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

Gehenna (or: There's no such thing as Hell)

[Please note: this first paragraph was originally the conclusion of the piece, but, fearing that no one would ever get that far, it has been prehended... if such a word exists]
In other words, all of you poor bastards got served. There ain't any such thing as hell, bitches, surprise! It was thought of later and then fucking translated right into the goddamn text. The words changed as the ideas changed, get it - and not just in the "isn't that funny" way where 'awful' used to mean 'full of awe' (!) and how 'Jacko' didn't used to mean 'to put penises into small boys after disorienting them by means of carousel,' no bitches, no no no, bitches, they've fucked your brains up about that shit. When Jesus fucking told off thugs with Hell, he was saying something more like "you're going to Commerce City" (Colorado reference only - but I know how much you Californians prize inside humor, Cowbell fuckers.)

and so...
    Attempting to piece together the cultural, historical, and theological significance of “Gehenna” can be a daunting task if one is only familiar with the King James (or similar) translation of the New & Old Testaments because of their incompleteness and inconsistency.  The word “Hell” is used translate each of the following terms at least once: Tartaroo (Taratarus), Gehenna, Sheol, and Hades.  Gehenna (occurring twelve times) and Tartaroo (occurring only once in 2 Peter 2 :4) are always translated as “Hell,” whereas Sheol is translated as “Hell” 30 (31?) times, “grave” 31 times, and “pit” three times.  “Hades” is likewise inconsistently translated; as “Hell” 10 times and “grave” once.   This could lead to the impression that references to a “pit” a “grave” and “Hell” are three unique things, while they would all be “Sheol” in the Hebrew.  

The larger problem is of course that when one reads the word “Hell,” one cannot be sure whether it refers to Tartarus, Gehenna, Hades, or Sheol, all of which have a different connotation, function, and theological significance (the issue of Hades as compared to Sheol will be dealt with shortly).  As these words are all translated according to a specific ‘interpretation’ of the Greek, each individual meaning is lost in ambiguity and non-descriptiveness.  The relevance of this would be hard to understate, given the dominating influence this particular translation of the New Testaments has carried.  It shows why it is an obscure coctail party fact to most that “Gehenna” is an actual physical location south-west of Jerusalem.  In these twelve instances in the NT, Jesus was making a figurative reference to an actual place, presumably one familiar to most of those to whom he preached, as opposed to the vague and abstract state of being known commonly as ‘Hell.’

    The etymology of the term “Hell” helps us to understand how this interpretive translation came about.  The Old English, “Hell,” meaning ‘covered or hidden,’ comes from the Old Germanic “Helan,” meaning ‘to conceal.’  At the time, then, this was an accurate translation for “Hades,” an Ancient Greek term meaning ‘imperceptible, unseen,’ and as a place is familiar to those who have studied Greek Mythology as the underworld for all dead mortals.  It seems that as Christian theology developed to accept ‘Hell’ as the state of eternal flames, punishment and torment, this term, once used as a direct correspondence to the Greek but by this stage loaded with other connotations, came to be used for almost every reference to the fate awaiting sinners upon death.  Thus, in most contexts all four of these terms began to be understood as ‘Hell,’ although, I believe, the terms were translated differently (‘grave’ or ‘pit’) when they did not fit the imposed understanding in the given context.   

Tartarosas is the murky abyss beneath Hades where the immortals such as Kronos and the Titans are punished, and other who have transgressed directly against the gods.  Peter seems to use it in his letter to the Greeks not as a reference to Gehenna, Sheol, or anything else in the Judao-Christian understanding, but rather as an attempt to argue certain theological points ‘in their own terms.’   Sheol, in it’s Hebrew and Judaic understanding, is the underworld where the dead congregate without any expectation of leaving; in parts of it there is also a giant, insatiable beast who devours flesh.  Many Christian scholar consider “Hades” and “Sheol” to be one in the same, and tend to see them both as temporal states, a temporary address, from which one can rise up to Heaven or drop down ever further, as opposed to the Judaic interpretation.  This is because it would not make any sense in the Christian conception of the world to have righteous people (King David comes to mind) stuck there for all of eternity.

    Gehenna, (‘Geenna’ in Ancient Greek) is a reference to the Ravine of Hinnom (also known in the OT as “the valley of the son(s) of Hinnom”), located close to the walls of the ancient city.  It runs into the Kidron valley near the present day city of Silwan, the ravine once formed the boundary between the tribes of Benjamin and Judah (Joshua 15:8;18:16).  Now, my friend Katya assures me, a peaceful area with tall grasses, lovely trees, and wily, playful horses, it was once a site of human sacrifice, known as “Topeth,” or “fireplace.”  During the period of worship of Moloch, an Ammonite god, by the Israeli people, live human sacrifices (often times children) were carried out here by fire, as one might expect from the term, ‘fireplace’ (see 2 Chronicles 28:3; 33:6; Jeremiah 7:31, 32; 32:35).  Finally, the faithful King Josiah came along and dispelled the idolaters; in order to secure the victory over them and their idolatry religion, and to insure that this spot could never be used for such religious purposes again, he desecrated it by burning relics of Moloch, as well as spreading about human bones ‘and other corruptions,’ and eventually turning it into a waste dump.  One final added touch was to turn the area into an incinerator, where the bodies of dead animals, thieves, thugs, and flammable trash were thrown.  So that various worms and other predators of human flesh could not infest the area, the fire burned constantly, which likely accounts for it later being referred to as “unquenchable” and “where the fire never goes out.”  This is the central image from which the modern conception of “Hell” has derived.

    The term “Gehenna” seems to be used in the NT by Jesus because of its association with fiery (and repulsive) destruction.  Also, because the body is incinerated in the meanest fashion possible and not properly buried, no hope is left for resurrection.  Therefore, when Jesus refers to throwing a body into Gehenna, it seems that he is referring to the eternal destruction of the senses (the soul).  That is, to be throw into Gehenna is to lose all hope for eternal life.   This is opposed to the commonly preached theory of eternal damnation by means of burning, which is not mentioned (or even implied - the fucking thing burned you to pieces and that was that) along with any of the twelve references to Gehenna in the NT. The fire and brimstone interpretation was an imposition from other mythological and pagan sources.



References:
jewishencyclopedia.com
concordant.org
watchman.org
reslight.addr.com
matthewmcgee.org
bibletexts.com
biblestudytools.net
Harper’s Bible Dictionary
Harper’s Study Bible

--GEH--

A Nietzschean Tragedy in Honor of the Most Mysterious of Russian Letters in One Act;
A Tragedy that will Move Audiences Not.


-dzh. s. uolker-


Dramatic Personae,
Presented in No Particular Order:

WRITER, a russian, logical and rational; secretly named gugo v. kharold
BUREAUCRAT, also russian, a mystic; secretly named khelmont v. van gog
GASHEK, a Czech hockey player, retired, former member, czech national hockey team
KHEIDOOK, a Czech hockey player, member, czech national hockey team
KHEMINGOOEI, an american novelist
GEGEL, a german philosopher
GEGELITSA, his wife, German-looking, and German by all appearances, 45
KHEIDEGGER, a german philosopher, unfortunate brief proponent of fascism
GEIDIGGER, his evile double who does not exist, used mostly for jokes and thought experiments
GERBERT GOOVER, a former american president, namesake of giant phallic symbols across California
KHOOVER, an American vacuum cleaner, which can also sustain earthquakes
CHASE G. FULLENTHROP, an american student from current Connecticut capitol Khartford, originally from Aidakho
DIGGIN’ KH. DAWG, an american student from theoretical US capitol Garvard, originally from Ogio
GERMANN GESSE, a character no other characters understand, “cannot speak”
DRAMATINCHA, a character everyone thinks has left, Russian, Beautiful, a woman of literature, 19
GAMLET, a danish prince who does nothing, but who sounds quite well-read
KHAPPI MEEL, symbol of American imperialism with god-like powers, form resembles a box with loopy handles, convenient for carrying about school as well as imprinting subversive instructions
GRABAL, a crazed Czech thief
TANYA, a Ukrainian peasant, in traditional Ukrainian dress, 66
MEMBERS OF THE AUDIENCE, women, of various ages
NARRATOR, who at times speaks with a very slight Russian accent and at other times speaks with a very slight German accent
 

No curtain, stage hands run about assembling scenery, wearing black.  Half of the set resembles the Gaaga, the other half Khelsinki.  There are scattered signs in German, Russian, Netherlandic, and Finnish (see appendix).  KHAPPI and KHOOVER are on stage. DRAMATICHNA sits in a pretty chair with two books at her feet: “Gorny Tsvetok” and “Garry Potter”. She is by turns distant and pale and then absorbed and hopeful.  The area around KHOOVER is quite clean. The audience must do its utmost to imagine that this is actually a real fragmented conglomerate of real cities, not just paint, ink and paper, and furthermore that DRAMATICHNA has left.  Enter WRITER with pen and GAMLET with sword.
DRAMATICHNA: Oh, hello!  I’ve been waiting-
WRITER: [to stage hands, would be interrupting DRAMATINCHA had he noticed her] Be gone with you!  Can’t you see I’m writing!  Oh, but your tiny minds couldn’t grasp it anyway.  [they scatter, leaving some of the set unfinished, dropping things and knocking over pieces as they run away, taking  care to stray from KHAPPI.   to audience]  Oh, damn....  You!   Stay silent, just like that, and, please, in no way react!  I need to write.  [looks impatiently at Gamlet, then at his pen, then at Gamlet]  Well then?
GAMLET: I will take your advice, writer.  I will try to act, to continually progress, to guide myself by reason and rationality, to make things better.  O, for what most joyous and edifying intentions my heart doth hold!  / Could I but kiss the dewy lippéd moon, embrace Her silver gilded frame and all Her rocky craters!  Thank you!  Farewell for now!  [exits]
VOICE OF KHAPPI: Bokh!
WRITER: All he ever does is talk. [looks at Khappi] So much noise I’ll never get anything done.  Quiet you!
VOICE: Bokh!
WRITER: Damn!  This is exceedingly difficult, I strain my reason, my glorious mental faculties.  Okay.  Good.  And begin writing... ah-hem.  “As everything has already been written...” [continues writing, to himself]
VOICE: Bokh!
[pause.  silence, minimal movement, an air of foreboding, pregnant with expectation]
MEMBER OF THE AUDIENCE: Jesus, I’m pregnant!
WRITER: Oh, for...!  You’ve mixed it all up.  You’re not pregnant, for God’s sake.  And I told you to be quiet.  All of you!  You have no idea how difficult this is.  Everything has been written, everything has been done.  Even this, this talking.... Everything has been experienced and everything has already been thought of, twice.  Damn!
VOICE: Bokh! [enter BUREAUCRAT]
DRAMA: [Fake-shyly, using Russian wiles]  Hello.
BUREAUCRAT: My life is so difficult, I just count and count all day, every day.  My whole life.  In Russia, there are so many things to count: people, square kilometers, islands – and distinguishing islands from blocks of ice, so the figures are always changing – neighbors, former neighbors, border lengths, cities, rivers, renamed streets, unrenamed streets, foreign investors, money in Switzerland, money in Cyprus, degrees below zero, wind chill factors, people who count things and report to me, the people who count things and report to them, the people I report to and so on.  And that’s not even counting my personal finances, all the personal numbers I’m responsible for, passwords, logins, bank numbers....  Oh, my life is so empty!  
WRITER: Can you keep it down, I’m writing.
BUREAUCRAT: Writer, well... you see... I’m in despair, my life makes no sense, I’ve been thinking, you know, I have higher urgings.
WRITER: We have science.
BUREAUCRAT: That’s the problem.
WRITER: Well, then we have morality, religion, superstition, for silly people like you.
[pause]
BUREAUCRAT: Have you seen Dramatincha?
DRAMA: Hello.
WRITER: No, I think she’s left.
BUREAUCRAT: Forever?  She may have been our hope, or our death, or something... I’ve been thinking that maybe the two are the same, hope and death, you know, mystery, like we live our lives like everything is so normal, but there’s this whole other way of existing, and... Wasn’t she whitish, can’t you remember that tinge of white she had?   [approaches pretty chair]  Oh, this is her chair!  It still smells of her!
WRITER: [sarcastically] our death, our death.  [laughs self-satisfiedly]
DRAMA: Yes, hello.
[WRITER writes, BUREAUCRAT moves upstage and begins counting audience members, occasionally pausing to look upward, trying to find inspiration, but finds none like usual.  GOOVER, DAWG, CHASE enter, GOOVER is giving a tour, walking backward.  KHEMINGOOEI is with them]
GOOVER: ...And vather round, vet your finvers ready for some vreat photovraphs, everyone back at home sure will love them, so authentic, for here you will see the vrand historical center of...  what the..?!
DAWG: [amused] You don’t know where we are, Goover?
CHASE: [not] This is unacceptable, simply unacceptable, Goover.  This is not what I paid for.
GOOVER: [trying to pull self together] Please, [pointing to himself] Voover... and... [points to signs] well, here you see sivns that are written in another lanvuave... not Envish!...  all those dots and such... people really do speak these, amazing!...  And over there is the Vaava, I’m sure of that because I’ve spent many productive, vivorous days in the Vaava, and this over here is Khelsinki, I’d recovnize it any day, but I really don’t....  [recovers, inspired]  Ah, yes, but this is the latest Khoover [points to KHOOVER], the absolute latest model, you can see how fine it is, it’s form is quite revolutionary, it cleans like nothinv has ever cleaned before.  As you can see, the area by Khoover is quite clean, leadinv to an overall “vreater happiness” of the veneral area.  Vadvits like these don’t even need vasoline anymore.  Life is really on the rise....  here!  In this place, that is.  [enter GRABAL, running]
GRABAL: [running in the back, no one can see him.  He steals a piece of scenery]  Gank!  [exists]
CHASE: I’ve missed rush for this?  Freshman jungle vodka death?  
DAWG: Naw, Europe is cool, people are always burning American flags and shit.
WRITER: [mainly listening to Goover] Yes, it is quite amazing, technology is continually expanding, breaking down superstition and the like!  Did you know that the more organized things are the better our lives are?  It was recently published in a well-known computing magazine, and is said to have the support of every major corporation.
[pause, BURE lowers head in almost resignation]
 But, Jesus, can you take the tour further, I’m really trying to write!  This is so difficult.
GOOVER: Yes, yes, then, let’s move alonv, I’m sure everythinv will be clear once we hit those dark tunnels.  Come alonv, boys.  [they exit, although KHEMINGOOEI remains on stage.  the two Czech hockey players jog in, they are exercising, but in the background and other characters pay little attention.  The Czechs do not notice that nothing is written in Czech and, thus, do not complain]
BUREAUCRAT: I have to start all over again!  Oh!  But would it have mattered anyway?
[pause]
That really is quite odd, how that Goover fellow mixes up his ‘g’s with ‘v’s – imagine! he even calls himself “Voover”! - but the sound is pleasing, I think, it makes me think of-
WRITER: [interrupting] It’s terrible!  Things need to be standardized.  It makes no sense; where a ‘g’ is written, and yet you say ‘v’?  The next thing you’re going to tell me Freud’s “EGO” should be read “EVO”, or maybe some made-up word like “SEGODNYA” should be “SEVODNYA”, ha!  Why, just imagine how difficult implementing standardized tests and statistics would be if everyone just scampered about, speaking and doing ‘as they please’!
BURE: Yes, well, I like how it’s all somewhat unpredictable.  Sometimes it’s nice when things aren’t completely sterile...  But Goover really is an upstanding fellow, you must admit that.
WRITER: Right, right, he is quite erect.  [pause] Boundaries are breaking down.  But science will win the day, my friend!  Your precious unpredictability will be wiped away for complete logic, and happiness.... [trails off]
BUREAUCRAT: Don’t you think that might mean something, the breaking down?  Fragmentariness?
WRITER: I am trying to write!
KHEIDOOK: I agree, with you, by the way.  Why, in our Beautiful Czech language, g’s are always pronounced “geh”, we have no such strange abnormalities.
GASHEK: Why, I agree with you, Kheidook.
KHEIDOOK: Why thank you, Gashek.
WRITER: Who are you?
[GRABAL again runs across, steals another piece of scenery, this time makes no noise]
GASHEK: Hockey players. I just retired, but Kheidook has more to play, he has to win back the world title for the Czechs, for we lost to the hated Russians in the Quarter-finals. So now, we’re exercising.  Training.  We are strong.  We have no desire to teach, or to over-reason our power.  It exists, and we feel life from it.
KHEIDOOK: Once someone told us that we should reconsider our stance, that we should invert our strength and view it as a weakness, that really it was ‘bad’ to use our precious strength for ourselves, and that it would be ‘good’ to renounce it forever and feel bad for every weak thing... that the weak was actually good!  At least, that’s how I remember it.
GASHEK: Yes, you are quite close, really.
WRITER: So?
KHEIDOOK: We killed him!
BUREAUCRAT: Oh, God!
GASHEK: Well, we didn’t really kill him.
KHEIDOOK: But we could have!  [they continue to exercise]
GASHEK: Although sometimes I wonder about our strength, it makes me nervous....
KHEIDOOK: Yes, sometimes I wonder, too, a mild feeling of paralysis....
KHEMINGOOEI: But we are all impotent, modernism leaves us that way, in the face of the all the desolation.....
ALL (except WRITER): Quiet!  Americans cannot take part in our debate!  You don’t understand!  Americans have no culture! [etc.]
KHEMINGOOEI: .... And yet it is true that we must go on, and affirm our masculinity, kill bulls if we must... it’s great there are no women here, by the way, though sex...  just sex, you know...
BUREAUCRAT: Stop! American cannot take part in our debate!  You’ll just create a Disney and then a Disney Channel, everything always ends well for you!  Your idea of tragedy is when some Gollyoood starlet gets the flu.  You have no great passion, just automobiles and obesity.
WRITER: [quietly] We do like Khoover, though, and I have watched those films, and sometimes when I’m busy.... well, and these jeans, well... [quietly trails off]
KHEMINGOOEI: Show me, don’t tell me.
KHEIDOOK: That and a Silver medal, the Americans!  Grah!
[KHEIDOOK kills him with an object that ostensibly has something to do with hockey.  DRAMA screams, BUREAUCRAT rocks back in horror, the WRITER is preoccupied, GASHEK is unclear what to do so he continues exercising, KHOOVER whirrs, albeit reservedly]
KHEMINGOOEI: Oh! [dies]       
       [pause]
VOICE: Bokh!
BUREAUCRAT: You see!  What did I tell you about breaking down!  Disconnectedness!  Someone dies, a human being dies, and we can’t react, we don’t react, nothing is together, everything is fragmented, and I just go on counting, and people just go on dying, it makes no sense!  I’ve had a love affair or two....  Just going on, and on, and on....  No sense!
WRITER: But your counting will eventually lead to better, superior counting.  That is, at some point, someone will be happy.  [enter TANYA]
TANYA: [singing] Yak by v lysy, khryby ne rodyly, Yak by dyvky khulyat ne khodyly!
ALL OF THE RUSSIANS: Ha ha ha ha!  [BUREAUCRAT holds his side, WRITER wipes away tears, DRAMA falls out of her chair]
TANYA: Wkhat is so khreatly funny?  Whky do all you khulikhans laugh at me?  Khospodi!
ALL OF THE RUSSIANS: Ha ha ha ha!
GASHEK: Why is this so funny?
KHEIDOOK: I believe because Russia is bigger than the Ukraine. Therefore, they are entitled to laugh.
GASHEK:  Yes, ha ha!  They even lost to Belarus, and Latvia!
KHEIDOOK:I still don’t quite understand.
WRITER: [confidingly, still in tears] Can’t you hear it, she always says ‘kh’, she can’t say her ‘g’s, normally.
BUREAUCRAT: Yes, it really is funny, I promise.
DRAMA: I have an idea!  
TANYA: [offended] I will kho to my kharden.  [she goes to her Garden, tends the land, continues singing: “a ya chernyava kharna koocherava khryby ne zbirala skazakom khulyala....”]
[Enter all the Germans; GEGEL, GEGELITSA, KHEIDEGGER, GESSE.  They all, except GESSE, of course, at first speak an amusing language that somewhat resembles English, but switch into English as they approach center stage.  The Czechs continue training.  GASHEK calls out names of Russian hockey players from time to time, to inspire KHEIDOOK: Khabibulin, Federov, Bule, Bule, Kaspiritis, Kovalev, Zubov, Yashin, Samsonov]
BURE: [stops laughing, looks afraid but inspired]  Wait, an idea!  But I must leave them all for a little while, or my counting will distract me, everything will distract me [goes to the side of the stage, sits between audience and stage, facing stage]
KHEIDEGGER: Das ist nicht Den Haag.
GEGEL: Das ist bühnërfräuleïn, nicht etwas doch.  [stops]  What are you laughing at?
WRITER: The Ukrainians are so funny!  I must say, it is a pity that during the rationalization of all boundaries and standardization that will inevitably take place in the future, much to our mutual advantage, I must add, such amusing things will be a thing of the past, but that is progress!
GESSE: [gestures wildly] guh-guh-guh!  guh-guh-guh!
WRITER: What’s the matter with him?
GEGEL: Oh, no one can guess what he’s trying to say, ever
GEGELITSA: Yes, he has a problem with language
KHEIDEGGER: With speaking
GEGELITSA: With words
KHEIDEGGER: One might even call him ‘dumb’ in your language
WRITER: In who’s language?
KHEIDEGGER: What?
VOICE: Nyemets!                
[pause]
KHEIDEGGER: We were just discussing the historical developments of drama and philosophy.
WRITER: Progress! I enjoy history, it leads to technical mastery and the destruction of superstition.  Can you believe Galileo was killed for science!  What a martyr!  That’s what I’d like to do!  But then, as I’ve said before, everything’s been done, everything’s been said. Thrice, or even four times! Dying for something can only be ridiculous extremism.  We can only make it all better and better.  Damn!  I haven’t gotten any writing done!
GEGELITSA: Well...
GEGEL: I was just mentioning how it all started with Gomer.
KHEIDEGGER: The mythic ‘Geroi’.
GEGELITSA: Yes.
GESSE: Geh-geh-geh [runs around in circles.  GRABAL runs out and steals something from him.  No one notices, except DRAMA]
DRAMA: I may be in love!
GEGEL: Yes, there was the geroi in Gomer, and then a perfect time of drama, of tragedy, a perfect balance of all the elements.  But then came Socrates and abstraction.  He struggled hard against the aesthetic theories of the time, for to argue Beautifully was to argue well, as all citizens were trained in poetry and art.  He succeeded; then came Christendom, which served to invert the Greek ideals of strength, while at the same time adopting their ideas of abstraction.  The wolf, so to speak, was convinced to  adopt meekness by the sheep. Once abstraction was firmly imbedded in the society, and the subsequent internalization of thought, it was only a matter of time until religion was dead and only science remained, with roots in abstraction, with faith in some eventual, overall, abstracted good.  An Alexandrian society, if I may be permitted historical allusion.  But science could only do better and not say ‘why?’, or, ‘for what purpose?’.  Well then, then there was science, Kant attacked pure reason, followed by Shoppengower. Then I come along, and talk about historical movements.  Then Nietzsche comes and tries to sum up. Next will come Kheidegger.  At least I’m pretty sure that order was correct.  Too many Germans, one must agree!
WRITER: Oh, progress, I love it!  It may never end, there may always be something to do!
[BUREAUCRAT seems horrified by this, he springs up, and looks frantically around, then sits again, rocking]
KHEIDEGGER: Well, but it is more complicated than that, yes.
GEGEL: Well... yes....
DRAMA: [recites]         His face, cracked by such lips
 Remind the fingertips of snowy eves!           [pause]
BUREAUCRAT: I know it!  [returns to stage]  We will revere symbols!  Well, that is....  Poetry, Theater!  We will restore aesthetics and art as a grander and more satisfying reality than what we have! And as we know, Nietzsche proved that science is not culture, right?  [The Germans are not sure, only Gesse reacts] Why, is anyone here truly satisfied?  No, but I have the answer now!  
WRITER: Maybe faith in Khappi Meel, that’s something that can be improved and improved, and spread across the world, to glorify reason and the reduction of unnecessary activity in life.
VOICE: Bokh!
WRITER: Or in something useful, like Khoover.  It follows that the more general usefulness, the more general happiness.  [Khoover whirrs splendidly]
BURE: No, it must come in music and aesthetics, reality as art, art as reality!  All others are but illusions, leading to pain and emptiness, this way of life allows us to deal with the pain and frustration of this physical world.   And God, well...  Nietzsche...  All give in to the poetic and mysterious powers of the letter ‘‘GEH’’!   All listen to its resounding sound, its magical transformation, its arbitrary assignment to people’s names, it can be a Geh!  A Kheh!  A Veh!  Even a devoiced Kah!
WRITER: This is absurd!  This is decadence.  
BUREAUCRAT: Like “VKROOK”
WRITER: We have no reason for this!  We need improvement in tradition, repudiation of superstition, not this uselessness!
BUREAUCRAT: Over-individualism will destroy us, look at this place!  A mess of characters, all such individuals, no music, the place is fragmented, no cohesion, I can’t understand what’s happening, I can’t remember anyone’s name or why anyone is here.  Aesthetics, art and aesthetics, mystery, meef, meefology, muses—O, DRAMATINCHA!—and music, we need those!  Not illusion in writer, khappi, khoover!  They give us nothing, the Germans have proved it!  Play the music [music starts playing, it starts quite but gets quite loud] dim the lights!  [the lights dim on stage, MEMBERS OF THE AUDIENCE, all women, rush onto stage, as do ALL CHARACTERS, except GAMLET, and KHEMINGOOEI, who is dead.  WRITER rushes away from all of this, moves downstage
an orgy ensues, the characters begin shouting ‘geh’ and ‘khek’  flashes of skin can be seen in the dim lights, bottles of alcohol can be heard breaking, characters all experience pain, pleasure together, equality, the sound of KHOOVER being destroyed is heard, all individuality is effaced and everything is experienced together,  laughter, orgasms, wails are all heard, commingling with the sounds ‘geh’ ‘kheh’ and sometimes ‘veh’.  WRITER alone stands to the side and is slightly illuminated, he is disgusted and panic-striken.  A devoiced ‘kah’ is heard several times.
WRITER: This is awful, simply terrible!  Despicable!  There must be order!  There must be ration!  Has no one any respect for history!?   For reason!?  Calm down!  Stop!   Stop!   Please, order!  This can’t be happening!  Haven’t you read reports, scientific reports?   They....  Oh!
It continues, getting louder... then all dark,  except the light on WRITER, he peeks around, curiously, but still disgusted.  pause, the music stops.  The lights come back on, ALL CHARACTER are now wearing identical mask, as it is not clear who is who they are now the CHORUS, which forms a half circle, except for some characters lying on the ground, perhaps injured or dead.  BUREAUCRAT, alone, unmasked stands somewhat in front of them, pleased, his eyes are closed. He is experiencing something.  KHOOVER has been ripped to shreds, the set is mostly in ruins]
WRITER: That was.....!  Oh God!   But surely this can all be proven.....  There must be a statistic that shows.....  [GAMLET advances quickly and angrily-WRITER notices this-and he rips off his mask]  Why, it is Gamlet, future king of Denmark.
GAMLET: [rage, but somewhat controlled] Writer, you must tell me, how is everything so clear for you?  How can you just... do so much?  How can you decide so easily?
WRITER: [rolls eyes, sardonically plays to the audience] Do you want me to write it down on a napkin?  You chose something that you can do well, you apply the scientific method to it, and then you make it better and better and better.  Then you start to buy things, and you keep buying the better versions of them.  We make better airplanes because we want better airplanes.  We make better computers because we want better computers.  Wireless technology brings us closer.  Increased digital technology makes our free time better and more interesting.  Everything is possible through science and technology.  It’s all quite simple, idiot... now let me write, I have a lot to think about.  Everything has been written already, but I still have a lot to think about.
GAMLET: [now uncontrolled rage, pulls out his sword]  Tell me the point of it all and I’ll let you live!
WRITER: What?
GAMLET: Tell me the point of it all and I’ll let you live!
WRITER: But what could you possibly mean?  Things get better, we become happier, why...
GAMLET: No!  [He kills WRITER]
WRITER: Guh.... [dies]
BUREAUCRAT: Thank you for that, king.  With writer dead, we can live in our orgy, balanced with Apollonian stuff, of course, we can attain new heights through complete mystery.  We are free to worship and explore symbols, as Nietzsche and the cosmos intend!
GAMLET: No, Bureaucrat, in my kingdom it will not happen like that.  You have transgressed too many boundaries, you have done too much, there is blood on your hands.
BUREAUCRAT: But I have made them happy, I have brought meaning to their lives!  I have struggled and achieved!  
GAMLET: You have struggled, and so you are punished.  There are laws in this world.
BUREAUCRAT: This is absurd!  I must be victorious, it must work that way, the universe must have order.... where are the Germans, who here are the Germans?!
GAMLET: I have no choice now [Struggle.  He kills BUREAUCRAT with sword.  BUREAUCRAT kills him with piece of Khoover].  O!  Gamlet is mortally wounded!  And in the harshest of worlds / breath is pain for us, too / O all you tell my story / My long, long, important, important story / O, I die!  My spirit is... dying / along with everything that is.... / dying.  The rest is really... rather.... quiet [finally dies]
BUREAUCRAT: [takes a little longer to die, counts his pulse until he is counting but his heart isn’t] Zero, zero....  [dies]      
[long pause]
CHORUS: Such is their end, for to live is to die.  As it always will be, as it always has been, for those who dare and for those who do not.
[they pause for appropriate effect, and then proceed to drag the bodies off; the stage is empty except for KHAPPI, who calls Bokh! but then GRABAL enters and promptly steals him along with a piece of KHOOVER.  The stage is empty.  Curtain.  The actors may bow if they wish to destroy the effect of the piece.]

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!"