Ode to the Spirit of Edward D.
Eddie D, RK, Bukowski and me
On a ship somewhere on the high sea
Sailors to the letter the four of us be
Owing to the nature of mysterious destiny.
Life arn't what you'd call easy on the ocean.
The boat reeks, the food stinks
And the concept of a shower is as alien as the slanty-eyed monsters rumored to live
Farther east than any of us care to contemplate.
A year at sea
And the yellow monsters, there they'll be
Well, no thank ye.
Still, it ain't all bad.
We've got the unknown ahead of us, the new world, as they say.
The old world smelled of death and an angry God.
In the new one, they say, God is more regular guy.
Because he wants to populate the promised land with white faces.
And then watch us all die.
One hopes not, but I guess we'll just have to wait and see.
At least we have each other.
Eddie D, with a place of prominence on the family tree
No one knows exactly why
He's what we euphemistically call a man of passion.
Drinking, fighting and, whenever possible, whoring are his life's work.
But then in moments when his guard is down
He'll quote something from Henry Miller
And venture a thought on the meaning of the stars
Which coat the night sky with near painful luminosity
Ed, as paradoxical as the sea
We have no choice but to follow his lead
In four hundred years or so, some of us will desperately depend on his ancient seed
In ways he cannot possibly foresee
Although according to Bukowski, Ed and the rest of us are all full of shit
He'd like to pick a fight with Eddie
Just for the hell of it
But climbing the tree to do so is not really an option.
So he chants from the deck
Pukes over the rail
Laments the absence of good-looking women on board
Demands a mutiny
Tells Eddie and the rest of us to go fuck ourselves
No one on the boat can figure out what it means
The new fuck expression is bandied about for days
Until a consensus of opinion decides that it can only mean, Go Pray to God!
Bukowski seems to think that words are weapons
Like harpoons, only more deadly
Pare it all down to the bare bone, he shouts into the wind
Get to the quivering skeleton and then suck whatever meaning you can from it
RK and I have invented the word metaphor to explain this
RK even wrote a song about it
Others are not so sure
They fear that Bukowski may be a cannibal
The last thing you want on a ship at sea with food on board even a dog would walk away from
Is a goddam cannibal
I venture that it may be nothing more than poetry in progress
Which provokes a veritable squall of protest and castigation from Ed
No ancestor of mine, he says, is going to go queer on me before we even reach
The new world
Now go fuck yourself. Maybe that will do you some good.
Nothing surprising about controversy during a long sea voyage.
We're all bored, dirty, starving and near death
We desire freedom, but it's so abstract
The freedom to do what, we all wonder
A clean pair of underpants would suffice at this point
To keep us going
Thank God for the grog on board.
Two cups a day
Unless a doctor verifies otherwise
In cases of extreme mental dysfunction, 3 cups might not be excessive
Both Eddie and the Buk have somehow convinced the doctor (they claim torture was never used)
That six cups a day is not unreasonable.
RK says he won't drink until the sun goes down
So here we sit, on the rolling deck, waiting
Trouble is, on our current heading and at our present speed
The sun never sets
How fast can a ship go, I ask the Captain
But he's too drunk to reply
We seem to be sailing off the edge of the world
At a speed only Einstein could explain
Who?
Never mind. Some guy.
Funny thing is, though we're all filled with dread
None of us seem to be getting any older
RK reminds me that time, anyway, is an illusion
Something I apparently said once while sitting around a kitchen table
In a modern suburbia, in a place called America, no less.
Later, RK tells me, we will visit something called a mall and shop for things we want, but rarely need
But never without a sense of irony
Now I'm actually getting scared
Some people on board have taken to calling all of us Pilgrims.
Not the mindless kind, who will some day flock to a place called Mecca
And crush each other to death in a frantic effort to be closer
To God.
Pilgrims in the sense of having no expectations and little to lose
Those willing to explore the cold, dark night of the heart
Idiots of the soul and the breeze
Corn eaters and lovers of animals
Dreamers and hopeless lovers
Poets, mystics and musicians
The true Pilgrims among us who honor the memory of Edward D, yet do not overlook the immortal words of the great seaman Bukowski... Go fuck yourself!
(Dedicated to Randall Leigh Kaplan, who remembers the important stuff. Without him, we would all be much less inspired)
On a ship somewhere on the high sea
Sailors to the letter the four of us be
Owing to the nature of mysterious destiny.
Life arn't what you'd call easy on the ocean.
The boat reeks, the food stinks
And the concept of a shower is as alien as the slanty-eyed monsters rumored to live
Farther east than any of us care to contemplate.
A year at sea
And the yellow monsters, there they'll be
Well, no thank ye.
Still, it ain't all bad.
We've got the unknown ahead of us, the new world, as they say.
The old world smelled of death and an angry God.
In the new one, they say, God is more regular guy.
Because he wants to populate the promised land with white faces.
And then watch us all die.
One hopes not, but I guess we'll just have to wait and see.
At least we have each other.
Eddie D, with a place of prominence on the family tree
No one knows exactly why
He's what we euphemistically call a man of passion.
Drinking, fighting and, whenever possible, whoring are his life's work.
But then in moments when his guard is down
He'll quote something from Henry Miller
And venture a thought on the meaning of the stars
Which coat the night sky with near painful luminosity
Ed, as paradoxical as the sea
We have no choice but to follow his lead
In four hundred years or so, some of us will desperately depend on his ancient seed
In ways he cannot possibly foresee
Although according to Bukowski, Ed and the rest of us are all full of shit
He'd like to pick a fight with Eddie
Just for the hell of it
But climbing the tree to do so is not really an option.
So he chants from the deck
Pukes over the rail
Laments the absence of good-looking women on board
Demands a mutiny
Tells Eddie and the rest of us to go fuck ourselves
No one on the boat can figure out what it means
The new fuck expression is bandied about for days
Until a consensus of opinion decides that it can only mean, Go Pray to God!
Bukowski seems to think that words are weapons
Like harpoons, only more deadly
Pare it all down to the bare bone, he shouts into the wind
Get to the quivering skeleton and then suck whatever meaning you can from it
RK and I have invented the word metaphor to explain this
RK even wrote a song about it
Others are not so sure
They fear that Bukowski may be a cannibal
The last thing you want on a ship at sea with food on board even a dog would walk away from
Is a goddam cannibal
I venture that it may be nothing more than poetry in progress
Which provokes a veritable squall of protest and castigation from Ed
No ancestor of mine, he says, is going to go queer on me before we even reach
The new world
Now go fuck yourself. Maybe that will do you some good.
Nothing surprising about controversy during a long sea voyage.
We're all bored, dirty, starving and near death
We desire freedom, but it's so abstract
The freedom to do what, we all wonder
A clean pair of underpants would suffice at this point
To keep us going
Thank God for the grog on board.
Two cups a day
Unless a doctor verifies otherwise
In cases of extreme mental dysfunction, 3 cups might not be excessive
Both Eddie and the Buk have somehow convinced the doctor (they claim torture was never used)
That six cups a day is not unreasonable.
RK says he won't drink until the sun goes down
So here we sit, on the rolling deck, waiting
Trouble is, on our current heading and at our present speed
The sun never sets
How fast can a ship go, I ask the Captain
But he's too drunk to reply
We seem to be sailing off the edge of the world
At a speed only Einstein could explain
Who?
Never mind. Some guy.
Funny thing is, though we're all filled with dread
None of us seem to be getting any older
RK reminds me that time, anyway, is an illusion
Something I apparently said once while sitting around a kitchen table
In a modern suburbia, in a place called America, no less.
Later, RK tells me, we will visit something called a mall and shop for things we want, but rarely need
But never without a sense of irony
Now I'm actually getting scared
Some people on board have taken to calling all of us Pilgrims.
Not the mindless kind, who will some day flock to a place called Mecca
And crush each other to death in a frantic effort to be closer
To God.
Pilgrims in the sense of having no expectations and little to lose
Those willing to explore the cold, dark night of the heart
Idiots of the soul and the breeze
Corn eaters and lovers of animals
Dreamers and hopeless lovers
Poets, mystics and musicians
The true Pilgrims among us who honor the memory of Edward D, yet do not overlook the immortal words of the great seaman Bukowski... Go fuck yourself!
(Dedicated to Randall Leigh Kaplan, who remembers the important stuff. Without him, we would all be much less inspired)
posted by Bruce Leigh at 7:04 PM
2 Comments:
A gorgeous ode, uncle. I feel like Ishmael now, if not an eternal nightingale. These words Melville put in Ishmael's mouth could have just as easily been assigned to Ed Doty: "When I say that I am in the habit of going to sea whenever I begin to grow hazy about the eyes, and begin to be over conscious of my lungs, I do not mean to have it inferred that I ever go to sea as a passenger. For to go to sea as a passenger you must needs have a purse, and a purse is but a rag unless you have something in it. Besides, passengers get sea-sick - grow quarrelsome - don't sleep of nights - do not enjoy themselves much, as a general thing; - no, I never go as a passenger; nor, though I am something of a salt, do I ever go to sea as a Commodore, or a Captain, or a Cook. I abandon the glory and distinction of such offices to those who like them. For my part, I abominate all honorable respectable toils, trials, and tribulations of every kind whatsoever. It is quite as much as I can do to take care of myself, without taking care of ships, barques, brigs, schooners, and what not."
Hey, those words could be ours, too. What, then, do we go to sea as? Wayfaring Strangers? Self-Conscious Ciphers? Low Down Dirty Dogs? Flat Footed Soldiers? The Universal Choice E - All of the Above?
Your ode's soundtrack, upon first read, was Big Bill Broonzy's "You've Got to Hit the Right Lick" from 1940. Master of the Happy Blues, Big Bill was. Oh, that pre-electric Chicago sound. I can't listen to the Blues anymore without your shadow flitting through the speakers and prancing 'round the room. "Would Bruce like this? He probably likes the post-electric Chicago sound better. He probably likes those one-line riffs." Still, it's the blues and you're there. I guess your latest novel changed everything! My apartment is The Blue Shoe and I try to play like Mercury Muldive might.
As far as Bukowski being on board goes, there's that Dan Bern song to think of: "Charles Bukowski never puked on my lawn. Charles Bukowski never peed on my porch in his underwear. Charles Bukowski never drank all my beer at 3 in the morning. Charles Bukowski never made rude suggestions to my sister. I just know him from his stories. I just know him from his poems. So I like him. I like him very much. If I had known him and he'd have done terrible things then probably I wouldn't like him. But I like him. I like him very much. Charles Bukowski never tried to screw my mother against her wishes. Charles Bukowski never stole my car and crashed it and left it running. I just know him from his poems. I just know him from his stories. So I like him. I like him very much. If I had known him and he had got drunk and kicked me in the balls then I might not like him. But I like him. I like him very much..."
Memory, chance, random synaptic firings ... whatever tools are needed. "On the shore / Of the wide world I stand alone, and think / Till love and fame to nothingness do sink." Hold on, Keats. It's not the end of the world yet.
With love, RLK
Feed Back/Fast Forward
How fun it is when a comment to a blog entry spurs the next entry, and the next entry spurs another comment, as the prose flows and the saké chills. To wit: Randy's comment to BWL's Feb.16 entry, "Coffee, cigarets and getting through the day." ["laconic and stunning"--love that pairing.] The humor and wit of that reply furthe fed the feedback loop, resulting in BWL's ode to the Bukowskiesque Eddy D., he of Plymouth Rock (and Roll Hall of Fame) infamy. I'm digging that dynamic, the momentarily mingled momentariness of separate, blog-splattered lives.
[Everyone in favor of pouring a strong one, solar indicators allowing, say "Aye".]
Randy, thank you for the ongoing illumination of the times and spaces you inhabit. Living, lively prose. Light 'em up if you got 'em!
BWL, thank god not Pall Malls, as the venerable Vonnegut smoked for so many years. Saw his wife interviewed on C-Span a few months back; Jill Krementz is a professional photographer and the author of 31 books (a good background piece on her and a generous sampling of photographs are archived here on this New Yorker's blog: http://www.newyorksocialdiary.com/socialdiary/2005/01_13_05/socialdiary01_13_05.php
From the preceding url, this Vonnegut pearl:
“I am not the writer Twain was but I am what I believe he would call a Humanist. Nowadays it means persons like my parents and both sets of grandparents, who try to behave ethically without any expectation of rewards or punishments in an afterlife. They serve as best they can the only abstraction of which they have any real familiarity, which is their community. What about Jesus? I say what one of my great grandfathers wrote, as follows: ‘If so much of what Jesus said is ethically brilliant, and especially the Beatitudes, and Forgive us our Trespasses as we forgive those who Trespass against Us, what can it matter if he was God or not?’”
So what I don't get is how come Vonnegut's people back in Indianapolis, Indiana had that figured out a hundred years ago but the so-called Evangelical Christians in present-day America don't appear to have a clue?
Boo-fucking-hoo.
Or is it less of an issue than it appears to be? Is it just a perpetual stream of revenue-driven media chatter, same-old, same-old market capitalism putting your tax dollars to good use? Or is there another Red Scare being fomented? A Salem Re-Mix for the Two-Thousands? Are the Onward Christian Soldiers truly to be feared?
Let's poll the residents of Baghdad. Run it up the blogpole and see who salutes.
Now if only the wily old Trickster could juggle time and space to allow for a hoisting of bong, tea, and sympathy back at the Dix Hills kitchen roundtable, a scene it was my misfortune not to have made back in the days. I was off in the hinterland, writing poetry and fucking myself. I mean, praying to God.
John E.
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