Blog # 12: 2014: the Year in Review

Blog # 12:  2014: the Year in Review


New Year’s Eve… and, once upon a time, I would have encapsulated all my thoughts and feelings on the subject—the passage of time: refuse through which the past has dragged me; elusive hopes of the present; sought after (and most probably futile) dreams of the future… all that rot—but… (well, actually, that was fairly poetic… just nevermind.)


But poetry is such crap nowadays, isn’t it?  I mean, just a chaotic ramble… no meter, no rhythm, no rhyme—and should those elements be attempted, it’s still often just crap… (I am, of course, speaking from experience, having well over a thousand said “free verse” pomes to the credit o’ mine—and, though by my definition here, “crap,” some of them aren’t too bad… butanyhoo…)  Back in Chaucer’s day, or Shakespeare’s—Milton’s, Byron’s… Pushkin’s!  Them boys wuz poets…  Now we define poetry as “a piece of writing in which the end of the line is determined by something other than the right-hand margin.”  So anything goes!  (Mayhaps the problem lay more in calling it all “poetry”; what we might need is another name for it—like… no, I have no idea.)  And prose-poetry—


Well, (again) just nevermind.  Off on a tangent.  All neither here nor there…


(What was I doing?  Oh, yeah!)


2014!  (For what it’s worth.)





An Haiku:  New Year’s Day  (1.1.14)


A dead hooker walks into a bathtub—

and the bartender says:

Ahhhh!  Aahhhhhhh!!

Zombie prostitute!!  UNDEAD WHORE!!!

Hey… they can’t all be gems.




Saturday Morning w/ Coffee, Pancakes, & Russian Mythology


Big, metal, silvery balls—

an impoosible cage,

no doors—no escape!

Get “small”—but it just

gets small along with me…


A blue jay beyond stands guard—

starkly vibrant on

black branch amidst

white, wintery wonderland…

“He’ll not stop me—ah-ha!”

brazenly, declare I!


(Not that it at all matters—

if I can’t even get out

of this big, metal, silvery ball…





Sunday Morning w/ Coffee & Russian Mythology—and NO Pancakes!


All about the backyard—

Cardinals!  Bloody, goddamned Cardinals!!

(Holy crud…)

—fluttering all about, branch to branch,

sending up flurries of snow with robes billowing

in their pagan rituals before the Lord—

eager and enticing… but for what?!


I close the drapes, pretend

I’m not home, ere they come

to the door begging for my tithes

—e’en my very soul!…

but at least they’ve rid me

(for the moment?) from that rabid,

bastard squirrel Vladimir Putin…

(don’t know who he thinks he’s fooling…)




Moon Tits

from ‘Caribbean Meditations’  (Jamaica, March 2014)


Um.  Meanwhile—in San Francisco…

I don’t know.


Her breasts were like the moon—twin moons!… I yearned to ride in on her (their) tides—to become lycanthropish at their (er) fullness?…  And smelling of Swiss cheese… (perhaps).

That didn’t happen.  (Or, if it did, it was to no one whom am I.  Forsoothly.)

In similar happenchancery…


It was hot…

sleepy, lackadaisical

fried onions!

and everywhere…


just breasts like—

the moon…


Hold it—stop—cease and/or desist—and disperse.



Why—I didn’t even

mind the people!

(Mind them?—Hell,

I barely even knew

they were there!…)

—and the world,

everywhere and everywhen—

was like runny eggyokes…





“~Jes do it, mon—

for dats de way de Jesus

tell me to, yah!~






Forsoothly!  (hrmpf~)


Svenwhore Monkeyshines… and his Allgirl Orchestra.


“~And everywhere—

and anywhen…

gentle spirits moo-moo-moo!~


fuck ‘em all de time

fer jes tree dollahs,






And now I’ll write—with my RIGHT hand!

(Ha-ha!, oh, silly fools!  ‘Twas mine hand o’ the right all along!…  [maniacal laughter]… {bitch-slap fight… with a badger… and an eel… and a PB & J sandwitch…}  Eeah-h-eh-eh-eh!  And yer little dog, too!……)

And this thermos.


I wonder if that guy lying over there as ded.  (Huh.)  Mighty fine ef ah had a long, sharp stick with which ah jes maht poke ‘im… hey…

Oh—hup!  Yep… he’s dead.  Bird jes ate him.

(Ha!—Not either!  Boy…)

Bird jes eight him… Huzzah!  Drawn & quartered—

That won’t work.  Because quartering would make four—and then even if’n ye quarter agin, ‘twould an ere be butt (mah hairy ass hey!)—but—be but sixteen, methinks, as such spare thoughts do meander… mayhap… forsoothly… boom, boom.

Oh, Well!


And my finger hurts.  (I don’t want to have to mention it agin…)


“~Oh, he went smokin’

outside, hey, wit Charlie…

and now he ain’t ne’er, no how,

comin’ on home…

b’ceptin’ on that one time—

and e’en den, mespozes,

he stayed…

(so mayhap jes ferget

ah’d e’en mentioned it, hey!)~”




Blueberry.  Blueberry.  Cocoanut.  Strawebby.  [‘Strawebby’?!?  sigh~]  Strawberry.  Pomegranate.  Breasts.  Blueberry.

Which of the items listed above is most like the moon?  (Or two moons?!…)

Or a chicken pot pie.


I knew if I dared to approach her… she would run and cry and scream and hide…

And so I tied her to a chair whilest she did a’sleepin’ be… gagged her… and poked her with a fork—bloodybreasts, oh, bloodybelly, oh, bloodythighs!—until she wet herself or passed out or in some other way acknowledged my passionate love and deep, deep, deep respect for her… my darling, little so-and-so… (whatever her name was…)




Her breasts were like twin moons—in a syncopated, elliptical orbit about her torso, nipples like little, dowdy hats!—and when I’d taken her bodily… blah, blah, blah, blah—I knew she had given me… the dreaded and foamy elliptical syncopation… in all and each and every of my genitalated bits… forsoothly.


(There!  I call that poem ‘Moon Tits’!  Huzzah!!)








Musings – #95


May we all live and let live;

may we love and be loved;

may there ever be light and warmth within;

may there be fewer assholes…




excerpt from my novel in progress: ‘The Telemachy of Mishka’








Hecate Night  (2014)


Lazy daze… Time stands still—

or does it only seem so

because I’m just (slacker!)

sitting here doing nothing?


Every moment is now—

future passed, past coming,

present spread across spectrums

of Infinity…


Civilization glistens in gilded decay…

humanity gives over to madness and mayhem…

society surrenders (obliviously!) unto chaos—

and so I look inward, gazing through the transom

of my soul…


I attempt to Be beyond the surface—

to feel… nothing at all.

I strive (half-assedly!) to attain

the preeminence of soulful substance

o’er the superfluity of ego and desire…


But in the ghost of my existence—

sheer, bloody want overwhelms frugal need…

and I know there will not (cannot!) be peace…

without chocolate (or banana!) crème pie.

(And a beer—forsoothly!~)




Looking for Noonie

excerpt from Noveletter XLI, to Gilead


…and then there was that whole dealio—or was it an hole dealio?!… (I don’t know)—

with my brother Noonie…


“So now let me tell you just what, mah brutha—”

“I’m not your brother.  I’m your nephew.”

“Egads!  Well, then where’s my brother?  Hey—”  [To my sister.]  “—you’re my sister, right?  So who’s your brother?”  [Points to me.]  “Ah-ha!”  Grabbing myself by the shirt and jabbing my finger in my face—yet having the wherewithal (thank the gods!) to forget not what I was doing and inadvertently begin picking my nose… or prying out my eyeball… or—just nevermind!  “Let me tell you what, brother—  But I’m not my brother either!…  Mom, where’s my brother Noonie?!”

“I flushed him.”

“Noonie!?  Nooooooooonieee!!!…  Well, shit.  Hey, Dad, you’re a plumber!  Can’t you just (I don’t know) plumb him up from the very hellish bowels of the sewers and—”

“Well, son, you know… he just might not smell quite right anymore…”

Sobbing, near hysteria.  “But Noonie!  My only brother…  (Unless there were others you flushed and just didn’t tell me about, you fiends!)  Oh, Noonie—we hardly even knew ya…  He owed me ten dollars!  I sold him some oregano and told him it was weed… he got high as a kite—and his munchies were exclusively for the Italian food (or, as we called it in the navy, the ‘food of the Italian peoples’)—and not just any old Italian food either, but only the finest, top-shelf all the way… that’s right, no Fazzoli’s here, Maurice—it was Olive Garden or bust!  (I’d have taken the bust—of course, my penchant for eating breasts might explain (in part) why I so seldom get second dates…)  Oh, that Noonie—he was eating calamari ‘til it was coming out of his asshole!  (Though I suppose that’s just anything…)  Holy crud…  or more like unholy crud, methinks—when said calamari, there in the hellish sewer of his very bowels, came back together and was resurrected unto life (or nearly so)… and there swam and writhed and slithered from his ever-loving butt-hole, a giant, zombied, undead, demonic, deep-fried, poopy-smelling squid!”

“Oh, my god!  What did he do then?!”

“Noonie or the squid?”

“Yes, yes!  Oh, my god, yes!

“(Yeesh!)  I’ll have what—”

“Get on with it…”

“Noonie paid me the ten dollars.”

“You’ve lost all conception of time and circumstance in this little carnival of yours, haven’t you?”






New Year’s Eve


…I don’t know if this helps at all… but, somehow, it makes my perspective on living easier to accept—and, anyway, I was thinking of it.  (So now, after all my “crap” poetry, I’m going to wax rhapsodic in pedagogic haranguery anyway?  HA!  It’s my blog, dammit—suck it up, pedro…)  I think Thomas Jefferson led us all astray—with his “pursuit of happiness” shtick… (Oh, great instigator that he was!  No wonder our society [expurgated]  Pfah!  Butanyhoo…)  I don’t think we’re meant to be happy—and Buddhism supports me in this:  First Noble Truth, life is suffering.  I think this life is intended to be unpleasant, that we’re supposed to be unhappy—but we’re here to learn to be okay with that.  Not like giving up, not surrender or defeat… just acceptance.  Whatever happens happens.  And it’s all right.  And no matter how terrible that happening might be, all of it is only temporary.  So process it, do what you will with it, put it behind you, and move on.  (If, in the midst of it all, of course, you should manage some moments of happiness—or even just a mildly ireful, moderately indifferent almost-contentment—enjoy!… but, remember, that won’t last either…)


Other than that… not much going on.


Happy 2015!  And many fine things…







# # # #



—Mishka Zakharin  © 2014

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