The Seasonal Party

A controversial advertisement appeared in last month's Journal of People Who Have Fallen More Than Eighty Feet And Lived. It's an advertisement from the pharmaceutical firm Glaxxon who say they have invented a prophylactic drug that promises to prevent injuries to people falling approximately one hundred feet. Text reads, in part: "Fearing heights will be literally irrational if you take FallOut weekly. Ask your doctor." Response from the community of far-fallers was swift. A protest organized by the 'Union of Those Who Have Fallen Far (and Lion-Tamers)' demanded the Journal disavow the advertisement and called it "heinous cultural appropriation." "It's bad enough that our members have all fallen more than eighty feet and survived, but to see our field invaded by Big Pharma is absolutely despicable." The chair of the journal stressed the separation of the editorial and advertising departments of their bi-monthly and struck a note of free speech. The internecine battle was settled suddenly when Glaxxon announced they had submitted the advertisement accidentally; they had meant to send it to the Journal of People Afraid of Falling More Than Eighty Feet, which is a completely separate journal (though also published by Elsevier), and they sincerely regret the error.

 

*

 

Rotten' John

 

I wish I was as good as a mole in the ground

I wish I was as happy as a tree

I cannot be as pleasant as a bat-bitten hound

For I am ever rotten-rottin' me.

 

I wish I was that bug that doesn't know a damn

Of anything requiring how or why

I'd like to be a bottom-crawling poison-spitting clam

Instead I'm only rottin'-rotten I.

 

I wish I had the passions of a sedimentary stone

I cannot be as grace-ful as the dawn

I fail whene'er I try to be a cuttlefish's bone

Because I'm always rotten-rottin' John.

 

I wish I was as guileless as a rattlesnake his bite

I cannot be as humble as a bee

I wish I could be hateless as a polar bear his white

But no I'm ever rotten-rottin' me.

 

I want the happy-lucky-ness of inorganic salt

I wish my conscience cleaner than the sky

I want to be a being that's sans virtue and sans fault:

Still nothing than this rottin'-rotten I.

 

I want the livelinesses of the winter-frozen plants

Why can't I spend an afternoon a faun?

God blesses indiscriminate the fire-making ants

But me? I'm still this rottin'-rotten John.

 

*

 

Everyone went to the town square that day to see the Great Seer who was travelling hamlet-by-hamlet a circuit through our county. Was what we'd heard at all possible? Did he truly know everything in the world and beyond?

He stood on a raised dais, his nose in a book. He looked up, said, "I see everyone is here," closed his book and set it aside. "Who will be first?" He looked down at a townsman. "You, Patrick Michael O'Maura, speak. Ask your question."

The man asked, "Is it true there are coconuts in the world, or is that just a travellers' tale?"

"Coconuts do exist. It is the drupe of the cocos nucifera. You, madam. Speak."

"Will I be having a boy or a girl come April?"

"A boy. Next."

"I'm a carpenter. What's the pi thing?"

"It's the ratio of circumference to diameter, approximately equal to 3.14159265358979323846264338327950288419716939937510. Next!"

"Where's my other green sock?"

"The cat took it to her basket. It's under the cushion. Next!"

"Who is my daddy?"

"O'Maura. Next!"

"What is the meaning of life?"

The Great Seer laughed. "Why, the meaning is to ask questions. One would have to be a fool to answer them!"

 

*

 

Minutes of General Staff Meeting, Prussian High Command, upon receiving a Declaration of War from France, 17 July 1870

 

Never enough streudel to go around ... that guy owes me fifty vereinsthalers ... okay, off to France I guess ... didn't catch that, who's Verbinachter, Weranactor, what's he got to do with Reims? ... this coffee's terrible ... why'd she say that? any time, corporal, I've always had a thing for gingers ... I wish I'd been a doctor ... I think he mentioned the 33rd corps twice there--how can they be in two places at once? am I wrong here? or are they from other divisions? ... sometimes something gets through despite everything ... Is this Napoleon related to that other Napoleon by blood? ... so much for the Baden Spa weekend ... ten fingers ten toes why's that? ... all this stuff we don't know, aren't we sposed to have this great mail service? ... right, yes, this is my boss, sometimes I forget that ... my balls itch ... as if ... need more tuba oil, could nab a reed for Karla ... can't get this done by eleven-and-a-half ... why can't we be better oganized

 

*

 

"Wicker Dunlop's died. We need an obit. Write it up."

"Oh wow Wicker Dunlop? I thought he'd live forever."

"Even junkies have to die some time."

"Okay, so. 'Wicker Dunlop, junkie, dead at 79.' That's a start."

"Keep going from there."

"Wicker Dunlop, celebrated for his addiction across the world, passed peacefully, surrounded by friends and family, into the next world at ten o'clock last night. He leaves behind him wife Ellen, daughter June, and son July.

"His habit started early, at the age of eleven. His peers were impressed by his dedication to the craft. By the time he was eighteen he had ingested an astonishing fifty pounds of heroin (and had recorded a number of best-selling records to boot).

"Queen Elizabeth II awarded him an O.B.E. in 1997 to honour him for his outreach work in addictology, and also for some songs he wrote.

"His esteem in the junk community was unprecedented. 'He was one with the Lord. Direct communication,' said Gallagher, fellow junkie (and musician).

"It goes without saying that Wicker Dunlop will be missed by all in the narcotic world. He was a pathfinder in the world of drugs, and in a minor way in music."

 

*

 

Quintuple Self-Portrait

 

My right hand has painted the picture you see here. Stroke after stroke, with few mistakes, I did the upper part, and the lower part. I painted the beach, the easel, and the cliff behind, and I painted the hand entering the frame from lower right.

That is my hand holding a paintbrush to the painting on the easel in the painting. As you can see, the tip of my brush is touching the turtle on the right. There's something odd about the hand. Can you see what it is?

The painting on the easel in the painting, you can see, is of myself, sitting on a beach much like the beach on which the easel is set. That's me there, holding the turtle which is, you see, a big turtle. I took great care painting the turtle. Doesn't he look like he has jewels all over? I stole that from Huysmans's À rebours.

Now look behind, around, the easel. An empty beach with a cliff above. You can see the water, only the cliff. And look, you see there? There's a figure, falling from the cliff. She wasn't pushed, no. Now who do you think she is?

 

*

 

Elegy

 

Let's Ess, let's say, let's make the name, let's Ess,

Let's Ess be standing in for she's who's dead;

Let's see this House with chairs and tables such

That noone would know, by looks, that that which was

Becoming has become another place.

You have to know in this that seems to be

Another phrase that what I'm talking of,

My theme, so tender not to you but me

So, is, so risking you will heart-attack

(In irony perhaps?) that here I am

So trying so to find a way to stuff

The ordinary dactyl said we use

At funerals, but love and poetry

Can't make iambic space for that in name

I've made

 

Animals

 

The contract's thus: This cat is yours, on loan,

For eighteen years or so (depending on

Some circumstance). You must provide a home,

And food, and any toys you come upon;

But know one day you'll have to let her go:

You're not the only one who loves her so.

 

This dog is yours a dozen years to hold

(Or so), with faculties I've given him

To follow you with antics to behold,

Wholly based upon my wish and whim;

But know one day you'll have to let him go:

You're not the only one who loves him so.