my dog got your chicken
gypsy in a jobe skin
the hounds in your eyes.
look at yourself. the hounds in your eyesÂ
are howling tonight. the world itself is a hound,Â
howling as well, then trotting off without a care.Â
your diamonds? your dreams?Â
they are nothing.Â
nothing.Â
only two things count; what you have doneÂ
and what you choose to do next.Â
no one keeps score in this match. the grassÂ
on the pitch is tall and wild, the weeds reach upÂ
almost to heaven. the hounds in your eyes pissÂ
anywhere they wish. the world itself is a hound,Â
and you damn well know it.
jobe
The only people for me are the mad ones, the ones who are mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved, desirous of everything at the same time, the ones who never yawn or say a commonplace thing, but burn, burn, burn, like fabulous yellow Roman candles exploding like spiders across the stars.
Jack Kerouac, from On The Road
we've all seen scary things. a child choking
on something he ate. an old woman stepping
into the busy street without looking. four
young tough guys looking at you from down
the block. my father smiling as he slowly
walked back to his pick-up truck and got
the pistol from under the seat. and still
smiling as he walked back and cocked it,
putting it under the other man's chin.
and continuing to smile as he almost whispered,
"I'm sorry my dog got your chicken. I'll pay you
for it. I'll always stand good for that and I'll try
to keep her away from here. but mister, you touch
that dog and I'll blow your head off. understand?
I'll widow your wife, I'll orphan your children.
I'll kill you." and he never stopped smiling as he
and I, and the dog, drove off for home, with him
asking, "so. how was school today?"
jobe
Climbing Green-Cliff Mountain in Yung-chia
Taking a little food, a light walking-stick,
I wander up to my home in quiet mystery,
the path along streams winding far away
onto ridgetops, no end to this wonder at
slow waters silent in their frozen beauty
and bamboo glistening at heart with frost,
cascades scattering a confusion of spray
and broad forests crowding distant cliffs.
Thinking it's moonrise I see in the west
and sunset I'm watching blaze in the east,
I hike on until dark, then linger out night
sheltered away in deep expanses of shadow.
Immune to high importance: that's renown.
Walk humbly and it's all promise in beauty,
for in quiet mystery the way runs smooth,
ascending remote heights beyond compare.
Utter tranquillity, the distinction between
yes this and no that lost, I embrace primal
unity, thought and silence woven together,
that deep healing where we venture forth.
gypsy in a jobe skin
here I am, folks, a gypsy in a jobe skin. I am a monkey
in pants, disguised as a man. far from here, where I wait,
the church of rome growls like a mean dog, angry,
with sharp priests for teeth. I can't change these things,
and I probably wouldn't even if I could. the streetcar
that stops in front of my house is filled with people
that are so low, so down, they can't hold back their tears.
hanging from the strap, I whisper words of comfort
to those passengers closest to me. listen, don't give in
to despair, I tell them. try and hold on to some hope,
if only for today. look folks, I am a gypsy in a jobe skin.
I am a monkey in pants, disguised as a man. this streetcar
goes from my house to heaven, with stops on every corner.
here, take hold of each other's hand and we'll just ride.
jobe
Euphemia Gray's Pubis
For John Yau
As for me, I like them with plenty of hair, Mr. Ruskin. I remember soaping the crotch of a certain Miss L. in the sea at dusk, while she soaped mine. The water was cold, but we were burning. Our kisses made the night hurry, the sun take its time setting.
Marble nymphs in the park surrounded by purse snatchers, how sad they always seem! Lay down your bow and arrows, Daphne, and grill us some sausages on the stove. Your ass is bare, your hair is in wild disarray. The sound of our antique bedsprings reaches to the museum across the street.
The visitors don't know what to make of it. Someone is moaning, someone is whispering obscenities around the child Madonna. They pretend not to hear, they stop to view and admire her briefly, and then stroll on, like fish in a fishtank we'll be having for late dinner tonight.
Hi, Campers. Just a note here, a few items.
Charles Simic is a favorite poet of mine. He only died last year, and I re-read several of his books at that time. I often made the effort to hear my favorite poets in person, at least the American ones. Somehow I missed Mr. Simic. I’m told he was a charming fellow, certainly that quality shows in his writing. The prose poem above I blundered across just today.
I have shut down most of my social media, at least for awhile. I got rid of everything controlled by Musk or Zuckerberg. I’m still on Blue Sky, and have been for since well before the recent rush to that site. And I will remain here on Substack. What else do I need?
I’m sick. I have a chest cold that is not COVID, but is still eating me up. I am currently living in my PJs, robe, and slippers, shuffling around the place like an old man. And so I am.
I picked up a book on baking bread, when the cold passes I will give it a shot. I have become, since retiring, a fairly decent cook. I believe that if one bakes good bread one can become a Roman. Is this true?
I just finished reading a novel, The Vegetarian by Han Kang, the Korean writer who recently won the Nobel Prize in Literature. Outstanding. Now I suppose all of her books will become movies.
This is not a format for my politics, but I will say this; the Trump cabinet nominees are like a tiny clown car at the circus. Most of them shouldn’t be allowed in the buildings where they will work.
Thanks for reading!
jobe