LESSER MEDITATIONS, WITH A GENTLE CRISP
When the world seems a little gloomy, I try to picture Rachmaninoff, not playing his Third Piano Concerto to a feverish international acclaim, but instead trying to cross the street, bent over a little bit with an aching back and saying “Eh?” when someone riding a wicked fast horse yells “Watch out, grandpa!” and then because he doesn’t watch out the horse plows into him and knocks him on his rump and it smarts.
Even though this never happened, it does for me, and quite often, too. Usually before I fall in love, or before I fall in love with a catchy tune, or fall down, a little pretentiously, as though I were Rachmaninoff.
**
SAFARI OF LOVE
When Ava Gardner turned around to face Clark Gable, I realized that she was sporting fully erect nipples al fresco. Clark Gable was unaffected by same, and remained so throughout the movie. And so, accordingly, he revealed nothing. There is nothing to reveal. Ava Gardner responded to his lack of affect, while remaining unaffected in kind. Ava Gardner, unmoved, revealing nothing. There is nothing to reveal. For eventually, and for such, the heart gives out and it secretly resembles a red bell pepper that is not terribly fresh or appealing–perhaps even stinky. And yet, when Clark Gable stood against the wall while the native Congoians threw spears at his toned body, he did not flinch, but oh how his eyes did twinkle! While deep beneath the haut couture lingerie, as such spears flew, Ava Gardner’s bright red bell pepper, fully inflated and fragrant, danced a native beat, deeply moved. For love, it seems, upon its precious moments, remains bright and sparkly and, if not steadfast, at least unaware of nothing.
**
ODE TO CLOWNS AND MILK
My room is filled with clowns. How did this happen?
I hate the circus. Well, that explains it, I guess.
I think this is some sort of revenge thing.
I guess this was inevitable. I don’t care.
I am going downstairs. I think I will go down
to the kitchen and make myself a sandwich
and stay there until I die from something.
Would you like a glass of milk?
Would you like to kill me?
**
TUTTI FRUTTI
Once, a long time ago, a young man
who lived in Italy, after they spoke nothing
but Latin and before they spoke that kind of
modern Italian style idiom, asked a fruit
vendor what kind of fruit he sold. “Tutti
Frutti” he replied, which doesn’t mean what
we think, which is that amazing marbled
tasty sweet multi-colored fruit jelly bean,
but instead, simply “All fruit.”
“I sell all fruit, you bastard,”
which is a rough translation
of “Tutti Frutti” which is also
a song that was done quite
nicely by Mel Tormé in 1957,
sweating profusely, not to be
confused with Little Richard’s
equally sweaty but different
“Tutti Frutti,” while Albert Camus,
cool as a cucumber, won the Nobel
Prize (1957),much luckier than
Oliver Hardy, silent star and later
talkie comedian, who was quite plump,
until he died, yes, quite, right then
and there (1957) eating, I think, sweet
multi-colored fruit jelly beans,
so chewy and deelish.
Tutti Frutti! Those things will make
make you sing velvety songs, or
write existentially, or die, plump
and missing your better half, which
is quite slim and exists really or
only theoretically.
If you are lucky, you can do all
these things with Tutti Frutti.
If you are unlucky, my heart
breaks as I sit down by
the shores of the Adriatic Sea
and think about you.
**
THE FACE
of man. Every inch–no, every pica of a man’s beard is inhabited by a hair, rooted in place, growing constantly. For those lucky men for whom this is true, there is nothing quite so satisfying as a ‘clean shave.’ Suddenly, such a man has the face of a baby: you can pinch it, or caress it, or give it a good slap–all are equally satisfying–that velvety face innocence belies the hair-to-pica ratio richness that could blossom into a melange or menagerie or–what’s the other word? Oh yes: an entre-nous of billowy beard were it to be left unattended, at which point, a clean shave is the only way to go.
Someone in the audience asked what the difference is between a ‘close’ and a ‘clean’ shave. Before I answer that, let me mention two details that I neglected to mention earlier: 1: given the choice between eternal life and a full, rich beard, most men choose the beard: for the beard is immortal, isn’t it? You’d have to go along with it. This is sort of a trick question. 2: and this is particularly important: pinch or caress such a man, but do not slap. Remember, the full, rich beard is immortal, and it will haunt you, and someday, your heirs. Or, if not, and at the very least, guys with big beards tend to slap back.
all artwork, except likenesses of Lyndon B. Johnson, by Crispy Flotilla ® 2006
Even though this never happened, it does for me, and quite often, too. Usually before I fall in love, or before I fall in love with a catchy tune, or fall down, a little pretentiously, as though I were Rachmaninoff.
**
SAFARI OF LOVE
When Ava Gardner turned around to face Clark Gable, I realized that she was sporting fully erect nipples al fresco. Clark Gable was unaffected by same, and remained so throughout the movie. And so, accordingly, he revealed nothing. There is nothing to reveal. Ava Gardner responded to his lack of affect, while remaining unaffected in kind. Ava Gardner, unmoved, revealing nothing. There is nothing to reveal. For eventually, and for such, the heart gives out and it secretly resembles a red bell pepper that is not terribly fresh or appealing–perhaps even stinky. And yet, when Clark Gable stood against the wall while the native Congoians threw spears at his toned body, he did not flinch, but oh how his eyes did twinkle! While deep beneath the haut couture lingerie, as such spears flew, Ava Gardner’s bright red bell pepper, fully inflated and fragrant, danced a native beat, deeply moved. For love, it seems, upon its precious moments, remains bright and sparkly and, if not steadfast, at least unaware of nothing.
**
ODE TO CLOWNS AND MILK
My room is filled with clowns. How did this happen?
I hate the circus. Well, that explains it, I guess.
I think this is some sort of revenge thing.
I guess this was inevitable. I don’t care.
I am going downstairs. I think I will go down
to the kitchen and make myself a sandwich
and stay there until I die from something.
Would you like a glass of milk?
Would you like to kill me?
**
TUTTI FRUTTI
Once, a long time ago, a young man
who lived in Italy, after they spoke nothing
but Latin and before they spoke that kind of
modern Italian style idiom, asked a fruit
vendor what kind of fruit he sold. “Tutti
Frutti” he replied, which doesn’t mean what
we think, which is that amazing marbled
tasty sweet multi-colored fruit jelly bean,
but instead, simply “All fruit.”
“I sell all fruit, you bastard,”
which is a rough translation
of “Tutti Frutti” which is also
a song that was done quite
nicely by Mel Tormé in 1957,
sweating profusely, not to be
confused with Little Richard’s
equally sweaty but different
“Tutti Frutti,” while Albert Camus,
cool as a cucumber, won the Nobel
Prize (1957),much luckier than
Oliver Hardy, silent star and later
talkie comedian, who was quite plump,
until he died, yes, quite, right then
and there (1957) eating, I think, sweet
multi-colored fruit jelly beans,
so chewy and deelish.
Tutti Frutti! Those things will make
make you sing velvety songs, or
write existentially, or die, plump
and missing your better half, which
is quite slim and exists really or
only theoretically.
If you are lucky, you can do all
these things with Tutti Frutti.
If you are unlucky, my heart
breaks as I sit down by
the shores of the Adriatic Sea
and think about you.
**
THE FACE
of man. Every inch–no, every pica of a man’s beard is inhabited by a hair, rooted in place, growing constantly. For those lucky men for whom this is true, there is nothing quite so satisfying as a ‘clean shave.’ Suddenly, such a man has the face of a baby: you can pinch it, or caress it, or give it a good slap–all are equally satisfying–that velvety face innocence belies the hair-to-pica ratio richness that could blossom into a melange or menagerie or–what’s the other word? Oh yes: an entre-nous of billowy beard were it to be left unattended, at which point, a clean shave is the only way to go.
Someone in the audience asked what the difference is between a ‘close’ and a ‘clean’ shave. Before I answer that, let me mention two details that I neglected to mention earlier: 1: given the choice between eternal life and a full, rich beard, most men choose the beard: for the beard is immortal, isn’t it? You’d have to go along with it. This is sort of a trick question. 2: and this is particularly important: pinch or caress such a man, but do not slap. Remember, the full, rich beard is immortal, and it will haunt you, and someday, your heirs. Or, if not, and at the very least, guys with big beards tend to slap back.
all artwork, except likenesses of Lyndon B. Johnson, by Crispy Flotilla ® 2006
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