Christmas in Brooklyn

M's charming street is lined with wrought-iron railings tied with red velved bows, awnings draped in lights, and houses with decorations that blink in time to holiday music. At the corner several Christmas trees lean up against each other, waiting to be bought, and the man selling them smiles at children whose colorful coats sparkle against the white port-o-potty that inexplicably reads, in graffiti,"rollerblade!"

There is always too much to say about these visits. I stayed in Brooklyn this time and saw (and tasted) some of the favorite haunts of dear friends, such as where Maya Angelou, Robert DeNiro and Lil Kim get their red velvet cake. I bought red patent leather shoes in the Green Point, ate Polish potatoes and drank the best coffee (with an amazing doughnut, but not quite as good as Congdon's in Maine, and their maple creams) at Peter Pan while chatting with old people. And then I saw some crazy good sculptures by the man who did the voice of Ludo in Labyrinth. I want to sit him down with Duane Hansen and listen to what they have to say. Only Duane Hansen is dead.

There were so many things I earmarked to record in my image journal, but I should have written them down then. Because now the old man repairing the edifice of the church is blurring at the edges, and the four girls in matching patent leather shoes are fading away.

all is quiet in the suburbs

The upscale suburban plaza with names that end with Walk or Terrace and begin with words like Evergreen or Peacock (then there's the Shoppes at ____ phenomenon) (all of which, for some reason, makes me think of this marvelous list), is taking over my mother's part of the world. Frustratingly, it's one of the few places to shop out here. We noticed the plaza we visited tried to distinguish itself from the nearby mall (oh so working class! garish colored lights! hot topic! santa's playland!) by piping in tasteful classical music rather than muzaked versions of "Feliz Navidad" and that perrennial Christmas favorite "The Heart Will Go On."

But strange and wonderous things do happen in the suburbs, and at this plaza we ran across a cadre of cloaked carollers: teenagers in black, cream and maroon hooded robes singing the Carol of the Bells and other unintelligible, but lovely, seasonal ditties.

Today on to Attleboro and possibly the great lights of La Salette. As I observed to my mother on my return, every region of the U.S. has its own particular take on gawdy, and I've missed the New England Catholic brand of ostentation.

revelations are few and far between, but when they come...

I was thinking the other day about how I needed to go to church again, or perhaps the river, or perhaps read a spiritual text. All this to say, I was feeling out of touch with the larger than my humble life themes. And then I had this epiphany: I have not been reading enough poetry lately.

portent addendum

Driving back from the grocery store, we notice a man walking up the steps of his porch. He is long haired, shirtless, with some sort of tattoo on his back. Vanessa and I are both watching him, in that way you watch your neighbors when they emerge from their dens: recognizing, ok, you, it's you who lives in close proximity to me. Then Vanessa says, is that a gun? And yes, we see, the man has some sort of rifle tucked under his arm. It's sleek and silvery and looks freshly polished.* Its these times we need to remind ourselves we live in Indiana.

*Lest you worry, it seemed likely it was hunting related, and he did not appear hurried or distressed.

portents

From atop the pines comes a scrambling and squawking. I look up to see a murder of crows erupting from and returning to the treetops, barely visible against the dark sky. It is an ebb and flow of conflict, rustling wings and branches in slightly different tenors. I pull my hood up and walk under the possibility of falling needles, shadowed in an old-fashioned silhouette against the sidewalk. No wolves in sight, though.

The next day, a man bicycles past, a quiver of arrows stuck out of the back of his pack. I think about the man in Rhode Island who killed another man, in a road rage incident, with a crossbow he'd pulled from his car.

We eat candy canes at the bar from a small glass cup. None of them are peppermint.

bloomington can be pretty in winter

back to poetry

I'm tired of narrative right now, and yet I can't quite escape it. In honor of this, I'm posting Misty Harper's beautiful poem, "Plot." I just reread Misty's chapbook (chosen by Charles Simic for the PSA Chapbook Prize) and it's so good. She does such wonderful things by impregnating common phrases with unexpected images. Here you go:

Plot
Never Fails. Slick with ice
then thick with blossoms.

Let birds subpoena the trees.
Let Miscellany loosen her ornate plot.

I was born on my due date.
I was placed on a red plate.

A nurse said O Sawbones
this one doesn't look too good.

Arithmatic of pestilence and light,
answer my hands their questions.
Answer my questions their hands.

new dress

The black was becoming oppressive.

oh and also (first lyrics post!)

It's Over
(Tom Waits and Kathleen Brennan-Waits)

You must have brought the bad weather with you
The sky's the colour of lead
All you've left me is a feather
On an unmade bed

It's always me whenever there's trouble
The world does nothing but turn
And the ring it fell off my finger
I guess I'll never learn

But it's over, it's over, it's over
I'm getting dressed in the dark
Our story ends before it begins
I always confess to everyone's sins
The nail gets hammered down
And it's over, let it go

So don't go and make a big deal out of nothing
Well it's just a storm on a dime
And I've always found there's nothing
That money can't buy
I've already gone to the place I'm going
There's no place left to fall
And there's something to be said
For saying nothing at all

And it's over, it's over, it's over
It's done forgotten and through
No one cares what it's all for
You'll be buried in the clothes
That you've never wore
So keep your suitcase by the door
It's over, let it go

No one cares what it's all for
You'll be buried in the clothes
That you never wore
So keep your suitcase by the door
It's over, let it go
You gotta let it go
Let it go, let it go

today i am thankful for

good health. And the knowledge that the positive side of the close knit between my mental state and my physical state is that it lets me off the hook for being a miserable wretch these past couple days.

I can't stop listening to Tom Waits' incredible new album(s), particularly the song "First Kiss." Two songs at least on these albums mention Indiana. Holla.

Samrat gave a wonderful reading last night which opened with a sex scene from The Guru of Love in which monkeys interrupt the action delightfully and mischeiviously. His explanation was equally wonderful: I got the two lovers together in the temple and then I didn't know what to do with them. I didn't want to do a traditional love scene. His story "The Wedding Hero" from The Royal Ghosts showed astounding control of time, something which I'm struggling with. It made me grateful again for what I can learn from him.