Prose Poem: Interview with Charles Passy.

 

I decided I wanted to interview Charles Passy, who writes for the Wall Street Journal. Because I wanted someone interesting to talk to for my blog. I have high hopes for my blog. I'm hoping it will start getting a lot of views and then I will sell it to the highest bidder and retire to Thailand on the money from the sale. You can buy an orchid plant in Thailand for ten baht.  So I googled Mr. Passy and got a phone number in, of all places, Texas.  I figured he had a vacation home there.  So I dialed the number.  "Jefferson Jimplecute" said a lady's voice.  "Come again?" I asked.  "This is the Jefferson Jimplecute newspaper, sir" she replied patiently.  "How can I help you."   "Um, I'd like to talk to Charles Passy, please?" I told her uncertainly.  "Just a minute" she said.  She came back a minute later:  "He's out delivering the paper right now, can I get your number so's he can call you right back?"  I was puzzled.  "I'm looking for the Charles Passy who writes for the Wall Street Journal?" I told her desperately.  "Oh him" she replied.  "He don't work here, honey.  Our Charles Passy is just a local boy who works part-time in the office here. Sorry."  "That's okay" I told her.  "Thanks."  Damn Google, sending me on a wild goose chase.  So next I tried calling the Wall Street Journal direct for his phone number.  They said he was at his vacation home in Marion County, and they wouldn't give me his number there. They didn't even offer to take a message, the momsers.  But I had to find something out, just for my own self-esteem.  So I asked "Where's Marion County, anyway?"  They told me it was in Texas.   So I never got to interview Charles Passy, the one who writes for the Wall Street Journal.  I decided instead to call back and interview the Charles Passy, Charlie to his friends, who works in the Jefferson Jimplecute newspaper office.  He's a nice kid, but really had nothing important to say.  Except that his dad owns a bottle of mescal with a scorpion in it.

Prose Poem: I am the Deep State. (Dedicated to Rebecca Ballhaus.)

 

You may not believe this, but I am the Deep State.  That's right, boychik, I pull all the strings.  I'm the king maker.  The eminence grise par excellence. Until recently.  I say this not to brag.  But to explain my actions during the past week.  When a pesky journalist by the name of Rebecca Ballhaus began writing about me in the Wall Street Journal.  Her first article merely insinuated that although I was outwardly an elderly slob who couldn't button his sweater right, I had suspicious links to the Andrea Doria affair and was the prime mover behind the horrible outcome of the Giant Rat of Sumatra League. My lawyers said she had not crossed the line into libel or slander, so there was little I could do except have my boys throw limburger cheese at her car as she drove by my secretive lair outside of Bumpass, Virginia.  Then she hit me where it hurts by writing about my connections with A. Robins (AKA 'The Banana Man.')  Although the Board warned me to take no direct action I felt compelled to show her who was boss.  So I took a water balloon down to her newspaper office -- but they said she worked at home.  So I threw the water balloon at the nearest pigeon and ordered my chauffeur to drive me to her home.  It is a palatial estate on the banks of Cockle Creek. Once there I hid in the bushes to spy on her.  But the gardener caught me.  He locked me in the tool shed until I promised to go straight home and to bed without my supper.  But I was not defeated.  Not by a long shot.  The next day I wrote a letter to the editor.  Nothing came of it.  So I decided to resign as the Deep State controller and begin painting water color clowns.  If Ballhaus wants to write about me anymore she's gonna have to explain what a variegated wash is and not accuse me of taking down the Silicon Valley Bank . . .

Prose Poem: The Knitted Scarf. (Dedicated to Gina Kolata.)

 

I started knitting in the womb.  My mother tells me it was a very uncomfortable experience for her.  And where the yarn and the knitting needles came from, no one can really say.  It could be called a miracle.  Or a nuisance.  I stopped knitting at the age of five.  Just lost interest in the whole thing.  Our family wasn't big on handicrafts anyways.  We were more into sitting in front of the television, eating frozen dinners, and picking lint off our sweaters.  When I needed to get a job as a young man I chose the Merchant Marine.  I learned that lots of poets and writers were in the Merchant Marine, like Jack Kerouac.  I began writing an obsessively long novel on a roll of brown butcher paper.  I stopped writing when my hitch was up.  Lost interest in the whole thing.  And the knitted scarf, which is the title of this whole thing?  Just a gimmick.  A ruse to interest dedicated knitters like Gina Kolata of the New York Times.  See, I figure if she writes about me not knitting anymore or writing anymore I'll become a social media trend.  The guy who quit.  That's my personal brand.  Catchy, no?  With the raft of endorsement deals I'm hoping to garner, I should be able to retire early.  Live in Victoria, British Columbia.  Mild winters.  Lots of flowers.  I'll take to wearing garish knitted scarfs and being reclusive.  All the best writers are recluses.

Prose Poem: Template. (Dedicated to Mike Anderson of KSL.)

 

 

 

I was asked by a New York newspaper reporter if I use the same template, just plugging in different names, when I dedicate a prose poem to someone.  I didn't know what to make of that question.  Did the reporter think I  reuse the same poem over and over again?  That I can't or won't create new work each time I post on social media?  I still don't know if he thought I was clever, or lazy.  But I don't recycle my work, filling in the blanks.  When I write a prose poem, and use someone's name in it, it's because that person's life has somehow intersected with mine.  I feel a need to include them in my expanding opus.  Does that make me a crude exploiter.  A ballyhoo artist?  Maybe.  I don't mind admitting I crave the limelight.  But what I most want as a writer, as a poet, are new ideas to ground my works in reality.  Because I keep falling into the fantasist mode.  Everything I write threatens to topple over into whimsy.  Even the articles I ghostwrite for a fee.  For commercial websites.  I like to make up statistics and quotes from fictitious sources.  I'm going to get caught one day, and that will end my second source of income.  My main source of income is Social Security, which comes once a month inside the pouch of a federal pelican.  The check smells like fish.  See what I did there, Mike . . .

Poesia in prosa: prefazione a un libro immaginario.

Quando cerchi segnali, indicazioni stradali che ti indichino la giusta direzione, non c'è niente di più affidabile di un cartellone pubblicitario dell'autostrada. Sono sicuro che la mia vita è stata prolungata perché ho ascoltato il richiamo di una mucca da cartellone a "mangiare più chikin". Il pollo fa molto bene. Ma forse la cosa più grande che i cartelloni pubblicitari hanno fatto per questo paese è mantenere vivo lo spirito della poesia nei cuori degli automobilisti mentre sfrecciavano nei giri stabiliti. Voglio dire, da quello che ho letto nei libri di storia, potevi guidare lungo una strada di campagna quando all'improvviso ti sei imbattuto in una serie di cartelli con la scritta:

Se i tuoi baffi

trasformarsi in boscaglia

la tua vita amorosa

è un wicket appiccicoso.

A causa di cartelloni pubblicitari come quello, l'America alla fine ha superato le potenze dell'Asse per vincere la seconda guerra mondiale. Questa non è un'iperbole. Una nazione piena di jingle in rima è una nazione piena dello spirito del "si può fare". Basta chiedere a qualsiasi ragazzo americano dal sangue rosso di completare il classico limerick che inizia: "C'era un giovane di Nantucket" e lo vedrai di persona. Prosperiamo con le ballate, soprattutto quando provengono dai cartelloni pubblicitari. I cartelloni pubblicitari ci dicono per chi votare. Dove mangiare. Come superare la disfunzione erettile. E spiegare sinteticamente i tassi ipotecari. Ecco perché questo libro di Sheryl Gay Stolberg, Billboard Empire, è così importante e affascinante. Descrive le intricate macchinazioni del moderno cartellone pubblicitario con una raffinata mano italiana. Consiglio questo libro a chiunque si stanchi velocemente di alberi e montagne durante la guida, a chi desidera invece la poesia comune delle masse come incarnata da quella specie in via di estinzione, il cartellone pubblicitario americano.

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

A dozen you'll be Sunday morn --

That's twelve years since you have been born.

I've been commissioned to relate

how much your folks do celebrate

all you do, and are, and say.

Linus, you take their breath away!

Poème en prose : Préface d'un livre imaginaire.

 

 

Lorsque vous recherchez des panneaux, des poteaux indicateurs pour vous orienter dans la bonne direction, il n'y a rien de plus fiable qu'un panneau d'affichage d'autoroute. Je suis sûr que ma vie a été prolongée parce que j'ai répondu à l'appel d'une vache d'affichage à "manger plus de chikin". Le poulet est très bon pour vous. Mais peut-être que la plus grande chose que les panneaux d'affichage aient faite pour ce pays est de garder l'esprit de poésie vivant dans le cœur des automobilistes alors qu'ils accéléraient leurs rondes désignées. Je veux dire, d'après ce que j'ai lu dans les livres d'histoire, vous pourriez conduire le long d'une route de campagne quand tout à coup vous tombez sur une série de panneaux indiquant :

Si vos moustaches

se transformer en fourré

ta vie amoureuse

est un guichet collant.

À cause de panneaux d'affichage comme celui-là, l'Amérique a finalement vaincu les puissances de l'Axe pour gagner la Seconde Guerre mondiale. Ce n'est pas une hyperbole. Une nation remplie de jingles rimés est une nation remplie de l'esprit « pouvoir faire ». Demandez simplement à n'importe quel garçon américain au sang rouge de compléter le limerick classique qui commence par : « Il y avait un jeune homme de Nantucket » et vous verrez par vous-même. Nous prospérons sur balladry, surtout quand il s'agit de panneaux d'affichage. Les panneaux publicitaires nous disent pour qui voter. Où manger. Comment vaincre la dysfonction érectile. Et expliquer succinctement les taux hypothécaires. C'est pourquoi ce livre de Sheryl Gay Stolberg, Billboard Empire, est si important et fascinant. Elle détaille les machinations complexes du panneau d'affichage moderne avec une fine main italienne. Je recommande ce livre à tous ceux qui se lassent rapidement des arbres et des montagnes en conduisant, qui aspirent plutôt à la poésie banale des masses incarnée par cette espèce en voie de disparition, le panneau d'affichage américain.

 

Poema en prosa: Prefacio a un libro imaginario.

 

Cuando busca señales, postes indicadores que le orienten en la dirección correcta, no hay nada más confiable que una valla publicitaria en la autopista. Estoy seguro de que mi vida se prolongó porque escuché el llamado de una vaca de la cartelera para 'comer más pollo'. El pollo es muy bueno para ti. Pero quizás lo mejor que han hecho las vallas publicitarias por este país es mantener vivo el espíritu de la poesía en los corazones de los automovilistas mientras aceleraban en sus rondas designadas. Quiero decir, por lo que he leído en los libros de historia, podrías estar conduciendo por una carretera rural cuando de repente te encuentras con una serie de carteles que dicen:

Si tus bigotes

convertir a la espesura

Tu vida amorosa

es un wicket pegajoso.

Debido a vallas publicitarias como esa, Estados Unidos finalmente venció a las potencias del Eje para ganar la Segunda Guerra Mundial. Esto no es una hipérbole. Una nación llena de jingles que riman es una nación llena del espíritu de 'puedo hacerlo'. Simplemente pídale a cualquier niño estadounidense apasionado que complete el clásico limerick que comienza: "Había un joven de Nantucket" y lo verá por sí mismo. Nos encantan las baladas, especialmente cuando provienen de vallas publicitarias. Las vallas publicitarias nos dicen por quién votar. Dónde comer. Cómo superar la disfunción eréctil. Y explicar sucintamente las tasas hipotecarias. Por eso este libro de Sheryl Gay Stolberg, Billboard Empire, es tan importante y fascinante. Ella detalla las intrincadas maquinaciones de las vallas publicitarias modernas con una fina mano italiana. Recomiendo este libro a cualquiera que se canse rápidamente de los árboles y las montañas mientras conduce, que anhele en cambio la poesía común de las masas personificada por esa especie en peligro de extinción, la valla publicitaria estadounidense.

Prosagedicht: Vorwort zu einem imaginären Buch.

 

Wenn Sie nach Schildern suchen, nach Wegweisern, die Sie in die richtige Richtung weisen, gibt es nichts Zuverlässigeres als eine Autobahn-Werbetafel. Ich bin mir sicher, dass mein Leben verlängert wurde, weil ich dem Ruf einer Plakatkuh gefolgt bin, „mehr Chikin zu essen“. Huhn ist sehr gut für Sie. Aber das vielleicht Größte, was Werbetafeln für dieses Land getan haben, ist, den Geist der Poesie in den Herzen der Autofahrer lebendig zu halten, während sie auf ihren festgelegten Runden rasten. Ich meine, nach dem, was ich in den Geschichtsbüchern gelesen habe, könnten Sie auf einer Landstraße fahren, als Sie plötzlich auf eine Reihe von Schildern stoßen, auf denen steht:

Wenn Ihre Schnurrhaare

wenden sich an Dickicht

dein Liebesleben

ist ein klebriges Wicket.

Wegen solcher Werbetafeln besiegte Amerika schließlich die Achsenmächte und gewann den Zweiten Weltkrieg. Das ist keine Übertreibung. Eine Nation voller sich reimender Jingles ist eine Nation voller „Can-Do“-Geist. Bitten Sie einfach irgendeinen hochblütigen amerikanischen Jungen, den klassischen Limerick zu vervollständigen, der beginnt: „There was a young man from Nantucket“ und Sie werden es selbst sehen. Wir leben von Balladen, besonders wenn sie von Werbetafeln kommen. Werbetafeln sagen uns, wen wir wählen sollen. Wo sollen wir essen. Wie man erektile Dysfunktion überwindet. Und kurz Hypothekenzinsen erklären. Deshalb ist dieses Buch von Sheryl Gay Stolberg, Billboard Empire, so wichtig und faszinierend. Sie beschreibt die komplizierten Machenschaften des modernen Billboarding mit feiner italienischer Hand. Ich empfehle dieses Buch jedem, dem Bäume und Berge beim Autofahren schnell überdrüssig werden und der sich stattdessen nach der alltäglichen Poesie der Massen sehnt, wie sie die vom Aussterben bedrohte Art, die amerikanische Werbetafel, verkörpert.

Prose Poem: Preface. (Dedicated to Sheryl Gay Stolberg.)

 When you're looking for signs, for guideposts to point you in the right direction, there is nothing more reliable than a freeway billboard.  I'm sure my life has been extended because I heeded the call of a billboard cow to 'eat more chikin.'  Chicken is very good for you.  But perhaps the greatest thing billboards have done for this country is keep the spirit of poetry alive in the hearts of motorists as they sped upon their appointed rounds.  I mean, from what I've read in the history books, you could be driving along a country road when suddenly you came upon a series of signs reading:  

If your whiskers

turn to thicket

your love life

is a sticky wicket.

Because of billboards like that America eventually overcame the Axis powers to win World War Two.  This is not hyperbole.  A nation filled with rhyming jingles is a nation filled with the 'can-do' spirit.  Just ask any red-blooded American boy to complete the classic limerick that begins:  'There was a young man from Nantucket' and you'll see for yourself.   We thrive on balladry, especially when it comes from billboards.  Billboards tell us who to vote for.  Where to eat.  How to overcome erectile dysfunction.  And succinctly explain mortgage rates.   That is why this book by Sheryl Gay Stolberg, Billboard Empire, is so important and fascinating.  She details the intricate machinations of modern billboarding with a fine Italian hand.  I recommend this book to anyone who tires quickly of trees and mountains while driving, who yearns instead for the commonplace poesy of the masses as epitomized by that endangered species, the American billboard.

Prose Poem: Cooking with Snow. (Dedicated to Maura Judkis.)

 

Passive-aggressive cooking was first reported on by Washington Post reporter Maura Judkis in 2020 during the opening stages of the Covid pandemic.  She wrote about chefs who no longer catered to their own whims or their customer's tastes, but instead made up dishes like snow with sauerkraut and ant egg remoulade.  Feeling threatened and angry at the sudden demise of their livelihoods and security, many chefs reacted by creating dishes that mirrored their sense of an elegant way of life suddenly turned ugly and insubstantial.  Feeling useless, they created meals that were not meant to be eaten but to be gawked at, or even installed as works of art at MOMA.  Pierre Bonsat's "Cooking with Snow" became the bestselling work of non-fiction for sixteen straight weeks.  And McDonald's came out with their infamous McMush -- fried mush topped with stir fried dry ice on a bun.  Now that things are getting somewhat back to normal, post-pandemic culinary schools of thought are turning away from passive-aggressive dishes.  They are returning to consumer-friendly items like mac & cheese and bacon jam on toast.  This is good news for everyone, except, perhaps, food journalists like Judkis, who now have to dig up ways to make pork and beans sound interesting and trendy.  Me, I've always stuck with Ball Park Franks dipped in mambo sauce.