Pisan Carrots

Thanksgiving 2014 | A Menu Poem

Guest of Honor: You!

GH
BLAZEVOX[BOOKS]
Buffalo, New York

Pisan Carrots | Thanksgiving Menu-Poem 2014

Copyright 2014
Published by BlazeVOX [books]
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced without
the publishers written permission, except for brief quotations in reviews.
Printed in the United States of America
First Edition
BlazeVOX [books]
Geoffrey Gatza
131 Euclid Ave
Kenmore, NY 14217
Editor@blazevox.org

p ublisher of weird little books

BlazeVOX [ books ]
blazevox.org
21 20 19 18 17 16 15 14 13 12 01 02 03 04 05 06 07 08 09 10

Table of Taste Poems

The Magic of Sunshine on White Metal ................................................................................................................... 9

On A Raft Blown By The Wind .................................................................................................................................. 11

I offer my thoughts on the continued silence of the dead. ............................................................................. 13

To all the trees lost in war, I lift my arms and open my shirt ........................................................................ 15
as if in tithing myself to the falling rain. I offer my open sores,
hoping for a holy purification, or a deadly infection
so that my days of regret and pain shall pass by as easily
as the storm clouds above.

The sleepwalker, now knee-deep in snow, dreams he is transformed ...................................................... 17
into a landed meteorite, set in place, planted, as an onion in a farmers field.

You disappeared like a hole enveloped by water ............................................................................................. 19

The orange plumes of everydayness ..................................................................................................................... 25
have nothing more to give,
Ever since the plum days have past.

To be placed on the menu of my last meal ........................................................................................................... 27

Table of Poem Titles

Earth Revolves Itself Once Again ............................................................................................................................ 10

Resplendence ................................................................................................................................................................ 12

Im OK now; I must have eaten something that disagreed with me. ........................................................... 14

Watching last years pumpkin transcend determinism .................................................................................. 16

Mine is the Sunlight ..................................................................................................................................................... 18

Henry Darger Dreams of Emily Dickinson ........................................................................................................... 20

We Are Here ................................................................................................................................................................... 26

Pisan Carrots
Thanksgiving 2014 | A Menu Poem
Guest of Honor: You!

GH

IntroductionIntroduction
Hello and welcome to the thirteenth incarnation of the Thanksgiving Menu-Poem. This year the guest of honor is
you! Yes, you sitting right there reading this, I do mean you. Hip, hip hurray and thank you for your kind support,
your wonderful nature, your continued love for poetry, your willingness to open your life to weird little books like
the ones we make at BlazeVOX! Even if this is your first time here or this is your thirteenth thanksgiving with us,
hurray and thank you for joining in on the fun of a Menu-Poem and I hope you enjoy the celebration.
Beginning in 2002 with a Menu-Poem to honor Charles Bernstein, I have continued this series of texts using a
menu as the basis to honor prominent poets. Being a trained professional chef I wanted to blend my love of food
and poetry into a book-length work that would fit within the ideas of Thanksgiving. In a feast of words, I wanted to
honor poets who have meant many things to many readers in a form that could be presented to everyone. Over the
years we have honored many fine poets, but last year we had a bit of a fiasco, a wonderful poet declined the MenuPoem for very fine reasons. So to pick things back up, we decided it was best to dedicate this poem to you, the
reader, and bring you in on all the fun. Hurray!
I would also like to take this opportunity, on a day of giving thanks, to say a special thank you to everyone who was
kind enough to be there for me during this tumultuous year. I had a major health scare over the spring and summer,
which you can read about on the BX blog. That is now a thing of the past and I am happy and healthy once again.
The outpouring of support was something that made my wife Donna and I feel just grand. So to say Hurray, I am
still alive and to say thank you all, this Menu-Poem is dedicated to you.
This Menu-Poem differs just a touch from previous incarnations. In the past, each poem was set next to a course of
a large dinner. This would be, for example, the soup course or main course with a line or two of text describing
each menu item that would be served to accompany the forthcoming poem. This year, each poem is set next to a
Taste Poem. Since some things cannot be spoken, some events surpass what the tool of language is able to provide,

some things are just known to each of us on an individual level, these taste poems expound on what cannot be
ingested by reading. The instructions are vey simple, to gather up the ingredients and eat them one at a time to
enjoy their flavor, texture and sensuousness and then move on to the next item. Work your way through the lot of
items and there you have it, a taste poem. Then move on to read the poem that is next to it, they are just poem
poems and you are already up to speed on that, so hurray!
And one last bit of information for you before you begin reading. The cover art is a painting by Donna White. It is
a portrait of our dear pumpkin from last year, as he was our 2013 Thanksgiving pumpkin. It was with us for over
nine months and stayed around, until he turned to pulp in late August of this year. There is a poem for him in this
grouping, which I do hope you enjoy. We do miss him terribly and his silly face.
Hurray and Happy Thanksgiving
Rockets, Geoffrey

The magic of sunshine on white metal

A taste poem

Some things one cannot say:

Gather ingredients together on a plate. Then place one at a time in the mouth.
Chew up and enjoy its simplicity and then directly proceed to next item for
the flow and context of the poem.
1) Cold wildflower honey
2) One leaf of flat Italian parsley
3) Slice of a yellow tomato
4) Slice of yellow watermelon
5) Slice of cucumber with olive oil and salt and pepper
6) A thin slice of cold red bliss potato with a drop of fresh lemon juice

Earth Revolves Itself Once Again

after Pierre Reverdy

Resounding blooms
Blue birds fly north.
In the backyard where everything seems to happen
The squirrel darts through our leafless lilac tree.
Outside a woman is cleaning the table; a man makes fire.
Water streams from a hose clearing the driveway apron.
A rainburst negotiates with a cloud.
The sun abrupts with striking chimes.

On A Raft Blown By The Wind

A taste poem

Some things one cannot say:

Gather ingredients together on a plate. Enjoy the food while spending a contemplative moment on the question.
Food:
Warm Chrysanthemum Tea and Two Pieces of Wintermelon Candy (tng dng gu)
Question:
How does our process of thinking leap beyond our existing knowledge to make new ideas?
Recipe:
To prepare the tea, steep dried chrysanthemum flowers in water just cooling from a boil, in a teapot.
Serve:
Serve a small glass of prepared tea with two pieces of Wintermelon candy on the side

Resplendence
For all the good I do, I could have been a plumber.
Steering dreamlike laborers into a corner to remonstrate.
Unclogging the copperworks with these poet hands
Seeking gold among the spiders of scum and pubic hair.
The refuse of human detritus piles higher and higher.
For all the good I do, I should have been a plumber.
Digging deeper to find, return to the owner, the lost ring
Dropped down the sinks drain, hiding in the j-tube
Waiting to reflect light again, making glad the hearts
Of the joyless fingers, missing the weight, the responsibility
Intertwined amongst the significant and its signifier.
The shine is the most artificial aspect of a diamond.

I offer my thoughts on the continued silence of the dead.

A taste poem

Some things one cannot say:

Gather ingredients together on a plate. Then place one at a time in the mouth.
Chew up and enjoy its simplicity and then directly proceed to next item for
the flow and context of the poem.

1) Cold Water
2) Warm Water
3) Hot Water
4) Cold Jasmine Tea
5) Warm Jasmine Tea
6) Hot Jasmine Tea
7) A Small Spoonful Of Tuna Tartar
8) A Small Slice Of Seared Tuna

Im OK now; I must have eaten something that disagreed with me.

Nothing is dead in the house today. Everything as alive as it was before
Falling to sleep. The dust is a micron thicker and the hair on my head
Reaches upwards another notch closer to the stars hidden behind the
Glowing sunshine. We pretend to be alive when there is no work, live
In shared bonding moments over food and television shows waiting
For the other to engage in a flashes of sex before we watch a bedtime
Detective show and curl back in the warmth of our days reward sleep.
The organs churn while the belly turns to sour bells.
The cello lows itself to sleep on the velvet couch lazed.
Hoping to lull out dreams of days gone by, whistlestops
And buggy cars roam the deserts of backyard forts.
I hope these days remain constant in perpetuity.
A hundred million billion trillion flashes recreating
Lackluster, unrelenting peaceable moments in Kenmore.

To all the trees lost in war, I lift my arms and open my shirt
as if in tithing myself to the falling rain. I offer my open sores,
hoping for a holy purification, or a deadly infection
so that my days of regret and pain shall pass by as easily
as the storm clouds above.
A taste poem

Some things one cannot say:

Gather ingredients together on a plate. Then place one at a time in the mouth.
Chew up and enjoy its simplicity and then directly proceed to next item for
the flow and context of the poem.
1) A small taste of Wasabi
2) Enjoy the scent of vanilla seed
3) A taste of miso soy broth
4) A slice of Italian Chestnut
5) A spoonful of Lavender Polenta
6) A slice of poached quince in orange and clove

Watching last years pumpkin transcend determinism

Even now this cemetery is accumulating.
The hills darken. The dead
sleep in their blue graves,
the grounds having been
picked clean, the ribbons
faded, the pinwheels piled at the dumpster
among wind ripped tiny American flags
as garbagemen come forward for collection:
Now feel tension fail to achieve.
Concatenation transpires.
Tears melt into sweat.
This is the barrenness
of grief; to watch life rot
as we move ever forward.

The sleepwalker, now knee-deep in snow, dreams he is transformed

into a landed meteorite, set in place, planted, as an onion in a farmers field.
A taste poem

Some things one cannot say:

Gather ingredients together on a plate. Then place one at a time in the mouth.
Chew up and enjoy its simplicity and then directly proceed to next item for
the flow and context of the poem.

1) A slice of celery
2) A slice of spring onion
3) A leaf of fresh spinach
4) One section of a freshly peeled mandarin orange
5) One strawberry, freshly picked and still warm from the sunlight
6) A drop of raspberry vinegar mixed with black pepper
7) One toasted almond
8) One sprig of Rosemary, to be smelled and savored

Mine is the Sunlight

I saw him clearly, an old man hovering.
His oil slick of a self
Looking beautiful,
reflecting his wolf
Moon courage,
frostbit in a rainbow.
Colors smear across the horizons.
Motor oil expels on rain puddles,
Slowly absorbing into the concrete pad.
Evaporating into a marriage of fire down
in Florida somewhere. Looking out at palm
trees swaying in the early rains warning of
oncoming warm water storms. He sat down
for dinner, said grace and unfolded his napkinhands
And said to me, that life was a can of cranberries,
Molded into a mechanized horror of a real berry.

You disappeared like a hole enveloped by water

A taste poem

Some things one cannot say:

Gather ingredients together on a plate. Then place one at a time in the mouth.
Chew up and enjoy its simplicity and then directly proceed to next item for
the flow and context of the poem.
1) Hot chili paste
2) A Slice of Ginseng Root
3) Bee pollen
4) A sprig of dill
5) A Raspberry macaroon
6) Pear Schnapps

Henry Darger Dreams of Emily Dickinson

Easter Morning
I see you lying there, slumped over in the street. You look
In peace, peaceful, peacefully resting as if you were asleep.
Only you were not asleep on the couch, or in your chair.
You were face down in the road, resting, lying and waiting.
Objects come speeding past us as we drive down the street.
More cars pass, we travel on. I avert my attentions elsewhere.
I imagine you with that toothy, interested grin gleaming. Disgrace.
Our gaze follows the divided road home. I try to forget you lying there.
I cannot see you in my home; you are dead, lying on the street.
Thats how Ive come to know from solitude, how I know, knew
Your windsongs. They are in the street face down, lying there sad.
Accommodating the farcical arrangements, I pick yellow flowers.
I, in my dark home, I keep seeing you there, dead alone. The breeze
Blowing, shifting your hair with the winds directions. We are lifeless
There is no peace left in the world. We are all scared, we run north
When danger sounds, as peccadillos roaring through rustling trees.
In the days that passed, time eats away the skin, wind blows the pong.
Promise you wont ask me to tell you how I knew. My eyes labor,
My heart cries, my mind ebbs in aches and pains. This is the grief
Of those left behind. We drive away as if the unknown occurred.
At ten fifteen we long for the respectable time of midnight, the bells
Sound triumphant over death. We smell of thoughtful repentance.
For three days you lay there waiting for us to pick up your remains.
Never are the bodies recovered, we were unable to identify them.

We are unable to recognize a dead woman because we hate the weak

And the poor. The dead never come around to say hello, so we refuse
To open the door. I cannot perceive you anymore, I saw you lying,
Slumped over in the street. Only you were not asleep, were you?
You were face down in the road, resting, lying and waiting.
I imagine you with that toothy, interested grin gleaming. Disgrace.
My heart cries, my mind ebbs in aches and pains. This is the grief
Of the peaceful, peacefully resting while you were asleep in death.
I, in my dark home, keep seeing you there, dead alone. Our moonlight
Was jealous of my leaving the scene. We did not a thing but witness
You passing. I was with you in my imagination. I believe I took you home
In a cedar box and a clean cotton washing towel. We do not make it happen.
We washed your body with scented oils.
We decorated your body with lilacs and gardenias.
We hoisted our voices to a god who rejected you while you were alive.
We sang sad songs of brave artists who stated all the ideas that made you alive.
I see you lying there, slumped over in the street dead.
I consider why there is no synonym for the word you.
If I pray hard enough, the myth of Jesus comes to mind
On my beads I pray you that will rise again revitalized.
This morning the sun dances in observance of Easter and
You still wait to be removed. Taken from the street and now
Lie on last seasons grass. Thursday you were obviating, today
You are among the honored dead memorialized as a sacrifice.
I vowed to the stars above that I would take your body home.
I vowed to my grandfathers spirit that I would pick up your sleeping
Body, bring you to the side of the road, damn you for your disregard
Of all things human, and with a slight stroke, caress your cheek
while you passed on.
I did nothing but come home and think fine thoughts while I drank
Inexpensive whiskey. Smoked my mind to sleep while you rested on
Cold black tar, an asphalt bed, waiting for me to come and save what
Earthily remains congealed on the path towards my home. I sang.

If you come to my home I will gladly give you a gentle libation.

We will sing songs of nations that are no longer nations. Special
Times with tons of water under fallen bridges. We sing old songs
And think of ways to lie to ourselves that we are fine upright folks.
As time goes by we hum the old songs. We try to carry our heads
On our shoulders. We must remember that sighing is only show.
As time goes by we recall old lovers with regretful souls. Seagulls.
We met the moment you died; we are forever joined in victory.
We are recursive blights on society. We deserve to be hit by cars.
We are not like you, dear reader. You can survive the everyday
Deaths of sleeping America. We are all asleep at the wheel. Driving
Toward Wednesday, the day of the blood moon eclipse. We drown.

Pax Invictus
As we walk down the path of viciousness, sympathetic embers burn
For those souls seeking the righteous way to advance. Eviction from
Here is the only way out. We choose whom we choose for reasons
Only known to the chooser. We see in our hearts the glory of those
To whom we may choose to be born. Out thoughts become biology.
See as the life we so dearly wish to further advance upon understanding.
I will hold your hand until you make your selection. We shall sleep by
The riverbank drinking and forgetting until the time becomes clear.
If you make me beg, I will take up your game once again and we will laugh.
That time arrives. Here we are, on the shores of the river Lethe reading.
When I opened the trunk of the car, you were laying there pretending
To be dead. I shook your torso and you giggled, you gave up your game.
I knew you were only sleeping. I ask you why we are here. You kindle
Your imagination and remind me that we are here to forget our past.
Relieve the memories of beforetime and find nothing as the answer
to everything.
Time means little in the guff of the hungry. Rills upon rills of water
Never extinguish the ticking timeclock of tormented reminiscences.
Thirst. Thirsting for a car to steal, a driveway to pull out of, and a home
To leave. A disaster to place oneself into if only to forget how dull
It is to live in the northern suburbs. We wait for something to happen,
As if something might actually occur sometime soon, to help us forget
The laundry to be cleaned, how many feet tread upon our clean floors.
As if the shadows might actually close in on us sooner than we expect.
As if some answer might offer an explanation sometime soon, to let go
Memories of beforetime and locate everything as the answer to nothing.
Living estranged from our bodies on the river Lethe, I hold something
That reminds me of your hand. We sing old songs because there are no
New songs to be discovered. We wear old hats for new hats are not made
In Hypnos. We cave in on our desires and dance to a melody of canticles,
And in that desire we find our new home, we glide eagerly towards birth
and thus life.

And so we are born again new. New waters rise from saltlands once desert.
The salt becomes sugar and the ravens become doves. We weep no longer.
We sing in joyous praise for all life and all things living. All dearly beloved,
We clasp our hands to one anothers chests and feel a beating heart beating.
Warmed by the blood of living beings and glory over glory we are still alive.
Alive by forgetting our past deeds and previous lives we are born yet again.

The orange plumes of everydayness

have nothing more to give,
Ever since the plum days have past.
A taste poem

Some things one cannot say:

Gather ingredients together on a plate. Then place one at a time in the mouth.
Chew up and enjoy its simplicity and then directly proceed to next item for
the flow and context of the poem.
1) Champagne Granny Smith apple sorbet.
2) One slice of black truffle
3) A small spoonful of celeriac puree
4) warmed goat cheese with tarragon
5) A slice of champagne-poached Asian Pear
6) Passion fruit mixed with Grand Marnier

We Are Here
Because we are here
Because we are here
Because we are here
Because we are here
Because we are here
we are here
we are here
Because we are here
Because we are here
Because we are here
Because we are here
Because we are here
we are here
we are here
Because we are here
Because we are here
Because we are here
Because we are here
Because we are here
we are here
we are here
Because we are here
Because we are here
Because we are here
Because we are here

To be placed on the menu of my last meal

A taste poem

Some things one cannot say:

Gather ingredients together on a plate. Then place one at a time in the mouth.
Chew up and enjoy its simplicity and then directly proceed to next item for
the flow and context of the poem.

1. Ice cold strawberry

2. Dip rest of strawberry in melted Belgian milk chocolate
3. One leaf of tarragon
4. A tablespoon of goat cheese
5. Cold grilled beef tenderloin
6. Half of a boiled, chilled Peruvian purple potato drizzled with olive oil and sea salt

Geoffrey Gatza is an award winning editor, publisher and poet. He was named by the Huffington Post as one of The
Top 200 Advocates for American Poetry (2013). He is the author many books of poetry, including Apollo (BlazeVOX
2014), Secrets of my Prison House (BlazeVOX 2010) Kenmore: Poem Unlimited (Casa Menendez 2009) and HouseCat
Kung Fu: Strange Poems for Wild Children (Meritage Press 2008), He is also the author of the yearly Thanksgiving
Menu-Poem Series, a book length poetic tribute for prominent poets, now in it's twelfth year. His visual art poems have
been displayed in gallery showing. OCCUPY THE WALLS: A Poster Show, AC Gallery (NYC) 2011 occupy Wall Street
N15 For Ernst Jandl - Minimal Poems with photography from the fall of Liberty Square. And in, LANGUAGE TO
COVER A WALL: Visual Poetry through its changing media, UB ART GALLERY (Buffalo, NY) 2011/12 Language
for the Birds. Geoffrey Gatza is the editor and Publisher of the small press BlazeVOX. The fundamental mission of
BlazeVOX is to disseminate poetry, through print and digital media, both within academic spheres and to society at large.
He lives in Kenmore, NY with his girlfriend and two beloved cats.