Long Playing Egg Poem

Eggs: Breakfast Burrito, Aliberto's (Fresno)

Song: "Bra" by Cymande (Cymande)    apple music     spotify

Poem: "Returning Late" by Tu Fu (as translated by David Hinton in Awakened Cosmos)

Returning Late
Past midnight, eluding tigers on the road, I return
home in mountain darkness. Family asleep inside,

I watch the Northern Dipper drift low to the river,
and Venus lofting huge into empty space, radiant.

Holding a candle in the courtyard, I call for more
light. A gibbon in the gorge, startled, shrieks once.

Old and tired, my hair white, I dance and sing out:
goosefoot cane, no sleep . . . Catch me if you can!

Notes: Aliberto burrito's got a little swagger. Cymande too. Tu Fu three. 

David Hinton writes about how Tu Fu's Chinese is essentially untranslatable
into English, in part because the original Chinese is stripped of grammar.
There are simply characters on the page, and those characters can be connected
in various ways (whereas English imposes a narrative and grammar to pin down
and control meaning). Hinton sees Tu Fu's poetry as consistent with Taoist 
philosophy, the presence of characters emanating out of absence. Maybe this
project, the long playing egg poem is striving for the same. I'm hoping to put
eggs next to music next to poems without trying to force how they might relate. 

Eggs: Chilaquiles from Las Mañanitas (Fresno, CA). Green sauce. Carnitas.

Song: “Daisy Glaze” by Big Star (Radio City) apple music spotify

Poem: “The Rabbit God” by James Tate (From Dome of the Hidden Pavillion)

The Rabbit God

My wife said to me, “Leroy, if you want rabbit stew you’re
just going to have to go out there and kill a rabbit.” I said
“I never said anything about wanting rabbit stew.” But you
were acting like you wanted rabbit stew,”she said. “I don’t
know what you mean by that. I was just being me,” I said.
“You were hopping about the living room and, naturally, I took
that to mean you wanted rabbit stew,” she said. “I was just
excited by the big game,” I said. “I don’t know anything about
a big game,” she said. “Well, I don’t either, but there’s always
a big game on. That’s the marvel of it,” I said. “I still think
you want rabbit stew,” she said. I’m not killing any rabbit,”
I said. “Why” Are you afraid of them?” she said. “No, I’m
too fond of them, I said. “I guess I’m guilty of misreading
the situation. I’ve always thought I could tell what you were
thinking. Now it seems I have been proven wrong. I have no
idea what you are thinking. It could be anything. You could
be thinking about musk ox or Joe Louis or Kublai Khan or
hoof-and-mouth disease or eustachian tubes or Cheyenne Indians,”
she said. “You’re exactly right. I’m thinking about all of those
things at once. It makes for a very jumbled experience,” I said.
“But I was just making those things up,” she said. “So was I,”
I said. “How about rabbit stew,” she said. “Now that’s a
smoother road,” I said. “Go get your gun,” she said. “I don’t
have one,” I said. “But you had one when we were married,”
she said. “I gave it away,” I said. “What kind of a man are you?”
she said. “A man without a gun,” I said. “Why, you’re hardly
a man,” she said. “The rabbits think I’m their god.
Peaceful and loving,” I said. “Without rabbit stew you are nothing,”
she said.

Notes: Sunday morning. Still dragging the chains of Saturday night.
This song’s also got that weary bleary Sunday thing going….and then,
chilaquiles land on your table, Big Star kicks out the jam, and the world
is going to be alright. Even without rabbit stew, with chilaquiles,
you are something.