tea with the winter guest

They were cooking & pickling ripe regrets
in good mason jar tradition
when they heard a massive fist
gently pleasantly knocking upon their door.

Now is the season when yetis
visit apartments:
premature Santas
from the far north.
The north star an icicle
upon the foggy TV image rubbing window.

Stan Gertrude glanced at his big dog
pawing & stamping lids on glass
paws and towels dextrous as
violet steam flickered in her eyes.
She gazed back at his tensed hand
trembling unlocking opening the knob the door.

The ivory hair rubbed all corners of their doorway.
A massive head peered down with an inflated laurel
intertube atop the cocked ears black in the cold
as if to mock them both
in their sheetrock cave
of oven fires and lampshade shadows.

Behind immense bulk of fur claw and muscle saw Stan
a small flock of young chickens
bulging dilated eyes back his way
as they raced on stubbly feet around the corner
out of sight with a feather left floating.
An exclamation point in the frosty air.

Floppy ears up
in alarm the dog
unlids a jar of tea leaves
cryptically labeled.
Hefting her tail.
She upends it into a boiling pot
upon the red coil
into roiling regrets there.

The yeti wrinkles his nose
and slows
his massive paw with which
he was about to pat
Stan's bald head.

Pulls in the claws
stoops quite low
and squeezes
squeezes
in
rubbing the intertube above
and knuckles against walls.

The furred giant
busts the bed flat
as he sits down
there
and mumbles
looping arms and legs
smaller
like a collapsing 8.

When the boiling mass
fluid & leaves
consumate permeate complete
and cool
dog pours
three cups:
one for a subdued yeti
one for a speechless Stan
one for herself.

They and the night pass
sipping
slipping out
of furred and unfurred hides
onto rays of the polar light.

i am i

i am i because my little blog knows me.
i am not i because my little dog knows me.
i have no dog and having no dog is not interesting.
i am i because my little blog knows me.

is Stein's mind interesting.
good question.
Though sometimes not a heavy Stein but now
she is a Stein around the neck
after repeating and reading repeating.
an empty mind with empty frames the game.
i'll go read Steven later rather than her.

stein and all

It has been hard to motivate myself to write on Stein. Not that I dislike her, but it is not always easy to snap out cool analyses and stamp them with distancing wit. And why would I be so eager for such an accomplishment anyway. To write like that seems hardly original or uniquely individual to me. But sometimes to write just for practice or doodle and not for newly born crystalline objectivities (and what reason would there be for one to need to feel obligated to write in that sense anyway) makes it easier to get going.

Sometimes Stein sounds better as music. In fact, I did listen to some of two operas with music by Virgil Thompson and texts by Gertrude Stein called Four Saints in Three Acts and The Mother of Us All (given Stein I'm not sure of the caps on these titles). Although they felt a little dated which is to be expected the language was fresh and interesting but not always with a clear sense of my knowing why she picked those words or that phrasing other than an interesting feel and tone. So I don't know why she places particular words together but the sounding of the words and the paragraphs is something very fun at times but also very tiring at times.

Also I read part of and very much liked The World is Round. I read that with a lighter grip than Geographical History as I do not need to know it for class. And so with no sense of obligation to understand but to enjoy the play in the lay of words I sailed away through it not minding about the human mind.

lesspagelesspoem

Well! I've lost my main pageless poem (perhaps because it wasn't on a page). I will have to spring into action for my backup one. Perhaps I hold the words before my other self in some alternate universe now, you never know. But as Nietzsche said, "Whatever does not kill me makes me stronger." Death by papercuts to the ego and all that.

refractions for the day

While I appreciate the challenge of slogging my way through Alma, picking together the pieces of what Notley presents, I sometimes sigh and wish for (and more than wish for, I go to) more clear and direct texts.

I saw an acquaintance this weekend wearing a t-shirt with picture of John Stuart Mill (wrote Utilitarianism, On Liberty, etc) and a quote by that fine old limey upon it. Anyway, clarity like that and not onslaughts of surreal owls (which I like but not in massive flocks) is nice.

No adoration for the Fatherland and Party leaders who say "let them not die in vain" and all that today or any other day--personal creativity and not mass rallies with cookies handed out for comfort after beatings. They had their rites today, fine, may they then not also have old delusions today. There were those in Falstaff's day who believed they deserved and would soon get victory and Victory and did not (maybe it was their selfish genes in them misleading). Anyway...

Of rites, I've taken part in some of the rites (reading, imagining with Alma) and spent time lying spent in the endslope of the Gully. Like the emaciated young man within I'm hungry now and pull myself out of this socket
and go eat,
something far from
either owl food or ghost food.

Sight

A couple days ago, I broke my glasses at the place where the metal arm on the frame joins the frame surrounding the lens. Because of this, and because I've not been able to fix them or replace them yet, I wear either a very loose pair of glasses (only one arm on the right ear) or wear an old pair with deep scratches in one lense. Since this older pair is sturdier and will not fall off, I usually wear them outside my apartment, though it gives me a bit of a headache looking through them. Needless to say, I've not been happy with this.

Writing often arises from a particular experience or thought or later reflection on one of these. Like my current glasses, observation of these experiences is usually imperfect. The brain fails to remember points in the picture. If I went on a walk, I can not remember every color of what I pass. If in conversation, I can not remember every word. So there are gaps to fill or assume.

As to the belief that if you pay attention you remember: do you remember everything from biology or geometric axioms or when the sunset was or what time x is...?

All things decay and misperception is common. I value Notley's demand for honesty, clarity in purpose, openness, and freshness in her essay Thinking and Poetry.

I sometimes want to label Alma or those in it by saying, she is such and such and she is such and such, and then I resist this and resist coming to a firm and singular conclusion. The doors are still open, even if knobs or hinges or whatever are broken at times.

brief fall scene

Leaf=mouse
shuffling
scat ter ing
in the breeze
in the night
in the trick'd eye