Sunday, March 30, 2025

Poem: Greybreak

 

Greybreak

 

sleet

smacked slushy emoticons onto the pane,

none of them the bright yellow smile.

no matter how hard

i worked not to see,

the blips stared to accuse,

fish-like or sad, kind or childish,

and many an unlikely love

lost in the slip.

at times, the myriad menagerie

melted to mutate down the glass,

a liquid portrait of singular feat.

i glanced a seepy Hébuterne

near a sparkle of angel, flashy of vane.

but as well there were worst holes

of lost hope and gnawing spiders,

the sort of prison in a mirror

which never acknowledges

the jail-keeper’s keys.

it went on for hours,

the exigent whimsy of this stormy parade.

by the end i was struggling,

never unfresh, to flee a landscape

of tears.





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Jeanne Hébuterne, 1898-1920

Saturday, March 29, 2025

Poem: $

$


once you leapt from the sea

and distilled dawn into beads

brazen on a sunned chest.

you danced on the pinnacle of a tooth of a shark,

of a mammoth, of a walrus,

flirted with peacock feathers,

agleam in bone, coral, nacre and amethyst,

brassy and golden,

abalone and chalcedony.

you excelled as you danced

to sparkle, to flux and fascinate,

lustrous of liquid crystal,

of teal and amber, emerald and silver

in sunset wraps of orange and ruby,

demure there, in the center, as you and i sighed-

by-sighed with the spirit of a love

precious with magic.

 

now you are whispery stacks

of parched tongues of long dead men

on two-faced circles and rectangles,

papery or cold metal

or ethereal as a pixel named greed

or fat as an ingot of tongues

as you bark to warn of threats

from borders and robbers

while you speculate lustfully

about the risk margins of war.

who is wearing who, who is whose ring? 

i know what it’s like to be bent into a cycle,

heartbeats leashed to your wallstreet scrawl,

and that hammer of logical debt.

and to be sucked on by mosquito-like numbers

whose electric caterpillars chew across screens,

stressful as they hypnotize 

and shapeshift to become my eyebrows.

every hair on my counted head must follow,

erect or slumped, arched or crushed,

where trillions proliferate 

insubstantial above the crowds

and i fight against you with all i'm worth 

to free a sliver of my possessed mind.



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3/32/25 modssssssssssssssssss

Thursday, March 27, 2025

Poem: Favor Lost

 

Favor Lost

 

words

from some distant place

other than glib cheeks,

 

to say them

is to demystify the price

of sacrificing years of breath.

 

i am ignorant, i am a pawn,

ridden by genies

who are these words,

 

these cruel wish fulfilments

which harness

colors, shapes, and collisions

 

until it is not i

who grasps  the import

of so many raised eyebrows,

 

not i who cuts through the common plot

and such overarching concern

for what is best.

 

no, it is the words.

the words marshal me

until i become a nuisance to some far-off scepter;

 

and the king

does not favor my smile

or my lack of full-throated lies

 

at all.



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Monday, March 24, 2025

Poem: Bullet

 

Bullet

 

violence

finds you tasty,

an olive in the shredded salad

of a heart.

 

you’re good

at making puddles,

turning flesh into a war correspondent’s

landscape.

 

not a judge,

not a license to pierce,

or to dig like a tiny ace of

a gravedigger’s spade,

 

and yet fate 

finds you probative,

pure and effective in tragic drama--

 

a period mark

smearing

the cheeks of mothers.




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3/27/25 mods... 

Thursday, March 20, 2025

Poem: Wet Windy Leaves

 

Wet Windy Leaves

 

hunchbacked imps

slouch over pawls

of tousled gray grass,


similar to sprockets

on the clockwork of the lawn,

telling time in fits

moored to the quirks of gusts,


watch!


them flip-flop en masse, 

a shambolic monastery

of unhappy little turtles--


and yet then, sudden,

jumping like mousetraps

on a lark,


watch, watch!


how they

crinkle as if to snap in swift danger,

tickling each other to bits,


or to latch on with wistful pride--

as if they might be stars

in a dark swatch of sky,


granting yet another child's game

a fondest, most lovely wish

with every stagger of midrib,

every galumph.



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3/22/25 changed punctuation, addressed a typo

3/21/25 ... a hideously large number of edits... 

Sunday, March 16, 2025

Poem: Pegasus

 

Pegasus

 

cantering off cliffs

never to trench


instead hillocks of pearl

diademed by noon

 

wings so jubilant,

corsair-free

 

to plunder sculptures

from jousted stupas

 

and bank

in veils of seraglio


forelock speckled

by sylphid dew


then 


on gusts of thunder

to gambol and prance


brash of hoof

to flash and curvet

 

madcap of tempo

until lightning assembles

 

bliss.

 

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3/22/25 changed a word

3/20/25 mod city

Saturday, March 15, 2025

Poem: Not Fit

 Not Fit

 

he fixated on the rifles standing like nine pins,

guns that had tumbled a village into a word salad--

‘had to be destroyed to be saved’ and all that and 

the entrée was a pie made out of grimaces, limbs and liquefied hearts.

 

rifles

rifles rifles rifles

those miracles of the cruel,

a bullet every twentieth of a second,

a death,

a math born on the sales pitch for the first machine gun

unpacked during World War One, ‘a war to end all wars’

and all that.

 

no one wanted

this morass of body and blood.

or so they claimed.

so they said.

 

he had felt the staccato throb

of the death orgasm in his grip

when the trigger set off

the matte black muscle from barrel to hilt, yes,

he had felt it

when families fell, transformed into a butcher’s cabinet.

and how the curve of the trigger, its little smug smile,

chuckled over and over and then laughed

when the sergeant stomped up, labeled the deed collateral,

and moved on.

 




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3/16/24 fixed typo

Sunday, March 9, 2025

Poem: Water Vulture

 

Water Vulture

 

the fossil tooth

pricked a shatter of fish

which swam a desert of ghosts.

when i pulled it

from a mouth of sand and chalk,

where it clamped

onto a slaughtered scombrid,

it morphed into a talisman of squalicorax:

dark side of the shark mother,

a life-stealing womb.

 

i dug the buttery beige

of the crumbly waters,

risking fingers among the heat-gnaw,

prowling for hours

the ravaged sea-turned-stone

only to wonder

what sort of water vulture am i,

pecking amid the convolutions

to feast on carcasses without substance--

what taxonomy such a creature?  

what home?





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Friday, March 7, 2025

Ethics Review: Anora and the chauvinist gaze

 

Ethics Review:  Anora and the chauvinist gaze

 

Anora is a masterwork of movie-making, with superb acting that morphs through a sophisticated, multi-stage plot.  This exceeding feat required protean skills from Mikey Madison, who won an Oscar for Best Actress playing the movie’s namesake.  Anora avoids shallowness, sleaziness and pornocentricity despite multiple scenes of nudity and graphic sex.  It opens a somewhat nuanced window into the world of sex workers, touching on some of the challenges of the job.  It doesn’t go into detail, however, about how rude or abusive the male customers at strip clubs can be, which isn’t all that surprising, as I’ll get into below.

The movie has some absolutely horrific ethical failures.  As Anora, who calls herself Ani, says in the movie, multiple felonies are inflicted on her, including imprisonment and restraint, but no one even comes close to being punished for this.  Why?  The inflictors are enforcers and fixers for a Russian oligarch.  The oligarch gets his way, even in New York City .  What does Ani get? $10,000 for keeping quiet, not only about her annulled marriage to the oligarch’s son, but for being manhandled, confined and gagged.  At the end of the movie, she is emotionally broken and has sex with one of the perpetrators of the crimes against her.      

Anora sends the message that men rule the world and that the ‘male gaze’ is inevitable.  Men’s bad behavior is backgrounded, belittled and forgiven throughout the movie.  There’s no hint of the #MeToo movement that had been embraced by Hollywood since 2017.   Ani has to accept felonious violence with no recourse in the courts or from police.  By focusing solely on women’s role as sex workers, and disempowering the lead female character’s voice or options, the movie underwrites the misogynist idea that women earn attention and money when they maximize their sexual appeal and physical attractiveness to men.  When they step out of that pleasing role, they get stepped on.

Another problem is that the movie glamorizes the lifestyle of Russian oligarchs.  They are portrayed as above the law, royal in how they act, dress, and arrogantly express.  Although Hollywood has worshipped materialism for a long time--the endless theme of the lifestyles of the rich and famous-- Anora takes it a step further by normalizing Russian crime bosses.  For one thing, we never learn what the oligarch does to reap so much power in Vladimir Putin’s Russia.  

Not discussed in the movie is the fact that Russia wantonly invaded its neighbor Ukraine and is still fighting a vicious war there, including multiple war crimes, such as mass execution.  The powerful oligarch we see in the movie wears a simple coat and looks mild and professorial.  He laughs instead of sneers.  His thugs are portrayed as comical and, in one case, secretly sensitive and kind.   This secret kindness, though, doesn’t prevent the thug from wielding a baseball bat to smash up a store.

Can it be coincidence that the movie’s belittlement of women and valorization of Russa concurs with the election of Donald Trump?   Trump who loves Russian strongman Putin, and dictators in general?  Trump who has been convicted of rape in civil court and accused by over twenty women of sexual assault?  Trump who played the song, “It’s a Man’s World” at his election events? 

Trump, as well, attacks the LGBTQ community, and it is worth noting that an anti-gay slur is used repeatedly in Anora--not in a way that criticizes the slur, but in a way meant to make the audience laugh at its target.

Artists, including film-makers, often argue that art is above and beyond ethics.  The producers of Anora could say something like, “We’ve pulled off a masterpiece.  We speak to the human condition beyond today’s issues.”

But great works of art that deal with representations of human life and society inevitably make statements about right and wrong, statements that can be evaluated for their own merit.  Many movies once thought to be great are now in disfavor.  A classic example is Gone with the Wind, which won three Oscars.

We live in a time where dictators are on the rise, and where two sets of standards, one for most of us, and one for the rich, are being mainstreamed.  It is a dangerous era, similar in the rise of ethnonationalism before WWII.   Understandably, we want to hide from a threat that provokes such tremendous anxiety.  Movie-makers might prefer to acquiesce instead of retort, lining up their message with the preferences of the bully in power. 

Yes, acquiescence brings money and favor, in the short term, anyway, but this is not the noble or decent path.  Producers who bow down to fascism make their movies a shadow vehicle for male chauvinism and all the violence, cruelty, oppression and ignorance it bears.

This is not the time to kiss the ring of people like Donald Trump, especially given a recent horror--the ethnic cleansing taking place in Gaza, supported by US weapons.  I close with the words of Elie Wiesel:  “There may be times when we are powerless to prevent injustice, but there must never be a time when we fail to protest.”




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Wednesday, March 5, 2025

Poem: Knight

 

Knight

 

a small and uncertain halo

glorifies my curse,

the gold of my epaulets

tinged with dusk.

 

once,

i pervaded adoration.

i took bets and jubilated

on the course of my scars.

 

mine was a brute valor then,

the sort that censored sorrow,

conquered the hesitant,

and misery upstaged.

 

it was said that all roads led

to the pinning-on of my medals,

a glitter of low-hanging

gilded fruit.

 

theaters reveled in the havoc

when my sword went forth,

hungry as a gargantua,

to swill the blood of war.

 

i courted death, when i swung,

all glisten and crimson,

curved just that right amount,

like a lady-in-waiting’s smile.

 

 

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