Old men . . .

Did you see that movie “No Country for Old Men”?

Yes no . . . got to thinking about it . . . kinda like yesterday . . .

saw video on Bukowski . . . old man dead now . . .

Henry Miller . . . fucking Pound . . . Garcia Lorca y Lucientes . . .

Rimbaud . . . merdre.

So I’m gonna wax poetic . . .

loose deus ex machina

compose a composition . . .

No banana tree in the yard

No water in the ditch

cant hear the frog bellyflop.

Fucking gopher is destroying the lawn

Steel trap with sharp jaws

Will be the executioner

I tried to drown the bastard

With no success.

Where do gophers go

at night . . .?

Or do they even know it’s night . . .

Too hot outside for diabetic old men.

Been lounging on my ass too long . . .

I use the pandemic as an excuse

Real or imagined.

Blaise Cendrars lost his right arm

Pound was in prison in Italy

and died in some asylum.

Brassai is dead

Ansel Adams is dead

Weston too.

Young guns can’t shoot from the hip . . .

ain’t been trained properly.

I been hanging around

for three quarters of a century

and more.

Gotta get my stick outa the mud

and start living again

before I get old . . . and die.

Scripted

My day is pretty much scripted . . . if not fully asleep or awake I’m subconsciously waiting for my phone’s alarm to go off . . . then it’s locate the phone and try to find the orange spot so I can silence the annoying metallic rattle . . . the alarm’s ringtone reminds of an old doorbell that can’t decide if it wants to ring or just make some half ass try . . . kinda like someone who is holding the ends of two electrical wires and is scared off by the sparks when the two ends accidentally touch.

Now if a YouTuber was doing a-day-in-the-life you would hear the sound of the alarm and then they would have an image of the phone or Seiko nightstand clock . . . personally I don’t think bloggers can write . . . see Jane . . . see Dick . . .see Spot run . . . See Dick n Jane . . .

Anyway . . . after untangling from the bed sheet hoping I don’t get a cramp in my foot . . . it’s up and at ‘em . . . time to face the fucking weather channel . . . I wish Yanet Garcia was working the weather . . . the tight skirt wet dream telling me the sun’s gonna shine in my backdoor today and the grass is gonna grow so the yard guys will have a job and I’ll finally drown that shit for brains gopher . . . tell me Yanet . . . tell me that fucking gopher is going to eat the cat shit I dumped down its cellar stairs and contract some unspeakable parasitic worms and they will proceed to eat its miserable body from the inside out.

Got my socks on now pants next then my t-shirt . . . frumpy dumpy t.v. weather woman . . . on my way to take leak.

The WC . . . the crapper . . . pissoir . . . wash my face brush my teeth and confront Ezra Pound . . . we stare at each other through the mirror all the while me secretly wishing I had Ezra’s voice so I could read my poems . . . rolling the r’s . . . fuck.

Damn . . . Bukowski could read . . . Henry Miller could talk . . .the gift of gab . . . if I had Brenda Venus or Twinka hanging on my every word I could wax poetic in a very sonorous voice . . . “pull down thy vanity” something like that. . . maybe I should start writing on toilet paper instead of just using it to wipe my ass or blow my nose . . . osso buco. Hmmm . . .

Scripted . . . haven’t even got to swallow the pill stick yer finger part yet.

Hasn’t this been more exciting than being shown someone’s boring little apartment? So far . . . Oui ou non?

Moar later . . . ciao.

Too many mind . . .

Watching Tony Bourdain “Parts Unknown” waiting for the “Tokyo: Explore the Paradox of Japan” segment to air . . . wondering have I done everything I will ever do . . . I’ve done things my idols have done . . . Bukowski . . . Henry Miller . . . the difference is I haven’t written about it . . .

I am surrogate stand-in father for my grandson . . . the 70 yo boy who never grew up and the 18 mo child wise beyond his young life . . . big monkey little monkey sharing time and space.

re: Twinka doncha know . . .

Like I mentioned earlier I’m reading “What Doncha Know? about Henry Miller” and after I read through Twinka’s introductory 54 pages I got to Henry’s Table Talk . . . and after reading 40 some pages I realized that if you have never read any of Miller’s stuff Table Talk would be interesting, but, since i have read all but one or two of his works, Table Talk was just snippets from his earlier work as retold over dinner with Twinka . . . I did learn some stuff about Twinka although I had seen photographs of her taken by Judy Dater . . . but I didn’t know she had been an active part of Miller’s life on-and-off or that Warren Beatty had nailed her (after seeing photos of her taken by Judy Dater) . . . anyway . . . I did find a copy of Henry’s “The Air-conditioned Nightmare” online, downloaded a copy to my iBooks app and started reading . . .

If you’ve read Henry Miller Twinka’s “book” is not going to offer too much . . .

port-o-rico

been reading Twinka’s book What Doncha Know about Henry Miller and there was an advert for Puerto Rico on the TV . . . which brought mind a story my oldest daughter told me about a person on one of the social media sites she frequents: seems there was this person who spelled Puerto Rico “Port-o-Rico” . . . ah yes . . . and now Puerto Rico has become Port-o-Rico in our conversations . . . reminiscent of Port of Subs . . . a sandwich shop in Reno NV.

the Trashman walks, talks . . .

Corso, Kerouac and Bukowski . . . Henry Miller

(looks a bit like Bukowski, non?)

. . . so today I was revisiting the past or maybe it was just the subconscious, but I ended up spending 2 or 3 hours listening to Gregory Corso, walking and talking in Italy . . . Jack Kerouac was reading from “On the Road” on the Steve Allen Show and finally Charles Bukowski was reading a poem about a freaking cockroach (Tommy) and talking about his life (which I already read about in “Notes of a Dirty Old Man”, etc.).

Corso, looking so . . . cool.

Yeh, it’s all about the “beat”, meter, like jazz. You can tap your foot to the tick tock motion of an invisible metronome staff . . . Jack Kerouac knew what he was doing – the old school stuff – the long teletype rolls of paper – his writing IS music, it IS jazz, improvisation on a theme . . . you know, like theme and variation in classical music composition . . . Like Thelonius Monk, trained in music theory at Julliard . . . yeh, check out the movie “Thelonius Monk: Straight No Chaser” . . . genius, like Kerouac. And Henry Miller . . .

Corso seemed too enamoured of Shelly (he was interred near Shelly in Italy), lots of people are (fond of Shelly) – I’ve tried to read Shelly, but the rhymes keep getting me back to that iambic pentameter rap crap . . . maybe it’s just the way it’s translated, but why, why does it need to have that element, you know, the rhyme? Yeh, I know you can read the stuff without the rhyme being obvious . . . Richard Burton can/could and maybe Peter O’Toole . . . but me? Nope, keep getting tangled in the barbed wire out there in that Shakespearean no-mans land . . . uh.

. . . the beautiful June Miller . . .

Anyway, I think Shelly’s stuff is like fucking with the lights off . . . in bed . . . at night . . . me, I prefer the lights ON like Tom Hanks in the movie “Big” . . . you don’t want to listen to Monk with earplugs . . .

. . . listen to Kerouac and Bukowski and the words flow naturally, like water, fast, slow, shallow and deep, full of foam, dark and murky . . . even Corso . . . there’s a pulse, a heartbeat that underlies the flow of words.

But then I find the secret . . . in a bit on Celine, none other than the father of the three dots.

> What he’s trying to do, he (Celine) explains, is capture pure, direct human emotion on the page. Since, he feels, true emotion can only be found in spoken language, he has to do what he can to seize and transcribe that—hence the three little dots:

“Instead of those three dots, you might just as well put in a few words, that’s what I feel.”
“B’loney, Colonel! So much b’loney! . . . not in an emotive tale! . . . you don’t reproach Van Gogh for his misshapen churches? Vlaminck, his screwed-up thatched roofs? . . . Bosch, his creatures neither head nor tail! . . . Debussy, his unconcern for measures? or Honegger’s! do I not have the same rights myself? no? I have the right only to follow the Rules? . . . the Rhythms of the Academy? . . . that’s revolting!” (Reading Louis-Ferdinand Céline – Jim Knipfel) <

. . . yeh, there you have it, all this time I’ve been practicing Celine’s magic . . . guess I need to get a copy of “Journey to the End of the Night”, and meet the “man”.

bonne nuit . . .