The people in
Modigliani’s
paintings have
eyes but they
don’t look
like final eyes.
Maybe Modigliani
never finalized
his paintings.
Maybe that’s
what he was
trying to say.
Whatever. It’s
fun to think
about it that way.
.
Your name and your phone number,
yes, that’s your information.
Your information is a card you can
choose to play or not play at various
occasions when you desire to make
yourself known or unknown to others.
You might also choose to provide
a name different from your real name
and a number that is likewise not your own,
and that is called your false information.
Occasions are like games in which
you hold your cards and others hold theirs.
Some will tell you that your email address
is part of your information. Your email
address is not part of your information.
Or rather, it is part of your information,
but it has no material bearing on occasions
and is not a card eligible to be played.
That is, you can play it, but it has no
material bearing on occasions. Playing
your email address is a way for you not
really to play. I don’t know. It’s confusing.
.
I didn’t catch your name.
You told it to me
but I didn’t catch it
and now I fear
that it is either still
falling, slowly, thin
slice of your spirit
that it is, or has disappeared
under the sofa at our
mutual friend’s apartment.
Your name is nothing,
though, compared to you,
with your big brown
eyes, Vuitton clutch and Ugg
sheepskin boots, and a cell
phone number that you
gave me but which I also
didn’t catch, forgot to write down.
You were who, again?
No worries: you
were still you whether
a greasy poet in a camel hair
blazer, corduroys, and
tacky scarf knotted
too tightly around his neck
remembers your information
or not, still you moving
around, a bipedal primate
among hundreds of other
similar primates who do know
your information, who do
want to call you up
and see what’s going on.
So answer the primates
when they call you.
Find out what they want.
.
Why do you build me up
just to let me down
by forgetting to feed
my labradoodle when
I’m in Rome, buttercup?
Now that’s what I call
“messing me around.”
.
HOWARD
Where there is a Howard, there is a
.
HOWARD
How is the ard of Howard. Now, take two Howards and blend them
Into a large sugar bunny. What you will find is that you now have
One sweet sweet Howard. His name is Howard Cosell. He died
In 1995. He was 77 years old. He is not really named “Howard”
Now. He is named Jesus Christ, and he lives in infinity!
.
HOWARD
What is Howard?
Let us ask Howard.
Howard is everything
That isn’t Not-Howard,
He says. Good grief!
My leather penguin
Could have told me
That. Oh sorry—our
leather penguin.
.
HOWARD
Whenever I throw
A knife at the photo
Of Howard that hangs
In the dining room I
Miss badly and
Damage something
Expensive. Howard,
Howard, I’m moving
Your photo to your
Bedroom.
.
HOWARD
There isn’t any Howard, per se.
He keeps his money in purse A.
.
HOWARDS END
I once went to
Howards End.
It was spooky.
.
.
YESTERDAY
Yesterday a strange woman
came up to me in the Loop
and asked, “What’s it like
to be tall and really,
really, really cute?”
I just looked at her
for a second and then
my cell phone rang
and I answered it
and it was the same
woman asking
the same question.
A call was coming through
on call waiting and I flashed
over and it was the same woman.
It sounded like she
had a glass of white wine
in her hand and was clinking
it with her many rings.
My question for the woman is
.
A POEM
We were on Lindell
anyway so we thought
we’d stop in at that
one place but it was
closed so we kept
walking all the way
to Grand and past
Grand and into the
city and all the way
down to the Tap Room
and got totally wasted
and that’s where I am
now writing this poem
outside the Tap Room
behind the dumpster
well sort of leaning
up against the side
of the dumpster and
I don’t know where
everyone else went
.
I do not celebrate Thanksgiving.
To me, every day is Thanksgiving.
I do not celebrate Christmas, either.
Every day is like Christmas, in a sense.
Finally, I do not celebrate Halloween.
Every day is like Halloween. It’s scary.
“I am a hod carrier,”
says my son
the day before
Thanksgiving.
“What do you mean?”
I ask. He says,
“I carry hod,”
without a sense
that such
a claim
might be
considered odd.
The best way to prepare for Thanksgiving
is to hunt down a live turkey in the forest.
Dead the turkey with a blunderbuss, feather
him, and fill his hide with golden raisins
and croutons and jam that bird in an oven
somewhere. Maybe at your home. Maybe
at your aunt’s. Bake it on low for what seems like
forever while those smells are curling through
whichever home you chose. When it’s done
get it out and trim it up with a steel knife.
I like a little bird, not big. I like some wine
to wash it down and someone to play violin
while I eat. I like to pray, then, and hit the hay.
For as they say, tomorrow’s another big day.
I watered a plant.
It grew. The same
thing happened when
I watered you.
A boy was born.
You fed him milk
from your bosoms.
Time passed.
The boy became
a professional boxer.
I haven’t seen him
in several years.
We call it Mad Art,
but what do we know?
That is what Ron called it
when the place opened
several years ago.
We like to drive down there
for the random
party or show.
Just be like,
“There’s something at Mad Art.”
We’ll probably go.
I like thinking
about heaven
and picturing
myself there.
Don’t you
think heaven
is kind of
weird, though?
I guess it
couldn’t be
any weirder
than earth, though!
I can’t stop listening to Syd Matters’ self-titled 2006 U.S. debut. It is, as they say, all good. Matters is a French singer with a kind of lazy Rufus Wainwright voice, and the melodies are infectious and unpredictable, and the lyrics are poetry. Here’s the beginning of “To All of You”:
To all of you
American girls
it’s sad to
imagine a world
without you
American girls
I’d like to
be part of the world
around you
driving a car
by the seaside
watching the world
from the bright side …
.
1.
A is for Aaron!
S is for Sanderson!
B is for Belz!
Aaron! Sanderson! Belz!!
2.
Beat ‘em! Bust ‘em,
Belz is awesome!
Beat ‘em bust ‘em,
that’s his custom!!
3.
When Aaron Belz comes through the door!
He’s gonna dribble his poems right down the floor!
He’s gonna roll that score right to the sky!
‘Cause he’s an awesome guy!!
4.
Oo! Ah! You wish you were Aaron!
Oo! Ah! You wish you were Aaron!
5.
Who are! You yelling for!
Aaron Belz!
Stand up! And yell once more!
Aaron Belz!
Louder now! Let’s hear it for!
Aaron Belz!
6.
Hey Hi Howdy,
Aaron get rowdy!
Hey Hi Ho,
Aaron let’s go!!
… between an elderly woman, sitting in the front seat, and the driver, who was maybe in his fifties:
.
Woman: (rubbing her hands together) Boy is it cold this morning. It’s getting downright cold. I’m freezing.
Driver: It ain’t cold. You need to be out of a job…on the street…no place to go. That’s cold.
Woman: Aww. It’s 41 degrees out there. What do you call that—hot?
Driver: It ain’t freezing.
Woman: (laughing) Why you always talk crazy?
Driver: Part of life.
Woman: (still laughing) That ain’t no part of life!!
.
