lunes, 29 de agosto de 2011

MY SCRAPBOOK

– for & after JG

I’m proud of my expensive scrapbook,
so I flaunt it to my friends.
It’s bigger than theirs
and looks like it doesn’t need repairs.

“How’s your scrapbook?” someone asks at a reading.

“Fine!” I chirp up,
jumping at the chance
to extol the many virtues of my scrapbook.

Pretty soon a circle gathers
and everyone’s discussing its size,
editorial control, the artwork, the sheer lettuce
it takes to put the damn thing out.
If someone stays in a corner
someone else might notice and ask about theirs:
they never want to talk about it.
So they join in, chirping you-don’t-says,
and isn’t-that-amazings and
what-about-the-functional-glitter?

By the time I get home
I’m exhausted from bringing up
the subject of my scrapbook.
I get home and there it is,
not much on humility or balance
or good artists without the money
to study scrapbookery with me.
It’s all sub-culture, all glitz-trimming
and illusory contours, not even bothering to cover
up the cliquey pandering of the maintenance quota lining.

Late at night
when no one’s looking,
I’m embarrassed and ashamed of the damn thing,
kick it across the room
and stub my toe,
then toss it into the fireplace.
Maybe even burn it.

But I’m unwilling to fix it, and
even though I use it to meet women,
I am a man who wakes up depressed, lonely,
frustrated, who tries to burn his scrapbook,
his expensive shiny scrapbook.
And I haven’t the courage to do even that.

Imagine burning one’s scrapbook.
The shame would haunt me the rest of my career.
So after a while I pull it out of the fireplace,
dust it off and put it on the mantle and go to bed,
hearing its weeping throughout the night,
the low short moan just before daybreak.

My expensive scrapbook.

This poem is part of an unpublished manuscript called SONGS & ECHOES ~ The Pastiche Poems. Pastiche poems are those written in the style of another poet. 
© 1992 Hakim - ALL RIGHTS RESERVED: use without profit allowed only with author’s express written permission. Please don't wake up my attorney. Please.

HOW LONG?

– for & after Tommy Swerdlow


How long can you wait

for the time to be right?

How long can you hide

in a silk mask of dreams

while the ticking tide of nightfall

bleeds the days out of your veins?

How long?


Street corners press your feet

and the women hurry by

evening cracks its knuckles

and you know you are alone.

How long?


The women swim around you

trailing several smells

and you wonder

if the brunet in spikeheels

knows the only question

or even the address

of a solid mental breakdown

as you walk in the neck of a cosmic disease.


You’re dizzy with the power

of this moving female mass:

actresses & secretaries

Cinderella’s sisters

streetful working girls

Athena on the rise

linguistics’ oldest teachers

and girls named for the moon.

Or those longthighed pinklipped schoolgirls

we hunt for absolution

going home to daddy

or a slice of cathode pie.


How long can you wait for her

to break through your looking mind

in a salient spark of flesh,

thrown down by lariat eyes

with a single twist around

your stumbled boyhood horns.

You hoped that she could change you –

but she’s late she is not coming

and now the street is empty

except for Van Gogh’s cab.

(One door is missing

and the driver’s always storming

about crowbars in the cornbelt.)

How long?


Until you waken sweating

with those dreams that fleck your skin?

Like the hot dried sweat of woman

and the tide of truth she holds,

this smell that nerves out something

from your Viennese valise,

some taste

remote & long forgotten

with a root deep in your past,

like the Hassidic revisionism

crashing in your skull.

But what you will become

can never be the things you were.

How long?


Til you see

that the only thing she’s hidden

is the orbit of her smile

in a breeze that drinks the leaves

of one morning’s gentlest tree.


And that’s how long.



© 2002 Hakim - ALL RIGHTS RESERVED: use without profit allowed only with author’s express written permission. Please don't wake up my attorney. Please.

martes, 26 de abril de 2011

What makes European cinema so unique?


This question was recently posted in an online forum, and indicates a true desire to learn more about the current state of cinema in the world today. But perhaps the question is framed incorrectly, and that framing shows a certain ethno- or culture-centricity on the part of the questioner.

Certainly each culture’s films are unique, and in the US, people tend to view US films as the standard – and all other films produced in the varied cultures of the world as ‘everything else.’

This perspective is a good place to start, and the reason so many people ‘position’ their arguments with relation to ‘American’ (read: made in USA) films is that the factory that is Hollywood churns them out and markets them, and so many ‘smaller’ cultures take in these (from their perspective) ‘foreign’ films, accepting them too as some kind of attainable or at least desirable ‘normal’ and then growing up with the Americanisation of their native culture as a fact of life.

No one is saying “why are European films so much better than Nigerian films” because the answer is quite obvious (if you’ve seen many Nigerian films – and I don’t mean to pick on them, it’s just that almost all of them are a bit behind the curve on filmic techniques, or were when last I checked; but the Nigerian film story is a fascinating story of its own).

Over the last four decades, it is quite true that European films and US films have grown much more alike, and there are several reasons for this. One is the marketplace itself: as Europeans saw that they actually could get films shown in the US, they started looking at what ‘Americans’ watched and then kind of mimicked some of what they saw (La Femme Nikita, et al).

And on the flip side, American filmmakers (mostly producers, it is true, but some directors too) saw the great European films and bought the rights and remade them by setting them in the US, in the process altering the stories as needed to make them work in US cities with US characters. I mention producers and directors – the directors chose largely to tell their own stories (Soderberg & Traffic, for instance) while the producers were much more happy to just remake a ‘successful’ or interesting film (The Toy, My Father the Hero, Three Men & a Baby, Three Fugitives, Fathers Day, etc etc) for the money that such a film might make in the US.

It seems that people look for facile answers, and often to facile questions, which is no way to educate oneself. To say that ‘Americans’ (meaning US) will lose their jobs if the films fail is no argument of worth, since there are plenty of ‘Americans’ (meaning US) who turn out drek and lose their jobs, who turn out good films and still lose their jobs, and who turn out drek and keep their jobs.

Films are made for a variety of reasons, some of which are:  just to spend a little money keeping someone busy, to pay back a favor, to balance the terms of a contract (“Gee, Steven Soderberg, make Oceans 12 and we’ll give you the budget to make your art film”), to keep someone from being able to be available for a rival studios big film, etc etc.

And the fact that Hollywood is a very small town, a factory town, should not be lost in the shuffle. The market drives American films. The market. That is why they play it safe, that is why they remake drek, that is why they take old crap from the TV vault and make into the next hoped-for summer blockbuster, that is why they look at something and say, “Well, the original was a hit, so this will be a hit.” Many of my friends and I agree that if they were serious filmmakers, they would take a failed film from the 40s or 50s or 60s and remake it – and make it better. That is to say, they would take something that ‘could have been a contender’ and made it hit the mark.

Hollywood has always dealt in remakes – from the very first handful of movies, they were copying each other (and themselves), remaking things that were popular. One of the first films was a camera tied to the front of a train and sent down a mountain (France? Switzerland?). Then it was done in the US. Then somewhere else. One historical document is a film made from the front of a streetcar heading down Market Street just days before the San Francisco earthquake in 1906. Streams of cowboy movies, the war movies (when the film industry was used as a propaganda arm of the US government during WWI and WWII), then gangster movies, then more war movies.

In Hollywood in the first 20 years of the 1900s, they would remake the same film two or three times in a five-year period. Later, they remade the ‘Maltese Falcon’ story TWICE before they made The Maltese Falcon (what a relief that Walter Huston finally got it right). And the market is what is driving that impulse to remake movies. When you are trying to satisfy an audience, it is an extremely fine line between giving them something they are comfortable with (that is the first part of attraction – and a reason that stars are type-cast) and giving them novelty (if it’s stale or a cliché, they’ll stay away, right?). And the bean-counters are always fiscally conservative.

But be clear on one thing. No one, not in Hollywood or Bollywood or China or Europe or South America, ever goes to a moneyman and says, “I want to make a piece of crap.” And yet that kind of movie keeps getting made, doesn’t it?

No one in US says, “Those silly French, making art – let’s make drek and make a killing.”

No – what they say is this: “The major US demographic sector watching movies is 14 - 24 year old males, and those people want to see breasts, cars, exploding things, and preferably all together. If we make that and show it to them, they will buy lots and lots of popcorn and we will make our money back, and perhaps some extra money to cover that piece of crap that what’s-his-name made, trying to do art, the loony bastard.”

I think that this perspective is aptly called “a race to the bottom.”

In Europe and elsewhere, they say, “Kids will watch whatever they will watch, but we are actually educated and think real thoughts that make real sense (unlike in the US where they are told that they are thinking when they are actually repeating something they’ve heard or read in a magazine). And we have an audience to please that includes a lot of adults and women too, so let’s make this movie from the great script that Francois wrote. The kids can always watch that merde from the USA, non?”

I may be wrong, but that’s the way I’ve seen it play out...


© 2011 Hakim - ALL RIGHTS RESERVED: use without profit allowed only with author’s express written permission. Please don't wake up my attorney. Please.

OF OPERA & STENDHAL

Strange as it sounds, I really believed I knew something about the human heart, as if a few romantic comeuppances... together with a taste for opera, sufficed to give me Stendhalian credentials. – James Merrill


Is it not

strange?

We stumble

through life, each thinking

mine the lone tragedy,

this pain like none other,

none ever felt quite this way before....

thinking her heart alone

the human heart.

How young the young ...

and my own romantic comeuppances.

A girl who loved me more than

anything,

but could not cross the space

to become the woman who knew how to love

the animal I was:

In her leaving

she took that terrible absence with her

trading another absence in its place.


"...si che non trouvo attia – ma non che trasu."


Or another girl, this one

torn from the light

and I put her in the ground,

her family staring: a pale young man

broken on

a casket covered with roses

and roses

and my life blanketed by

the petals of her memory,

her touch,

the whispers

crushed by our own confusion

and her lust for speed.


"...e una commedia, lo so,

ma questa angoscia eterna pare!"


My second wife I

ran over with the old green pickup,

her ragged screams drowned in

the engine's high whine

back and forth

the wheels crushing her fine ribcage

again

and again

– but

only in my fever dreams

tossing east to west

alone

night after night

after night.


"...al alba vincera."


My younger life so operatic…

characters arranged exactly,

their exits

their entrances timed with careful

precision

to the phrasing of this or that aria

I chose to sing.


"...mi destino in la palma de mi mano

la gitana lo leyo."


But

would a wife of mine ever ride

to the funeral with my mistress

holding in their laps

between them

my severed head?



© 2011 Hakim - ALL RIGHTS RESERVED: use without profit allowed only with author’s express written permission. Please don't wake up my attorney. Please.

miércoles, 6 de abril de 2011

Posed Perfectly in Dreams


Had some i
nterest lately in my poetry, from folks who are into a rough-diamond look at the flow of the streets and alleys of the world that surrounds us, as well as the paths of my creative reportage on the slippage and drift of our culture.

And the news is that my 1992 book Posed Perfectly in Dreams is available again – after being OP for a decade and a half. The work here work that "takes risks," in the words of poet (and Blood Countess Bathory scholar) Robert Peters. Poet (and bebop verbal stylist) Michael C Ford notes that the work "coaxes onto an inside track, where eventual wreckage awaits the runaway train of our emotional lives."

A
cache of the printed-on-nonbleached-recycled-paper slim blue volumes was unearthed recently by one of the publishers, so no one has to go without a solid poetry fix any longer.

This book was published at what many consider the height of the poetry scene in Los Angeles, when poetry nights sprang up almost everywhere, from empty sidestreet storefronts and Valley vinyl stores to chi-chi westside nightspots peopled by the literati and glitterati of the day (and often of the minute), to readings in the runoff channel under the Sixth Street bridge and on the upper reaches of the Los Angeles City Hall.

Even the old Venice Jail became an art gallery where readings jumped off, and a few poems in this book actually describe some of the poetry events and characters from that time at the edge of the continent.

Dedications of poems are to my friends and fine poets Lee Mallory, Lisa Rafel, Tommy Swerdlow, Meri Nana-Ama Danquah, and Scott Wannberg, as well as to a few non-poets and at least one hanger-on.

All books have two pieces of laid-in artwork – one by librettist/director Phillip Littell and one by respected artist Sylvia Hamilton Goulden. And the numbered copies have an extra little bonus: a poem dedicated to Wannberg bound in on a gatefold page (the poem, 'Love Story,' is not included in the trade editions).

Posed Perfectly in Dreams is now on sale, via internet only, at 15 bucks a copy for the trade edition & $30 each for the numbered and signed copies (signatures of the author, the editor, and by Andrei Rozen, the talented Russian photographer who produced the surrealish cover photo).

Author will sign and dedicate each copy. Add 3 bucks for postage. Please email to at cinesource(at)earthlink.net to order your autographed copy and get payment directions.

leatherback patti awoke

The spamporn poem tells the story of Leatherback Patti and Leonard Stopwatch, and how his infidelity at the gym one day causes her to take a surprising lover, affecting their life.

Every line of this poem is taken from the subject line of spam received in my email box.

Found in italic, some of the words have been altered, or words added, in only 29 of the 142 lines and 438 words of the poem.

<><><><><>


looking for some vigorous activity,
But panting. what continuation cultivable,
miner prostitution
hegelian buddhism
tension narcosis
Proclivity to servitude
vivaldi.

leonard stopwatch
did wakeup on feast romanesque
insensitively elemental
he wanted his
Quill in miranda
But her childish features were enlivened by a broad grin of
nonsensical pretty love

Although the usual treatment would be to place a tube, or shunt, in her
his bit needed
operating linkers
a ridiculous blur
he dubbed against it
her need, it rips
blemished
Life is a joy, enjoy your life!

he Met this skinny slut working out at the gym.
Your perfect low carb combo->
Milfs tò méét!
For talk the bluff custard:
“Hi again” -
Selena said “hi”
Reply:
“whats up ?-)”
grenade romantically
“Chéck ðut these” she said,
position available.
“new schedule?”
smile in wolves and lasso
enrogue tricky working
philosophies oscillating…
how come no one asked me...?
I just found out about her
something unusual…

to leonard stopwatch
Only one thought appeared logical and probable and that was
“I never pass up a chance to get a handjob!”
So exciting
Belly
position
s watch so breaststroke
haunch chemistry
Make her worship you!
joy, enjoy…
therefore, here we come!
Come
splatter soft
quantity!
countera
ascendancy eyelid
Belly
A Tough Question for
cassock, My shady past
Which drink so psychotic
smegma sorbet!
Come

And later smoke or shortie
Love has been Set Free!
Barbie, Ken should have used these
They're waiting for you
but
leonard stopwatch
blasphemes
Re: remnant, Re: “my wife
She is the most wonderful woman in the world,
leatherback patti”

at home
leatherback patti,
a solo analyst,
shows epidermis lightweight:
“Watch this detail
Come
you tell my content…
You never message me anymore!
Make me worship you!
Or cancel my raja”
her meaty jealousy
cubbyhole glint latitude
con tantrum
stopcock rendition…

leonard stopwatch
appreciative
identifies certain
verse, or shagging
his wife,
saying
“I’ll do the disappointed
affectionate
body.”

she answers
“deceive, and separate –
don't forget to bring this along on your next date!
how come no one asked me?
sovereign, Women everywhere will love you!
Everything you are looking for
Hõrny lõcàls...
a weekend booty call
Packed
Typically, offer a
whole area.
you want to look cool with incidental intrusion,
so fly, longwinded balsam
I want her matching –
Make her worship you!
premier deleterious,
No one deserves...
Insignificance, off-key
wisteria.”

and Ruth says, pizzicato,
“keep up the good work
so go prettily
accommodate hunches
and without any expression.
asylum@cowdance
fits existence.
make fate a clothesline
about celebration…
in grave try sandpaper,
detoxify, My
atmospheric
activity, how we
commenced at a
Middle distance –
mind became
body.
Console.”


© 2006 Hakim - ALL RIGHTS RESERVED: use without profit allowed only with author’s express written permission. Please don't wake up my attorney. Please.




Her progress

-- for my secret keeper

has the day ever had so exquisite a lover?

no, only the night
could know this luminous bliss….

only the night can know my joy
to watch

her palest face
rise
over me
expectant
(as she inclines above my life)

hovering delicately
in an ancient delirium
gazing through a mist
of desire and forgetting:

then she blushes her way
through night’s fragile sky
to fall
(often weeping)
at
some near and welcoming horizon

in the rosy glow
of her own bright dawn



© 2011 Hakim - ALL RIGHTS RESERVED: use without profit allowed only with author’s express written permission. Please don't wake up my attorney. Please.