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Cartesian Blues

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Cartesian Blues
. .. by Rufus & Quin

I’ve got the Cartesian Blues
From the middle of my brain
All the way down to my nuts and screws

I went to the doctor,
An’ I said, “Gimme da news …”
He just handed me a bunch of data
And said, “It’s just dem ol’ Cartesian Blues!”

I put on my shirt, I put on my shoes,
I put on my rubbers
I had nothing to lose
But them godforsaken Cartesian Blues

I went down by da red lights,
An’ asked, “whaddya got, and how much are the dues?
She said, a hunnerd dolla for 38-26-34
Will get rid of your Cartesian Blues

The automatic teller
Spit out some cash
I’m a handsome feller
I gotta make a splash
Just as soon as I peruse
This article about
The Cartesian Blues

I think therefore I am
Was the caption on her selfie
A vegetarian except for ham
Very clean and never filthy
Except when I hit snooze
And get those Cartesian Blues

So I went down to see the bartender,
And said, “I need some medicine—it’s called booze,
And he answered, “Well I got 101-proof bourbon, aged for 30 years in a 50 gallon barrel,
And that oughtta cure those Cartesian Blues”

It hit my naso-cortex
Like every species of shit
And caused a spark to fly
Across that Cartesian split
But the next morning I paid my dues
I still had those Cartesian Blues

So I went to the social worker,
Cause I got nothing to lose,
And she said, “We got 20% unemployment,
A third of the population is mentally ill,
In the great urban area 5300 people are livin’ in tents,
And now 100% of our assistance programs are means-tested,
Which means we alls got Cartesian Blues”

She referred me to a psychiatrist,
So I told him “I got something on my mind”
And he said, “I think you mean brain”
And I said, “mind”
He said “brain”
I said “mind”
“Brain”
“Mind”
“Brain”
“Mind”
“Well, this is clearly a case of those … Cartesian Blues …”

I went to ask my Ex-wife,
“Ex, Why why why did you move?”
An’ she told me, “I can’t graph
or coordinate your Cartesian Blues …”

In place of God there’s a Demon of Doubt,
All faith is just a ruse …
That is why COGITO ERGO
Cartesian Blues

Shucks! – I guess the 2017 litterachur Nobel is going to go to Bono

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But I’m energized – Big League – at least it’s going to someone who actually understands the difference between sovereignty and totalitarianism…

Well, shit, if you think I’m wrong about it – the laddy said it right here. I quote unquote quote:

“Edited clips of Trump replied: “I will build a great, great wall on our southern border and I will have Mexico pay for that well.”
“A wall? Like the Berlin Wall? Like the Great Wall of China?” Bono, a donor to the Clinton Global Initiative, shot back to the video screen.”

Well, let me uncling mesself from thissere gun, religion and God type-a-thing before I continue. [Sipping at a cold one now, hold on…]

Well, shit, what I mean to say is, hell and hard nuts, America is so tired of thissere electionation process… Oh, hell, let’s just all go home and hope that we have jobs come Monday… I’ll buy the keg (Quinn, can I borrow 40 bucks? The Hamms is on sale…)

Well, as I look out at this wonderful U Ass of A we gots usself here, I can’t help but thinks about that what which Bono’s countryman and fellow string-strummer once said, “That’tare ain’t no country for old menfolk…”

Well, Cormac, I guess you can be fixin your Nobel year to be—

Hell now, look at that, Mr. Tweedy, you made me spill my Blatz.

No, excuse me – EXCUSE ME, Mr. Tweedy, but we happen to got womenfolk in the audience just now, so you just you shut your jaw the fuck up, now you hear. I realize you got a grimace like a hound dog trying to pass a peach pit. But just heel now, y’hear? You’ll have your chance at the carcass after Cormac gets a gnaw!

Well, I guess that’s about alls I got to say – ummagonna end the conversation righ-chere.

Love and peace and I’m all with Her and all.

JOB

…and BOB goes Nobel!

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Sorry, Cormac, maybe next year.

Bob Dylan’s 3,500-year old relative

Musical Score from Ugarit (Clay tablet from Ugarit) with the Hurrian hymn, 13th cent. BC. Found in the collection of Musée du Louvre, Paris. Artist : Ugaritic Culture. (Photo by Fine Art Images/Heritage Images/Getty Images)

“How does it feel….?”

Another Poem about a Painter

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Young Bacchus, Bitten By A Lizard
It wasn’t just bad PR plus zero
support from Cesari—Amerighi lacked
self-control and a sense of tact
from the start. But, oh, the chiaroscuro!

Whan that Aprill, with his shoures soote

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The Official Poet of the Year of Mercy

What came in the mail

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Another cold spring again this year…

 

There must be more than this provincial life…

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Babylon

rivers of babylon

The rivers of Babylon rush and fall and sweep away.
O holy Sion, where all is firm and nothing falls!
We must sit upon the waters, not under them or in them but on them; and not standing but seated; being seated to be humble, and being above them to be secure. But we shall stand in the porches of Jerusalem.
Let us see if this pleasure is stable or transitory; if it pass away, it is a river of Babylon.
                         – Pascal,
Pensees, 459.

It wasn’t much at first. A sagging step,
Exaggerated bend of knee, the way
She’d reach with fluid motion and then stop –

I even caught her once before the well,
The water’s calm the perfect reach and scope
For vanity to hold her gaze… When ill

She’d sit a lot and take her rest instead
Of work – my own affliction could not tell
Of Sara’s lesson: Abraham was dead

And God no longer talks to us in signs.
Tradition filled my mouth but weighed like lead
To trip my tongue. So she would sing the lines

Of David then: God, our king before time,
Hath wrought salvation…
Now my mind inclines
To all kinds of hints: so the steady flame

Within the temple’s precincts trembles at
The shadows. Brother priests do not esteem
My company. Still, incense rises, mute

As priests and fathers suffered Babylon:
Now I too wish to sing with strings and flute,
To dance with timbrel like the halcyon

Who swoops and dives above the river’s flow…
So God’s own messenger, who stood upon
The altar, was pleased to let this father know

He’d be waiting on the porch of Sion.

Storm Days

winslow homer

                            for my father

The wind is in rare form tonight – all in –
The pine and the walnut are sent adrift
In darkness to wave-break the night, an ocean
Of sighs that have slashed autumn’s lines and left

The summer unmoored – grief enough, father,
To see in the porch light your fading shade
That time when the talk sat with ease. Whether
The hour of that someplace translated your staid

And passing years – whiskey conversed, earnest
As lyrics, the crisscross of legacy
That made my manhood. Then you taught, honest
As wages, how jib sails are cut to see
A weather gauge measure a typhoon sea
And signal words speak a level ballast.