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I Visit the Ut’ishsih People To Explore the Utd’mbts Language (Part 2)

Utcoozhoo and I discussed the Utd’mbts language

I managed to make it to the caves, and speak to Utcoozhoo. If you missed the first part of my adventure, it’s here.

    Well, it wasn’t exactly a discussion. It was more like an embarrassment because I never actually learned Upper Utd’mbts and only spoke a little Utd’mbts which is considered the primitive babble of children. So, I suppose, it did seem silly to be proposing to translate Utd’mbts into English when I’m barely fluent in either, you might say.
    Geez, I wasn’t sure what I should do if Utcoozhoo, in the middle of a verbal discussion, said “Uayi!”. I remember how perplexing it was when Zawmb’yee and I were in the middle of a playful water-gun fight in a hallway of our building when she heard Uayi.
    “What ?” I had said.
    She said, “Uayi means: ‘If I may have your permission to fuse and join into the node of your beingness, I would wish to impart to you, with deference and respect, the essence of my cognizance that I fervently believe is an element of truth which I believe will be to your benefit and which I offer with benign intention.’ ”
    “Huh?”
    “Um,” she had said, “it means that he says ‘hi’, may I speak to you telepathically for a moment please.”

    So, anyway, Utcoozhoo was waiting for me when I stepped off the secret subway car. I was startled because he seemed to pop up out of nowhere.
    His appearance was almost as surprising as the time I had been sitting on the bank of an underground river called the K’ut’mbletaw’i at the particular spot where it twists called the Nipeiskwari (Place of Meandering Thought) and Utcoozhoo leapt out of the water like a dolphin with gray hair. From Zawmb’yee’s description (when she was his apprentice), I had thought he was a wise old Guru, who might sit by a jagged rock face like his own face, impenetrable, not likely to float, let alone swim, but I soon found out that this wise one could chuckle like the water splashes.
    “Welcome,” he said.
    “Um…”
    “I see that you want to turn around and go back because you feel ashamed that you have not brought anything important.”
    “Uh well, so…”
    “You are free to go, but might I suggest we make the best of it. I promise you that we will learn something even if it’s a fiasco. Or we could just have an empty chat and I can tell you that I’m just glad to see you again. OK, so tell me anything and I won’t mind.”
    “Yes, OK. Can we go to Zawmb’yee’s private library?”
    “The kngacev, OK. Hmm, an odd request, but I suppose you want maximum secrecy. But anyway, sure, this way.”

    We walked down the sacred corridor and I felt such warm feelings looking at Zawmb’yee’s paintings displayed on the walls. We entered the Royal quarters almost casually. The kngacev is a simple library with a royal meditation room or bedroom. The back of the kngacev held the secrets. Yeah, I know, it sounds silly, like in an old movie, but I knew which shelf of books was important. I slid a ladder over and climbed to the top shelf in the corner. I gathered myself for a moment and readied my athletic skills.
    I pulled a purple book half way out, jumped off the ladder to the floor and jumped back. There was a loud mechanical noise like a precursor to an Earthquake.
    The shelf slid to the side, revealing a security room with huge screens, computer consoles, and a large conference table. We walked to the table as the shelf closed behind us.
    Utcoozhoo said, “Well, that was dramatic. Don’t worry, it’s just show business. So, what’s on your mind?”
    “I come to show my last agony and project because I don’t know what else to do. But it’s stupid because I’m totally unqualified to do this.”
    “Well, on the surface, you are spectacularly unqualifed because you have Eokxavexa disease, but maybe you’re motivated to take a different approach to saving the Utd’mbts language at least as a curiosity for English speakers. Even though Zawmb’yee was my apprentice and she did well, she’s not really interested in being a translator. Over the years, most of the Ojdispekib have migrated to the up-top world and are not fluent in Utd’mbts anymore. Well, actually, they’re totally ignorant. At best, they know a few sayings, but don’t speak it in any original context; it’s sort of like English speakers who know a few Latin quotes but don’t actually speak Latin.”
    “Well,” I said, “then, I think the problem is that in English a word has a very limited purpose, and so the amount of information contained in it is low: A noun as a thing or subject, a verb as an action, various intensifiers and modifiers, and objects. In contrast I’d say that an Utd’mbts “word” element is more like a label for a movie and its information content is the whole movie itself. Is that it?
    Utcoozhoo smiled. “Ubemuwx,” he said.
    “Um, uh, Ubemuwx means ‘that’s not exactly it’ ?”
    “Ubemuwx.”
    “Um, uh, it’s not exactly true that it’s not exactly it?”
    “Yeah.”
    “A concept or a story with a theme and a purpose?”
    “Better.”
    I had an uncomfortable feeling that I knew what was coming next. Rather than panic, I said, “Can we break for lunch or something?”
    “Sure. Maybe you should do the ‘or something’. Go out to the Royal bedroom, lie down and take a nap.”
    “OK.”
    “… and then… nevermind. Relax. We’ll talk more.”
    “Should I meditate or something?” I said.
    “If you like. But you don’t have to see the pfambuuisen and the spiral tunnel — that’ll be for another time. A simple body relaxation will do, and I’ll have the chef make a Fauci Lasagna in the meantime.”

A while ago I talked about the Fauci Lasagna I knew about: Fauci Lasagna .

Utcoozhoo’s version of Fauci Lasagna was better. I think it had something to do with where he got the fruit bats.

[Part 3 is coming soon.]

In the meantime I’m working on a version of the Fauci Eggplant Parmesan. I’m going to use a puréed carrot and beet mixture plus puréed banana and blueberries instead of tomato sauce. I’m not sure about the amounts of basil, oregano, and garlic. But anyway, in a future “Journals of Procrastination” volume I’ll figure it out.

To Edit, to Enhance, Perchance to Trash a Poem (2)

When a Poem is a dog, it does seem cruel to fix it.

There are rarely flowers in the entrails of a slaughtered poem, and it leaves little that’s edible. So I’ve partially digested 5 bad poems that I wrote quickly. With some changes they might be worth saving. I don’t know. The themes are not clear. Not enough details. Awkward lines without rhythm or rhyme or elegant structure or surprise, I suppose. I’m not sure if it is of any benefit to show a new draft which could be worse. I guess I could begin with that damn pernicious new slogan: ‘Let’s get started…’

Capitol Hill In December

Birds are like spies,
they know more than you think.

She knew about
the Sino-influenced
mole on the Hill
the Senator

Of many things
she was a Biologist.

Not everyone knows:

deciduous trees are
born assassins.

The mistletoe plant knows, but
it takes a bribe to keep the secret.

It can’t be blamed on
a chill
or ill wind

It’s premeditated murder to suck out,
like Dracula sucks blood,
all the nutrients of the leaf
until only the brown corpse
falls to the ground

It saves the sap like
sequested gold in
an off-shore account.

They claimed she was a biologist
without portfolio, an innocent flower,
perhaps an ornithologist who
went to embassy parties, yet

Weeping Autumnal dread seeps
into my dreams every fretful year,
and when the leaves are falling
I miss her again, even though
I can pause a while, but
I begin to remember her again
as secrets escape like cold
floods in thunder cries, until

December signals the
death of a year,
and I miss her again.

December is a speculation;
it looms over
the fabric of destiny

December is the
death of a year.

Death in the winter is cool, they say —
’tis the dead leaves who fertilize the soil
but it is the trees who cry
when vandals collect leaves and leave

Death in the winter is cool.
Of December more. They say

Jazz in winter is cool too, yeah
December improvises with snow gone fluffy
where syncopated fluffy dogs scamper in snow tones
of blues in raggy times where snow jobs make more poor,
December the con game, optimism as a debt.
Better to be in Australia where it’s warm in December

and I can pretend that
the Assassins didn’t kill her
as the Senator says.
————– Original:
December Poetry

December is a speculation;
it looms over
the fabric of destiny

December is the
death of a year.

Death in the winter is cool.
’tis the dead leaves who fertilize the soil
but it is the trees who cry
when vandals collect leaves and leave

Death in the winter is cool.
Of December more.

Jazz in winter is cool too, yeah
December improvises with snow gone fluffy
where syncopated fluffy dogs scamper in snow tones
of blues in raggy times where snow jobs make poor
December the con game, optimism as a debt
Better to be in Australia.

To Edit, to Enhance, Perchance to Trash a Poem

When a Poem is a dog, it does seem cruel to fix it.

There are rarely flowers in the entrails of a slaughtered poem, and it leaves little that’s edible. So I’ve partially digested 5 bad poems that I wrote quickly. With some changes they might be worth saving. I don’t know. The themes are not clear. Not enough details. Awkward lines without rhythm or rhyme or elegant structure or surprise, I suppose. I’m not sure if it is of any benefit to show a new draft which could be worse. I guess I could begin with that damn pernicious new slogan: ‘Let’s get started…’

Bad Genes for a Simple Execution (Draft 5)

Pain and sorrow make a day, and
all dreams are about death

Momma said more than twice
story book Daddies are nice lore…

said your Demon Father
is a twisted rapist on the loose.

From a story book
Momma told me
what a Daddy is like
because she always said
no one ever loved her.

She only had feelings while
reading books with wine

Yet Mom was a Girl Scout Leader

Pain and sorrow make a day, and
dreams are about death

Mom said that
for the Scouts
she performed the
burying innocence ceremony
(BIC)

The girls dug a grave,
made camp fires in it, and
were fastidious about
putting it out —
never causing a forest fire,
but sometimes a girl disappeared.

To dream or not to dream

She only read books
never told me
if feelings existed
outside of books, but

feelings are bad:

Books make her sad,
and all I ever wanted for my birthday
was not a toy, but for her
to spend a day talking to me.

I never knew my Father because
that Demon is hiding

From him
I have the evil genes of a rapist.

When I was thirteen and a half
Mom said I should have special dreams.

For my fourteenth birthday
I wanted a microscope
or nothing.

Mom said the Succubus
comes at age fourteen like
the tooth fairy comes at six

Mom said there’d be
a night massage
and a special dream of cleansing.

She got lotion at the supermarket
before the night.

In the birthday dream
the Succubus was a
rough–and–tumble
doppelgänger Mom

Mom was a girl scout leader
and she hosted sleepover parties
where she gave them special wine
so they could meet the Incubus
and talk about the BIC.

Soon Mom went camping
buried innocence
and party girls disappeared.

Momma tell me that
not all men are evil, and
can you love me much more than
you did my Father.

Momma spend the day with me
on Death Row, and bring
a birthday cake with a file
full of me when I smiled.

Oh Gee That’s Only One Poem Modified

So that was too hard. I don’t think I’ll bother with the others. Probably this will result in trashing all of them. I should have known it wasn’t worth trying. I don’t even feel like reading them again. Oh well.

Comments?
~~~~

The Original:

Momma told me a story
about what a Daddy is
in story books.

Books make her sad,
and all I ever wanted for my birthday
was not a toy, but for her
to spend a day talking to me.

I never knew my Father because
my Mother doesn’t know who
he might be

From him
I have the evil genes of a rapist, and

I crave so much now
growing up foolishly

and I don’t know why
I’d love my girlfriend gently
when she drives me crazy

and I fear I have
my Father’s evil genes.

Momma told me a story
about what a Daddy is
in story books.

Books make her sad.

I talk to a ghost:
Daddy, don’t make me
love my girlfriend in an evil way

That Devil haunts me, Momma
and I crave so much now suddenly

Born with bad genes,
Momma tell me why
I’d love this girl gently
when I really know that
I am so ugly
and born with
my evil genes

Momma tell me that
not all men are evil, and
can you love me much more than
you did my Father.

Momma spend the day with me
on Death Row, and bring
a birthday cake with a file
full of me when I smiled.

AirDrop Poetry On a Fruit Phone

Some Poetry Is Temporary

Writing on a phone can be difficult. Sending a message can be dangerous. Doors were welded shut in Urumqi for the lockdown against the virus. People inside died in a fire because no one could get to them in time. People protesting were trying to communicate using a feature of their phones(Air Drop) to avoid a police crack down, arrest, and worse. The phones were sabotaged at the behest of the CCP by an update just before demonstrations. The fruit phones are made in China, but “too many Cooks spoil the pie (soup, broth).” The photos and news haven’t been disseminated much. “People hold white sheets of paper during a protest over COVID-19 restrictions after a vigil for the victims of a fire in Urumqi, in Beijing, China, Nov. 28, 2022.”– Reuters caption

Thin Air Drop on Granny Smith

    by Miss Zhang Xiuying

Join my girls dancing in the street.
Check your Granny Smith:
it’s a welding holiday.

Read on the Granny Smith.
The last fruit of freedom
is falling from the sky now
and the air is updated.

Read my last condolence
on Granny Smith

The police will come soon.
But I have my Juliet potion

I love you Romeo.
I will be dead soon.

Everyone died in the fire.
The fruit has been updated.
Beloved Sour Granny,
Shǐmìsī Nǎinai, is dead.

Have some pears.
Don’t despair, Romeo —
call the apothecary
on a wǒ-phone
before the police come
to the Shakespeare festival.

December Poetry in the Snow Latitudes

December Poetry

December is a speculation;
it looms over
the fabric of destiny

December is the
death of a year.

Death in the winter is cool.
’tis the dead leaves who fertilize the soil
but it is the trees who cry
when vandals collect leaves and leave

Death in the winter is cool.
Of December more.

Jazz in winter is cool too, yeah
December improvises with snow gone fluffy
where syncopated fluffy dogs scamper in snow tones
of blues in raggy times where snow jobs make poor
December the con game, optimism as a debt
Better to be in Australia.

War Games Are Fun

Let Us Play

I love how you said
let us play for the children,
and I liked to play too
so I didn’t have to shake
when the bombs fell above
and when I had a vision
of the scattering of
my wife’s limbs, and of
her head ripped off
for the glory of the enemy
so pompous and indignant
at the UN.

I love the silliness of you.

Give us this last day to play,
because with you
I will die happy
when we starve, and
freeze to death
playing a game
until we all
go see my family in heaven —
and I think my wife will like you.

Poetry for Just Because I Love You

Blurted Out Poetry Fills Empty Space

I have so many poems that I threw in the trash because freely flowing first notions and drafts always turn out to be trash especially the ones done quickly and spontaneously without editing. So should I just bleed when there is nothing worthwhile? I don’t know. This is the third one needing editing. Maybe if I can fix the three, I could write about editing. Yeah, like when pigs fly. I suppose I could buy them a ticket, or carry bacon in my carry-on luggage.

Just Because

Every day I miss you
just because you’re divine
and I know what they say
about hyperbole. but
I saw you do a miracle for me
do a miracle for a child
for a stranger, and
you saw a miracle power in me, and
I freely gave it to you to use for us
for everyone we touched
for everyone we nudged towards love
just because you let me love the world, and
you will never teach me
not to miss you forever, and
don’t make me
cry
just because


I Am Afraid

So Death Is Here

Give me my last hug
though it be hollow and fake
because

I am afraid that
I have never been loved

and I have never
had a purpose.

Detective girl,
can you find me
anyone who ever loved me

They say forensics can do this.
There is a big database.
Find me someone I helped,
I loved once

I can’t die now
and go to the light
because

there is no one
waiting for me

I have yet to live

Find me someone
I could die for.

Poems Written in the Ancient Times of Circa 2008 A.D.

The International Year of the Potato (2008) and The Last Gasp of Free Verse Poetry

Sax Piano Bird

If you will play
I will kiss your tune lips
’cause anything goes when
slinking down your keyboard
tickling doleful note doodles
plinking your chords
caressing pianissimo
bopping forte, top a’ ya board,
chording love accolades
staying for improvisations
when cool mistys get hot. I shall be cool

when you transpose the glory
keys to high toned harmony
that sees me exposed
with whistling kisses blown
all sax-ified, but that’ll
be after a race. Y’ know

it was a mystery that
birds of a feather could
get the winner’s name
from the horse’s
mouthwash, but
I heard them say

she plays with her pet cockatoo
at the piano bar
down by the racetrack
at the end of the race, and
I saw you

The bird said, “Leave a tip”
I said, “Baby Needs Shoes to win,
place, or show me a new tune”

You nagged the feathers off it
to snatch bills
out of patrons’ hands

After you played with your pet cockatoo
I tipped it into a snifter
hoping you’d play with me
’cause I bet on the nag, then
I said
to the showers

I said
To install the clean
in a froth of warmth
above a soapy love,
join me in the shower stall
by the steamy wall
where flights of fancy
are never scrubbed. If you will,

then I, with fragrant soap,
will wash in tribute
the toe that tested my waters,
cleansing the foot feats that two-stepped
when I was a mere calf
and you were knee high
to a love
like a soap opera. Sing

in the shower from your diaphragm
where no melting soap is barred
while I swoosh below your breasts
with swirling helicopter hands
taking off with haste
as whirlybirds land
on nipple pads. When you say

taxi to the terminal
the refueling hose can dock
and the passengers can be served
hot blessings, but remember
the fifth race is soon,
time to place bets
by the river
on the sailboats, although
we could check out
the entries
swimming in the
racing waters

where in trepidation
you can put a toe
in the water of my soul
as I kiss it as
I would a child’s boo-boo

offering you
a future, a splash
of my essence; I
breathe your perfume
a cherry-flavored love

You undress in my river
and I kiss your thigh
in baptism before lips

Like a mallard
I swim aside,
a breast in hand
worth two in the bush

All goes swimmingly,
as I reminisce
first kisses
raising my mast,
sailing our ship, and
now anything goes
even past
the sunset,
in moonlit tunes
splashed across the stars

——— ** ——–

When Sap Is Not Milk

A sad maple is she,
syrup exploited
never allowed
to taste her own sweetness

Her leaves could have
absorbed the love
of the Sun
of the passing Prince,
had she not played
her lute too softly to be heard

Never should such a lonely string,
such a flower
be cut on a slant,
dying, put
in a vase
for a decorative purpose

Because of such sorrow,
never let winter ever come again
without a prayer implanted
in the bosom of justice

The angels have fallen
if they would honor wine
more than the dangle of
the maiden’s dew, more
worthy than any untested virgin
in a nunnery who
has never cried for love
and only knits diversions

She is so worthy of forgiveness
as are you, when your
morning mourning pancake
has God’s rainbow syrup
on a reawakening breakfast
saved at last
for eternal joy


If My Love Has Gone Away To Write Poetry

I Laugh Therefore I Am Poetry

What am I going to do
if my love has gone away

Who will let me cry silly
until we laugh together
because it is ridiculous
that we’d not see
how perfect our
comedy of errors is.

I laugh
therefore I am, and
we were hysterically happy

because we were funny
when we remembered how
we caught each other in a fall

Don’t be gone
Be my joy
Be my love

Don’t be dead:
I command it, because
there is one joke
I haven’t yet told you

What am I going to do
if my love has gone away
without laughing