It seems only right to pause and pay tribute to a jug of ambrosia, now almost empty, that has helped get us through the past year. Scott, your wildly impractical Christmas present (ostensibly perishable, once ridiculously heavy) has been worth its weight in gold! Still crisp on the outside with layers of packing tape from its transatlantic flight, long missing its lid, the bottle rattles when poured because of a crystalline mass forming at the bottom (no doubt yummy, if we could reach it). We have meted this stuff out all year onto oatmeal, squash, blini, yogurt, and lots else. In a Copenhagen coffee bar I discovered the Jimi Hendrix, a kick-your-ass-and-kiss-you blend of three espressos, cream, chocolate and maple syrup, and once in a while I try futilely to replicate it at home. Whatever it touches, real maple syrup makes better! And its been a happy taste of home on many mornings. Thank you bro!
2 comments:
I stumbled onto a Canadian in my grocery store. Long story short, I did her a favor and in return she had her husband bring me liters of maple syrup whenever he went home. Sadly, they have moved on . . .
This is the most efficient
poem in existence.
It comes at a time
when we need things more cheaply,
When we can only afford
outsourced inspiration.
I got the vowels
airfreight from Dagestan.
And the consonants
from my guy in the Gahobi.
The premise
I picked up on Escrow
From some physicist
In Novosibirsk.
And I saved literally cents,
by not using my paper,
and auctioning off the typing,
to a gathering of ants.
Who happen to be quite adept,
at ditching the crowd,
to squibble over my nibblings.
Which were formerly my rice cake,
that I got from Kaoshiung,
in a box with a spell check,
from some literary critters.
But that's a secret.
The thing is this:
This poem is efficient.
Amassed in silence,
from my kingdom of bidders,
who seem to have a point,
when they offer suspicion,
at my inability
to even give it
A title.
But who the hell cares.
Who needs suspicion,
When you've got efficiency.
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