Many years ago, in the wee hours of The Morning Corporation, when we were not yet bonded without possibility for parole, we decided, in the interests of “unity”, to have a night out at the theater.
The show was called ‘The Music, Man!’ and featured a twenty year-old pianist whose name I cannot repeat here for legal, as well as linguistic reasons, except to say that he/she has since achieved very great fame indeed! (Hint!)
The show – though the word, here, is bathos – consisted of a single piece, itself consisting of each of its constituent notes played every six seconds for four hours and thirty-six minutes, the timing of which was significant: that was how long it took to play.
To be continued…
This week, Lauren delivered her poems while I was sleeping on my couch, a two-thirds full bottle of ginger ale in my hand, resting upon my chest. Receiving no reply at the door, she gained entry through an upstairs window then, standing over me, blew a whistle – so she told me later. This did not wake me. In fact, I did not stir, but the bottle tipped, the contents draining out about my neck and chest. Irritated, she yelled “Bat!”. That woke me. She passed me several sheets of paper and left without a word, while I went to shower, and start a load of laundry.
The thought that I might have passed wind in my sleep while she was standing by causes an anxiety in me that I am finding hard to shake.
I believe, though without proof, that these events inspired the first of Lauren’s poems this week.
'Give It Some Gas'
Is there anything that I can do
To help you get up, get up, do some
Thing? To help me, help me -
Here, can you not see?
I'm cutting off my leg, starting
Just below the knee - ooh, that
Really, really hurts - to beat you
With. To make you get up, I'll
Do anything you need. Is
There anything that I can do,
Or length that I can go,
To inspire someone like you?
While, still, I have an ear,
Tell me. You can tell me.
You can tell me anything.
Go on. I know you can.
- L.G.
'Company Of Men'
Teach me to repair to the city over there
Teach me to refer
To words which, there, are spoken
Teach me to ingratiate myself
To their society
With several finely-aimed, ironic jabs at
Their mo-i-ety
To cause discomfort not two layers deep
Then let them be relieved, indeed, to sleep
When I shall reassure them, saying:
"Ah, only jokin'."
- L.G.
In my experience, everything that is funny is twenty-five percent sad, and everything that is sad is twenty-five percent funny. The absence of either in the other is called depression.
Over to you, Matt Black:
'Heels Of Montaigne'
Quite popular in this locale,
The goal of sports like this
Is to take a fellow human-being
Shape it into something like
A ball, or bag of butchers' waste, then
Roll it with repeated prod of
Stick, not unlike a pool cue
Till you reach the tall, steel garbage
Can beside the dead spruce tree, then
By yourself, assisted by
One or more assistants, stuff it
Into it, followed by
A bucketful of strong Vermouth
A punnet of dry leaves (six pounds)
And scrunched-up credit card
Past-due notices, then, in a flick
Of a firestick, set the whole thing up
Ablaze, breathing in the smoke
As deeply as one can until
One passes out - that's when
They set the dogs - and by dogs
I mean hyenas - loose from cages
Placed in certain spots, and spaced
Evenly about the lawn
While, flanked by feathered friends
Tongue-less, and unbending smiles
The General - of a kind - looks on
Applauding; blind, and charismatic
As the lights behind him in
The windows flicker. We are won.
- M.B.
'Are You There?'
This terrible dream, even as
We live it, is committed to
The celluloid of old, cracked stock.
Where we, cuts for lids beneath
Peak of hand, came to find
Ourselves, are, no longer are,
As if our now is past -
Thank god, some believe
The music cannot die.
It is grass, and it is blue,
"Sandy Land" of Sam Long.
It is longing, yes, and dreaming.
We still have the music,
Ever-present living spirit
Vision of ourselves,
Remembrance of our future.
- M.B.
'Don't Get Mad'
I smile because I'm happy.
I smile because I'm sad.
I smile because I'm easy, and
I smile because I'm a Radical Left-wing
Socialist Pro-choice Environmentalist Feminist
LGBTQ Pro-union Francophile Racially-tolerant
Skateboarding Forty-two Year-old Immigrant
Who believes in science, and alliance in defiance, and
Is willing to use democracy for me, and
Mine, you, and yours, my, your, and anyone,
And everyone's own ends,
Because we have a chance to do
What God - for all we know - intends.
- M.B.
Years ago, I visited a farm. I watched, agog, as four men put a tight burlap sack on a cow’s head. Then, as one, they drummed on the side of the cow with rapid slaps of their palms, till the cow sang – that is the only verb that describes the sound – what any musician would recognize as a high ‘C’. Then, they pulled the cow’s head from the sack. It made sound of a loving kiss.
I decided, then, that I would never again eat beef products, but I would eat those derived from birds, and fish, and anything else that’s not too chewy.
'Scorched Earth Policy'
In the concentration camps,
They shaved the heads of Jews,
Not to strip their hair,
But strip them of humanity.
Let us not forget this just
Because the hair grows back,
And not to keep the lice at bay,
Or else you would come clean,
And your head was crawling.
How about the pitch where I
Once scored the winning goal?
Up-over, past the 'keeper who
Was blinded by the sun,
Despite the cap he wore.
From well outside the box, too
Get in! I punched the air, as
A tear escaped each eye.
I knew what I had done.
Hi, what do you do?
Do you know what you have done?
What about the woods
Where, once, we walked?
Are they still there?
Or did you cut them down?
You'd better not have. If you did,
Like eating of the animal one kills,
Yep, even skunks, and squirrels,
Does a kind of justice to its death,
I hope you burned the wood.
I hope the fire was warm.
I hope it burned off all your hair.
I'd say that seems fair. Fact is,
If anyone does not deserve
To have their hair it's you who don't
Deserve to have their hair, but none.
Then how's your world feel, now
Beneath the sun?
- A.R.
'Dialog'
Don't judge a cover by its book!
More importantly,
Don't judge a book by its cover,
Or the pages, or the words, their
Form, and meaning.
It's the sales; if it fails to sell
It's never worth your time. It smell.
Now, I'm not saying he's slow, but
The stuff that makes the clappers go -
Give him some of that. Wait -
Is life a school, or pool? Look, what
I mean is: learning never stops.
Don't judge a fool until
You've walked a mile in his flip-flops.
- A.R.
Are you a long way from where you started out? Do you miss where you came from? No matter the amenities of one’s current locale, I think one always misses the place of one’s youth and formative experiences.
For example, if you grew up in the rural Midwest of the United States, and moved to, say, Barcelona, Spain, one would surely miss the corn, and the barns, and the backward-thinking and racism.
I will never, ever forgive those farmers for what they did to that cow.
Adam Waverley? Are you there?
'I Say Again This Is Not The Place'
At the hour of the which way,
I got up, and left
The stars behind, asking
"Why?" aloud. My breath
Made a hole to see.
A pain in my groin,
Lone wolf in my headlights,
No-one else around.
"Here's the car, here's the key.
Here's a job - this one's on me."
In fall, falling, falling
To work in fog, and mist.
A great wait, then I knew
I was on the hard road.
Then it rained, and then
It poured, then it snowed.
Come to me, my love,
My love, and my love,
Put your arms around me, now,
Home again, and all washed up.
- A.W.
'I Can Explain'
I once explained myself
Beginning with apology,
And though I poured the words
Into their very ear, and
Despite a world of detail so
To be as clear as such-and-such,
They didn't seem to listen much
Beyond that point. It appears
Apology was all that they
Were looking for, to hear.
- A.W.
Back at the theater, that rainy night, many years ago, it should be noted that the notes of the performance did not seem to follow any recognizable pattern; indeed, such sporadic key-strikes might have been mistaken for being the result of attempts to squash a nimble fly, but random they were not; rather, a painstaking reproduction of another pianist playing notes without any thought whatsoever.
The show’s ultimate reward was unboxed at its conclusion; those who listened carefully would notice that the final note played was, in pitch and key, precisely the same as the first. Of course, nobody was listening that carefully after four-and-a-half hours. Thankfully, the pianist was on hand to helpfully and, some said, later, aggressively point it out to the audience and, with several exceptions, the sound of fifteen-hundred people going “Ohhhhhhh…”, in synchrony, remains possibly the most spiritually transcendent experience of my life thus far.
In other news, there has been some confusion regarding last week’s post, particularly in regards to the wide range of languages in which the various introductions to the poems were written. Firstly, my apologies to those whose beloved tongues were not included; the Tagalog contingency made an especially emotional appeal. I thank them for it, while adding – though it is by no means sufficient -: “Woah, guys, woah.” Secondly, there have been questions raised as to the accuracy/authenticity of said languages. To this matter, I would simply respond that perhaps one of the many online translation services may be of some assistance to you – go for one of the free ones – but remind you that a certain degree of ambiguity, even inscrutability, is one of the dearest qualities of what we call ‘words’. Additionally, I would urge any reader to speak these sections aloud. For if there’s one thing I know, it’s that language is meant to be spoken.
Gimme a break, bud,
J.R.
@saymoco
The Morning Corporation **** 