Marcus Allen's Hair
Eskimo once unfortunately had a three-week encounter with a DJ which was almost as bad as her encounter with a music critic, which fortunately lasted only three days. Eskimo soon discovered that the reason DJs can never shut up is because they are desperately trying to fill the vacuous voids of their heads with the sounds of their own voices. Eskimo never knows why exactly she deigned to lower her standards and go out with someone whose sole goal in life is to sit around and listen to music and make stupid comments about it on the radio. This particular jockey soon was dedicating songs to Eskimo on the radio, of course when she wasn't listening, and when asked what he had dedicated to her, he replied, "Oh I don't remember," which should have been an immediate clue to our clueless Eskimo that DeJenerate's feelings for her ran as deep as the foam on an opened six-day old can of Bud. The DelinquentJuvenile would call Eskimo at all hours of the night regaling her with opines about his great singing voice and musical talents, which fortunately she never heard. Eskimo, excellent Freudian psychologist that she is, soon realized that DinkyJabberwocky was suffering from the "poor little rich boy syndrome" which is what happens to you when your parents are rich and and you never have to fend for yourself so you run around whining and moaning about your non-accomplishments. About the only thing he did ever accomplish was take Eskimo to a free movie (because he was a cheapster) whereupon they promptly came upon the unsuspecting Marcus Allen who had no idea who in the fuck they were even though DJ was fawning and pawing like a close personal friend. DogJuan failed to introduce Eskimo which was all for the better when Marcus Allen said after ten minutes, "You know, I really have no idea who the hell you are" whereupon Eskimo slid away to her seat to watch the movie. Unfortunately, Marcus Allen chose to sit directly in front of Eskimo which is when she became intimately familiar with the perky blond/black pointedness of it all (his hair). DumbJokes kept whispering and spittling in Eskimo's ear (another sign of his poor nouveau riche breeding) which made it almost impossible to concentrate on the movie which is unfortunate since the Academy judged it to be the best film of the year. Fortunately during the next film they saw, DoJickey spent most of his time in the lobby blabbering with the popcorn boys probably telling them about his famous relatives that none of them had ever heard of. Eskimo never was so gauche as to introduce herself to someone by saying, "Hi, my name is Eskimo, and did you know that my cousin, Chuck Yeager, is one of the most famous men of the twentieth century whose books have sold more copies than all the poetry books of the last century? And by the way, he could kick your ass, and so could I." As usually happens when Eskimo condescends to go out with someone who is physically and mentally inferior to her, the object of her affections begins thinking, "Hey if Eskimo likes me, so must all the other brilliant and beautiful people in the world," and they begin to develop a Machiavellian complex, start acting like little kings, and start thinking they are too good for Eskimo. The great turning point in their relationship came when DelusionalJoeblow asked Eskimo if PJ Harvey was a man or a woman, and Eskimo wasn't sure. Eskimo's only previous encounter with PJ Harvey was when a skinny homosexual told Eskimo that she reminded him of PJ Harvey, and then he begged to kiss her. So the whole PJ Harvey thing has created a miasmic nightmarish gender confusion in her mind. But Eskimo is quite sure that many many people are unsure of PJ's chromosomes; but DickJack saw this as final proof of her unworthiness. And to polish things off, Eskimo unfortunately let slip that DJackAdams had zero poetic sensibility, said statement from which he has never recovered because he was in awe of Eskimo's poetic abilities and for her to make such a statement must mean that it was absolutely true (which of course, it was). Eskimo wrote only one poema for DandyJackpot which she knows with great confidence will be the only poem that anyone will ever write about him. But for his great propensity for leaping around and making a spectacle of himself, she has given him honorary membership in the monkeypoet society, and his name shall henceforth be known as DJackanapes which the dictionary defines as: 1) formerly, monkeylike; 2) a conceited, insolent, presumptuous fellow; 3) a pert, monkeylike, mischievous child.
Furry Keyboard Playuh
Poor Eskimo was once lured into a midtown apartment by a furry blues/jazz keyboardist. Unfortunately, his idea of "making music together" was very very different from Eskimo's. She has learned from other downtown female musicians that no one takes them seriously if they are halfway cute, and invitations to make music are always grossly misconstrued. Anyway, Eskimo had previously blown poems accompanied by said ivory tickler at the Press Club (that's another story coming later) so she somehow thought he was safe. With music tape and songs in her mittens, Eskimo entered the dark Plato-lair of Pan bonobo who had his getup set up on the ironing board which Eskimo thought was very ingenious. However, ingenuous monkboy soon made it clear he wasn't as interested in her lyrics as her lovelicks. And when Eskimo became as icy cold as Pluto, he started whining that her song had "too many words." Eskimo became increasingly disgusted with playuhboy and told him to take the song and do whatever he wanted with it because her musical career was moving like cold honey. Eskimo recently ran into monkeyplunky at Jazzman's Art of Pasta and he said (thank u lordy) that he was married. Eskimo then was able to relax and listen to his fine playing and write a nice poem on the twilight patio. This restaurant is a great place to write poetry regardless of its incredibly ridiculous name. And for those foolish editors over at Barely Alive and Still Whining who are trying to come up with a new name for Bojangles, Eskimo suggests The Art of Heavy Metal Hamburgers. Eskimo will give you a hint as to the identity of the dextrous one: rhymes with Spank the Supremes. Eskimo did actually get to record The Karma Blues on two separate occasions--once with a beautiful math/music genius who could play all instruments and sing like Steely Dan and once with lovely guitar player who called the other day and said he would leave the back window open for her.
Eskimo once agreed to meet some monkey poets down at the old Torch. They had been howling for some time about the great virtues of their hero, Larry Garner. As usual, Eskimo showed up way early because she is still operating on arctic time. As usual, when Eskimo sits alone in bars, some monkey starts talking to her. Well this was a very furry monkey who looked kind of intelligent behind his spectacles and fedora. Eskimo thot he looked kind of gangsterish, i.e., exciting. So he started asking questions, and she said she thot maybe maybe she was a poet. He said, oh yeah, well I'm the featured act tonite and I would be pleasured if you would blow a couple of poems with me.
Monkey poets, as usual, showed up late and half swakked, babbling nervously about how and when to make their move and fondle the hem of their hero. When who but he himself should appear at their table whereupon monkey poets proceeded to fawndle over his bigness. After boocoo drooling, Larry looked right at Eskimo, and said, "Are you ready to go?" Eskimo would give her signed copy of Howl in order to see once more the look of absolute horror and amazement on the monkeys' jowls. They could not believe that Eskimo was a close personal friend of his Larryness. Eskimo then followed Larry to the back room, because being the professional that he is, he wanted Eskimo to give him an audition first so she would not make a complete fool of him and his band of players. So with Eskimo seated on stool, and Larry seated very very close, and itinerant monkey boyfriend pacing nervously outside and peeking thru the door, Eskimo did that thang she does and read "The Way He Moves Me." Larry could only reply, "Oh, I like the way you move me, baby," as he scooted impossibly closer. "After her purrformance of poems with musicians, Eskimo received her glossy photo of his furriness on which he scrawled, "Loosen up, Eskimo." This is because Larry was slightly miffed that she did not agree to join him and the players on a road trip. Of course, now Eskimo wishes she had gone with them instead of returning to the monkey boys with the downcast faces who have never forgiven her. The Way He Moves Me
Haibun for a Musician
Eskimo once convinced a guitar player to take her and her two dogs on 6-thousand mile road trip. He agreed because she offered him unlimited great sex, free food, use of her truckmobile, his own studio in which to set up all that electronic paraphernalia, and constant infusion of love and ideas--which is basically all musicians need. Oh yes, she also patiently sat thru 110 open mics and clapped enthusiastically. Eskimo has often been called, "the queen of forms" because she writes poems of all different shapes, sizes and sensibilities. The following is a haibun--"essays in prose with haiku mixed in." Characteristics of haibun are: "1) Written in prose, usually concluded with one or more haiku; 2) Brief; 3) Abbreviated in syntax; grammar words, sometimes even verbs, are omitted; 4) No explanation of the haiku; the connection between the prose and the haiku is often like linking in renga; 5) Imagistic; relatively few abstractions or generalizations; 6) Objective; the writer is somewhat detached, maintains an aesthetic distance, even when describing himself; 7) Humorous; while seriousness and beauty concern the writer, a haibun usually demonstrates the light touch" ("The Haiku Handbook," by William J. Higginson with Penny Harter.) Eskimo and her haiku pals love this form. Try it, poet. Professional criticism of this haibun is that the prose sections need to be elaborated upon, but Eskimo knows that web visits are usually short so she has left haibun as is--short and succulent.
3 Haibun for S and Two Dogs--Tuesday and Ginger
Headed east in the U-haul with S driving and 2 dogs. Depressed in Reno, leaving CA. Drove thru the salt flats. Mormons said, "No room at the inn" for the likes of us. Pushed on thru the red hills. Both loved the midwest, birthplace of my father. Truck drivers and waitresses were kind to us. Drove at night thru magnificent lightning storm in plains. At dawn, S showed me the different kinds of clouds rising over the corn fields. Watched one for a long time, drinking coffee, hoping it would turn into a twister. Arrived at Green Mountains, late summer. Beautiful but muggy. Stumbled upon Joseph Smith birthplace in hills. Went swimming in White River. Crayfish clamped onto Gingers nose. S rescued her.
Lightning never strikes
the same place twice. Heart could not
bear that bolt again.
Made the difficult decision to leave Vermont. Watched S hangglide for the last time in N.H. Walked thru fall woods alone. Took quick trip down coast. Showed him Waldens Pond. Got lost in graveyard searching for Thoreaus tombstone, but S finally found it. Stayed in NYC near airport. Could not find the Empire State Building. Read poetry in ghetto and then in classy Manhattan joint. Took S to his first art museum. He loved Picassos guitars. Stubbed out his cig on twisted metal in the courtyardPicasso sculpture. Loved the Chesapeake Bay, having read the book. Took S to the Smithsonian. Missed my cousin Chuck by 1 day, but marveled at his orange plane front and center. S looked for photos of his father in the paratrooper exhibit. Made love in the car on the way home in Hartford, Connecticut.
Haka Mairi (grave visit)
We went to the woods
to see if we could find his
name on a tombstone
Left Vermont on Halloween. Got caught in first snowstorm over Pocono Mountains. Slept at summit in truck with one dog each to keep us warm. Stopped at Walt Whitmans house. Saw beautiful pink sunset in Tennessee. Got lost in New Mexico in the middle of the night. Stayed at small hotel on the res. Tuesday fell into cactus bush. S carefully pulled out all her thorns. Marveled at the Hoover Dam. Both upset in Nevada.
Leaving Las Vegas
put our last coin in the slots
head for Seattle
More encounters coming . . . Eskimo says quit listening to Art Bell, type up your encounter stories--alien and otherwise--and email them to firstname.lastname@example.org.