Lucky Garnet Replies to Dice Raymond

As Alice says, it would be nice if things made sense for a change.
But Alice, dear, things never made sense, not even when falling apart
in a poem by William Butler Yeats
about two orgasms for the price
of one or Robert Frost's way the world will end twice
once with fire and once with ice.
Here, hold my center.
Come again, dear swain.
Come like the rain.
We'll take your cock and my tail,
and we will invent the Martini, my love.
Meanwhile who will walk down lover's lain
while Alice corrects the spelling of lane
and I shall talk about Alice's sins and Alice's sons
with the cat whose smile was never there.
When things make no sense, come again.
I'll drikn to that. I'll drink to hat. I'll flat your what.
But for now, Phil will fill the bill
and Alice wll be no prude with Gertrude
and Molly will not be solly but will stay jolly.
Heigh ho the holly!
And will I come through with resolutions new
too good to be untrue?
Tomorrow!

In the sweeps

In the "silent night" sweepstakes, the bigger baritone usually wins.
Sometimes the dancer wins.
At other times the loveliest on the floor has blonde hair
and looks crookedly at Dice Raymond.
Who is Dice Raymond?
Dice Raymond is a gambling man, who won the casino in a poker game last night.
Funny, how everything returns to the same two constants amid all the changes.
The tenors can sing but can't act.
The sopranos can sing but are fat.
The strings have picked up the theme.
It's the first time we hear it.
It's snowing in Vermont where we met but where we are not and where
we may never meet again on the bumpy road to love.
But there are other places -- other than Cleveland, I mean.
The gambler gets the best songs but loses the girl.
It's double or nothing. And the crowds cheer.
Your king of clubs loses to my ace of diamonds.
The man in the tuxedo goes home and shoots himself, but that happens off stage.
The bully gets his ass kicked.
The gambler makes the same bet twice.
Everyone is forgiven when the girlfriend gets pregnant.
And the lost art of ballroom dancing is magically restored to us.

The Gift

"My gift to you is to be you and to let you be me," said the Mister to the tree.
"Your gift to me is a love song that I will write for you to sing."

You can't go wrong with a love song.
The proof is in the rock.

Boy is her joy.
Her joystick toy.

She's my ally or my alley or my pally or

I suggest that everyone write a poem from the point of view of the opposite sex! Or a novel , if you can do it in one day.
Another thing you might do is pick a photo of what you would look like if you were a man (or a woman).
OK, folks, start your engines, as Ronnie Reagan would say!
Tomorrow my candidates for the top ten.

The Code

Everything is code. For example, what is the meaning of "Bye Bye Miss American Pie"? It was a big bullshit popular song in 1971 or '72 full of portent. It was code for at least three cliches: the end of an era, the end of innocence, and the end is near. How about the Beach Boy's "Wouldn't it be nice"? Now that was more profound.

How about "You Light Up My Life" as performed in sign language during the Academy Awards? How about the theme from "A Summer Place," a triumph of schmaltz and violins that rose to number two on the hit parade in 1958? How about "He's So Fine" later known as "My Sweet Lord"? How about "Girls Just Wanna Have Fun"?

These songs have meaning. The most insipid teenage handholder conceals a bonk or a boner, a bonus or a boob, a bra or a bodice, a banana peel or a blood orange, a ball and chain, a blast from the past, a blueberry yoghurt two months past its shelf date, a Bloody Mary, a blowhard mule, maximum braggadacio.

Goodbye, Mr. Chips, farewell Miss America, adieu Mrs. Miniver, aufwiedersehen Ms. Take, adios Mr. Ree, au revoir Madame Eggs, shalom the Missus, a domani Madame Merle, hasta la vista Mr. Kaminsky from Brooklyn and Mr. Scwhartz from Tony Curtis, so long Miss Sadie Lou, see you later, alligator, Ms. Benton on her back in Vermont.

The code is this. For male read female. For island read society. For church read brothel. For jail read camp. For code read ode. For now read then. For accident read intimate. For love read death. For death read tristesse following consummation of sex act with her, the one I love who belongs to comebody else.

People fight for their right to be greedy

There are those who are needy
and those who are greedy
and some own pharmacy chains
and some sing when it rains.

I've been here for part of a year
so let's give us a cheer
and if you write me a letter
honey I'm going to feel better.

I would say it is time

I would say it is time. It is time and temperature.
Go ahead, make that call.
Say, have you seen Karen Volkman's sonnets in the latest issue of "jubilat"? They're divine, especially the one beginning with the line, "Nice knuckle, uncle. Nice hat, hornet." The rhyme scheme is as subtle as a hooded figure in a medieval village on a snowy day in Europe with evil black birds circling overhead.
I love the word evil as in "she's evil" said with a laugh after listening to M. discuss her latest exquisite predicament.
Because mirrors reverse images, we never see outselves as others see us except in photographs or movies. That is why movies mesmerize, even bad ones. They used to, anyway. The new ones are too mediocre to sustain my attention. Mediocre is boring as evil is not. The relation of the word "mediocre" in that sentence to the word "medieval" in the sentence about the hooded figure interests me.
What I really wrote was "subtle as a clitoris."

Singing in the sun, rain, snow, and sleet

I love this comment from Her, and by Her do I mean Herman Neutics or what?

<< We're takin' turns
around this joint
but sometimes worried we'll disapoint.
But you're not home and I'm alone and
We're taking turns
and I'm turned on
so I diddle and wait for your return
to take a turn
cause we're taking turns.
So turn it high
cause you're my guy
(in the kitchen in the bedroom)
I think you're fly. >>

What can I add? Let's see:

We're takin' turns
at home or in school
where love burns
and I'm a fool
for (a) love and (b) you
and you want to --
and I do too --
so let's take turns.

Let's take turns
and then let's case
this joint
and not disappoint.

The bedroom's the place
where love discerns
the outcome of the race
which is a tie
because he's her guy
and she's the reason why
they're takin' turns.

Molly writes a song

I'm writing a song. It's called "Taking Turns." Can you help?
Here's what I've got so far:

We're taking turns,
You and I,
In the kitchen
(And I'm not bitchin)
Or the bedroom
(There's more head room).
We're taking turns,
And you're my guy.
We're taking turns,
And getting high.
We're taking turns. . .

Tour Buzz

No Tell Books has taken to the open road to promote its latest publications.

Maybe I'll make it down to one of the readings? The Albany one on Sunday looks like my best bet. See you there?

Here are the deets:

FRIDAY, DECEMBER 1, 2006 - 8:00 p.m. - Release Party - 11436 Fairway Drive, Reston, VA
Readers: Bruce Covey, PF Potvin and Reb Livingston

SATURDAY, DECEMBER 2, 2006 - 4 p.m. - i.e. Reading Series, Clayton & Co. Fine Books, 317 N. Charles Street, Baltimore, MD
Readers: Bruce Covey, PF Potvin and Reb Livingston

SUNDAY, DECEMBER 3, 2006 - 4 p.m. - Behind the Egg: A reading series, 383.5 Madison Avenue, Albany, NY
Readers: Bruce Covey, PF Potvin and Reb Livingston

MONDAY, DECEMBER 4, 2005 - 7 p.m. - Central Connecticut State University, CCSU Bookstore, New Britain, CT
Readers: Bruce Covey, PF Potvin, Ravi Shankar and Reb Livingston

TUESDAY, DECEMBER 5, 2006 - 7 p.m. - The Ordinary Evening Reading Series, 272 College St, New Haven, CT
Readers: Bruce Covey, PF Potvin, Ravi Shankar and Reb Livingston