Li Pon Calling Andar: Half a Li Half a League Onward

Li Pon Calling Andar: Half a Li Half a League Onward

Lars is an ambassador and Smith is from the enemy kingdom disguised as an ambassador to Andar.

When I die I will give all my money to a dog by the name of Fred who goes by the name of Joe. Joe will ask that the money be laid out on the floor, cook a few juicy steaks, after all Namaya made such a big deal about being a vegetarian and was such a pain in the ass about it, it is important to make sure he is part of the feast. Well to make the scenario complete let us sprinkle some of his ashes on the feast. Yes, Namaya, was always into the theater thing, so we had a huge bonfire, a Hindu thing, then we burn the fucker, it will have a lot of invitations, but no one will come… a few curious on lookers, but no family, they will say he was “mad” and therefore, “We are not mad and to ensure we aren’t mad, we will cast him to the fires of our memory. We will be vanquished, our love for ourselves will be redeemed, our sanity will be restored, and we will launch him on the funeral pyre.

“Good riddance to you – you --- you Crazy fuk!”

“The word is fuck. Ignorant mother fucker!”

“We know, but we are in such polite company, that to say fuck would put us in a state of disrepute. We are trying to distance ourselves from the po8.”

“There you go fucking with the language again, it’s po ET. Like the Emperor Po who just Et? Dig. Dig. Dag. Dug. Snug as a bug, your mama danced the hoola hoop on the rug. Did the shimmy shake coco bop love rock and then, when she was done the boys in the band serviced her every need. Even did a pedicure while flossing her teeth. A woodpecker rapping out a beat is telling me that the story line needs more punch.”

“Thar’ ya go again. Fuking crazier than a loon in heat. It’s time for the immolation Namaya. Suttee. Who will jump in the fire first? Will the cow jump over the fireplace – or will the cow eviscerate herself, leap bung side up, and land as a nice rotisserie of meat? Wasn’t that the Christ thing – the offering of spirit to meat? Baet Lahem?”

“So Namaya, will you give the crowd a big cheer, give them something to celebrate and be so kind as to jump on the auto de fie?

“Can I wait to die first?”

“No, no! A live sacrifice is always best! Will you be a sport?”

You can be the suttee sacrifice of you own immolation.

Then we vanish. Completely gone. Disintegrating. Vanishing in a breath. Hi ho silver! Away! And the Calvary? They’ve impaled themselves on their vanities, surrounded by the Fu-kowis, and now the tribe is on the loose. Another incineration, another incarceration. Metaphors exceeding the weight and ability of similes to carry themselves forward to the nexus of love. In the nexus, plexuses, and – Jesus Christ you know where I’m going nex us – Oedipus Plexipus – a lost species that was a derivation of an illegitimate birth. Bastards! Row to shore. Pirates on the stern and the gang plank. Send the odd, winken blinken, and well basted turkeys to the oven.

Audience, reader, whom- the-fuck-ever. But the stern gang? Jewish terrorists bombing the King David. Mazel Tov love! Zionist rapist!

As we sailed on the Ganges river in the dark. Like sacrificial lambs we were lead down a street to the river, then an alleyway that was damp and smelled of donkeys and shit, we found ourselves on a narrow pier, it juts out to the water, a rickety leaky skiff with a blind man at the oars was prepared to take us down river on the Ganges. The morning tourists watching the svengali abolutionist bathing in the hepatic waters. What doesn’t kill you, will make you stronger. In that case, this remedy of Ganges water is bullet proof. If you survive your daily bath in the Ganges, nothing will kill you.

The blind man with the tubercular cough leaned on the oars, a rattle in his chest and a stream of blood tinged spit leaped into the water, it was dark when we departed, but a tubercular cough with a death rattle it is fair to imagine the bright red blood from his lungs

PART OF THE L

S

D

Or if the LDS was truly hip and polygamy recapitulated into fellatio then Queen Isabella would be fulfilling her wondrous roll. They named a stamp after Phi lactic Philistia. Better then filling up your gas tank.

THE LAST SUPPER:

Where Jasus, 2/3 rds brother to the prophet and James, sat down had a cold case of beer and split it with the boys. While Mary and the J-man copped the scene and were working on the transcendent plane of the Kama Sutra, 747 special express, greased, lubed and ready to roll.

“Raise a glass! To the J-man and the half pikers.”

Time is a permeable membrane. Back on the river—a single streak of orange squeezed from the night, saturated the horizon, and spread like the glass of juice clumsily knocked over by a hand. Hell, that is a fucking clumsy metaphor. I pretended that I had taken a hit of MFA acid and see my writing was completely buggered. Stay away from the MFA’s—more seductions there than on a Friday night at Neukirk in Amsterdam. Red lights. More of the colors of the river.

What compels you? Can someone help the old man row. I look into his eyes, cataract covered, I splash water from the river on my hands, its practically alive with vermin and parasites, I touch a bit to his forehead, and kiss each eye.

He’s still blind, but it made me feel better. Isn’t that ultimately what healing is about?

It’s about me, isn’t it.

Okay, I was teasing you, don’t take it so damn personally. The real story is this – rowing to the sea, abolutionist, fakirs, naked saddhus, and the goddamn bloated corpse of a brown and white cow was floating by. A Holstein? Shades of Vermont peer through the curtain.

To the left, is the most famous brothel in all of Benares overlooking the religionists on the shores, one holds the power of god and the other is phoning their stockbroker. But Saddhus on one leg is like a stork and he submerges his body in the river.

I too seek absolution in my madness. Resolving the imponderables by making this voyage, the river smells of decay and feces, and to make things juicier

Row, row, backwards in time. The onomonopia of onanism

Li Pon Noisy Monk Again

Li Pon Noisy Monk Again

“When you write, you have to be careful about turning to the left.”

Li Pon leaped on my bed

made himself quite comfortable,

and played a pan pipe.

“Foolish poet!

Solstice day, time to play!”

I was in a surly mood and

wanted to spend the day writing.

“Get away from me monk! I’m

writing – I can’t be bothered

by your foolish chatter.”

“Indeed! You’re writing, careful

what’s on the left!” he laughed

so hard he fell off the bed.

“I have something far better

than your silly scribbling.”

“Leave me alone monk! No one trifles

with a poet in the midst

of making love with a muse! Not even Li Pon.”

I slammed the door behind him.

“Damn noisy monk!”

I heard more giggling

in the background.

Now back to the story I was writing:

I followed the journey which began

with a dream, I was in Marrakech

in Djemaa Al Fna and

knew this by the astringent smell

of leather dyes, cumin, coriander, spices

from the markets mixed with donkey shit…

I took the hidden entrance that faces south to the mosque, there are no names to the streets, they’re referred to as the House of Saiid Al Hadid or some other person who lived there in centuries past or even now – if you wanted to find someone’s house—Mohammed the baker whose brother is the tinsmith—otherwise you had no business

going down that street. It was not a street for tourists, they were consumed by the yawning mouth of the souvenir, carpet and tchchka shops. Flutes and the oued rose upwards from the inner sanctum of the Medina and I followed the thread of the music, the winding coil that lead to the center of a chambered nautilus. Down an alley so tiny, a man could easily touch each house and a fully loaded donkey could scratch the walls with its load. Centuries peeled back. I followed the music like a snake enchanted by a flute playing faquir. A woman in a face veil from Essouria appeared with a child in tow, a soccer ball rolled down the street and I kicked it back, smells of fresh cumin, coriander and fried onions filled my senses, and I came to a small square that opened to the ruddy snow covered Atlas mountains. I was lost. To the right was a café and a noisy crowd, and one loud squeaky voice singing a Mandarin Chinese love song in reggae rap, approximately translated as: “Me love ya/ Me Love ya/ because your/ backside so wide/ me love/ me love/ po po love/ po po love.”

There could be only one source of such absurdity. In the middle of the tavern, a bubbling fountain of giggles surrounded by a Moroccan ska band, as Li Pon looked up at me and winked.

“Did I imagine you again?” he said to me. “When you write you have to be careful about turning to the left.”