Tuesday, December 26, 2006

FURTHER ODE, A LA CRISP: SUR LE ROUGE

I spent hours poring over books and reading about rouge;
a color that I have always loved: it rhymes with ‘Moulin Rouge’
and scampers towards the front of my brain as once upon a time
upon the television screen scampered in equal measure a stooge–
each of three: Larry, Curley, Moe–
one screams in pain, one jibber jabbers endless, one forsakes his toe’s
largress it swells in pain like yodelee dee doe–upon my word its vexing unspeakable–like
Bees in Brautigan, Septembers in Faulkners; Idahos in Hemingway and
so many other things, unretrievable; but wait!

I can scarcely contain my enthusiasm or remember it for Rouge–as one remembers
Toulouse-Lautrec! His art more real than counterfeit, his spirit dismembered by
an unloving father, a hopeless mother, and a city unrequited–
if that be Paris, let it be
ignited! Well, no harm done there: it already was–bathed
in iridescence, it walks around uncrippled and fine and almost haughty like a
heavenly venereal disease: attached to swarthy peasants!

That’s why Lautrec will always be Rouge’s Main Man–
filled with romance and spirits and diseases unfurled,
like a drunken nightguardsman sleeping, curled,
face down so by the sun tanned,
ever so prostrate on an icy blue
and terribly expensive
and even overpriced,

yes, yes yes: catamaran


all artwork, except likenesses of Lyndon B. Johnson, by Crispy Flotilla ® 2006

Tuesday, December 19, 2006

CRISPY'S ODES, STARTING WITH MORLEY

I like when my teeth stick out so poorly;
it brings back memories, lost at sea–
was that Robert Morley

Ever? No, never: he played
the unhandsome brother;
the roguish knave; the standard
umbrella; my thoughts turn to him
and him I am, in my darkest hour

Home at last and lost at sea
my darkest hour is
quite a fella

all artwork, except likenesses of Lyndon B. Johnson, by Crispy Flotilla ® 2006

Sunday, December 17, 2006

GRILLO PICCOLO

Grillo piccolo
come salite.

Attesa! forse siete
qualcosa altrimenti.

Qualcosa pericoloso e diabolico.

Penso che abbiate una pistola
in vostra tasca vicino ad una
lettera di amore.

Forse siete a blatta.

Forse non.

Forse voi sono giusto me,
imparare circa voi in un libro.

Sono sette anni.

Sono impaurito di niente.


**























I like to look at Count Basie
I hold my pen in my hand,
my thoughts become tracey

Now I do not mean Tracy;
she wore glasses divine–
I drank them like wine

You probably know wine is
what I don’t drink ever, Tracy, it’s
too much of an ancient Roman
endeavor, no–

I like pears: I eat them, like, never–like
love, when in Rome–ancient or not

Oh my, again something that I care for, not a dot
like a pile of purple eels in a lot for parking,
I mean, a parking lot

**

A DIFERENÇA ENTRE UM LÁPIS DO CARVÃO DE LENHA

e um lápis da grafita é que você pode escrever coisas ordinárias com grafita um lápis e você podem também fazer aquele com a o lápis do carvão de lenha excetua borrões de um lápis do carvão de lenha fàcilmente e às vezes com a escova do lado de sua mão ou a ponta de seu dedo ou se você perder seu contrapeso e cair em seu desenho, a ponta de seu nariz. Assim lá você está ocupando-se de de seus próprios negócio e andar em a loja comic do livro e olhar a seleção larga de comics e o caixeiro, uma mulher amigável, casada, pergunta se você necessitar alguns ajudam. “Ravishing” o yourselfpensa-. “Simplesmente ravishing.” Lata você, como dizem, “faz exame dela como um amante”? Não. Você pode fazer absolutamente nada sobre ele. Não seria decent, ou honorável. Ou decent uniforme. Seria terrível, embora em France, ele é mesmo mais mau. Em France, Duquesa Que est-Ela-Nome, quis dormir com ela amante, contagem era Mosco? Talvez era Bosco. É não importa se for Bosco ou Mosco-eram uma estadia longa há, durante a altura do Era Napoleonic, quando as mulheres dormiram com seus nephews todos o tempo nos livros escritos por autores franceses chamou coisas como Charterhouse de Parma, que ocorre também ao longo do lago bonito Como em Italy. Pela Sra. Casar-se tem sido agora paciente por um tempo muito longo. E assim agora que a era Napoleonic é uma memória afeiçoada, distante, você purhcase um vinil monster com pele pinkish, um gargoyle feito fora de um sock, um livro comic abot um homem que seja um microorganism, alguma geléia japonesa etiquetas do doce e uma camisa do T com um eyeball nele. Todas estas coisas coisas diferentes, mas todo amor do hide destas coisas. “Você tem um pouco de carvão de lenha em seu nariz.” Diz, não escondendo a anel de casamento como fala. Alas: que pode você fazer? Bem, fazê-lo worth seu quando. Quem disse aquele? Relógio para fora. É aquele meu nephew? Não tocar em qualquer coisa.

Monday, December 11, 2006

CELLINI

I try to imagine you
and I in the bathtub.

Your back is against
the front. My back
is against the back.

Suddenly, I remove
a broadsword and point
it at your golden eyeballs.

Why golden?

Because somehow, when
you weren’t looking, some
joker, probably from ancient
Rome, painted us gold–
from head to toe. testa al piede.
Think Cellini. Or
Goldfinger.

You almost cover your breast.
I practically hold a fig leaf.
That’s how much in love we
are. From bow to stern.

I can hear the ocean. It is an ocean
of love. Quite unusually, here in
the bathtub, it is quivering like a
baby.

all artwork, except likenesses of Lyndon B. Johnson, by Crispy Flotilla ® 2006

Sunday, December 10, 2006

THE LAWN CHAIR OF HENRY ROUSSEAU

When I say the Amish
build lawn chairs, I mean
THE AMISH BUILD
LAWN CHAIRS.

Once, while sitting in a
lawnchair under some
figgy green trees and
dappled light and
mysterious green
plants that sprouted
near my feet, I sat
and smoked a cigarette.
“Ah,” I thought silently,
“nothing like the Amish.”

My friend Henry Rousseau
painted me as I sat and smoked
in my lawnchair–Was it built
by the Amish? he asked
in French and beginning
with si vous plait I think.

Because I told Henry Rousseau,
my friend, not my lover (he
did love painting, though!) that
he

Knew nothing of proper
draftsmanship that he then
commenced to paint my
face with a pronounced
5 o’clock shadow.

Did it matter that I concluded
my remarks by opining that
his work denoted the elegance
of a vigorous, supple, poetic
mind? Apparently not. The
shadow remains. And I look
a little thickish around the
middle.

Henry Rousseau,
I regret my suggestion
of your wanting. Please
make me young again–
my beard patchy, if I must
live forever. And I will:
don’t let this cigarette
fool you. Henry Rousseau,

I will be you today
and the Amish will be–
well–the Amish are not
the Mennonites. THEY
own cars. And do you
know what they paint
them? BLACK. Even
the fenders: BLACK.

all artwork, except likenesses of Lyndon B. Johnson, by Crispy Flotilla ® 2006
Real Time Analytics