Fast Day 95 March 28 2009 {Intoxication}

A Poppy Field in France

Intoxication

Before Dionysos created wine,
before Gaia of the poppies

gave dreams in Crete of intense delight,
your love was the intoxicant.

Before Apollo's sunbright beam,
before the flight of Eos, who

shot arrows from a photonic quiver
your smile was the dawn.

Before the Sibyl's book.
before the Delphic sage,

and the sensuality of wisdom,
your touch was my intuition.

Before Atlantis sank,
before farthest Thule,

and caravans to Samarkand,
you were the unknown land!

Before I drink the nectar-draught,

before I sing my endless ode,

once more a weary nomad trek

across your lovely threshhold!

notes:

Dionysos was the ancient god of wine;

ancient Crete had a goddess - whom I call Gaia - who wore a crown of poppy heads;

The Delphic sage was the ancient oracle of Apollo at Delphi;

Thule was Ultima Thule, the most far away in the world;

Fast Day 94 March 21 {Marcy Forgot the Doritos}

This Super Bowl Sunday Marcy
Forgot To Get Doritos


the road runs above the quilt of fields
and cool whisps of fog are the batting
of this Super Bowl Sunday from dawn to dusk;
from lehigh to dresden is but a hen's race
and we'll be at the convenience store soon
to get doritos marcy fergot to buy -
she's only twelve years old - and some beer and smokes.

we wish the damned fog would lift, and the weather
would get warm; it hasn't been warm since oooh-8
and 'lectric bill run way too high
and consumer's cooperative power is mighty happy,
making money like the bank of han'over fist;
we can't make out the lights at brewster's store yet,
damn photon-pinchin' miser!

oh, the store is warm, is warm, and ole brewster's too!
and we're buzzed in the aisles of delights
and delicacies, see a packet full
of smoked oysters- imagine- smoking oysters!
like we'd eat in New York City - if we ever wanted.
and caviar at thirty bucks a snifter full;
no bigger than my chewin' tobacco tin!

great panoply of groceterías
whither flow the aquaducts of beer-belly:
jim crow an' old grand dad an' famous grouse,
and it doesn't ever cost much more than that!
we spaced out and didnot want to leave.
brewster got a funny look, and asked if we're ok?
the colors of the jujubes boxes were like eyes of newt!

brewster said, it's best time you'd be goin' an' kin
ye drive yersel'? we had the munchies and feared
the constant weep of rain and dark of clouds.
we looked for brother bill to come running across the
far fields, newly resurrected, his chest hot and
steaming with life, but no one came across them
fields no more...spittin' with life's full fury!

the roads piss out a marijuana fog from lungs
empty of all except the cancer,
and candles light the empty houses' windows like elmo's
fire, gleaming points of golden coins upon the eyes;
there be broke down tractors rustin' in the fields,
where willows rattle and rasp like hands o' glory... drove
back home for the superbowl- damn, fergot the doritos!


notes:

groceterias: grocery stores
bank of han'over fist: a bank making money hand over fist
a hen's race: not very far
jim crow and old grandad: cheap whiskies; the first is actually 'old crow'
famous grouse: moderately priced scotch
hand o' glory: hand of glory from the dark arts

Fast Day 93 March 12 2009 {Home Thoughts From Abroad}

Home Thoughts From Abroad

Oh! to be in America when the Bubble is in bloom!
and have a pension fully invested in bonds and equities!
To be in the Boom! A house with emblem picket fence,
round which chestnut, elm, and ash bud
in the rainy, juvenile spring
in America now!

And after the 4th quarter of 2008,
there follow the quarters of oh-nine;
I see the foliage of trees become as sparse
as my aging hair; trees victim of unceasing
flux, and blight, a full panoply of agent-orange
to drive the hedged row to extinction;
no bird stops to sing, save the dove in mourning.
Boom and Bust! Go hike, young man, in newly verdant
fields, and view nature gory in tooth and claw!
nature! - determined by evolution's invisible hand,
just as our markets optimized by Adam Smith
and his long dead throttling grasp! beware the bear
rumbling by, who hasn't slept all winter, and
who wanders to the stream, lean and ugly of no cheer.

farvos madoff ? play by the flowing bourne!
enjoy and fill your heart with joy, momento
mori, steal away before the Bust's return!



<<<<<>>>>>
notes

I guess one would call this comic or satire or something along those lines.
It is about the idea of capitalism being a system which cycles between boom and bust.
The poem is based on Robert Browning's Home Thoughts From Abroad "Oh, to be in England..." and sort of blew up from 18 lines to 22.

line 4. chestnut, elm, and ash are trees endangered by blight and disease.

line 10. agent-orange = Agent Orange the anti-foliant used in Vietnam.

line 16. Adam Smith, the Scottish economist, referred to the invisible hand of markets that efficiently determine prices. There is a parallelism here to some "unseen" hand that moves evolution.

line 17. throttling may mean strangling or to increase speed, the two opposite meanings reflecting boom versus bust. Sort of bi-polar.

line 17. bear - financial markets going down.

line 20. farvos madoff? why (are you) so (like Bernie) Madoff ? Neo-Yiddish for something like don't be a shmuck. It is bi-polar, like capitalism's boom and bust: it could mean to fly high as a financial genius, or to be a goniff and end up in jail.

line 21. a momento mori is an indication or symbol of death - a reminder that from dust to dust.

line 22. steal away: to escape and it also recalls the original meaning of madoff.

Fast Day 92 March 6 2009 {I Wish I Had a Poem}

I wish I had a poem
to write, to speak, and dance to;
a wide ranging poem about the world,
and all the life therein, the quick, the dead,
the men and the women, the loving, the hate:
whirling like a dervish upon the threshing floors of Crete;
Zorba - lightning - arrakh!
dark haired women and their music...
I wish I had a poem.

I wish I had a poem
to flaunt, to wear, and flourish;
a flash, trash ensemble catching eyes,
and turns the heads all 'round to look at it;
and drive adoring acolytes to kneel-
before my wind swept chest encased in leather tattoos,
drunk and mad and waiting
for the shirtless, pallid vision...
I wish I had a poem.

I wish I had a poem
entrancing like Astarte's
perfumed encapturing embrace of love!
who walked along Yonge Street one Sunday morn
and drove parishoners from their kirks,
seeking haloes antique of lovely goddesses and gods!
forswear, soul, do forswear
the throbbing crush, the madd'ning roar...
I wish I had a poem.

I wish I had a poem
that would relieve the world's pain
and save children everywhere from harm;
and lullaby sorrow, and wipe their tears
lest all their fathers should ever depart
into warfare's hungry substantial market place of blood:
haggling costs of our sins-
idolatry of precious metals.
I wish I had a poem.

I wish I had a poem
that would pick me up at Central Park
and take me on a trip to St. John Divine;
and stop to look at cherry blossoms
in the morn of spring after a storm
when sky and ground burst alike into pink petals
we spread our blanket and
even saints join our picnic...
I wish I had a poem.