Christmas in The Poor House: A Few Somewhat Old, and Completely Unheard Songs by Brandon Font; Also, A Song by Benjamin Font

"The joke involved a raising of the hands toward Heaven and a crossing of the eyes. And, at Christmastime, this gesture became exceedingly significant, as everything does, just like the Christmas Story anthologist said, 'to set a story at Christmastime is to instill it immediately with a certain amount of prestige.'*
True, there is an ambiance that surrounds Christmas that is unlike any other during the year and which seems to take effect on all peoples no matter what their faith be, or their non-faith, but paisanos are especially vulnerable to this feeling, this nostalgia; paisanos are especially vulnerable to happiness."

--from the short story by The Brothers Font(yep), "When A Paisano Gets Paid," to be featured in full at a later date

That being said, celebrations are in full force in The Poor House, which has come to mean literary divinations, philosphical questioning of the Dreidel, beer orange juices that are reminiscent of melted creamsickles, and a wonderful, surreal Christmas Eve dinner at the Elfers' residence, to whom we owe many thanks and warm wishes.
Having been treated so well this Holiday Season, we here at The Poor House are in very high spirits, and hope to share them with you by way of a few simple, good-hearted Songs.


A Few Somewhat Old, and Completely Unheard Songs by Brandon Font


Untitled
I am a mountain—USA. A mountain with a full view of so many starry visions of America and abroad (atop of the world, winner of world wars, child of America!). When rocks tremble, or souls quake, I have changed into a bunch of grass hoppers and devastated crops, drank beer after working on the docks in plain clothes— just one man—and also just simply stayed the mountain and blew my top. Lava burned and boiled down pretty feminine green thigh slopes of beautiful oily impressionistic landscapes and ignited every shiny world continuing advertisement that had been a burden to all the (once upon a time) tranquil snowflakes on my tombstone shoulders—all lost in fire (this being but only a fraction of one vision I have seen as the mountain)

By the water, I found a penny

By the water, I found a penny

It had been flipped to Lincoln beneath the pillars

Did he swim in the waves? Could he feel his toes?

I curled mine in my shoes, like an ape would around a branch, to fight the cold

I liked myself today for being gentle but no bore

Others walking on the pier said “hellos”

To me that is also official copper and gold

Ferry to Vashon

Ferry to Vashon, boat in the sound, I won’t ride you today

But I’ll send naivety with you and wave from shore

I’ll send tears with you and smile from shore

I’ll send anger with you and dance from shore

I’ll send pretension with you and fart from shore

Bombshell

In the park there is an old bomb shell, from WWII

It’s displayed on the path down to the water

The path with moss covered boulders

This bomb shell killed no gooks

But it killed me to look at it

To be so fortunate with breaths of cold air in the park; I could see my breath

Some gag modern shit, hey—
I cannot be too sarcastic, I am a lamb, and I cannot be too sarcastic

Because my bones are stomped grass—

Grass and flower me some sugary tradition babe—

How to take care of anyone?!!

(COLD BEER; the sign read)

The only poets are comedians

And I’m too lame lamb and shy—

The devil in me is a reckless drunk though

Lately, though, things been a’right though, its cool dude, it’s cool—

Nice!!!! Nice!!!!!!


Also, A Song by Benjamin Font


Doing A Two-Step
While Listening To Classical
Music In The Morning

It is just a tiny alarm clock that produces the sound,
Like a momentary window in time, playing backwards

And now: in the back-, there are men
Huddled over a giant snuffbox;

In the fore-, I am just a tiny man that dances
A two-step in slow-motion

(Against my neighbor's popcorn ceiling
down through my floor).

It is now just after my coffee with steamed milk,
After my second morning constitutional,

After I learned that my father still loves me,
And after the lift of the Water Bureau's "Boil-Alert."

It is now OK to drink the water without fear of E.Coli,
Which wasn't the potentially fatal strand anyway;

And it is now OK to hold out for a better opportunity,
Because my father will still help me out of destitution.

It is the thirty-first of November. I am still, still young.
If anyone could see me, they'd say that I am not so bad

At dancing either. Though that could change over night,
Like how the song just suddenly stopped playing.



Happy Holidays!
Sincerely, With Love,

The Poor House


*approximation of an excerpt from the introduction to "The Ecco Book of Christmas Stories," by Alberto Manguel

Songs: I Can't Sing

Foreword: On Music

Music is present at the beginning and the end of everything--the birth exaltation and the death lamentation--as well as it is present in between; that is, music is everywhere, being absorbed at all times, either casually through the subconscious brain, or intensively through the conscious brain. It is both produced and heard, simultaneously, by the subtle force within man that is irrevocable, spiritual.
For some, music is considered the divine art. In reality, music differs from painting, or drawing, or writing, or whatever, only inasmuch as it does not require the absolute attention of, or participation from its audience for it to effectively move them--though it doesn't hurt to have them willingly listen. However, I do not believe this makes it the divine art--divine, of course, implying a heavenly origin, or perfection--in the same way that I do not believe any art is or can be divine, being that all art is created by creatures of this earth, and therefore belongs to this earth, making it inherently, obviously, worldly and imperfect.
I say this not to degrade art, or the artist, but to elevate them both. Art is essential to existence because it strives to be transcendent, and even believes itself to be at times; it is the making of life from life, within it, or of it; it is creation spawned from creation that, if only for a moment, provides its audience with the sense that their life, and life itself--the basis for art, and the artist's perception--might actually mean something; it is a continual process of giving abstract life and taking it, of forming and destroying, which ultimately allows for the human experience to expand infinitely, theoretically, if only to give the individual a better understanding of the present, physical life they are leading.
And music is simply the most accessible, most universal art form.
As Henry Miller said, "To sing you must first open your mouth. You must have a p air of lungs, and a little knowledge of music. It is not necessary to have an accordion, or a guitar. The essential thing is to want to sing. This then is a song. I am singing."
Although it is seemingly that easy to generate a song, there is no mention of the quality of the song, or of the quality of the voice which is singing it. By the standards of ordinary judgment, it is fair to say that I cannot sing. I am capable of opening my mouth. I have a pair of lungs. I can pretend to know a little of music. But it would be a terrible misrepresentation of my talents to say that I am singing.
When I was younger, all I wanted to be was an actor. When I was taking (very unnecessary) classes to teach me how to act, all I wanted to do was write. Now, as a writer, all I want to do is travel around the world with a tiny wooden piano meant for children and sing my ever-shrinking lungs out. Instead, I am sitting at a tiny wooden desk in a relatively empty apartment in the Northwest of the country I was born in, writing this.
In that respect, I would prefer that this be taken in as similar a casual manner as one would take in music--either with your pants down at your ankles in the bathroom, or on a long drive when all other options have run out. This, then, really is a song, or songs, or at least very much like one; it is the foundation of a song, the music and the lyrics of a song to which anyone can and should sing along. I do not yet have a tiny wooden piano meant for children, but I am certainly still learning how to play.

--Benjamin Font