Jr. is 40!

Today is Weezer Jr.'s 40th Birthday. Happy birthday Weezer, we all love you very much!

Lady



This is what our dog from the pound looks like...exactly. She is a German Longhaired Pointer. They are very rare in the U.S. and I am completely perplexed as to how such a dog ended up in the dog pound. They are hunting or gun dogs. They are intelligent, docile and excellent family dogs. We lucked out big time! Her tail is docked, which is supposed to make them better hunters but also no good as show dogs. Oh well, she'll have to settle for our suburban lifestyle, no shows or hunting trips. I am planning on teaching her how to find my car keys though.

WHILE she was inside she
heard pattering feet
round the back of the shed.
Some one with a black nose
sniffed at the bottom of the
door, and then locked it.



Jemima became much
alarmed.



A MOMENT afterwards
there were most awful
noises--barking, baying,
growls and howls, squealing
and groans.



And nothing more was ever
seen of that foxy-whiskered
gentleman.



PRESENTLY Kep opened
the door of the shed, and
let out Jemima Puddle-duck.



Unfortunately the puppies
rushed in and gobbled up all
the eggs before he could stop
them.



He had a bite on his ear
and both the puppies were
limping."



from "JEMIMA PUDDLE-DUCK" by Beatrix Potter

HAPPY THANKSGIVING!



PERHAPS THE WORLD ENDS HERE

The world begins at a kitchen table. No matter what, we must eat
to live.

The gifts of earth are brought and prepared, set on the table. So it
has been since creation, and it will go on.

We chase chickens or dogs away from it. Babies teethe at the cor-
ners. They scrape their knees under it.

It is here that children are given instructions on what it means to be
human. We make men at it, we make women.

At this table we gossip, recall enemies and the ghosts of lovers.

Our dreams drink coffee with us as they put their arms around our
children. They laugh with us at our poor falling-down selves and as
we put ourselves back together once again at the table.

This table has been a house in the rain, an umbrella in the sun.

Wars have begun and ended at this table. It is a place to hide in the
shadow of terror. A place to celebrate the terrible victory.

We have given birth on this table, and have prepared our parents for
burial here.

At this table we sing with joy, with sorrow. We pray of suffering
and remorse. We give thanks.

Perhaps the world will end at the kitchen table, while we are laugh-
ing and crying, eating of the last sweet bite.


Joy Harjo

Missed Nail




Sometimes I am as dumb as a bag of hammers.

Lady Will Live



Tomorrow I am going to a poetry reading at The Whitman House in Huntington. It is a launch party for an anthology of poems by physicians. This sounds really interesting to me for a few reasons. When my father was sick and dying I dealt with doctors regularly and was appalled at the lack of empathy that surrounded many of them. I wrote a lot about that time, and would like to see what doctor perspective is like about what they do. One of the poems I wrote about doctors is below. Also, the dog we adopted has pneumonia and I have been administering an IV drip every night and letting her sit in the steamy bathroom and then pounding her chest. She's also taking antibiotics and she is getting better. There is such a rush in curing her, and I wonder at what it means to actual doctors to cure. Poems by me and doctor poets below.

Bug

Here comes the deadly trio.
Today they're here to talk
About feeding tubes,
And how fast the cancer is going to spread,
Because chemo charred your throat
And you can't have any more treatment.
Doctors 1, 2, and 3 look us in the eyes and smirk.
We are troublesome, stupid, and nagging as gnats on the beach.
We are so stupid we think we have the right
To ask questions. To stare back. To notify their superiors.
They shoot hospice options and dire scenarios
At the man in the bed who can sort
Out nothing they say. He can hear though
That he's despised in an impersonal way,
The way you might recoil at a roach,
Or a mouse in your clean kitchen cabinet.
If the good doctors could do what they want
They would order a nurse,
(Those doers of dirty work)
To crush you under crepe-soled shoes,
And mop up the mess.
Silverfish; insignificant; air breather.

M.J. Tenerelli


Grotesque

The city has tits in rows.
The country is in the main--male,
It butts me with blunt stub-horns,
Forces me to oppose it
Or be trampled.

The city is full of milk
And lies still for the most part.
These crack skulls
And spill brains
Against her stomach.

William Carlos Williams


Night-Blooming Cereus
– for Carol

That summer you were home dying of cancer
the daily news shrieked of lightning-sparked
wild fires, hundred-year floods and a
flurry of shark attacks in Florida –
a boy no older than your son, his arm
torn off one night as he played in the ocean.

And you with your arm swollen
and dead to you –
listening to it all on the radio,
sipping ice water through a straw,
the chemo making you puke,
propped among pillows in the guest room,
a part of you knowing we are all guests here.

One morning a woman on the freeway
bridge just blocks from your home
straddled the railing in the middle of rush hour
inciting a mile-long traffic jam –
irate motorists late for their jobs,
a heckling busload of commuters
goading her to jump.

How can people be so heartless? You asked.
And later, through the fog of chemo and morphine
you called us suddenly one evening –
the Cereus in your kitchen
was growing this most amazing flower,
the magnificent white bud opening almost before your eyes.
And we should come over quickly,
you didn't want us to miss it,
its dying fragrance soon to fill the house.


Peter Pereira

Poem For Now

Having it Out with Melancholy


1 FROM THE NURSERY


When I was born, you waited
behind a pile of linen in the nursery,
and when we were alone, you lay down
on top of me, pressing
the bile of desolation into every pore.


And from that day on
everything under the sun and moon
made me sad -- even the yellow
wooden beads that slid and spun
along a spindle on my crib.


You taught me to exist without gratitude.
You ruined my manners toward God:
"We're here simply to wait for death;
the pleasures of earth are overrated."


I only appeared to belong to my mother,
to live among blocks and cotton undershirts
with snaps; among red tin lunch boxes
and report cards in ugly brown slipcases.
I was already yours -- the anti-urge,
the mutilator of souls.



2 BOTTLES


Elavil, Ludiomil, Doxepin,
Norpramin, Prozac, Lithium, Xanax,
Wellbutrin, Parnate, Nardil, Zoloft.
The coated ones smell sweet or have
no smell; the powdery ones smell
like the chemistry lab at school
that made me hold my breath.



3 SUGGESTION FROM A FRIEND


You wouldn't be so depressed
if you really believed in God.



4 OFTEN


Often I go to bed as soon after dinner
as seems adult
(I mean I try to wait for dark)
in order to push away
from the massive pain in sleep's
frail wicker coracle.



5 ONCE THERE WAS LIGHT


Once, in my early thirties, I saw
that I was a speck of light in the great
river of light that undulates through time.


I was floating with the whole
human family. We were all colors -- those
who are living now, those who have died,
those who are not yet born. For a few


moments I floated, completely calm,
and I no longer hated having to exist.


Like a crow who smells hot blood
you came flying to pull me out
of the glowing stream.
"I'll hold you up. I never let my dear
ones drown!" After that, I wept for days.



6 IN AND OUT


The dog searches until he finds me
upstairs, lies down with a clatter
of elbows, puts his head on my foot.

Sometimes the sound of his breathing
saves my life -- in and out, in
and out; a pause, a long sigh. . . .



7 PARDON


A piece of burned meat
wears my clothes, speaks
in my voice, dispatches obligations
haltingly, or not at all.
It is tired of trying
to be stouthearted, tired
beyond measure.


We move on to the monoamine
oxidase inhibitors. Day and night
I feel as if I had drunk six cups
of coffee, but the pain stops
abruptly. With the wonder
and bitterness of someone pardoned
for a crime she did not commit
I come back to marriage and friends,
to pink fringed hollyhocks; come back
to my desk, books, and chair.



8 CREDO


Pharmaceutical wonders are at work
but I believe only in this moment
of well-being. Unholy ghost,
you are certain to come again.


Coarse, mean, you'll put your feet
on the coffee table, lean back,
and turn me into someone who can't
take the trouble to speak; someone
who can't sleep, or who does nothing
but sleep; can't read, or call
for an appointment for help.


There is nothing I can do
against your coming.
When I awake, I am still with thee.



9 WOOD THRUSH


High on Nardil and June light
I wake at four,
waiting greedily for the first
note of the wood thrush. Easeful air
presses through the screen
with the wild, complex song
of the bird, and I am overcome


by ordinary contentment.
What hurt me so terribly
all my life until this moment?
How I love the small, swiftly
beating heart of the bird
singing in the great maples;
its bright, unequivocal eye.

Jane Kenyon

Dogs and Depression

Our lovely red dog has kennel cough and is on antibiotics. No playing with other dogs till she is better which could take weeks. No groomer either so I will be bathing her myself (oh joy.) She went with me all over on errands today in the car. She is truly angelic. She won't eat her hard food though and the vet said I need to fatten her up and give her soft food (which is of course more expensive...not to mention the huge bag of dry food already purchased for her.) Oh well. I don't usually care for dogs, but this one stole my heart. She felt like family from day one.

In other, less happy, news Jack is an absolute horror lately. He is mean, miserable and defiant. Other times he is totally anxietal or else listless and telling me that all the things he usually loves hold no interest for him. I have left messages for several therapists today. Here we go again. Trying for a male therapist this time. Last night I dreamt I was on a boat headed for Bermuda. Oh how I wish.

On Board

Cast off cross
You sink clean down now
To the sandy bottom
Of the Atlantic divide.
Fishes and filaments
Are calling you home,
A purpose,
A purpose!
You rot and redeem.
I sail the surface
Of what I’ve imagined,
Turning the wheel north, then east,
Using stars and a silver compass.
I am posture perfect
In a bare-backed cocktail dress
With sequins.


MJ Tenerelli

The Worm Has Turned

The dems have taken the House, and gained in the Senate. Hell, they could take the Senate! Races in Montana and Virginia not decided yet. Hillary is once again our Senator in NY...ant-abortion candidates losing all over the country...I am doing a victory dance into the kitchen for more coffee. Hurray, Hurray, Hurray!!!!

Hope

Hope is the thing with feathers
That perches in the soul,
And sings the tune--without the words,
And never stops at all,

And sweetest in the gale is heard;
And sore must be the storm
That could abash the little bird
That kept so many warm.

I've heard it in the chillest land,
And on the strangest sea;
Yet, never, in extremity,
It asked a crumb of me.


Emily Dickinson

Anxiety Turkey

Anxiety attack in the supermarket. They are so weird when they happen because everything seems under control and suddenly your heart is pounding and your breathing gets weird and there's this heavy pressure on your chest. Better now, and fighting urge to go to sleep. What the hell is going on with me I don't know.

Thanksgiving this year is going to be at the Willnauer/Velmar residence in Copiague so Keith's elderly grandmother can attend. Weezer Jr. is aready planning menu, which includes a brussell sprout casserole thing. I love brussel sprouts but think the Willnauer/Velmar clan are violently opposed to them. Will have to check this and get back to chef Jr. Jr. has also mentioned an asparagus bread thing that sounds a little strange to me. I am going to cook the turkey (yes Jr., I want to do it this year and put those little paper lace things on the legs.) Children will be required to sing the Mr. Turkey song before eating:

Mr. Turkey
Mr. Turkey
Big and Fat,
Big and Fat,
We are going to eat you,
We are going to eat you,
Just like that (SNAP..with hand gesture)
Just like that (SNAP!)

Death and Dogs

Awful news, Adrienne Shelly is dead. She starred in my all time favorite movie Trust, which I have mentioned here before. She hung herself, with a three year old daughter and an Indie film being considered for Sundance. God damn it, what crappy news to go with my morning coffee.

Good news, new doggie is lovely. She is a love and listens fairly well. We are all in love with her (except for the cats who are disgusted.) Her name keeps changing. If anyone has an idea for a name, please leave it in comments. She is a smallish, spanial setter mix and is a pretty reddish color. She tried to sit in my lap while I was driving us home from the pound. She has very sweet, soulful cinnamony brown eyes.

The Dog of Art

That dog with daisies for eyes
who flashes forth
flame of his very self at every bark
is the Dog of Art.
Worked in wool, his blind eyes
look inward to caverns and jewels
which they see perfectly,
and his voice
measures forth the treasure
in music sharp and loud,
sharp and bright,
bright flaming barks,
and growling smoky soft, the Dog
of Art turns to the world
the quietness of his eyes.

Denise Levertov