niece’s husband?
Doctor: Neither.
Nurse: Then what’s the problem?
Doctor: He’s not Jewish.
Nurse: But you were ok with that when he was married to your niece...I mean daughter.
Doctor: That was different. You were the girl I loved. I thought religion meant something to you. The wedding is off.
Nurse: Do I still get to come to family holidays?
Doctor: (Grasping her hands) Of course. There’s nothing more important than family.

the gunks

Here's a poem inspired by a recent hiking trip to New Paltz that I took with some friends. The goal was to begin to get ready for a 10 day Himalayan trekking expedition that we are planning to do in 2011. What I discovered - much to my chagrin - is that I have a long, long way to go before I am fit enough to tackle the highest mountain ranges in the world!

the rocks hang like giant monoliths,
tumbled wildly one upon the other,
like a child’s oversized playthings
scattered wantonly about his room /
the goal, i have been told, is to get
to the top of this mess of rock
where there will be time
to appreciate the sweeping views
from the lofty mountain peak/
my hand reaches up to grasp the ragged bolder
lodged precariously above my head,
and with all the strength I have left,
i pull myself to the next ledge /
a moment to catch my breath,
to reorient myself, and
massage my aching leg muscles /
then it’s time to move on,
inching my way along this primieval
vertical landscape /

dave is already on top,
urging me on with
with his usual air of wanton glee /
for him, this is just a lark in the countryside
but my forty-four year old body is beginning to feel
every sore muscle, every cut, every scrape
of every branch that has violated the sanctity of my
once pristine, twig-like legs /
i curse him and his idiotic exuberance /
if I had a gun with me I would shoot him—
BLAM, BLAM—
ending his juvenile attempts to rouse me
(“too old to make it up the mountain, man?”) /

if i had the guts, I would retreat
right back down these damned boulders
and make my way along the well-beaten,
gently sloping path that winds its way
to the mountain house /
but i am forty-four—almost forty-five actually—
a time when a man can lose his vital essence
and start to settle for the soft ways of midlife
that inevitably lead to the swift, steady decline /
and i will have none of that…
not just yet anyway /
there will be no turning back for me,
no retreating from the misery of the climb,
no acknowledge of age, or pain, or weakness /
all i have to do is make it to giant boulder
hanging 50 feet above me,
and then i’m home free /
the endless agony will finally be over /

i plant my foot in the nearest crevice
and pull myself up,
a sharp, stabbing pain
shooting up my left arm /
cursing the limitations of my flabby flesh,
i haul myself up over one giant rock,
and then another,
till at last I come to the final torturous obstruction /
almost over now, I moan to myself,
and catapult my body over the top
with a loud grunt and heavy sigh /

i’ve made it,
and my reward—
if you can call it that—
is to be able finally to rest my stiff limbs
on the mountainside ledge
and watch as the soft clouds pass silently overhead /
i stretch out on the hard rock,
more comfortable to me than any feather bed
and welcome the sun beating on my face.
“peace at last!” I shout out to my companions,
proud of myself for being man enough
to endure the unmitigated hell
of a weekend mountain climb with the boys.
“whatdoyamean,” replies dave,
his big, stupid face now blocking out the sun.
“we’re only half way up;
we haven’t even gotten
to the really rough part yet.”

someday, I’m going to kill
that bastard.

London Scenes

Restricted Entry
“What is your reason for coming to England?” the immigrations official asked me in the usual supercilious manner adopted by airport personnel around the world.
.....“I’m on holiday from my studies in Belgium,” I replied courteously.
.....“And what is it, maay I axk, that you study over there in Belgium?” he inquired, his crude cockney origins betrayed in every word he uttered.
.....“Philosophy,” I responded, thinking that would be the end of the conversion, as it usually was.

.....But he was having none of it.
.....“Ohhhh, philosophy,” he bellowed, loud enough for just about everyone in Heathrow Airport to hear. “Look ‘ere, Harold,” he said to his portly colleague in the next booth. “We got us a regular Schopenhauer wid us today.”
.....The other people on line were turning around to stare at me now and I was beginning to become self-conscious.
.....“So tell me, Mr. Philosopher,” the immigration official said with mockery in his voice. “What sort of Phi-los-o-phy are you studying over there in the marvelous kingdom of Belgium.”
.....I decided to teach this stupid little cockney jerk a lesson. “Post-Thomistic, neo-scholastic metaphysical skepticism, focused primarily on the later works of William of Ockham,” I said as arrogantly as I could, waiting for the look of utter bewilderment to appear on his face.
.....“Oh,” he said with bored indifference. “I would have thought that in a place as sophisticated as Belgium they would have been more into the phenomenological epistemology of Heidegger or Husserl. A bit behind the times, ain’t they?”
.....With that he stamped my passport and called for the next person on line.

Ennui
“Maureen, we are going to the most superfabulous bar in all of London. The beer is incredible, the food is supposedly outstanding, and they say the place is filled with fascinating people from all over England. All of us are going. Don’t you want to join us?” I asked.
.....“No,” she replied, and turned around and walked away.

Existential Fish
“I’ll have haddock and chips,” I said to the Pakistani fellow behind the counter at McGill’s Fish and Chips Emporium, located in the Highbridge section of London not far from our hotel.
.....“No haddock,” he replied, barely looking at me from behind the counter.
.....“Ok, then I’ll have cod and chips.”
.....“No cod,” he said, again with barely a glance.
.....“Isn’t this supposed to be a fish and chips place?” I asked, extremely confused now.
.....“Yes, but no fish today.”
.....“Ok,” I said in desperation, my empty stomach now beginning to growl fiercely. “Then just give me some chips.”
.....“No chips.”
.....“Well, what do you have to eat?” I wondered.
.....“Eat?” he said, looking up at me with confusion reigning in his eyes. “Why do you want to eat?”
.....“Because I’m hungry,” I said.
.....“We are all hungry,” he replied and went back to staring blankly out of the window of his shop.

Yorkshire Pudding

A hot date in London, a beautiful companion, a traditional English restaurant in Kensington.
.....My order: Roast beef with Yorkshire pudding. What could be more traditional than that? I think to myself.
.....The meal comes: rare beef and some tiny biscuits floating in gravy.
.....On the side is the creamy white pudding in a stainless steel serving bowl. I scoop out a heaping spoonful of the white stuff and stuff it into my mouth while my date watches.
.....Important lesson learned: What they refer to in England as “pudding” is actually the crappy little biscuits floating in the gravy. The white stuff is most assuredly NOT pudding, but some noxious British concoction that they serve to unsuspecting American tourists to punish us for our economic superiority and military prowess. Mine ended up spewed out of my mouth and onto the expensive new dress my date was wearing.
.....That was our first date. And it was our last.

Kathmandu

There never really was
.............a place called
.............Kathmandu—
jasmine-scented,
snow-peaked
.............paradise
pearched precariously
.............on the jagged teeth
.............of Mother Himalaya.
No mist-covered,
.............mystic wonderland
filled with endless rows
.............of Buddhists monks
.............clanging singing bowls
.........................in garland-filled temples
in praise of sexy, seductive Tara,
goddess of transcendent desire.
No, just sense-clogging pollution,
.............nasty, clamoring cabs
.............threatening to level
.............any careless tourist
.............foolish enough
.............to step out into
.............the mad manic streets,
the incessant hawkers
.............selling spiritual bliss
.............in the form of some god-awful
.............piece of mass-produced
.............Buddha-crap,
and miles of cesspool bi-ways
.............flowing brown-bile down
.............the garbage-strewn
.............mountainsides.

There never could have been
.............the Kathmandu
that existed with such perfect clarity
in the far reaches of my
overly fertile imagination,
the kind of place where
.............sublime enlightenment
.............could be had
at the turn of every corner
and the mere sight
of the rugged Annapurnas
enough to send one into
a perpetual state of
............dizzying orgasmic frenzy.

Kathmandu is really just
............a state of mind,
after all,
not a place that exists
............in space and time.
It’s Kat-man-du,
Kat-man-godalmightdy-du,
much more magnificent
in anticipation than in actuality.
In my mind,
it’s the ultimate dreamland
where I could sit on some lone
mountain perch
.............with the saintly sadhu
as the silent snow leopard
.............passes idly by….
perfect bliss totally realized
in that space
where earth and sky
mingle joyfully in
.............cloud-covered,
.............dew-drenched
........................ecstasy.

There never really was
a place like
.............Kathmandu,
But that’s ok:
In this cold-blooded world
warm-flowing fantasies
are always preferable to
.............stainless steel reality
and the silent sadhus of the mind
much more fascinating
than the ones selling themselves
on busy intersections at
............20 rupees a shot.

Caribbean Moments

Dancing Gecko

gecko dancing along
the wooden planks
under my bed /
i can hear him scurrying about
the cabin in the dead of night
while I am trying to sleep /
for a hardcore Nieu Yourka like me
there is some apprehension
in having a living creature—
especially a slimy one with a
long tail and flicking tongue—
ramble about the closed confines
of my tropical shack /
but it is all completely fine /
i give him the space he needs
to do his little moonlight tango
and he gobbles up all the mosquitoes
that would otherwise pick me to pieces
in the dead of night /

.......perfect......symmetry


After the Storm

The Caribbean rain
moves in swiftly from the east
and without any warning.
Only a few minutes ago
I was dousing myself in the
balmy rays of the afternoon sun.
Then, before I could even move
to the safety of shelter,
the sky opened up upon me,
drenching me
.......right down
.............to my spleen.
I suppose I should be peeved
at having my lazy sunfest
so rudely interrupted,
but this is the Caribbean
and even the thunderstorms
have their glorious appeal.

A short wait
beneath the kayak shack
as the heavy drops
splash playfully on the
shimmering blue water.
Before I can even settle in,
the sun returns
brilliant as ever,
then a stunning rainbow
flashes across the sky—
a gift from the gods,
perhaps?

Within minutes I am back
on the sandy beach,
soggy novel in my hand,
as thought nothing
happened at all.
And indeed nothing really did…
just a typical afternoon
Caribbean-style.

The End of the Innocence

July 1977. It has turned really sunny and warm outside. That means its time again for me to be playing outdoors with the kids on the block. “Go out and see what Ricky and John are doing,” my mother advises me. “You spend too much time inside reading. It’s not healthy.” I go down the street to the overgrown bushes of Lexington School for the Deaf, where I know I’ll find Ricky and John. That’s where they always are, doing what they always do: smoking pot out of a huge purple bong. The bong is so big that I can barely see the top of John’s head. He is already high from smoking so much, and is feeling in a more affable mood than usual. “What da fuck do you want, Mike?” he growls. “Don’t think you’re getting any of my shit, cause there’s barely enough for Ricky and me.” He knows that I don’t smoke, but he just wants to make sure I know how unwelcome a turd like me is in his world. He sucks up as much of the smoke from the bong as he can, then passes it to Ricky, who greedily takes his turn. Within a half hour they are so stoned that they barely even know I am there.

I walk back to the house, pick up my well-worn copy of The Lord of the Rings and continue reading from where I had left off.

“I don’t know what’s wrong with you,” my mother says when she sees me on the couch with my book. “Everyone is outside having a good time, and here you are as always reading some idiotic book. Why can’t you be like all the other kids on the block?”

Just Me and Joe

July 5, 1971. My 7th birthday. Today was going to be my day to stick it to the jerks on the block. It was the days of the G.I. Joe craze, when every self-respecting lad of 7 or 8 had at least two or three Joes and a slew of necessary accessories (various weapons, uniforms, jeeps, and the like). Now, there was a definite hierarchy among the Joes, and everyone, no matter how limited they were intellectually, understood this hierarchy intuitively and respected it: The standard regulation Joe with the black beard was either a private or a corporal; the African-American Joe—which, for some reason, none of the Italian or Irish kids in the neighborhood seemed to have—was a sergeant; the non-bearded Joe was a lieutenant or captain; and the gray haired Joe was a colonel. The ranks for each Joe also depended upon your place in the complex hierarchy of the block and varied depending upon how old or how tough you were.
.....Today, for once, was going to be my day. Today was the first day that Hasbro, the maker of the G.I. Joe action figures (Don’t even think about calling them dolls!) was coming out with the white haired Joe, who we had all already determined had to be the general. In an act of uncharacteristic compassion, my mother had agreed that, while she was shopping on Roosevelt Ave., she would stop into Toy City and buy me the white haired Joe for my birthday. I would be the first kid on the block to have him and, therefore, because of the rules of seniority, would always have the highest-ranking G.I. Joe on the block.
.....I tried to be cool about the whole thing, but I know that I probably couldn’t help rubbing my good fortune into the faces of my less than delighted pals. We were playing on the street, when in the distance I could see my mother’s hobbit-like frame waddle down the street pushing a shopping cart. “This is it!” I shouted as loudly as I could to all my friends. “This is the moment when I get to be the one in charge, the guy givin’ the orders!” My friends gritted their teeth and I could hear them cursing under their breaths. But what could they do? The rules were the rules.
.....I ran down the street as fast as I could. My mother had the usual look of apathy on her face, but perhaps because it was my birthday she didn’t greet me with her usual, “Will you just leave me the hell alone until I get inside.” Instead she put her hand into the cart and slowly lifted out the large bag she had inside. It had the famous “Toy City” logo on it, so I knew that my wildest dreams were about to come true.
.....“Here’s your damn toy,” my mother said, dropping the package in my hands. “Now go play with your friends and try not to bother me for a few hours, will you?”
.....I ran as fast as I could with the package to the spot where my friends were playing. They were all looking up at me with incredible envy in their eyes.
.....“Well here he is,” I said proudly pulling Joe out of his brown paper wrapping. “Get ready to start taking commands.”
.....I pulled Joe out of the bag and lifted him up like the sacred object that he was and waited for the oooohs and ahhhhhs of admiration from my friends.
.....“Look at that!” I heard fat Ricky shout out. “Your mother really screwed you over this time.” In seconds, everyone was joining him laughing at me.
.....I turned the box around and gasped in horror. Instead of the white haired Joe, who would be giving commands forever, my mother in her usual state of confusion had accidentally bought the red haired Joe—the one we had determined was the doctor, the one who couldn’t give any commands at all, the one, in short, who no one in his right mind would ever want to have. The poor bastard wasn’t even able to fight. All he could do was wait around in the “hospital,” waiting until someone came in with an injury. And the reality was that no one’s Joe in the entire history of the G.I. Joe Universe ever got injured. They might get their head or limbs ripped off, but they never would waste their time going to see some candy-ass, red haired Joe doctor.
.....“Hey, Mike,” Rudy said. “I got a mole on my ass. Do you think your Dr. Joe could check it out for me? He, he, he…”
.....“What an idiot!” I heard someone say as I walked back home, my head hung in abject shame.
.....“How did the boys like your new doll,” my mother asked as she stirred the sausage and peppers she was making for dinner.
.....“It’s not a doll,” I snapped. “And you got the wrong one. I asked you to get me the doll—I mean action figure—with the white hair. You got me the one with the red hair.”
.....“White, red…What’s the difference,” my mother said, oblivious to my agony. “They’re all the same anyway. Just pretend you have the white haired one.”
.....Just pretend I had the white haired one. If only I could have pretended that my entire existence up until that point was just a cruel nightmare that I would one day wake up from, then I might have some consolation. Right now, though, it was just me and the doc—two sad, pathetic losers who were victims of a chronically unjust, consistently absurd universe.
.....And these were supposed to be the good years.Hero

Mark the Spot

That mark above my right eye—
I think that certain smart-asses
would call it an age spot—
was not there a year ago…
a year ago
all you would see
if you took the time
to look betwixt my baby blue eyes
and kinky latin hairline was a
creamy band of custard skin
flowing smoothly across
my eternally indifferent forehead.

Now that damned thing
has suddenly appeared out of nowhere,
dark and round,
mocking me by its very presence,
a dreary portent of inevitable decay,
a specter of more indignities
yet to endure.

It’s the same fucking spot
my father has on his wrinkled old brow,
but my old man is centuries old
and I am still in my prime
(whatever the hell that means).

Damned spot,
I would rip you off
with a jack-hammer
if I wasn’t afraid of
damaging my gorgeous mind.

Damned spot,
I would scrape you away
with some really harsh sandpaper,
if I knew you would stay away
for good.

Damned spot,
it’s too soon for me
to embrace the inevitable,
so just leave me the fuck alone,
will you?

Damned spot,
you think that I am fooled
by your apparent affability,
but I know you are
the harbinger of my
ultimate doom.

Damned spot,
you are death
staring me right in the face—
.15 inches in circumference
but lethal as a loaded gun
in a demented child’s hands.

Damned spot,
soon you will invite your
little brown friends to join you
for a raucous parade
across my face,
and those still in their prime
will say,
“Gee, how old he looks;
I remember him when…”

Damned spot,
I know that you will
eventually defeat me,
but for now
I’ve got my eye on you
and I’m not letting you
out of my sight.

Beware!

Lush Life

Ok, I was listening to Sinatra today and thinking somewhat refined thoughts (for a change). I wanted to see if I could write a few poems that capture my ideas about the good life. You know: charming romance, fine food, interacting with sophisticated people in interesting places. These are the best I was able to come up with. It's not my usual choice of subject, but I thought I would try something completely new.

Your skin smells like jasmine—
or is it honeysuckle?
I could never tell the difference.
Silky skin,
so incredibly smooth—
smooth like vanilla yogurt
and just as inviting.

A dark brewed cup
of Belgian coffee
(bold but never bitter),
a glass half -filled
with Norman Calvados,
shimmering gold
in the Northern moonlight—
a perfect pair
if ever there was one.
A taste of coffee,
then a sip of calvados
(ahhh, what ecstasy!)
Only later did I realize
it should have been
the other way around.
There are rules for
these sorts of things
in civilized nations.

We once held hands,
walking down along the
left embankments of the Seine
as the tourist boats passed lazily by
and Notre Dame cast
its inviting shadow
across our path.
No better time
to be alive
and certainly
no better place.

You look just like Liza Minelli
and your taste borders on the sublime—
all Bennett, Martin, and
just the right kind of jazz
(soothingly familiar but never predictable).
I really thought that I would
fall hard for you,
but then I realized something—
right taste,
wrong face.

I turn on the radio…
Sinatra singing “The Summer Wind.”
Could anything be cooler than that?
Could anything be
quite as melancholy?

Miro opening at the Gagosian.
Everyone exquisitely attired,
lovely beyond description,
and drenched with that
strange sort of
unnatural refinement
that only true art lovers
from Chelsea possess.
There were some paintings
there too,
but no one seemed
to notice them.

Life Lesson (Wherein a Middle-Aged Academic Learns that All Happiness in Life Springs from a Young Child’s Nose)

......At the park today I saw a child picking his nose.
......Young man, I said to him in an authoritative tone, don’t you know that it is extremely uncouth for a boy your age to be picking his nose in public?
......But the young boy was unimpressed by my admonitions and stuck his finger even deeper into his left nostril.
......Little man, I tried again, your manners leave much to be desired. Stop picking your nose right now!
......Again the young boy ignored me and continued to probe his nasal cavity with focused intensity.
......Now I was getting agitated. My friend, I said, I am going to tell your mother about your rude behavior and I can assure you that she will not be happy about it.
......Still, the boy continued to pick away, not even bothering to glance at me as I scolded him.
......My frustration was reaching the point where I was afraid that I would say something extremely unkind to the boy, but then at once I saw the point of his quest. For out of his left nostril sprang the most exquisite virgin princess, dressed in pink lace, riding a white unicorn. As the unicorn gained its footing, the princess lifted the little boy on its back and the two rode off together. I hear they recently bought a four-bedroom cape in an exclusive subdivision outside of Boston, where they live with their four children and a large humpback turtle named Gary.

A Place to Call My Own

There’s this little tamale place in Corona—down about 97th street—where I go sometimes when I get the hankering for traditional Mexican food. Now I’m not talking about the fancy shit that they serve in pseudo-Mexican dining establishments like Don Jose’s or Senior Pepe’s, which are nothing more than sanitized versions of Mexican cuisine aimed at pleasing the neutered palates of pasty gringos. No, what I’m referring to is the real deal: the kind of grubby, greasy, mouth-blistering Mexican slop that they actually serve in every piss-ass town south of the border. And I can assure you that this is most definitely the real, fucking deal.

I would tell you the name of the place so that you can go there some time, but I don’t think it has one. There was a tacky sign outside the restaurant at one point, but I think it was stolen by vandals in the early 90s. Now all that’s left is a tattered piece of cardboard in the window that simply says “Comida.” In case you failed seventh grade Spanish, comida means “food,” which doesn’t help very much if you’re trying to figure out what they have to eat.

My Mexican dive in Corona has its own unique ambiance that often goes unappreciated by those who covet such pretentious commodities in eating establishments as cleanliness and proper hygiene. But, if you can get beyond tables perpetually covered in the detritus of decaying half-eaten food particles and the thin film of grease coating every inch of the place, you just might come to appreciate its laid-back atmosphere.

I must confess that I have a particular fondness for the women behind the counter who take orders with all the charm of Marine drill sergeants. They have a look of dull apathy as they ring up endless rounds of rice, beans, and plantanos. They take down the orders well enough, I suppose, but the orders never come out quite the way you ask for them. It might have something to do with the language barrier…or the women who work there might just be incredibly stupid. I haven’t figured out which yet.

The place also as its own peculiar smell—something like a cross between rotting garbage and bad body odor. I know where the garbage smell is coming from: it’s not hard to notice the mountains of decaying food overflowing the buckets that serve as waste receptacles in the dining area which are rarely, if ever, emptied. I also know damned well where the b.o. is coming from: it’s the fragrance of choice of the local clientele and the army of homeless men who descend upon the establishment after getting their methadone prescriptions filled at the local rehab center down the street.

As you eat your lunch, you try as much as possible to ignore the fat roaches scurrying along the floors and on the walls. When the roaches attempt to walk away with your food, though, you have little choice but to flick them off the table. When that happens, the little Mexican children sitting on the floor jump up in delight. Fat roaches are like house pets to kids in this part of Queens. They dress them up in costumes according to the season, walk them around on leashes, teach them to do back flips, and give them funny names like Tito and Puta.

There are those individuals of limited cultural appreciation who are horrified at the thought of eating in a place like this. “It’s a fucking death trap, man,” my friends always tell me. “When the bubonic plague strikes again, this is gonna be ground zero,” they joke.

In my heart I know they have a point. I also know that they are right when they say that the food served in my favorite Mexican place in downtown Corona tastes liked “ground up dog shit mixed with cilantro and lime.” Although I myself have no particular gourmet’s fetish for canine waste products, I do have a fondness for cilantro, so I am able to ignore the otherwise repulsive flavor of the food. Besides, I spend so much time flicking roaches off the table that I’m barely even aware of how the food tastes.

“Why do you always have to go to that horrible place in Corona?” my mother asks every time I tell her I need to make a run there. The answer is quite simple: everyone has to have a place they call their own. Woody Allen has the Russian Tea Room, Robert Deniro, Le Cirque, and I have my little “Comida” joint. One day in the future—and I hope to God that day may never come—the Board of Health will probably come and close down my favorite little Mexican dive. Until then, I’ll always have a place to go whenever I get the hankering for small taste of sunny Mexico right on Roosevelt Avenue just east of the 94th street station in beautiful downtown Corona.