Saturday, February 10, 2018



1. Bah Humbug Post Inferno Winter Solstice Celebrations

Urban legend says I’m probably the septuagenarian
lovechild of Hollywood gossip columnist Hedda
Hopper, maybe back then’s next-door neighbor
Luella Parsons, whose sometime buck-naked
strutting musta got the attention one of the husbands
living the life on Beverly Hills’ halcyon Maple Drive.

30 years after my star-crossed birth, Leonardo diCaprio
appeared – yep alakazam Da Vinci after eventually
getting his GED from nearby John Marshall High
or if you prefer a Beverly High classmate’s primo
insider sources to Wikipedia, Hamilton High  School
-- finally arose to become a numero uno movie idol.

And now Leo’s s top of the environmental activist
firmament, trying to save our planet plus its lions.
Accepting 2016’s Best Actor Academy Award,
he stated, We need to support …the indigenous people…
billions of underprivileged who’d be most affected  by
[climate change]…drown out by the politics of greed.

Just today* the Los Angeles Times, which no longer
formally employs tattle-tale babblers but thrives on getting
the story up online fast if not always fit to print, headlines,
Skirball fire, One might ask if anyone’s helping those without
homes as much as elephant seals, pampered pets or kids?

Bonus haiku

Leonardos Da Vinci And DiCaprio

freeze frame fictions -- death
cross monk, graveyard cowboy – they
survive forever

2.  As We Rich Plunge Into Hanukkah and Christmas Gorges*

Not so wise Homo sapiens discard a third of the food that we grow.

In poor countries, most waste is on the farm or on its way to market.
But in wealthy countries about 40 percent’s thrown out by consumers.

Plus cutting back on loss’d go along way to reduce greenhouse gases.
A compost site in Staten Island, New York in 2014Jake Naughton/The New York Times

3. Recycle Me Holiday?                                   

Each summer & winter, hither & yon block after block
I spy white plastic bags

you know the kind which emits toxic fumes when burning,
choking swimming animals, or around forever in landfills

with four hundred million spoiling the Atlantic alone for mammals
(porpoises etc.) to mistake as yummy sea nettles or jellyfish

before they just suffocate. Which isn’t the only obscenity getting us going:
inside every waste dump sits thick as a brick decrepit Yellow Pages

no one’s opened since my unlovable Harvard housemate Al Gore I played 8-ball
with invented the Internet  --- we’d be better off if  the directory still were a huggable tree.

5. 2017 Holiday Greeting Card

-- sign at Burning Man

                   Girl, me, son, nephew circa 2005


i. Winter Approaching

Reservation on the res,
Lakota open table
for crime, meth
-- no jobs except
drugs and casinos.

Wind River froze
lungs spit blood, down
to earth ungrounded, I’d live
longer in Bangladesh
than South Dakota.

ii.Ivanka’s Winterfell

Q: Are you a socialist, capitalist or what?
A: I am an individualist --Weiwei

Trumpian version of Game of Thrones,
Cersei and brood speak fluent Chinese
which along with their elegant clothes line
(manufactured by Asian near-slave labor)
make this highly effective entrepreneur-mama --
some combination of dragon slayer, panda hugger,
golden goddess, witch -- an item of inspiration
among the youth who’d like to hang out with her
in historically our earth’s most powerful civilization.

Macintosh HD:Users:gerardsarnat:Desktop:poetry:Post Ice King mag subs.5.1.16set:IvankaWinterLine.jpeg

8. Hogwild On Approaching Three Score And Ten Plus One

December gloom Redondo Beach evening, bifocals half on, septuagenarian
catches a glimpse from the condo window of a son plus his prized
girlfriend toasting each other. I reimagine when we and a sleuth of Cub
Scouts puked our guts out on the boat ride from San Pedro Harbor
before Troop 17’s navy blue shorts plus gold-topped socks topped off
by snazzy chartreuse neckerchiefs disembarked and were set free
to set foot on then roam unexplored boar domains of Catalina Island…

Afternoon on wilderness high plateau, we’re startled by a hawk’s moral fervor
dive-bombing to devour a newborn hare. Slinking back to the pup-tent alone
at dusk, lost among miasmas of wild bore forest floor mazes, unglued,
I’m reflected in a black lagoon chocked full of doomed horseshoe crabs.
I gather them up in a makeshift butterfly net, carry to roast in a rip-roaring
campfire which anticipates tonight’s shooting star show and looks
forward to what’s promised during Christmas vaca Iron Horse pyrotechnics.


9. HawaiĘ»i Vacationland’s Chanu-Christmas Eve

Taking advantage of gifts of winter solstice convergence,
a Jewish husband + Catholic spouse -- by Talmudic law
this technically surrendered their kids to the Christians --
for the most part respectfully, respectively veto ham
& duck leaving turkey as the default component of the family
holiday compromise, also including Chanukah bushes +
unkosher gobbler, as key to the job preparing his first feast.

Given we’re away from the snow, everything seems to go
particularly swimmingly following her directions to “drain
& rinse well, paper towels to pat dry, rub with extra pure
olive oil then paprika, coriander, garlic powder + pepper,
cover with foil, place in pre-heated oven for 45 minutes,
reduce to 350 degrees, lodge the thermometer got in Hilo
deep in the flesh of the thigh; I’ll remove the bird after Mass.”  

That is, went pretty smoothly except there are no tiny spigots
Hubby expected in the rental house’s hidden littlest glass jar
he finds deep in a bottom drawer. Which turns out to be red
hot Hungarian smoky paprika , not a regular type of seasoning
his daughter’d put near her child on the Pacific kitchen island.
Dad dumps the former all over the fowl; instead of using the pot
on top of the counter, I dig up recycled disposable aluminum foil.

Which’s groovy till it becomes clear there’s a hole in the pan’s
bottom letting torrents of blood & guts left in the carcass ooze
through like Puna lava along with fat that catches fire but isn’t
noticed till smoke alarms go off. Middle son pretty much takes over
until my hysterical wife stares at a hanging oven thermometer (NOT
the appropriate dishwasher-safe tissue kind) full of juice tucked
above our dinner’s leg as hook & ladder lights flash, sirens blare.

Gerard Sarnat is the author of four critically acclaimed collections. HOMELESS CHRONICLES from Abraham to Burning Man (2010), Disputes (2012), 17s (2014) and Melting The Ice King (2016) are available at select bookstores and on Amazon. In 2015 work from Ice King was accepted by over seventy magazines, including Gargoyle and Lowestoft Chronicle and The American Journal of Poetry, and featured in Songs of Eretz Poetry Review, Avocet: A Journal of Nature Poems, LEVELER, NY, StepAway, Bywords and Floor Plan. Since then new sets of work have been featured in a range of periodicals including Dark Run, Scarlet Leaf, Good Men Project and Anti-Heroin Chic. Mount Analogue selected Sarnat’s sequence, KADDISH FOR THE COUNTRY, for distribution as a pamphlet in Seattle on Inauguration Day 2017 as well as the next morning as part of the Washington DC and nationwide Women’s Marches. Gerry has read at universities including Stanford. For Huffington Post reviews, reading dates, publications, interviews and more, click other tabs on Gerard Sarnat is currently working on a possible new sequence tentatively titled, Prisoner Poetry. Gerard has been nominated for a 2016 Pushcart Prize.

A virginal poet at the tender age of sixty-four, Sarnat first wrote about caring for the homeless and happenings in the lands of Abraham and Burning Man from the Judean Desert of his heritage to the Black Rock Desert’s annual pagan arts festival. Gerry has built and staffed clinics for the marginalized and been a CEO of healthcare organizations and a Stanford Medical School professor. Married since 1969, he and his wife have three kids and four grandsons, the last born shortly after they returned home from Desert Trip. -From Gerard Sarnat Bio

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