From A Hypnagogic Journal

There’s always a key with a woman, isn’t there, or rather the conjunction of key and hole (so to speak), that brief window of light, the narrow opportunity to get inside, to get to really know her. In our crowded modern world and most of its institutions it’s imperative not to acknowledge everyone you see, but rather to cultivate the ability to ignore them. There’s so much stimulus, so many people around that we have to train ourselves to filter experience just to protect ourselves against sensory overload.
 
Women especially, I think, have to resist intimacy in order to guard against all the loonies, the psychic vampires, the predators and hyper-aggressive losers. I’m sure a woman like Virginia, for instance, has to keep herself indifferent, insensible even, to all the wolves, the leers and comments and clumsy pick-ups, has to deflect the unrelenting attention without even seeming to be aware of it. It must be second nature to her by now.
 
On the other hand someone like Kathy, say, who’s not so conventionally attractive has a different set of problems. Although they habitually ignore or dismiss them, guys think that when they do deign to engage a plain woman she should automatically be pathetically grateful for their attention. When the guy isn’t derisive or dismissive, he’s apt to be crude and frank, not willing to waste his usual bull on the kind of girl who’s the living punch line to the old gag about how much better she looks in the dim light of  last call than in the harsh dawn when you wake up next to her.
 
And Kathy embodied a few myths and urban legends. Her face was frankly ugly, as ugly as a stepsister’s in a fairy tale — a helmet of coarse, wiry black hair looming around furry eyebrows, a big beaked nose, and a complexion mottled by way too many freckles. Her body, by contrast, was outstanding, with generous, shapely breasts, gently rounded stomach and womanly hips, all set on a pair of the most perfectly flawless legs, making her just the kind of woman the philosopher jerks of the barroom recommend be made love to with a bag over her head. As usual the wise guys were wrong — when I finally did make love to her, her face became as enchanting as the rest of her.
 
 
 
YR PAL,
UBU
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The Bridge

I used to get off the bus a stop early and walk across the Washington Avenue bridge over the Mississippi river every day when I was at the University of Minnesota. There’s a nice pedestrian level on top of the traffic lanes with an enclosed walkway in the middle of it and that’s where I came up with this poem. It’s the same bridge that John Berryman jumped off of.
 
 
The Bridge
 
 
 
You stop to pull up your knee sock
Smiling with that careless disdain
Which was once a virtue
 
Six planes in close formation
Pass over a circle of women, heedless
Sitting in the middle of the bridge
 
Children’s voices,
Laughter
Or do they scream
 
 
 
 
 
Yr Pal,
UBU
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Nerval/Rimbaud/Rossetti

I love both Nerval and Rimbaud, but they’re hard to translate simply because they’re so hard to UNDERSTAND. There’s a lot of deeply personal symbolism going on and, especially with Nerval, a lot of esoteric references too. But I believe in the immersive search too and have my own private mythologies going on. I had a teacher once who compared poetry to instant soup — the poets have reduced a numinous experience to concentrated form and it’s up to you to add your own essence to it to create a new, living vital brew. They’ve walked their own field of experience, drawn a map, and now it’s up to you to make the journey too.
 
 
That said, here’s a couple of "After" poems in which I’ve taken poems by Nerval and Rimbaud and wrestled and whittled them until they’ve become something quite different, something that means something to me, and, hopefully, that will trigger something else altogether in you:
 
 

After Nerval

 

The thirtieth return

You’re here again

Once again the only one

In the only moment

 

You Virgin Mother

The first the last

My original

And final love

 
 
 

After Rimbaud

 

When the world’s reduced

 

to a single dark wood

for four astonished eyes

 

to a white beach

for two faithful children

 

to a musical home

for one pure harmony

 

I will find you

 

 

SPECIAL BONUS POEM! Hey, I got a million of ’em — This is my only other "After" poem to date. With Dante Gabriel Rossetti the problem is not a foreign language or symbolic obscurity but sheer prolixity — he’ll have passages of stunning merit followed by lines and lines of sheer puff — anyway I adapted and rewrote these until they were my own…

 

 

After Rossetti

 

 

This is her picture as she was

I look until she seems to move

 

In front of the ocean, among the trees

Where the light falls in hardly at all

 

A covert place, where you might think to

One day find the memory of these things

 

 

 

Yr pal,

UBU

 

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Goodies

Most of the universe is actually made of mysterious, invisible material of totally unknown origin.
 
 
— Michio Kahn
 
 
…at least I was quite aware that my soul had strayed into dirty back alleys, but that was precisely the whole priceless, demonic charm of it. That’s what it meant to be a twentieth century adolescent.
 
 
— Stanislawa Przybyszewska
 
 
The danger zone in which you make mistakes that are in fact not mistakes but your deepest desire.
 
 
–Lauren Kelly
 
 
There is one temple in the universe, and that is the human body.
 
 
— Carma Helzer
 
 
For the last wave is God himself. Not a melting into him, no, a growing into and becoming God. And whoever feels this, he is God.
 
 
— Hanns Heinz Ewers
 
 
Might as well be cool
Because today
Could be judgement day
 
 
— Dinah Washington
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Bushaster

It’s a sad commentary of the sheep-like quality of the American electorate that a few weeks of frantic spinning have improved George Bush’s approval ratings. The problem for King George is that reality will always intrude of his policies which are based on faulty premises and thereby doomed to failure. Tax cuts for his rich and super rich pals may drive the consumption of BMW’s but they don’t help sell Fords and Chevrolets, and the latter is what drives (so to speak) our economy. In Iraq — well, it’s seems to me a lot like Vietnam. The idea seems to still be that we’re liberating a country from domination, when in fact it’s more like we’re fighting the whole country itself, and the only way to "defend" it from itself is to destroy it. Another "critical" election is coming up, the third or fourth one of those we’ve had. Bush ran in the last election on the idea of the January election solving everything, when in fact it seems to cause more tension. It’s just another one of the ideological points of faith that he sticks to regardless of reality, the belief that elections will be the magic bullet to end strife and bring on the American way of life. Well, they have elections in Iran and they had them in South Vietnam. Spin that.
 
Here’s a chilling quote that’s very apropos:
 
 
 
"Bush’s closest advisers have long been aware of the religious nature of his political commitments. In recent interviews, one former senior official, who served in Bush’s first term, spoke extensively about the connection between the President’s religious faith and his view of the war in Iraq. After the September 11, 2001, terrorist attacks, the former official said, he was told that Bush felt that ‘God put me here’ to deal with the war on terror. The Presidents belief was fortified by the Republican sweep in the 2002 congressional elections; Bush saw the victory as a purposeful message from God that ‘he’s the man,’ the former official said. Publicly, Bush depicted his reelection as a referendum on the war; privately he spoke of it as another manifestation of divine purpose."
 
 
                                      –Seymour M. Hersh, The New Yorker
 
 
 
In a way that’s why Bush and the radical Muslims are at loggerheads — they’re both preaching the same thing, that God is on their side and that their enemies must be totally destroyed. They both think that they are completely good and people who don’t agree with them are totally evil. They both have narrow, medieval black and white views of the world which are at odds and they’re dragging the rest of us down with them. I’ve always thought that was one of the reasons the Nazis hated the Jews so much — how can a "master race" and a "chosen people" co-exist? The Jews sensibly wait for some future date for Jehovah to excise the rest of mankind, the Nazis unfortunately had to try and do it themselves right then and there, producing one of the more horrific events in human history. (Or not, if you’re Mel Gibson’s Dad). Inflexible ideologies are the recipe for disaster in a flexible world and we’re witnessing one humdinger of a disaster right now in Iraq, the worst part of it being that these religious zealots are acting in the name of America.
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THREE HEATHER POEMS

Heather (In the Grass)

A horizontal promise with the grass

Hard to keep at the moment

But inescapable in the long run

Heather knowing

Still slides up the fencepost

Leaving empty loafers behind

She brushes past, already distant

Wandering the grassy depression

The smoke spread over the lawn

Heather dances

Polynesian in ripeness

Spinning slowly

As joints, quaaludes, acid

Airline vodka bottles

Fall from her pockets

The question isn’t how, but how far

How close to get to the grass

Without keeping the promise

Heather Rolling (Angels Biting God)

Ladder leaning on gym wall

Dark only the joint tip glow

Lying on the mildewy mats

Casual unguarded

Vapour shaded words

Deeply lidded meanings

The basketball floor creaks

Like an opening door

Heather holds my wrist

To steady the lighter

The proximity sprung with

Warmth perfume dopesmoke

Fantastic clarity

Enormous sensation

And angels biting God

High Waving Heather

Sly January Revealing
High Waving Heather
The Magician’s Assistant
Sawn In Half
Floating Through Space
Restricted By No Philosophy
Fettered By No Empirical Wisdom
The Light On Her Bare Arm
As She Twists And Glitters
Filled With Unexpected
Gleams And Shivers
Hidden Half Formulated
Secrets Breathing Gently
Her Poppy Fragrance
“The Old Firm Never Sleeps.”
The Ghost Stirring
Blue Compelling Strangely Hard
The Harlot Raising Her Head
At The Court Of The Rose Queen
The Celebrant Of The Festival
Swaying Under Her Own Mass
A Village Square Dance Cum Orgy
At The Sanctuary The Matted Thicket
The Cause Of The Panic Within The Disorder
Trembling Affright Terror
Dazzling And Glory Her Domain

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Cool to be Cold?

It was eleven degrees (fahrenheit) when I walked in to work today. I guess I’m kind of an epicure, that is if I have a choice I’ll act for my own pleasure, so I wore a big old army coat, a hat with ear flaps (Netherlands army surplus) and a Pittsburgh Steelers scarf. It stands to reason to me to get bundled up when it’s cold, yet I was openly smirked at by several people I encountered along the way, and indeed I was out of step with the majority of my fellow pedestrians, who were less than seasonably dressed in sneakers, windbreakers, no hat or glove, etc. It’s a constant war to get my son and his middle school friends to wear anything but a hooded sweatshirt no matter what the temperature and my daughter’s high school peers may wear coats but absolutely refuse to zip them up. What gives? When I was young there was no shame in wearing something warm when it was cold — you wanted to, and it was kids without good coats who were pitied, rather than those whose parents made them wear them. When did being cold become cool?

Well, don’t worry — UBU will explain. As for most irrational behavior, the answers are cultural, and in the U.S. most current cultural values seem to derive from wealth and class. First of all there’s what I call the limo factor. You don’t see celebrities or rich people in coats very much (except at ski slopes, but that’s conspicuous consumption so it’s O.K.). The idea is that they’re in the real world for only moments as they dash from heated limo to heated nightclub, so they, protected by their cocoon of wealth and privilege, are isolated from the indignities of nature and even reality. Ever since Reagan all good things are assumed to drizzle down from the rich, so this attitude can now be found in the streets, even if it’s far from the reality of the individuals hypnotized by it. I don’t need a coat and hat, I’m just on my way to my car! It’s declasse not to have some expensive form of conveyance — the bike rider looks down on the pedestrian, the motorcyclist looks down on the bike rider, the motorist in the clunker looks down on the motorcyclist, the new car driver looks down on the guy in the clunker, etc., all the way to the fool in the Hummer, who, having the most ludicrously expensive and impractical vehicle of all feels superior to all. Walking, of course, is the healthiest, most thoughtful, most convenient, ecological, thriftiest form of conveyance, but if you do it you’re in peril of being mistaken for a poor person who is walking because they don’t have any choice. A lot of the walkers I run into are WALKING, that is, pumping their arms histrionically in their work out gear, puffing away, careful to signify Hey, I’m not walking to GET anyplace, I’m exercising! There are people who drive two blocks and take the elevator up to their Pilates class. We don’t want to break a sweat while working or getting anywhere, no that’s only for leisure when we pay to do it voluntarily. Similarly, Nature’s a non-factor in our daily lives because we can pay to protect ourselves from it. Again it’s something for leisure, for vacation, not for daily life.

The second reason comes from the opposite strata of society, but again it’s because of the diabolic work of Ronald Reagan. During his administration it was determined that as part of the "war on drugs" and to curry favor with the white middle class it would be a good idea to put a significantly larger percentage of young black man in prison. Since before the jazz age it’s just these young black man who have been the most significant avatars of youth culture. It should be no surprise, then, that the current trend among the youth is to dress as if you were in prison — ill-fitting, too large clothes, no belts, loose denim shirts, unlaced shoes, etc. But in prison you don’t think much about outerwear, do you? You’re INSIDE after all, and the government is not exactly going to spring for boots, decent overcoats, warm hats or gloves for you to promenade the yard in, are they? So suddenly COLD is COOL.

UBU is way to old to worry about being cool — or at least he has his own innate cool compass that’s not going to let a bunch or rich parasite celebrities or convicts tell HIM how to dress. So smirk all you want you lamebrains — you’ll be doing it through chattering teeth!

YR PAL,

UBU

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ASK UBU

Dear UBU,
 
Is it true that the real Mick Jagger was abducted by aliens and substituted with a counterfeit on the way to the studio for recording "Angie"?  Have you heard this theory before?  Amazing …. what was that, about 1974…?

 

Wondering,

FAHS

 
Dear Fahs,
 
Maybe it’s a fiendish plot to cause another wardrobe malfunction at the superbowl halftime show (exposing the lack rather than the presence of a nipple, perhaps?) and thereby further degrade the social fabric of America in preparation for an Alien invasion.
 
You do have to ask yourself how a band that created the brilliant EXILE ON MAIN STREET could follow it with the putrid GOAT’S HEAD SOUP. (Did it have anything to do with the fact that during the recording sessions in Jamaica Bill’s girlfriend was raped while he hid cringing under the bed?) But if an alien replicant of Mick Jagger could have come up with SOME GIRLS, then I’m building a landing strip in my back yard.
 
It also starts me to thinking (not again!) — why is interest in aliens and UFO sightings so cyclical? Is now a down time because we have "terrorists" and terrestrial illegal aliens to take the place of the inscrutable, menacing OTHER our psyche so plainly needs? Or is it that the aliens see human life more as a potentially hazardous experiment they have to monitor at regular intervals? An interesting facet of the "intelligent design" theory is that UFOlogists have noted the discrepancies in early human evolution for years, but found the solution in alien genetic tinkering and breeding programs (as well as the belief that those suckers couldn’t keep their appendages off our women — and who can blame them). The funny thing is that given the state of the rest of the world that’s a more credible answer than the actions of the infallible hand of a benevolent deity — but I don’t think that’s going to be taught in Kansas any time soon.
 
YR PAL,
UBU 
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The Ambition of the Age

I’ve just read two books — JIM MORRISON: LIFE, DEATH, LEGEND by Stephen Davis (author of HAMMER OF THE GODS one of the best rock’n’roll books ever) and READY, STEADY, GO!: THE SMASHING RISE AND GIDDY FALL OF SWINGING LONDON by Shawn Levy and they’ve made me nostalgic for the sixties. I think what I most admire about that time was the AMBITION of the age, how people weren’t just trying to have a hit record or become famous but really wanted to change life and modify perception. The DOORS did not just want to become successful but also wanted to live their ideals, both political and artistic, as evidenced by their egalitarian power and money distribution in the band and their improvisatory live appearances. The principle figures of the swinging London scene, fashion designers, photographer, musicians, art dealers, all intended to create a new aesthetic, and, if nothing else, shake up the hidebound, dull, class ridden society of the day. Thanks to e-bay I’ve also finally been able to own some sixties artifacts of legendary sixties events like a video of early ROLLING STONES live appearances or a CD of the infamous DOORS Miami concert. What strikes and impresses me about them is their sheer impact, the performers’ desire not just to entertain but to somehow TRANSPORT, of an era where TRANSGRESSION was assumed to be one of the responsibilities of the artist. To see Mick Jagger camping it up, threatening and ironic at once, playing with the gender ideals, camping it up in the middle of such stifling, traditional TV venues as the Ed Sullivan show is to see a performing genius, walking the tightrope of taste, the effect so powerful today that it’s hard to imagine how shocking it was then, juxtaposed with dreck like Pat Boone or even the firmly show biz rock groups like the Dave Clark Five. The fabled MIAMI CONCERT of the DOORS is another event whose reputation is misleading — rather than a drunken freak out by Jim it’s a deliberate provocation to the dynamics of the teenie bopper rock show, to all those ditto heads screaming for LIGHT MY FIRE. And Jim is actually in great vocal form, his voice as searing and strong as is any live performance of his I’ve heard. He wanted, as he says, to CHANGE THE WORLD, to create something rather than just tiredly reenact the same old act, to take it to the edge, the edge of sanity, of disaster, of meaning. Of course he eventually fell off that edge, and I’ve always been drawn to all those other sixties figures that did, like Brian Jones, or those that even managed to record an album or two between the edge of the cliff and the ground, like Syd Barrett or Skip Spence. In a way those casualties were just too sincere, took the whole thing too seriously, unlike the survivors who followed the ring of the cash registers to blandness. I think because I was a child in the sixties I probably took those ideals to heart more than the boomers did — when the draft was over anti-war sentiment was too, and when they could actually get good jobs the anti-materialism evaporated too. And like any other time a lot of the attitudes were embraced to get chicks or just because of fashion. But still, you can’t help contrasting those vibrant, revolutionary times to now — Antonioni and Godard versus Spielberg, or the putrid BONO’s brand of "activism," palling around with revolting pols like George W. Bush, not realizing that the Rove publicity machine  is using him for a credibility lending photo op and hasn’t any intention of helping any of the world’s poor vs. the MC5’s firebrand revolt. And of course that’s who the stupid Boomers allowed to lead them, not the earnest idealists like Gore or Kerry, but the guy who was yelling through a megaphone at a pep rally while the real guys were on the barricades. The freshness of POP art has NEVER been followed, and what we have in galleries now are commodities or absurdities, comprehensible only by their prices or some thesis hung next to them on the wall. Will there ever be any novelists as avidly devoured (and still avidly devoured) by the young as Kerouac, Burroughs or Salinger? Do any musical bands want to change things rather than exploit them? Certainly not the rappers, much as they whine, they’re more than happy to be bought off and play the show biz game. Then there’s GREEN DAY, being fresh and daring by aping third generation punk of another country and another decade, safely following the demographic rather than creating it, echoing a music style rather than making us hear a new kind of noise. Will there ever be another time like that? It’s been too long already — we might have to wait until all those hypocritical, tyrannical Boomers who started the last one have finally kicked off — in which case UBU might be too old, blind and deaf to notice anyway!!!
 
 
YR PAL,
UBU
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The Rightness of the Whale

I’m amazed — I’ve seen two contemporary movies in a row that have been pretty darn good. THE SQUID AND THE WHALE shares with the often aforementioned CAPOTE several qualities that make them outstanding. First of all they’re movies for adults in which the CONTENT is more important than the PACKAGING. They both feature great scripts and fantastic leading performances that are more about acting than starring, by talented men (in Squid’s case Jeff Daniels) who are not afraid to appear unsympathetic. There are no car chases, no computer generated special effects, and, although there is quite frank handling of S-E-X, there are no gratuitous flashes of teen tit. They both have that ambiguity thing, where those glorious grays of life are presented in full living color. They don’t restrict themselves to artificial constructs like "comedy" or "tragedy" but display the whole mixed range of the human condition including laughter, tears, snot, twisted grimaces, and cum. There’s also unusual subtlety, where not every significant detail is explained and highlighted, nor is the viewer’s emotional response over determined by either artificial plot twists or swelling music (although the sound track is fantastic). Anyone who thought MILLION DOLLAR BABY was anything but claptrap melodrama should be forced to see these two movies a few million times. THE SQUID AND THE WHALE is more centered on that staple of American "serious" culture, the family romance, but manages to avoid sentimentality, psychological fatuity, portentousness, and all the other potholes of that over traveled highway. Being the son of a University instructor I appreciated only too well the film’s acute understanding  that the habits of a teacher — the tendency to lecture rather than listen and the substitution of pithy comments and judgements for conversation — do not always what make for good fatherhood. Having served my time in a creative writing program at about the time the film was set, I can also tell you that the sexual politics of that overheated hothouse, with everyone seeking the approval of one guru, and the desperately attempting to curry favor from some pretty dissolute characters by any means including (especially) erotic (ANNA PAQUIN! playing the principle female hustler) were bang on. As a merchant to many academics I can testify that the keen satirical presentation of a class considering themselves mentally superior to everyone else while in fact being totally clueless was valid as well. Will either of these fine movies or even their grosses combined make as much money as, say, THE DUKES OF HAZARD? UBU fears he knows the answer and, knowing it, fears for the republic as well!
 
 
YR PAL,
UBU
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