In Shakespeare’s time, one bit one’s thumb to cause offence. Today, we raise a finger. In the near-future, I predict humans will place an index finger beneath the chin, eyes rolled, tongue lolling, in imitation of a head impaled on a sharpened pole of some kind, whilst crouching and describing several slashing crosses upon the top of the foot with the index finger of the other hand, toi ndicate that one has been ‘canceled’, or has told a bad joke, or is a bit of a you-know. Victims of this gesture will boil, but something interesting will happen; people will fall off things like bridges or rafts constantly in the process of slurring another in this manner. In the near-future, there will be, at the same time, more laughter, and less laughter, and more funerals.
Have you ever had to dress a friend? Well, something about this week’s poems from Arvin reminded me that I once had cause to, and I shall tell you about it, regardless.
After a night of drinking, and drug-use (it was the first, and last time we mixed mescaline, liquid MDMA, and something else that later turned out to be feline worming tablets – I loved an enchilada) I woke to find Arvin curled-up on the couch. After finding a pulse, I made a snap decision not to let him miss his appointment to get an oil change and tire-rotation for all the milk in the fridge, and to help him get ready to go.
Unsure of the best approach, I remembered the advice of my uncle Argo, who owned a funeral home. “Start at the pretty end,” he’d sing. So, after I’d put on Arvin’s socks and pants, I placed one hand behind his back, the other beneath his knees and, with a determined jerk managed to raise him to a sitting position. This roused him. Dazed, he asked: “What are you doing?” “Just repay me, someday,” I replied, as I slipped a T-shirt over his head. “Hell of a night, eh?” “What do you mean?” he asked. “Great party,” I said. “I wasn’t there,” he said. I looked back at him, a knowing gleam my eye: “For real, though.”
'Fuv' Arm yourself, don't arm yourself, Against predictability Which breeds familiarity. You know what that breeds... For living! Leave your front door backwards. With these words, arm yourself, Don't arm yourself, against what hasn't Happened yet: 'Fuv, you twet' For life! Say it's not enhanced. - A.R. 'Many' I watched, for some time the last leaves against the pallid sky of a fall afternoon and by focusing on a single example I became aware that each, by itself, in the quality of its movements was doing something equally exquisite to create the over-all impression of the tree. - A.R. 'Mo Tucker' Seventeen minutes. Singing nun. With a mighty drum, When there was only you, me And my guitar that cost a dime, You kept me in good time. "Let's focus on the facts." "Let's not." That's when you become Mo Tucker to the max. Mo: When someone's always there for you, Then they're no longer there for you, And leaves you where you thought you stood Saying: "Where'd you go?" Right about when you set down your sticks In that era famously Described by Shane MacGowan as "Two fags with a keyboard" - Not how I'd define it. Still, Expecting much decorum from A man with so few teeth is like Hoping that the cat plays with the mouse - I mean, 'Go Fish'. Thumping on the tub, peddling the pish, No longer recognized, if, indeed You ever were - "Sorry - I thought you were someone else!" Conspiracy, or fraud? All two-hundred-and-ten on board Throw up into paper sacks. Mo Tucker to the max. - A.R.
As regular readers know, I once owned a large, white dog. One day, I arrived home to discover it had torn up a stack of old newspapers I kept in the middle of the floor and upon which I displayed a photograph of myself pruning a ficus, and was standing amongst the debris looking guilty and ashamed.
I looked him square in the eye – which is how you’re meant to look at a dog, the book said – and said, aloud: “Oh, what have you done you mad, stupid, aggressive, selfish, duplicitous, ugly, drooling, flabby, greedy, destructive, thoughtless, hateful, beastly creature?”
It stared back at me with those big, guilty eyes, but I didn’t buy it, not for a second, or even two. I had no doubt that had I moved one step closer, he would have torn me to shreds. I was just another newspaper to him.
I don’t know what happened to the dog. It might have died. I couldn’t care less, since its very existence was all in my mind, and no-one reads newspapers, anymore.
'Bridge' Then we realized: everything We do in life is stupid, and pointless. So we stopped. Then we realized: Life is stupid, and pointless. - M.B. 'Rubberbutton' Strange; huge, and small. Rubber button in the floor Releases rainfall warm, in summer, Inside, where the walls are blue And dancing, and my flippers blue And dancing, for my feet are far Too small, but the world is, too. My father's sandstone heel Comes down, and I stop shivering, Smile, and all my words come back To wash, to wash the chlorine off, Away, with words, and words. Remember how you learned to swim? I cannot recall. I always did, but Rubber button in the floor I always will. M.B.
I recently had a long discussion with Adam about fungal infections of the finger and toenails. Part way through, he said: “Your knowledge of fungal infections of the finger and toenails is bordering on encyclopedic.” I believe this is one of the finest compliments I have ever received.
Returning home, I began to desire very much to be an encyclopedia. Clearing off a bookshelf, I attempted to balance myself on it, but it proved too narrow. The following day, I went to the store and purchased some extra-long shelf brackets, and a 7×3 sheet of pinewood. After securely affixing it, which took most of the day, I climbed gingerly onto the shelf and sat there, very still, in the half-light.
It didn’t take me long – perhaps less than two-and-a-half hours – to realize that, since I was a book, I had no human body parts and could not read myself. The strange sensation overwhelmed me of all knowledge being locked away inside of me, unable to be accessed. I let a deep sigh of disillusionment. The slight shift in body weight this caused was enough to, in turn, cause one of the brackets to become detached, and the whole shelf assembly, and I with it, fell to the floor.
I am not a book, any more than I am a small side-salad.
'The Game We Play' We come, each of us, our tails Between our legs, roses With our heads, to be pulled Together, where the frown becomes A cramp, to the conference Where investment and return are Intertwined, that is, bound Willingly, that is, by The will of our desires To increase our collection Of others' emotions - Will you please take these? Hey, partner! Lean Into the wind, and drive Toward the crest, white lip of White-hot whispers Urging us to sign - and hurry! there's Not time to lose - A contract for a killing where The killer is the victim. As It says above the line, clearly Stated in the rules: all Shall win, all shall lose. This Results in equilibrium, A selfish game for two, This, when it turns out well. - A.W. 'The Well-Fast Boys' Listen, he said. This is a story. They came from a place where tears Fell, and potatoes Came like coals - which meant The pan was hot, but empty - dressed In tidy jags, and vest, and jesting Joined the seam antici-pa-tory. Aye-diddle, aye-dee, said the bear; they Lacking the requisite, turned away And hung in the center, pedestrianized Puffing, and shufflin', kicking the floor: Let's have one! Buy your own. But I'm starving! Fine. There y'are. And this is what he diddle-id. Under the last Chip in the tray... Listen! he cried - I.D.E.A. - A.W.
I’m not exactly in love with shoddy backwaters, but jeeps, this is just mean. Anyway, all the characters described sound like perfectly delightful people, though there’s no evidence to suggest that. It’s just what I think when I close my eyes and hold my breath.
Whatever happened to not judging a book by cover, or a donkey by the tail? Though some people, admittedly, could do with a bit more cover. Perhaps a sort of wearable tent with a picture of a person of pleasant appearance painted on the outside…? – Gah! Now I’m doing it, too. This poem is dangerous to know. By all means read it, but avert your eyes. Which don’t quite look in the same direction, do they? Why is that? Weird.
'Friedkin, IL' There's something wrong with everyone, Each in their own way. An eye too high, an ear down here, Forehead's face a chit too sheer. Seen it all? You'll see more, on Friedkin's kitty-littered shore: Tiny top-bit, bigger bottom Biggest bottom! Teeny top... A walk that weaves, and cannot stop And, now I'm flowing, nor can I. No point, there is, except to say: How did things turn out like this? Something in the water? Something in the fizz? Or is it - careful - in the genes That made them choose Those shoes when offered Other options - too much booze? I'd drink, too, shots by twos If I were forced to blow that nose. Hate to scare the tourists off, but Something funny this way grows. At one end is fair, At the other strange. I'm no Vitruviano, still, There's a normal range. Different kinds, different breeds - In this, Friedkin ill-exceeds. Flying hair, spiders' legs! No point, there is, except to ask Whether they're connected to The fact that Friedkin smells of eggs The finest fast-food funk don't mask Here, where the Dragon crows Here, where the Scotch tape shows Where thumbs are nubs, and jaws don't close There's something wrong with everyone, Each in their own way, Come on down to DollarTown! In Friedkin, U.S.A. - L.G. 'Per Visions' I placed all of my spoons, and forks Carefully into my backpack, first, then Onto them, poured a gallon of sand. Next, four boxes of Sun-Maid raisins I overlaid with a New Yorker cover. I fired up my clippers, and cut my hair Into my backpack, brushed my teeth and Spat the suds in there, as well. Lastly, I added my phone, my keys Some crumbles of blue cheese, topped it Off with leaves and, with a pair Of hyphens in my left sock, swung My backpack over a shoulder. I was set To know that every-thing would be all-right. - L.G. 'May' On a cold, winter's day You've got to love yourself No matter what the sky might say. I didn't know how to love myself, But, once I'd learned to love myself, Now, there's no stopping May! - L.G.
Once upon a time, in the age of parables, a hairy man came to a village in which everyone was bald. The men were bald. The women were bald. The caterpillars were bald. Even the plugholes had no hair.
The man had come to buy a new phone, as his no longer worked, but just went “umm”. After asking around, he found himself at the phone store, and purchased a replacement. Despite, however, following the charging instructions to the letter, this new phone, too, failed to work. So he returned it, purchased another, and another – indeed, sixteen more phones – and not a single one would work. Finally, the store manager told the man: “It’s not the phone. It’s you.”
The man left the store, and stood in the street, and there, very loudly, proclaimed his frustration, as well as his opinion on a great many other topics. Slowly, at first, but increasingly, a crowd of people gathered about him, which spurred the man on. He thought they were interested in what he has to say. Fact is, they just wanted his hair.
Chop-chop,
J.R.
@saymoco
The Morning Corporation **** 