American Fez

When I gaze into the gypsy's crystal ball, I see my past, not my future. And no tall, dark stranger appears, just someone short and bald instead. And it is me. What's my old self doing trapped inside this occult sphere?  I'm at the The Gare de Lyon, September 2012, ordering a ticket in phrasebook French, and neither the ticket nor my terrible accent will get me very far. The weather in Paris is even cloudier than the crystal ball, so I've decided to head south. Monte Carlo or bust, or something like that. And there I am in the scrying glass, plodding around the platform with a load of luggage. The gypsy had a face like Moses on magic mushrooms when I first crossed her palm with silver. But reacting to this non-event in her crystal ball she seems as bored as Pharaoh's dyspeptic aunt trimming her own toenails. There's no mystery, no drama, not much of anything happening at all, except me on the train, trying to force my oversized suitcase into an overhead bin. I c...

It's becoming increasingly clear that the Music of the Spheres was composed for the banjo; that angels play bongo drums instead of harps; that the sound of heavenly choirs is just the chintzy ringtone from an anonymous burner phone. I've always thought Orpheus was tone-deaf. It's just that ancient melodies were so plinkety-plonkety discordant that nobody back then ever suspected the truth. Virgil can say what he likes, but this is clearly the real reason why Eurydice returned to the underworld: she preferred the relative peace and quiet of Hades to her husband's endless cacophony.  Frankly, we'd all be better off sitting in silence than listening to the caterwaul of the world. There's always the song of the wind; the natural rhythm of the rain; the symphonic sweep of the sunrise and sunset's great aria; even an October day's mellow concerto for tuba and trombone.  Well, we could enjoy those consolations if the wind's song wasn't stifled by the so...

The first of October's leaves fall in a flurry of gold, forming a carpet of crisp Krugerrands; a pumpkin-lined path lit by a low sun leading towards Hallowe'en. Well, at least that's what the leaves do in an unemployed poet's mind. The putrefying truth is very different. Actually, their fall is more like the slow drip of dirty brown water from a rusty tap into a broken sink, its drain long since blocked by a shapeless mass of slimy human hair and soap scum. But we lyricists must keep the Autumnal myth alive in this so-called 'Spooky Season' of frauds and hollow fruitlessness. Alas, Johnny Appleseed now orders online from the comfort of his climate-controlled condominium. 'Made in China, our new indoor apple orchard provides enough apples to bake fifteen ersatz apple pies or ferment fifty gallons of apple cider vinegar. Your choice, it's a free country after all.' Johnny chooses to do the pies. Unfortunately only one is Instagram worthy so the rest go...