fourteen - never too late for a fourteenth!

you're so adorable
the way you chew!

I'd like to take all
those little white teeth

and put them through
the blender!

through another bolt of whiskey

through another bolt of whiskey
I can wait for days yet -

there are books to be read, teas
To be drunk, alarm buttons

to be pushed -

Even a water nozzle to turn
Here or there,

for water.

now I can only assume you’ve
Found another lover,

but then you know what little
Imagination I’ve got.

Newsflash: Indian boy fools BBC, Indian government with forged NASA-Oxford document

while I generally don’t post Wacky News, this little beauty has been a pleasure to stumble upon. It’s not because I revel in the humiliation of the Indian government, or in the humiliation of any Indians at all – as far as I’m concerned, I’m glad they’re out there doing what they do. The mass deception, though, and the near meeting with President Kalam are both pretty impressive. But such details can only really do it for the unimaginative. The turn of the screw in this story is in its details - and in that he managed to pull the government for money without having even done basic research. One, the kid claimed he took a taxi from London to Oxford every day, two, he misspelled the name of the former administrator of NASA (O’Keefe) as “Kif,” three, he included his father's name on the forged document, four, he said he took a non-existent flight on Indian Airlines to London, and five, he told a newspaper that he stayed in Buckingham Palace. But the greatest part of the forgery is the phrase: "You are the member of NASA" – which belongs in a textbook warning ESLers on the consequences of mixing up articles.

Topical Humor - for the Work Week

Should one find oneself in a social situation, at Work or at "Party", that demands the performative ritual of humor-recitation, the following bit (which will be, on average of contemporary Urban American, considered "humorous" by 20%, "distasteful" by 15%, and not understood by 65% [thus providing opportunity for demonstration of erudition in cultural matters], margin of error +/- 5%) can be recounted with positive overall effect:

A. Did you hear what happened to Hunter S. Thompson?
B. (answers may vary)
A. Well, he went the "Hemming" way.

(variant: "He decided to be 'Kurt' with life.")

and a thirteen - for symmetry

There are some times when the sun sets over Crisp red hills,
And the day plays dark across the fading Suburb streets,
Lo! The sound of a station wagon plays upon Pitch,
And you and I are near, amidst Clean vacuumed carpet.

Now Starbucks must be closed: Let's Talk in the kitchen then,
You'll throw some Dinner dishes and I'll stare off Blankly,
What could that be? The sound of a Jet-Plane overhead?
"And just imagine this, my love, after All We've Built."

and a twelfth!

stability is for Horses, kid,
they like a bit upin the bride -
And on the same trail every day,
you just get used to where to shit.

Eleven Ways to Break-Up with Poetry!

one

How 'bout a kiss my sweetest -

dearest!

Draw in all close-like - now!

For -

When I open my little mouth,

I know you want to punch it!

   Aroo!   Aroo!

 You dirty little skank!


two

A metaphor for a snowy day:

The snow falls down in heaps and bales,

And through it you must tread.

Sometimes you’d like to all your life,

 But most of the time not.
 


three

When your sister walks by

  I look

   isn’t that enough

baby?


four

Would that we could hold onto gold,

Would that we could pray,*

Would that we could keep it that way,

Would that the flame would last.#


* the “meaning it” kind of praying.
# you see why it's over, right?  I mean, this poem blows.


five

Star Blar Ting Tang,

Rang Tang girl Blang!

Bloog Blog Black Blug,

I think we should see other people.


six

Never say I've wasted your time,

I’m sure you’ve learned a touch -

As far as all I didn’t do,

I’d do the same again.


 
seven

THAT’S ADORABLE – YOU

THOUGHT WE HAD A CHANCE!

WHAT, FOREVER?



eight

All forgotten for

Recollecting Just

  a Paltry One – All

forsaken for

Just a stranger’s  - new

     accompanying -

And I’m afraid

that Stranger isn’t You.

What?  You

don’t like Emily Dickinson

- you Sexist?
 

nine

When I open my little email box

It’s not my fault if my

 little heart bumps a beat

to see her name

- It is?

Well how do you

think I feel -

She hasn’t written back

in a while.
 

ten

What can I say when

I see you cry?

what more than

tissues can I give?

You might be sure

you hate me now,

But then I myself

am rather sure

You'll find cause to hate

again.


eleven

Your face is so pretty

I’m sure you’ll love again!

They’ll be buying you beers at bars!

And laughing at all your jokes!


Why didn’t I say anything about your legs,

you ask?  No, I just thought that your best...

Oh screw it -

Your face is all you got.

Wipe that smiling off your face,
I'm more to blame than you,
Yes your body is hungry-svelte,
But I supply the gaze.

The Twenty-First. Night. Monday.

Anna Akhmatova


The Twenty-First. Night. Monday.
The outline of the capital in gloom.
It was just someone with nothing to do
who invented the story of love.

And either from laziness or from boredom
Everyone believed, and that’s how they live:
Waiting for rendezvous, fearing separation
And singing songs of love.

But the secret is revealed to some,
And silence settles upon them...
I stumbled upon this accidentally
And from then on have been in pain.

January, 1917, Petersburg.
[English Translation from the Russian c/r skij's 13, 2005]

Here's the standard translation of the poem, which is pretty inadequate. The inclusion of the phrase "good-for-nothing" is, of course, ludicrous. And what's up with the clutter of useless lines like "-who knows why-"? Jesus Christ. Who knows why indeed. The last line - "and now it seems I'm sick all the time." - causes me physical pain (though the Russian больна is very tricky to translate fluh fluh).

The Russian version is here на всякий случай.

go the way of gonzo

why the’ell not
blast out
your brains

on such
a melanch’ly
day?

granted the
Aspen sky
is crisp

Loathing
Fear, loathing
Fear.

Oh And Look Who’s In the Papers

It’s nothing but vanity,
Hunter S Thompson,
Killing yourself nozzle to tooth -
While it must take a man to clench it still,
Hemmingway would’ve approved.

A Lesson in Breathing

I’m having trouble
Swallowing
But that’s more
my Fault
than it is
Yours

"you were dancing in a garden of glass"

"
ho ho, you've stumbled onto some of my poetry, pretty little blonde girl - and to think, right at a time when I'm trying to impress you with my depth and sensitivity - what an insane coincidence, isn't life so weird?  Yes, but what if you had stumbled upon,


I dreamt about you girl

  blonde beast

  you were dancing in a garden of glass

 breath-light glass elves glass

bumblebees a-watching

and i had a bat

   you bled like it was your birthday

      I kinda liked it



Then we'd sure have to have a talk!  Through lawyers. 

But I'd help you plan the candle-light vigil.  That's how romantic I am.


 Oh that I could up and write,



 I'll unwrap you like a present

  little blonde girl

 There will be time for sorries

  later, trust me


and mean it.  That's what pretty little blonde girls are looking for in the 19-year-old-poet.

The Ultra-Violence is on its way out as a joke - no, trust me - so I'm really going to have to consider what to have you accidentally read next.
 
Would that I could make you regret me

 - and conquer the conquering of you."

{1998}

The Olympic Games 2002: - Boulder, Salt Lake, Moscow -

This was originally an article I wrote for The Moscow Times three years ago, but, due to an editor's trip to India, which is Kafka-speak for who-the-fuck-knows-why-anything-ever-happens (though an editor really did go to India) it never got published. By the time the editor returned, everyone who had any kind of access to news was so cripplingly nauseated by Olympics scandals, figure-skaters, steroids, and stories of hope that to even mention the phrase "Salt Lake" was justification for ending a date early, and it never made its way into the paper. So I figured I'd go on and "publish" (ha ha) it on the blog. Welcome back to 2002, kids.

---

- Boulder, Salt Lake, Moscow -

    I have really enjoyed Russian television’s coverage of the Olympics so far.  One reason is that I just watched the full Women’s Sprint Biathlon for a full hour from 1 am until 2 am.  Another reason is the only slightly prevalent presence of Coca-Cola ads.  And another reason is the utter and complete lack of Chevy ads with dramatic stories of American medal hopefuls.  To get to the meaning behind these I’ll have to start at the beginning.

    I had told everyone that I was Russian, from Moscow even, and that allowed me to move up to the front of the crowd at the bottom of the 90k ski jump.  It was a sizeable crowd; at least 18,000 according to the P.A. announcement.  But it was loose and easy to weave through, with the notable exception of the spectators who had brought blankets to the event, expecting to sit, relaxed on the ground, and catch all of the action, an act that could only be considered absurd in a Nordic country.   I had come to the event with my family from Colorado by car—myself on vacation from Moscow—to see my friend and native Muscovite Alexei Fadeev compete in the Nordic Combined, an event that consists of both ski-jumping and cross-country skiing.  Along with the team he had received a bronze medal in the team event four years ago in Nagano.  This year, as the team had lost a couple of key members, they didn’t have high aspirations for that event.  Alexei, the Russian national champion, was ranked 30th going into his first jump of the day.

    Telling the crowd that I was Russian (with a mild-to-slight Russian accent) had a few advantages.  First, I was allowed speedy passage through to the front, as I mentioned that my friend from Moscow was about to compete (at least that part had been completely true).  But also, I was able to witness why the Games have become such an oddity to most native Utes, and to Americans in general.  After I had been cheering for some time an American approached me, asking whether he could have a picture of his two sons along with myself and my giant Russian flag.  After that, about nine other groups of Americans, blissfully oblivious to the fact that I was actually born only some eight hours away, snapped off pictures, handed me American flag pins, and shook my hand.   One even handed me a video in Russian entitled (in Russian) “Jesus.”  After an hour of cheers in both English in Russian (“Let’s go Russia, Let’s go Russia,” “Rossiya Vperiyod, Rossiya Vperiyod!” and “No more Cold War, No more Cold War”) the Americans around me were actually mostly cheering for the Russians as they entered into the distant view atop the mountain’s jump.  This cheering was in contrast to the almost eerie static that had reigned over the crowd, but for the times when an American would appear at the top of the hill, and the flags and cheers would be unleashed, usually in a slightly unsynchronized “U-S-A!  U-S-A!”  And then diminish: no American finished top-six on the day.
 
   The reason for this doesn’t appear to be lack of goodwill, as apparent in their warmth in accepting the Russian version of me and the willingness to cheer for something not draped in white stars.  The reason was actually that the crowd had very little understanding of the sport whatsoever, evident first off in the already-mentioned blankets scattered like American flags on SUV’s in present-day American supermarkets.  Most spectators needed to be constantly reminded of the rules.  In fact, many were confused at the end of the competition when no medals were presented even though the P.A. had many times announced that this was only the first part in a two-day event.  Most spectators had come to the event only knowing two things: that it was ski jumping and that American Todd Lodwick was attempting a Cindarella-esque finish for the United States, Against-All-Adversity.  He was the first American medal hopeful for the US in the sport, ever….

    Traditionally dominated by the Germans, Austrians, Finns, Norwegians, French, Japanese (and on occasion, Russians), Nordic Combined had until recent received almost no coverage whatsoever in the US.  That was until Todd Lodwick, American, residing in my native Colorado, stepped out of his early mediocre (well, mediocre for a world-class athlete) career to dedicate his Heart and Soul to the sport, winning five World Cups this season, including one in which he strove towards the finish line well ahead of the competition with an enormous American flag.  As he crosses the finish, he stabs, poignantly, the flag into the ground and throws his arms into the air.  The point of this imagine: an instant video-byte that can be played before commercial breaks and inspire an interest in the sport, that can take the viewers through the commercials and into the next inevitable segment on Lodwick and his dream of medalling in the sport, and then through another commercial break, as this has all evoked much emotion.  I only know this because I saw this exact clip plus similar-sounding stories and background about three times preceding the event.  The largely American audience was silent during most of the competition for one because they were largely ignorant about the sport.  But they also had been so used to and comfortable with the constant American-Overcoming-Adversary images fed to them by the coverage, and the pre-Games hype, and the endless Proud-Sponsor-of-the-US-Team commercials, Hockey Team USA ’80 lighting the torch (an image still somewhat bizarre to behold in Russia: isn’t the torch supposed to be about international cooperation and not precious US miracles?), that they were expecting nothing less than an American to rip through the crowd of Other Europeans (and Japanese) and to grab a US flag out of all adversary and plant it in the snow after the finish.  Anything less and they were baffled.  As they were.  Already the first day of the Olympics, an entire event finished, and no heroics.
 
   American television presents all events in a thoroughly edited, carefully constructed format.  First, all of the events are filmed.  Then, a strategy to squeeze the most drama and suspense out of them possible is construed.  Finally, a sequence of events, skipping over 90% of the competition and the remaining 10% sometimes out of order, is put together and the commentators lend their voices to it, acting as though the sequence is unscripted, in natural running order, and, most importantly, happening before them for the first time.  The coverage allows just enough of the heavily edited portions of the event on air before jumping to a length of commercials.  Then it jumps to another event, promising the fascinating ending for which the drama has been, rightfully so or not, built up.  Then, after more commercials, mostly Coca-Cola and Chevy-US-Ski-Team, mostly with American flags buzzing in front of still American athletes, Bob Costas returns to turn our attention to yet another scripted sequence of events.  

   So all Americans at this, the first day of competition, were expecting the return from commercial, the Cinderella story which they had taken for granted because the majority of air-time (not, of course, the majority of real events) had been along those lines, because that’s what brings people back from commercials, and that’s what could garner an interest in the events after involved networks had suffered disappointing viewership in the ’00 Games in Sydney.  This element can also be seen after the Russians won the gold in the pairs’ figure skating over the Canadians.  As of February 12, an nbc.com poll registered that 96% thought the Canadians should have won gold.   There were over 200,000 responses at that point.  What does this mean?  That 200,000 can accurately and expertly pick a winner in a sport that they’re exposed to 3 hours out of a year?  The Russians had made a mistake (though the Short Program was short of perfection for the Canadians), but for a sports comparison, what if a dominant swimmer makes a mistake in competition?  He can still win.  Dominant athletes can still slip up slightly and come out on the top of the podium.  Did the Ravens have an outstanding offense in last year’s Super Bowl?  The point is not at all who should have won and who should not have, though, but that the Games coverage has led to unreasonable expectation.  Somehow the need for television-fed drama had made 96% of people who responded, some 192,000 people, think they can accurately and authoritatively say the under-dog and much-publicized Canadians should have won.
 
   And then there has been Russian television, which just broadcast the entirety of the woman’s Sprint Biathlon.  One can even watch the 50th seed finish, collapse to the ground, heave, and attempt to wave the frozen spit-saliva off of her lip.  Not that Russian television is immune to hype; sports like Nordic Combined have enjoyed much less popularity since the Russians’ third-place finish at Nagano.  But there is an actual sense of completeness to the way they televise, that the Women’s Sprint Biathlon lasts 60 minutes in a single segment as opposed to 15 minutes spread out over four.  One can even watch broadcasting mistakes, sweetly unscripted.
 
   I once asked Alexei how he managed to make it to the Olympics.  Instead of hearing what I expected: the dramatic, excruciating, movingly-romantic tale seen so constantly on television and thus imitated in all walks of sports life, even among good-yet-not-Olympian-swimmers as I may attest, he told me the following story (translated from the Russian): “My father liked cross-country skiing, so he had my brother try it.  But he wasn’t good at it.  So he had me try it, and I was good at it.”  “And then you went to the Olympics?” I asked (we had only known each other for about two days).  “Yes,” he responded.  Not to overly-dramatize my own ending, but that was one of the most moving sports sentiments I have ever heard.  And he had actually won a bronze medal.

---

We are slaves to justification but

We are slaves to justification   but
 I'm afraid - that's already too much for you
if not what it means  (if it means)
but how I wrote it (precisely, how it
is written)   Reading this poem slowly,
and it hurts somewhere inside of
you   -   for me     and that's
okay     sure you'll agree:  too weak, or
maybe even: it'll just hurt - tomorrow
- for our faith in the roundness of symbols,
the promise of love, a lesson in language -
those things that words make up at night

Of course I remember you

I do it

Every Morning

it's Just -
All of the Words sound

so similar

I'd rather not talk

at all

---

easy to say love -
when there's nothing else to say

Something- about those Hips
Friend - winds me
To the - Bone

Thai Bed-Time Prayer

   billowing purple skies
      imagine a sun
   through bleachy
         clouds no movement
along a smelling
       beach, afternoon lethargy
          fat off of sesame
      oil, jabs of fish oil chap
        the occasional tongue
   the Sand is
  voluptuous in reddening
       nips for all that
   we have loved, or
     say, passes
       time along the hairline
     tired membranes could
      pose  their sleep
 as pieces try their fit
   the ocean skies:
   goodnight, blue

dickinson style:

Boring - little Rain drops -
Why - do I Dream - of You?
Dreams should - entail - legs and Heat,
Even - a Nightmare would - Do -

(with the variant of 'Blood' for 'Heat' line 3)

that’s not fair,
you’re not a whore -
I spoke without even thinking.
so let’s try reflection then;
I hate myself with you.

        If I can’t rub myself out


against you -


        then I'll nick


at the itch -


        raise up the skin in nervenumb


swelling -


        at least feel something new.

All of this laughter
makes me sick -
plumstuck in the gut.
echoes as we touch on eyes -
later deny their weight

Boring little rain drops
why do I dream of you?
dreams should entail legs and heat
even a nightmare would do

high Times with Abstinence, The Beginning

"Abstinence fucking rules!"