Go back to Basi: get silly fresh. Tidy your hair: check that every memory you recall is actually yours. You may not get another chance to protest at the passing of time with such rigour. In Basi, all men wear shoulder pads. Hoaxes are committed on a daily basis. Don't be worried, over-confident or fooled - you have already been defrauded. Smell the long wisps of a lie, coiled in the air just above your identification badge. Walk the streets and cross yourself off wanted lists. Graffiti is encouraged here. Custom dictates that women be served first, whether in a restaurant or a bureaucratic exam. Water pipes dispense a strange liquor. Bathing in this yellowish gooze is said to ward off many ailments. Those who make these claims are also said to be in the employ of one company or another. Did you forget your satchel? How, then, do you expect to gain entrance to our gentleman's club? You will spend the next four hours in a cheap and dilapidated hof, throwing peanuts at the walls and lining up to urinate in a closet half your size. Don't even think of initiating a bowel movement. Poetry evenings, while abounding, suffer from syrupy background music during the recitals. You will one day experience the sad fate of mis-recognising your own words, pumped out of a loudspeaker, their meaning changed by the simple juxtaposition of violins or piano with your original intent. In this city, no one is allowed to clap hands. To do so would be to violate an unwritten law. You may sleep, but only under the neon moon. The weather is surprisingly mild at this time of year. The mopeds barely disturb the people's sleep but their dreams - ah! If only you could see them! When morning comes, be sure to keep a map beside you. Reassure your nocturnal half that Basi is real. Just like the obscure system of pressure points said to lead to that oh-so-ordinary city, that of the smile.
Category: Poems (page 1 of 73)
As of October 2011, I’d posted over three hundred poems on this site, including many sonnets and search poems, as well as numerous poems that didn’t make it into chapbooks such as Abendland and Morgenland. I then ceased posting poems here, choosing instead to distribute them via my poem of the week newsletter. Then I stopped doing that too. Every now and then I post a poem here … but not as often as I’d like.
victor, tho i never really associated you with the blooper aesthetic, i happened to be cruising youtube recently & i saw that someone had put together this compilation of bloopers from the television series alias (or, to be more specific, alias bloopers featuring you. there is a blooper protocol, as you know, & it involves hashing your lines (preferably more than once (plus, ideally, a lot of laughs from the actors as well as the crew. in your case, victor, the bloopers were what we refer to in the industry as ‘on point’, meaning they fulfilled the criteria outlined above. you see, i’ve watched many blooper reels, mostly on video tape (or late-night television specials devoted to specific programmes or actors. after a while, they tend to become repetitive, don’t they? no doubt, given your experience as a stage actor, you have your own views about blooper reels. i note a strong perfectionist streak in your onscreen manner & can’t imagine you’d ever be thrilled to have fluffed a line but when I see you & sydney (alias jennifer garner aka babe blowing minutes of valuable recording time, the thought of it fills me with a simple, homespun joy. as one commenter noted: ‘oohh seeing him makes me forget everything!! great actor & a great singer as well. hes soo hott!! i love you victor!! hehe.’ need i go on? perhaps. perhaps i should draw attention (as if it were needed, to your magnificent pursed lips, from which no lie or swear word has ever had a chance to issue. ‘soo hot’, indeed! (‘i love him too! wish i had a boyfriend like him XD sorry, i had to write this! :D’ (‘who cares if he’s gay?’ & i can’t believe i wrote that (‘literally devastated’ (i.e. sydney’s gay dad. but back to your pursed lips, victor. how the heck could you let the bloopers sneak out like that? whenever I rewatch that blooper reel (which i’ve added to my ‘favourites’ & ‘watch later’ lists) i begin to doubt your professionalism as an actor. that sounds harsh, no doubt, but your job (victor, is to keep those lips of yours shut tight as a purse, so that no phrase or object passes in or out (apart from food & drink, of course, although that must needs happen off camera, in your trailer or else the on-set canteen (did you ever go there, victor, join the gaffers, grips and gophers at the bain marie, crack gags as the catering staff wiped down tables? (somehow even the idea of it sounds far-fetched. you’d be too busy being mesmerised by jennifer’s bubbly antics, or else chatting with the director in the hopes of slipping in one more tight-lipped rendition of your daughter’s name during a tense ops-room scene (but then they’re all tense when you’re on-camera, victor, which makes your blooper reel even more alarming (as if to suggest there is in fact no real father on which jack bristow’s character is based as if sydney was born an orphan (that this greying canadian with a background in musicals was not really her uptight but lovable dad (that her cute glee at his occasional forgotten line could be taken from, used against her (in some other show where there are no blooper reels, only trailers for upcoming seasons. up next: victor refuses to deny an alias reunion. comments disabled.
they will just move on once we are gone, of course; what choice do they have, after all? perhaps none— their play-filled days a soundscape we cannot hear, we can't pretend to know if they'll sleep or eat enough to get them through it; but should they fall asleep in a park somewhere, who will be there to hold them? surely that new friend, the one they met just once, will come along with smiles and new ideas for games? (we must rely on this idea of new friends with games, otherwise there's nothing to hold onto in the dark, when we listen for some sniff or cough and realise those nightmares were really our own (oh! but look— the moon falls behind the trees and we say: "goodbye!" just fold their clothes, then try extra hard not to cry
I just want to die at that moment in The Americans when Matthew Rhys (or should I say Philip, a Russian double- agent whose actual name is Mischa line dances in a crowded country & western bar somewhere in Virginia, alone but somehow at home, at last. Is it something about his careful joy, or his brand-new, clunky suede boots? Thumbs hooked in the too-tight jeans, the hand claps, swivels, furtive glances? Whatever the reason, I’ll die right here, thx. The instant Mischa turns to see an American woman coax her husband (who could be Benjamin Netanyahu onto the dance floor, oh-so-reluctant, we realize something about dancing & about love, how some just don’t get it (unlike Mischa, who knows the moves, who has found his place, here, at last. Kill me so I don’t have to live beyond this scene, in which lines fall into place, in which bodies become honky-tonk, in which music becomes lines of words. I don’t mind being strangled or shot, as long as Mischa’s the one doing it, & like I said, make it right after this scene, pls & thx. Oh & Mischa: forget me when you leave this bar. Extract peanut shells from the soles of those boots & walk on. Don’t look back as you exit the cubicle where my crumpled body lies. It’s okay. I can take a new form, whichever you like. I could be your cowboy hat, or the horse you rode in on. Just say the word, Mischa. It’s dark in here. Light up my line. Dance.
You could take Brazil in an afternoon, sure. Knock yerself out, call me when yr done, etc. Consider that continent's arc: it's gesturing across the Atlantic, towards Ghana, or was it Côte d'Ivoire, or both? — you decide, call me when it's done. Let us speak of it forever, or more. Speak of vast hillsides slipping into a river, the minute sunsets, postcards, babies, paperbacks: everything at once, yet nothing at all to remember or recall, situated as you are inside a hand-drawn map of Minas Gerais, weeping over Nascimento's 'Os Povos'. Your ... move, perhaps? Vast as a view across an ocean, invisible strings, dotted lines stretched out: sewing the imaginary gap shut. Stick figures tumble overboard; waves do nothing but leer, their foamy peaks a bit like tankards raised in empty bars (by persons 'sketchy', you add, but then why bother? The effect has already been achieved, its correspondances noted. AO.