Daily Archives: January 19, 2013

How To Be Their “Indian, I Mean Native American” Colleague

1.
Accessorize!
Hang a dreamcatcher
near your monitor.

2.
Tell them your uncle
is an avowed shaman
at plumbing.

3.
Never show them pictures of your parents;
stoically hint at a “plight”
when you mention them at all.

4.
Squint, shade your eyes, and nod a lot
to support the notion, when it comes up,
that it’s “all in the past.”

5.
Smile wryly, often,
especially when choking down
bile.

6.
When faced with any outdoor situation
admit to knowing a few tricks “from back when.”
Cross your fingers that it keeps them quiet.

7.
Pat their shoulders, firmly but gently,
when they cringe mightily before you
about rooting for the Redskins.

8.
Always dress as a ghost might dress,
or how you think a ghost might dress
when trapped between worlds.

9.
Never, ever scream when you hear them begin,
“Y’know, they say in the family
that our great-great-great grandmother…”

10.
Just be yourself for a minute in your car
with your head down when they aren’t looking.
It won’t be enough, but it will be something.


Rice

These days I live among pretty children
who own a small part of the world
and confidently call it Universe.

I was a happy chef here once. Now I mostly cook
small bowls of rice for myself and a few people
in Universe who like my rice, or say they do.

I’m still happy. I have always made
good, good rice but the pretty children
call me out looking for my former meals.  

Where are all the old flavors,
they say?  Why
just the rice?  We like the rice

but we like other things and you
ought to make those things.  Failure, has been —
what kind of cook are you?

Pretty children of the Universe,
I’m a man who likes his rice —
sometimes with olive oil, sometimes

with chili paste, sometimes 
with butter and cheese,
or with beans and a lot of spice.

Maybe it’s not as 
banquet worthy as you might like, but 
it satisfies, it sustains, it pleases

those who like things kept simple,
aromatic, focused,
thick with life and taste. 

I’m going to have a bowl now
and I’m going to think about you
missing out.  I’m going to remember

how you used
to come running
for the fancy stuff.

I’m going to make extra rice
tonight, pretty children, rulers
of the Universe — do you want to share?

If you don’t, no matter.
It’s a big world out there.  Bigger
than your Universe, and always hungry.


Squat Seduction

On a physical search for God or angel
or Satan or devil or some other entity
good or bad or indifferent to us.  

Looking
for transcendence
in an abandoned liquor store
behind the wasp-ruled chest cooler.  

Sitting
behind it, not caring for stings one bit, sucking
a pipe full of our last kind bud.  

Searching for God or angel
devil Satan Green Man
or just Not-A-Narc today, someone
just as smooth stony as the pipeful.  

Seek
and ye shall find — was that the Bible or was that
our school librarian who said that?

Spark it up, at any rate.
Looking for something deep,
for certain, in these ruins.

If the TV alien hunters are remotely
not crazy or greedhead hucksters
when they do the same
among mounds and pyramids,

who would say there might not be
extraordinary beings
here in Sully’s Wreck And Carry.  

Maybe the wasps are little
demigods.  

Maybe there’s a snake in the cracked walk-in,
the way there was in Eden, the way there was in the vacant house
on Gutter Road, the way there was

when sex was the way we were seeking the Beyond
before we got this weed.  

Maybe we ought to try that again.  Fuck our way
past the wasps and the crap on the floor
because God’s a squatter too, I bet.

I bet God and the Devil prefer ruins to churches
and sticky floors to clean holy beds.

I’m telling you, God’s got a pipe in his mouth, baby;
whatchoo got for mine so we can pray?


I Will Soon Begin Reading Borges Again

I will soon begin reading Borges again
and when I do I will wear dark clothes
and glasses, eat pork on rough bread,
smoke an unending series of bowls
of cheap tobacco from a cheap pipe.

I will soon resume reading Joyce 
but only in the spring and only upon
completion of the works of Borges.  
I shall wear a cloak, if I can locate
a store that sells cloaks.  A cloak and

a whiskeyflask cane.  A cloak and
thick soled shoes and a whiskeyflask
cane.  Yes.  I will soon resume reading
Borges, then Joyce.  And after that,
Djuna Barnes; then, Wallace Stevens,

and for Barnes and Stevens I will change
to a suit of seersucker, and I will not iron it
ever, even the shirt, even the hems; I will feed
on rumcakes and seedcakes and cupcakes
in public cafes, with my books tucked under my chair.

So: I will be done with reading
Borges and Joyce and Barnes and Stevens
soon enough. Then I will buy a home
and lie around naked and not read anything
I don’t want to read.  All those trappings

I affected while reading will be lost on me — I’ll admit
that I must have looked ridiculous. What the hell
were such books about, anyway?  If need be,
I will cleanse by dressing in sweats and reading John Grisham in French
while downing supermarket croissants till I pop. I won’t care who sees

my wide ass in the library when I am checking out
books on getting ahead in real estate and 
Stephen King and Patricia Cornwell — not their works, mind you;
books about their clothing and diet.  Clothes, it is said,
make the man, you are what you eat, and maybe

you are what you read.  Well, I don’t want to be anything anymore.
Want to be dumb, anonymous, devoid
of a reading list or its worsening symptoms.  Give up
the insistence on culture.  Gimme a burger, a roll in the hay,
a dead sleep on a dirty mattress.  Gimme an easy way to vanish.