Monday, December 17, 2007


I am flying to Cincinnati tomorrow for two weeks, and I had planned to post an enormous novel before I left telling you all about TOPOLLIDAY, which we celebrated on Tuesday by consuming a wheel of cheese, watching Fiddler on the Roof, and singing the following lyrics to the tune of "We Three Kings":

Here comes Topol pushing his cart
Filled with milk he squirts in our heart
Thick and tasty, creamy, pasty
Slice off thy curdy wart


Topol's greater than Jesus
And his facial hair's the best
Jesus is a scrawny monkey
Topol is a giant bear

However, I find myself a bit pressed for time, so you'll just have to imagine the rest. Think: candles, potato vodka, and strenuous sexual rituals accompanied by mournful klezmer noises.


Anonymous said...

Tricia, I hope somebody grinds you
Some potato latkes, roughly two potatoes
To one onion, as many times over

As you can stand--so much potential blood and ozone
In every grater's lifted hole--fried
In heart-congealing white Crisco or Spry

Until freckled and brown as one of your cutest
Girl cousins, but the key, the fine line
That divides the hoity toity from the blueeyed

Glowering horde of the Pale is whether
Your kartofi palichinki, your greasy
But delectable sponge of misery gets stuffed

With sour cream or applesauce, the former
Opaque as truth, the latter as sweet as an orchard
Of reality: Russia versus Germany, which means

Cousinhood, even in English. Teach yourself
Mechka for bear, Tricia the Gypsy bear-tamer,
A mechkari. I Anonymous, would-be goat-leaper,

Commend to you the last words William Ford conferred
From canto vii of the Emperor's wondrous Auroras,
That diamond cabala and goat's mirror, the imagination:

"It dare not leap by chance in its own dark.
It must change from destiny to slight caprice.
And thus its jetted tragedy, its stele

And shape and mournful making move to find
What must unmake it and, at last, what can,
Say, a flippant communication under the moon."

O moon over whom the cow leaps and is! Thank you
For steadily discerning the mourning
In all this caprice, and Merry Christmas!

Poetry Journalist said...

Always very welcome, dear Tricia, no more chaos is possible, you.

Anonymous said...

If you stay away, Tricia,
We'll all be cold turkeys--
You do the Matthea, etc., etc.

Tricia said...