He shall make bare his arm in the eyes of the nations.

 

The mighty power of the Lord

by men today has been ignored.

But there will come a day when He

will bare his arm for all to see.

The nations then shall recognize

his right to reign and to chastise.

Photo Essay: Outdoor Sketches & Commentary.

 

I watched Kirk Douglas in "Lust for Life' on Netflix last night. So today I had to tote my sketch pad and drawing utensils into the great outdoors for some manic/depressive scribbling. Here are the results:

In a brown pot

even mostly dead herbs

look classical.

When the artist makes cedar

behind a fence look like

a bamboo grove --

it's time he took up

photography.

A windy day.

A red No-Parking curb,

crammed with dead leaves.

It all means only one thing --

torticollis.

Photo Essay: Postcard Triptych mailed to Reporter Rory Satran -- Your Family Tree

 

Prose Poem: Beijing Socks.

 

"I got these socks in Beijing

twenty years ago -- and they're 

still as good as new" I told our 

dinner guests.

They all dropped to the floor

to gaze under the table at

my socks.

Dark green, they are --

with fuzzy white specks.

"Woven from spruce thread"

I told them, once they had

reseated themselves.

The socks were a gift from

Jiang Zemin during a trade 

conference in Beijing.

I was there as a junior

plenipotentiary.

We successfully renegotiated 

cottonseed oil quotas.

Then went on to Malaysia

to arbitrate the annual copra appraisal.

That's where I learned that latex dentures

were just an urban myth.

The State Department was 

very interested in my information,

I can tell you that.

But my professional detachment

began to crumble a few years ago --

and my resignation caused few ripples

in Foggy Bottom;

I slipped away as quietly as 

smoke drifting through a picket fence.

Now, with Elon Musk, Jeff Bezos, 

and Warren Buffet,

I'm investigating the possibilities

of duckweed.

It thrives in polluted water,

absorbing heavy metals.

It's been used as livestock fodder

for centuries.

Compressed into bricks, it

burns much cleaner and hotter

 than coal.

And the thread-like roots

can be spun into a durable

green fabric.

Like that used in my socks

from Jiang Zemin.

Joe Biden wants in, big time.

He's ponied up several trillion dollars

for our startup. 

And to top it off,

Oprah is interested in starting 

her own Duckweed Culinary Institute

to discover nutritious applications of

duckweed in urban food deserts . . .

If only God were still alive 

to see me now!

Today's Timericks.

 

My contact with cash is remote/the virus has left me afloat/drifting sans wages/with increasing stages/of not having one single groat.

***********************

Even though we are desirous

to be rid of this darn virus

it mutates so very quick

that it still makes us quite sick --

so we still deal with Osiris . . . 

******************************

When I'm gone, remember me

as one without much gravity;

I took my chances, blew a wad,

made mistakes, and sought for God.

Do not ask "What was the point?"

'Twas bringing laughter to the joint!

Photo Essay: Postcard Triptych on the Demise of Mr. Potato Head.

 Much thanks to Johnny Diaz, whose article in the New York Times skillfully limns the sad demise of the traditional Mr. Potato Head, and other unwanted childhood tropes. This triptych is dedicated to him, and mailed to him in 3 separate pieces.

Wealth maketh many friends

 

If you want lots of friends, be rich --

they'll come to you without a hitch.

My life would sure be very nice

if I could take my own advice.

But since I'm broke, and threadbare, too,

with the Heavens I'll make do.

They smile on me majestically,

though I am poor domestically.

Today's Timericks.

 

I'm gonna get a million from the government real soon!/I'll buy a yacht, a foreign car, and one trip to the Moon!/That Biden, he is quite a guy; so generous and kind/Of course a number cruncher in DC can loose his mind/But what care I if dollar bills will soon become tp/I'll burn 'em in my barbeque to make a fricasee!

The Ayatollah and the Pope were meeting in old Ur/A site so ancient that the dust was too tired to stir/They shook hands for the media and smiled real wide as well/while thinking to themselves "He's just a lousy infidel!"/Perhaps the Buddha had it right; we'll all come back again/and maybe learn to love more wide while still in our playpen. 

I love to fry up onions/they go with any meat/some people call them noisome/to me their flavor's sweet/morning, noon, and dinner/ I slide 'em in a pan/and use them for a topping/ on steak and fish and Spam/My neighbors are complaining/they cannot stand the fumes/but I'll keep eating onions/while they starve in their rooms!

The mercies of God.

 

Where does the real compassion dwell

for the saint and infidel?

Who has the mercy broad and strong

to counter arbitrary wrong?

Methinks that God alone can claim

complete control of such domain! 

Prose Poem: Sanctioned.

 

I was looking at the pink marshmallow sky

on the beach when an ugly horde of 

ghost crabs scrabbled up to me.

Since this was a magical day in the tropics,

they began talking to me:

"Is it true you've been sanctioned?"

asked one.

"Will you fight this in court?"

asked another.

"How does this affect your standing

with the current administration?"

asked a third one, which I immediately

squashed with my foot.

I felt no remorse.

Later on, at the tiki bar, where I was enjoying

the pu pu platter,

a gecko on the ceiling above me

fell into my crab rangoon,

screaming "Will you be running

for office again?"

My waiter offered to have the gecko

grilled for me, but I took it home

in a doggie bag instead.

"Now" I said to the gecko,

which I had deposited in a bamboo

cage,

"My fine feathered friend, what is the

meaning of all this twaddle about me

being sanctioned?"

"Let me talk to my editor first"

demanded the gecko sullenly.

"Who do you work for?" I asked it.

"Who else? The Gecko Times!" it replied testily.

Just then an enormous cockchafer crawled up

on my table.

"I'm with the Kafka Tribune" it said to me,

as I raised a rolled newspaper to swat it.

"I have diplomatic immunity!"

"Not with me you don't!" I snarled,

and brought the paper down with a satisfying

whack.

I googled the mailing address of the 

Kafka Times and addressed an envelope

to them with the remains of their reporter

inside it.

But I couldn't find a single stamp in the house,

so I threw the envelope in the garbage.

During the ruckus the gecko had gnawed

through the bamboo bars and escaped.

It was on my ceiling, dropping tiny black

pellets on me and laughing insanely.

"Is that any way for a journalist to act?"

I cried in disgust.

"It's the only way, pal" replied the gecko, snapping up

 a moth fluttering nearby.

Then a much bigger gecko suddenly darted 

out from a rafter beam and swallowed my 

tormentor in one gulp.

"Thank you" I told the large gecko.

"Don't mention it" replied the reptile, "I was 

his editor . . . "

******************************

Here is some push back on this poem from a reader, who also happens to be a good friend of mine:

(Notice of forewarning: Everything I say in this message is meant sincerely and straightforwardly.)

Several moments in your prose poem bring a smile or a bit of a smile (usually as a response to what we call "wry humor" or to something incongruous or odd). But there was one moment when I laughed out loud. It was when I read these lines:

I googled the mailing address of the 

Kafka Times and addressed an envelope

to them with the remains of their reporter

inside it.

For whatever reason, I love those lines, especially the last couple. I think it has something to do with the fact that the reporter is (in my mind) both an insect that can be smashed and (at least in a shadowy way) a full-sized reporter, all of this combining into the incongruity of mailing the reporter's remains in an envelope to the Kafka Times. (The envelope retained its small size in my imagination.)

So it was disappointing to read that "you" (the speaker in the poem) proceeded to throw away the envelope. What a waste! I really wanted that envelope to make it to the Kafka Times! 

As a frequent reader of your work, that moment of throwing away the envelope reminded me of MANY similar moments in your work, at least in your prose poems--moments of incompletion or loss or failure. (Sometimes moments of quick and casual destruction or dismissal.) My sense is that these moments happen very often in your poems--honestly, to my mind, too often. It's partly that they've become something of a cliche. Besides that, they often seem too easy, not earned and not productive of any particular pleasure or insight. 

I think my unsatisfied response also comes from my imagining that these frequent moments reflect something in you--an inclination that I think you have (based on my small acquaintance with you) to believe that all hopes will eventually be dashed and all efforts will be frustrated. (When I say "inclination" I don't mean a committed belief--I just mean a kind of habitual tendency to see and feel in a certain way.) Besides wanting you (as the unique individual you are) to be more hopeful and happy, I think my response reflects my own desire--even my own habitual inclination and effort--to hope, to see happiness and success as an eventual outcome, even if it will take a long time, even if its full accomplishment is in the eternal sphere. 

You may feel I've put a lot of weight on little filaments in a whimsical creation. But I'm just saying how I honestly responded. And I do think that our moments of whimsy often reveal things of deep import.

But again, I LOVE those lines I quoted. Spontaneous laughter feels great.

My email response to his critique, thus:

Yes, I agree with you that the casual sadism, violence, and death in my prose poems is becoming a familiar trope. But I don't see it as a possible liability. The use of violence in my work stems directly from my slapstick clowning background. I learned early on as a clown the basic 'lazzi' or 'schtick' that slapstick venues rely on -- explosions, pratfalls, blows to the head, slaps and kicks in many variations, loss of pants, gooey items thrown into the face, defenestration (usually through paper hoops), and even murder most foul -- as in the famous clown routine 'Dead & Alive.'  (Here is a link to that clown skit if you'd like to see it yourself:  https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PkCpbw4EpEI  )

I am also a huge fan of classic American cartoons, and especially of cartoon director Tex Avery's work in that field. The grotesque violence and Grand Guignol merriment in those animated productions can still leave me breathless with admiration.

I see nothing problematic in viewing our current world as fallen and full of danger, and wishing to chronicle it whimsically in some of my poetry. To quote Jacob 7:26 -- "by saying that the time passed away with us, and also our ^blives passed away like as it were unto us a ^cdream, we being a ^dlonesome and a solemn people, ^ewanderers, cast out from Jerusalem, born in tribulation, in a wilderness, and hated of our brethren, which caused wars and contentions; wherefore, we did mourn out our days."

Perhaps the most salient point I can make about my bleak and violent conceits is, as you so kindly wrote, that in the midst of my dark visions will come a moment of risibility that is in such delightful contrast that it causes readers to laugh out loud.  As I gain further mastery over my craft, I hope to be able to do that much more often.