HAPPY HOLIDAYS!

Well, it's time to re-post this whatnot.

__________

Happy Holidays!

by yours in dementia

(published in Pindeldyboz)

"Happy Holidays, Happy Holidays, Merry Christmas, Ho Ho Ho," exclaimed Bobo, the black cat with green eyes, the young Marlon Brando cat, the way he moves. He (Bobo not Brando) was lying next to me as usual. His chitchat induced me to surrender sleep and remove my American Airlines eyemask, which had drooped to my chin.

Bobo opened his mouth, sang, "Hark the Herald Angels sing," till I placed my hand over his tiny lips. "I hate that hymn. I hate Christmas and all those angloid things," I exclaimed, fiercely. "I want another planet real bad I want it. Stop drooling all over me."

So I got out of bed and fed all of the cats cornflakes and watched my upstairs neighbor float by the kitchen window as my coffee brewed. "Hi, Gloria," she shouted, gaily, waving her eggbeater. "Aren't you going to Saks? Big sale on, beating the crowds. I'll be the first through the doors." Henrietta was wearing her red leather shopping bag Santa shaped with green handles. "Ho ho," I replied, squirting cheap vodka in her face with my plastic pistol.

Henri sailed by, blue suit with black umbrella. "Goya Knoll," he remarked gravely when he saw me gazing out the window.

There were no pigeons around, not for a change -- only a baby puma basking in a pocket of shade on the sidewalk opposite my building. How cute, I thought, till she started singing: "Silent night, holy night . . ." Evidently, she had lost the map to the manger. She was shaking a cup full of coins.I grabbed my coffee and ran to my computer, only to hear "We wish you a Merry Christmas" emanating from a pop-up. Mephistopheles Ribs of Arkansas was offering me a free Christmas fruit and cheese basket at a discount. I decided my email could wait. I would burn the first fake pine tree I saw.

So I put on my flannel nightgown and left. I burned the fake tree in the lobby, within the purview of the President of the Co-op Board. She snapped a picture of me with her nifty digital, said, "Smile, Merry Christmas oh I mean Happy Chanukah, we'll leave a bill for you, $375 for the tree plus ornaments, including the burning Menorah, you fuckin idiot. The price of oil has gone up, you know."

It was tepid out, due to global warming, of course, drizzling slightly, but a terrific day for the boardwalk. No one would be heading for Brighton Beach days before Christmas, no way, I thought I'd skip the crowds and have a quiet time not writing holiday cards.

But a bunch of reindeer with boom boxes was heading for the beach, "going AWOL, dearie," one of them confided, they'd had it with Santa; "sweatshop exploitation," shouted another, competing with Bing Crosby crooning that cloying White Christmas song. Fuck the lot of those deer, thought I, dreaming of Caledonia. Daddy was kissing Santa Claus, and the reindeer were truly fucked. Two cops named O'Malley bound their spindly feet together with green and red ribbons and placed the reindeer under arrest for desertion. They were going to Guantanamo Bay, those terrorists. New York's bravest tied up the train for nearly an hour, but that's how it goes with traitors.

When I arrived at Brighton Beach boardwalk, it was pretty deserted and dry except for a little fat boy with barely any eyes eating MacDonald's hamburgers and fries. "Hey lady," he yelled, tossing a Russian fur hat at me. "Give some money for Christmas dinner for the Brighton Beach dogs, please!"

I tossed the hat back to the kid, emptier than it was before. I threw a thousand gold coins and a dollar bill into the Atlantic and plunged into the navy blue waters. Swam all the way to the middle of the world, where I could no longer see land. I had escaped.

A fancy ocean liner passed by. People waved at me; cheery holiday music was rising like smog from the ship. "Happy Happy!" they shouted, tossing me martinis with olives and blood sausages with apples. "Happy, Happy!" I waved, as I swam toward the South Pole.

What I'm writing

I've been working on a prose poemy series called "Gated Communities," and collaborating with the wondrous poet Sheila Murphy on a piece called "Room."


Here are bits of "Gated Communities." I've submitted Part I to a journal of prose poetics.

GATED COMMUNITIES
(a series in progress)


Part I: Outside Looking In side



Mapquest

Where leaves of the sequoias fall and winds lift them beyond the edges of roads.

No, not edges not roads. A circle of time.



Mapquest

Where there are no sequoias, no winds to move the minutes.

Where horses lose their gait and disintegrate.

Where no one remembers the ways, means, or mothers.

He says: a rhombus. She says: a trapazoid.



Opera

I bought a vintage velvet dream and hemmed it to rub against my ankles like cats. Dead mother's emerald earrings clung to my ears like leaves.

On a road with no moon I shivered under shadows of trees I could not see. He said he'd be waiting by the gate. There would be no other opening.

There was no gate.



Mapquest

If you proceed from A to B on your horse, you may not notice a slight deviation, a size of time as imperceptible as the beginning of an embryo.

You must have circular vision like the sequoia know where beginnings never end and endings begin.

You must recognize the invisible point of conception -- open your self to conceive it. Then let it go – (that's the point. (beside the point.



Ball

One must have a mask to enter, said the keeper of the gate. His head was swathed in black sackcloth with holes for his eyes, too dark to see under a half-hearted winter moon.

Are you a hangman or a gatekeeper? I asked, I in my red cloak, with my head in the winds and rain, my feet in red rubber slippers.

He said nothing as the road became a river and he a ferryman steering a boat of cloaked shadows cascading over the gate into a promised land of violins, ice wine, and chandeliers.




Part II: Inside Looking Out side or



Vacancy

There I was, finally or so assumed by me, presumed I. Evidence: A: There was no keeper. B. The gate looked different, cast in a light I didn’t recognize. There was graffiti on the gate: an outline of a heart intersected by an arrow at the precise midpoint of nine circles, apparently. The graffiti was a scrawl in Latin, translated: DANTE LOVES BEATRICE.

Someone poked me, but not yet the man with the umbrella. Someone questioned my assumptions. Was this my dead mother? Is that what she’d said, in the manner of the crow, opening and shutting its beak, did she ever squawk at me, utter: caw caw? Are you sure that’s what you saw . . . dear . . . you with your extravagant imagination, your solitary perspective? Have you located yourself in correct time and season? Are you walking tall and straight forward? Beware of walls!

One must be vigilant. I had learned that much, perhaps not that much. The gate keeper gone, I could only keep watch for and on my self. Was there truly graffiti on the gate? Was there love or at least a story of love? I could not respond, to anyone’s satisfaction, as I imagined, without any fore or hindsight. Where had I left my sight? How could I find it? Where were the chandeliers?

I raised the volume of my voice to an atonal # A, a vulgar arrow to pierce the bland white noise of the context, nothing but fog and a sense of walls. Then, abruptly, the man with the umbrella but without it, all in white: jacket, shirt, pants, and hat. He looked fatigued, red eyed and back bowed, as though in wait for the arrival of an arrow, consulted a watch with a large face he wasn’t wearing on his wrist. It’s time, the man said repeatedly, nostrils quivering.

The man cleared his throat to achieve a tone of certainty: there is not . . . is not any, any longer . . . no longer is time but not vacant. There it is, VOICI and VOILA: the vacancy! For you, if you wish. Then he scurried past, disappearing at the end of the roads, it seemed, though I could see no roads.

The planet on this side of the gate felt flat and far like an outdoor concert hall without speakers. The man must have fallen off its ledge, either the planet or fog, I couldn’t tell. I only knew that he was not to be beloved; the distances were much too obvious. There was nothing to do but seek the plot allotted to me, my space to design. I started to walk short and crooked in a random direction.


Mapquest

If you walk swiftly to meet deadlines, you may miss the turn.

If you walk slowly to arrive at specific places, you may miss the turn.

Walk without point past the playgrounds and cemeteries, the wedding rotundas and taverns. Walk only toward possibility without thought and reflection without light.