- Imperium, 2008
Thursday, 31 December 2009
A Poem, Cleaning and Repairing
Cleaning and Repairing
Scraping paint off the
floorboards
catching the paint scraper
on errant nails
she sees him rinsing
his van in the driveway
- he shouldn’t use so much water –
with a garden hose.
Retriever curled in the centre
of a manicured lawn.
A content habitation
with another
stiflingly humble
and a sweat bead forms.
The day’s work uses
her energy,
but the floorboards must get done,
the base must be right.
Her skin splits on a metal edge,
yet she continues,
he rubs his van with an old shirt
to dry it.
If a cut is necessary and
sweat results
from work
then so be it.
So it goes.
The van needs cleaning,
and the house needs remodeling.
Things need changing.
These are days off
spent wisely.
Scraping paint off the
floorboards
catching the paint scraper
on errant nails
she sees him rinsing
his van in the driveway
- he shouldn’t use so much water –
with a garden hose.
Retriever curled in the centre
of a manicured lawn.
A content habitation
with another
stiflingly humble
and a sweat bead forms.
The day’s work uses
her energy,
but the floorboards must get done,
the base must be right.
Her skin splits on a metal edge,
yet she continues,
he rubs his van with an old shirt
to dry it.
If a cut is necessary and
sweat results
from work
then so be it.
So it goes.
The van needs cleaning,
and the house needs remodeling.
Things need changing.
These are days off
spent wisely.
Two Haikus, Untitled
Silence the cynic
enjoy a few of life’s games.
bubble pops jump rope.
comatose boyfriend
wallows in attention flirt
fork scraping a plate.
enjoy a few of life’s games.
bubble pops jump rope.
comatose boyfriend
wallows in attention flirt
fork scraping a plate.
A Poem, Rereading Stories
Rereading Stories
I reread a story
I wrote years ago and
I hated it. Spineless
preachy assurances
backed by dogma. Smug boy.
Principled young man with
direction. Genuine.
Now wasting, confused, hurt
frustrated, indifferent.
Then, sure. I wear the same
yellow jacket but lines
have formed clear from years of
furrowed brows. Years of hard
disappointments, despair.
They will never publish.
They will mock me always.
I am envious of
my story years ago.
A character I wish
I could honestly be.
A focused boy proud of
his routine; affirmed goals.
Someone who yearned for things
that rivaled paradise.
He believed he could have
them. He was charming I
am broken lost unwise
decisions. I hate that
story and I have not
finished reading the first
paragraph. Smug young man.
I reread a story
I wrote years ago and
I hated it. Spineless
preachy assurances
backed by dogma. Smug boy.
Principled young man with
direction. Genuine.
Now wasting, confused, hurt
frustrated, indifferent.
Then, sure. I wear the same
yellow jacket but lines
have formed clear from years of
furrowed brows. Years of hard
disappointments, despair.
They will never publish.
They will mock me always.
I am envious of
my story years ago.
A character I wish
I could honestly be.
A focused boy proud of
his routine; affirmed goals.
Someone who yearned for things
that rivaled paradise.
He believed he could have
them. He was charming I
am broken lost unwise
decisions. I hate that
story and I have not
finished reading the first
paragraph. Smug young man.
A Poem, A Sinophile
A Sinophile
guilt ridden suit
sits on a curb.
green-yellow-red
numbing fluorescents trap insects addicted
to light.
a woman is waiting
a dog barks jazz off beat
a superior wanted more of
his time.
tradition failing his family.
red-green-yellow
symbolic unity.
red
swiveling neck hinge drops,
looks at a sewer entrance.
green
things proceed
ignorant of frustration
yellow
decay
red.
guilt ridden suit
sits on a curb.
green-yellow-red
numbing fluorescents trap insects addicted
to light.
a woman is waiting
a dog barks jazz off beat
a superior wanted more of
his time.
tradition failing his family.
red-green-yellow
symbolic unity.
red
swiveling neck hinge drops,
looks at a sewer entrance.
green
things proceed
ignorant of frustration
yellow
decay
red.
A Poem, In a Tunnel
In a Tunnel
- what am I doing in this tunnel? –
he shouts inwardly,
as the traffic
snails through
the outskirts of the city centre.
half way through the tunnel
his course remains the same
his trajectory remains the same
straight.
Metal coursing on rubber
under cement arcs
over painted lines;
the new aqueducts.
hitchhikers want off curbs.
they want to be elsewhere.
- what am I doing in this tunnel? –
he shouts inwardly,
as the traffic
snails through
the outskirts of the city centre.
half way through the tunnel
his course remains the same
his trajectory remains the same
straight.
Metal coursing on rubber
under cement arcs
over painted lines;
the new aqueducts.
hitchhikers want off curbs.
they want to be elsewhere.
A Story, A Volume of Unheard Wisdom
A Volume of Unheard Wisdom
In the early hours of the day, before the lunch rush, before the trip to the bank, before the restaurant had more than two staff people on, before everything he wore was soiled in grease and sweat, Benny pondered the chicken. The meat on every menu. Restaurants always have chicken on their menus. Why don’t they fly? Chickens are everywhere, and so it is only natural that almost all people on the planet should eat them, but, then again, pigeons are everywhere too and no one’s eating those dirty winged rats. Benny thought of the chicken as he sat on a stool looking over the meat orders for the week. So many chickens. Why don’t they fly?
There is something about chicken that most people (except those who won’t eat anything that once had a face) feel a sense of comfort eating There is something unassuming about chicken that leaves little to be feared, but, accordingly, little to be desired. Benny had never seen anyone moan orgasmically over a chicken burger to be sure.
Most girls order chicken. Not only girls of course, but, indeed, more girls than boys thought chicken first when at his restaurant. Perhaps it would be more accurate to say that the unadventurous order chicken. Adventure is interesting when it comes to food. A tricky game. One pays for food, and thus doesn’t want to waste his or her money, and yet one does pay for food, so shouldn’t the food be worth it? Shouldn’t there be something special in it? Those who order chicken have decided not. Benny always tried to veer those timid souls away from the flightless white meat, but people are scared of adventure. He had come to that conclusion.
What of the chickens as beings then? Their lives’ journey is one from gross uncomfortable communal ghetto, to slaughter, to the mouths of the unadventurous? Fuel for the frightened. The chicken, then, is somewhat of a tragedy.
Then again, chickens are pretty boring animals when they’re alive. Pecking and clucking with little grace. Perhaps we shouldn’t feel sorry for them. Eat away. Benny had a restaurant to open.
Lunch special. The first thing in the morning to decide in a day of decisions for Benny. Benny liked this decision. It was a chance for him to control the menu. So much of the menu (all menus really) was set in stone, and the special remained a chance for the daytime shift manager to control and adventure outside the box. Benny liked control of some things. He was not control obsessed, but he did like to make decisions at times. A restaurant suited him fine. Control of the special suited his desires.
Benny. There’s something about a boy who gets a girl pregnant when he’s 17 that creates a persona different from all those around him, yet similar to a tee to those in the same predicament. He becomes a man, but not in any conventional sense. The risks of his life are over, or at the very least put on pause for a number of years. The daredevil inside must wait. The number of years being the ones in between that fateful night, and the night he gets over himself and realizes his life is neither over, nor defined by his being a single father. He is older, yet younger. He is both a middle-aged mortgage dad, and a child in need of simple love. The simple love that is choked by the pressures of the age of young men with too much imaginary going against them, and not enough visible going for them.
Benny was solid. He was not going to let the imaginary pressures that seemed against him rule him. He neither had to succeed in business nor become the starting striker for Liverpool FC. His pressure would be to provide. He was not going to let the joy that he felt when he saw his infant daughter shortly after his eighteenth birthday be taken from him by delusions of grandeur. He would not let down. He would do what needed to be done to raise her. He decided this then, when looking at his soon to be ex-girlfriend, Melanie, cradling his daughter Aspir, and he thought of this as he stood in the middle of his seventh straight shift at the restaurant. He was a warrior.
“You got any ideas for Specials Russ?” Benny yelled to the hole in the back where his morning prep guy Russ was mixing a bowl of potato salad.
“Umm. We should probably do something with ribs because I’ve got about three trays of them in the back,” Russ bellowed over his headphones.
“Right. Ribs and fries it is.”
Lunch specials are always more or less left-overs. Ribs and Fries. Classic. Just add fries to anything and all of a sudden it’s a meal. Fries. The chicken of side dishes. Predictable and always in need of seasoning. The western world is a fries world. Why have nan bread or rice when you can have fries? Fries with all, and all going with fries. Fries, fries, fries from here until the end of the west. Benny wondered why so many people wanted to live where he did. What is a standard of living if your basic food is so lacking?
There was a time when Benny wanted to go elsewhere. He wanted to leave the island he lived on and travel to exotic places and place bets at casinos where he couldn’t speak the language. Lay on beaches. Get in trouble. Waste money. Adventure. Staring at the upturned chairs on tables, he wondered if he would go anywhere in his life. Anywhere physically. Anywhere professionally. Scanning the room he stopped and the chalkboard, grabbed his chalk, and approached. The day’s lunch needed a special. The adventures of the world would have to wait.
Benny wrote as neatly as possible: Ribs n’ Fries, $9.95. He scowled at his sloppy penmanship, but was pleased with the message. He knew what was on the board could be on the menu, but people would pick the board because of its implication. Special. The person eating the meal now is him or herself something special because they are part of the special, and the special is part of them. Kind of like diet soda pop. “I’m drinking a diet drink, therefore I’m on a diet.” That special combination of left-overs with fries has created a special moment in the diner’s day. Benny loved knowing that last night’s cast offs became an event. The magical unchartered world off the menu.
A word about Russ, the morning prep guy. Benny spent a moment practically every day wondering what paths he had chosen to put him in a workplace where Russ was a part of almost every one of his days. Russ was a prep guy through and through. He arrived first so he could have a few hours to work by himself and listen to speed metal. He took some of every one of Benny’s day talking animatedly about soccer, video games, metal or weed before crashing from his sugar high and retreating to the prep area to mumble, rub meat, mix salads or stir sauces. His sanctuary. Russ always left at two and could never get along with any of the other staff members. Benny sometimes wondered about his life outside of the restaurant, but never ventured to go there. Some scenes are better left unexplored. Russ drank about a pot and a half of coffee a day.
Russ emerged from the back ready to talk. “I was listening to Killswitch Engage this morning,” started Russ wiping his meaty hand on his already mustard, pepper, soy sauce, and about twelve other spices and spreads covered apron, “A little mellow, but still alright.”
“Yeah,” Benny hardly ever knew what bands Russ was talking about, but he also knew that Russ would explain them to him whether he wanted enlightenment or not.
“Yeah, well, the guitar is solid, but… I don’t know… It doesn’t have the sort of… I don’t know… Grindtooth! Now they had it! That drummer… Man… I was listening to them when I was playing World of Warcraft and man…”
“Right.” Benny started counting the cash. The cash floated through his hands, and he thought of its journey. Passed on to others who have not been passed on. Benny thought at times that he was passed on. He thought of his daughter, and dreaded that she would some day grow and see him as a lowly middleman. The man in between food and money. The man who took money that was not his and exchanged it for food that was not his. Subsistence and existence. She would be fed and he would eat, but would they ever get past the main course. He felt that he would never, if he remained wise and of sound judgment, be allowed that after dinner coffee, or glass of true full bodied wine. An adventurous meal. The extravagances meant for those who had not been passed on. Those people that ordered from Benny, and thought not about the dent it put in their week’s grocery money. To be a have of this world, Benny thought, would be a sweet thing indeed. These thoughts could sink his spirits, but that day Benny decided that they would not. Not that day.
“Those damn Pudlians,” blurted Russ, “Damn coach Benitez is going to blow the whole wad at this rate.”
“Yeah,” said Benny picking up on the subject change that he hadn’t noticed. He still had about five more minutes of Russ’s dialogue before his sugar and caffeine crash.
“I just don’t understand why he keeps changing the line-up,” Russ continues ignoring all, “I mean if you win a game, you gotta keep that line-up. Right? He’s just going to blow it all. It’s too bad that I’ve got four of their players in my pool cuz I really thought they were going to do it this time around, but with Benitez who knows.” A brief pause. “Then again, with owners that won’t spend any money to get some decent players, what are you gonna do? They need to start spending some money. Buy a big name who can put games away. I guess they did, but then he got injured. There are a lot of injuries on the team. Frustrating… I don’t know… I’m just frustrated.”
Benny continued counting, nodding, and mumbling affirmation while Russ talked on. Benny knew that Russ just needed to be heard. Benny could bear the distraction. The inane dialogue kept him from thinking of depressing things. Also Benny always felt that if he didn’t listen, Russ would stop talking and his thoughts would fade into the stratosphere. The resting place for the voices of the unheard. Dissipating into the cloudy area between air and space. Benny sometimes wished he was a phantom of sorts that could travel to this space and listen to all the voices of the unheard and write them down. Create a ten part volume of unheard wisdom.
“I just want to see things come to something some day. I don’t want to die without a taste of victory. They were powerhouses once. Then I was born, and they’ve sucked ever since. I want some silverware,” Russ was coming to the end, “to see something you’ve invested in for so long not be rewarded is infuriating. Like when my dwarf died in Warcraft. That was really upsetting.”
“Yeah,” Benny responded finding a surprising wisdom in the conclusion of Russ’s diatribe, “It’s a shame.”
Russ muttered a few other things about the a character from his World of Warcraft universe and returned to his sanctuary at the back of the restaurant. Benny closed the cash drawer.
Walking the chalkboard ad sign outside the restaurant he looked at the passing traffic while flipping the sign from CLOSED to OPEN. He knew what his day would be like. The meandering of people on a dreary January Tuesday generally was slow, low paying and consistent. By the look of the grey sky and the cool temperature, it seemed that the day would be as per normal. Like a fishing line being towed behind a low power aluminum boat. One customer per twenty minutes ordering a sandwich (or special!), and, if Benny was lucky, if he could muster the up-sell, if he could bend a will, a drink that wasn’t water.
The prize of all prizes for the restaurateur: a beverage sale. The most marked up item on the menu with zero prep time. The extended warranty of a restaurant. Soda pop, great; alcohol, glorious. Benny mused on drinks, and realized that the coffee had to be made, so he went back inside. The pot Russ made was empty.
It had been the habit of Benny to take an hour’s worth of orders then smoke, return, then invent a managerial job so he would have excuse to leave the store for between thirty minutes and an hour. Get change, buy supplies, liquor run. Something to give him a change. There was something on Benny’s mind that day, however, that caused a riff in his routine.
Benny spent the late morning and afternoon mindlessly taking lunch orders, while his mind remained elsewhere. His six month performance review was coming up later in the day, which Benny had been waiting on for the past three weeks. The owners had put it off four times. There was nothing too too dramatic about a performance review, but if he got the full raise that accompanied such reviews, things would be exponentially better for him and Aspir in the coming year. A couple hundred extra dollars would be amazing.
The days orders rattled on as Benny’s mind was all numbers. Special, pork sandwich, chicken sandwich, pork sandwich, beef sandwich, special, special, special, chicken sandwich. He thought if he looked hard enough and dimmed his focus enough, Benny could find a pattern in the orders. A magical numeric coincidence that would change the universe. Chicken sandwich’s ratio to soda pop over special to the power of pork sandwich divided by beef sandwich add fries inverted cosine of chili with a negative factor of chicken sandwich equals… It was time for a smoke. Benny knew it.
He thought of what the owners would say to him while taking long drags of his fourth cigarette of the day. The owners, Chuck and Guy, were not bad people. Benny knew bad owners, and his current ones were not that. What they were was cheap? Chuck always talked about how he needed to sell more wine, and Guy talked of supplies. They were losing too many forks. He hadn’t sold any of the Sangiovese, and it had been on the list for a month. Classic tales of waste and woe. He stared across the dirty parking lot full of reeking dumpsters and oil stains, and thought of what they would offer him.
Chuck and Guy knew what they had, but never wanted to admit it. The restaurant was a successful one, but they made sure to keep their lowly peons (Benny among them) thinking that tomorrow might spell doom for the whole place if belts weren’t tightened and funds weren’t cut. Benny had heard the speeches and he had stopped listening. He heard the wailing and wasn’t saddened by it. He knew his worth and he knew theirs.
Worth ten pies more if not eight, Benny knew he would only get a slice for his raise. It was always the same thing when it came to reviews and raises. An epic tale of his moments of greatness, and a foreboding caution about those times he fell short of the mark. That time he sold a catering order worth five grand was really nice, but that day he forgot to put the water bottles away must be noted as well. The end result: a slightly above average raise. He knew the owners could not lose him, but he also knew they didn’t want to give him too much of their precious coin. The day of his review he hoped for more, but was ready for the norm.
What could Chuck and Guy really do for him in the end? They didn’t have the power to make him a superhero his daughter would rave to her friends about. They couldn’t make him fly. They had no magic amulet that he knew of. They wouldn’t give him the sense of meaning he had always thought he lacked. They couldn’t stop the frustration of responsibility and the pressure of wisdom.
Benny’s life was what it was, and he was responsible for living it. His daughter was his concern, and he would do good by her even if he was average for it. The casinos of Macau would have to wait. The owners were only owners. He couldn’t change that.
“Um. Hey Benny!” called Russ from inside, “there’s some customers here that are asking about the chicken, and if it has any gluten in it. Something about allergies.”
“Right,” answered Benny stubbing out his half finished cigarette, “I’ll be right there.”
A paraphrasing of Benny’s review:
Alright man, so your last six months have been good for the most part. Your co-managers, Murray and Connor, like working with you, and haven’t had too many problems. We like that your beverage sales are up even if we’d like to see a bit more in the wine and hard alcohol department. You know, that’s where we make are biggest margin. Murray says that sometimes projects get left unfinished and that he’s had to ask you more than once to complete some tasks. And there was that day we ran out of baseball steaks. You need to stay on top of the ordering situation. More or less though, he says you do a good job. You gotta take a more active role in getting on your dish washers to work more efficiently and not lose so much silverware and waste so much dish soap. That stuff’ll kill us in the end. Eighty five percent of all restaurants go out of business in the first five years, so we gotta tighten up if we want to make it that far. We’ll give you an eight percent raise starting your next paycheque, and we’ll look at moving you up to store manager by the end of next year. Sound good? Alright, we gotta go meet someone about our new location, so we’ll talk later. Thanks man.
Benny was unimpressed and unsurprised. His life would go on.
Benny, walking to the bank later that day, looked at the street around him. There were cars, buses, walkers, and bicycles; all en route. Benny thought of the flow of human traffic along Broadway at midday. A river of obligations and rendezvous of people who find themselves important in a thousand ways. No more horses though. Organic people riding organic beasts in concert with one another, and pushing each other to where they needed to go; those days were gone. No more horses. Now, people drove it instead of riding it. The horse had been pushed out to the suburbs or beyond. People were now alone in the city. No more horses.
Benny was on his way to the bank and he could not stray from the path. Benny thought of banks, cars and money and pulled on his hoodie strings walking heavily along the pavement. Thoughts pulled him down toward the greyness of the street with each step. Thoughts of his tiny raise. Thoughts of his meaning. Thoughts of how unadventurous his life was. Thoughts of how dirty the restaurant was and how he needed to clean when he returned. The blue and yellow of the bank pulled him forward while the grey pavement pulled him down. He wished a horse would appear to rescue him.
Benny lit up a cigarette, and checked his cell phone. A text message from Melanie, the ex and constant presence in his life, shone on the display. “Should chk about prvat school for Aspir l8tr.”
“Why?” Benny typed.
Melanie had become obsessed with private schools lately. She listened attentively to young parents’ tales of how horrible the public school system was, and how children doomed to their halls learned the equivalent of one ten years younger in Sweden. She was convinced that if Aspir didn’t go to a private school, she would be forced into the world sans meaning. The world of janitors, garbage men, telemarketers and restaurant managers. Benny had graduated from public school, and took all of Melanie’s slurs as symptomatic of her disappointment in him.
Benny knew, even if Melanie forgot, what his paycheque was every other week. He got his average raise after his predictable review, but he knew that meant only a trickle more; no river. He also knew how wise his daughter was. He believed she would succeed no matter what obstacle. He prided himself an objective man, and he thought, honestly, that his daughter was more talented than any four year old he had met in his life. Aspir would become queen of the world from a snake pit if it came to that, and no public school was going to be to tough for her to bust out of.
“We’ll talk on Saturday,” he texted back glaring at the screen as he typed.
“Fne, bt Im serios. We nd to dside sn.”
Taking a drag he felt himself loosened from the tug of the pavement, and moved slovenly towards the bank. Thinking of Aspir had that effect. He had to get change for the night shift. He never minded going to the bank.
His dream girl, Trish, worked there, which caused unchartable joy in his day. She flirted with him. She was pleasant and bent the bills to count the money in such a sexy way. Who cares if she had a rock the size of a coconut on her left ring finger? To be charmed was enough for Benny. To be flirted with was to be inspired.
Gripping the few bills for change in one hand, Benny opened the door to the bank, and entered to where the change girl was, and gave what he thought of as a charming smirk towards Trish when he caught her eye. She smiled in recognition as he approached the window. Oh that smile. Oh those deep green eyes. Oh that smooth black hair. An urban princess to be sure. A welcome part of his day.
“Hey Trish,” Benny said with the cool calm of the smoothest of operators, “Just need to get some change.”
“Really? I thought you were coming here to whisk me away from all this.”
“Maybe next time.”
“Such a shame. Every girl is waiting for someone like you.”
“Well, if they waited this long, they can probably wait until tomorrow.”
“Right. I’ll be right back.”
Trish counted the bills as she always did: bending the bills over her index finger, holding the wad with her thumb and flicking each twenty with her diamond ringed finger. Precision and speed. A Ferrari in a bank. Benny watched and marveled as Trish counted off the bills that would become coins. An alchemist. Then, in a moment, as quickly as it began, it ended.
“Two rolls of toonies, one roll of loonies, four quarters, one dime, and two pennies. All set. Have a great day Benny. Maybe I’ll come by for a chicken sandwich later.” She never did.
“Cool,” realizing why dream girls’ worlds should never be entered. Disappointment could ensue.
“Talk to you tomorrow.”
“Indeed. Wouldn’t miss it.”
Benny loved the thought of his dream girl Trish. She would always be in the glass cage and he would be on the other side. He would never have to enter her world, and she would never enter his. It was the perfect arrangement of elements. He did not have to see the dark days when she battled for control of his soul. He did not have look in her eyes of disappointment when he couldn’t take her away for a weekend. She remained his dream girl in a plastic cage, and he remained safe and secure in his world of two.
He thought of Aspir as his shift was coming to an end. His sweet small angel with blue eyes that flashed of green in the water. He thought of her strawberry hair falling down her back as she ran with her friends. His world was her world and there was a peace in it. Performance reviews, fights with her mother, the monotony of work and the loneliness of the city all faded when he thought about the progression of their life together. She was his adventure, and he would succeed.
“Come to me now Aspir. See your dad. See him work and know that it’s all you my sweet baby. All for you. Your days of being small and sweet are so short, and then you lose the honesty which comes from the true centre of your small self. All for you. I trade my frustration for your joy. Your joy becomes my joy.” Benny stopped himself as he noticed he was speaking aloud, and not listening to the customer.
“What ?” a dyed blond girl asked annoyed, “I said I wanted a smoked chicken sandwich.”
“Right. Anything to drink.”
“Uhh. Maybe a diet coke.”
“Sure thing,” he said as he smiled knowingly and printed out her order.
In the early hours of the day, before the lunch rush, before the trip to the bank, before the restaurant had more than two staff people on, before everything he wore was soiled in grease and sweat, Benny pondered the chicken. The meat on every menu. Restaurants always have chicken on their menus. Why don’t they fly? Chickens are everywhere, and so it is only natural that almost all people on the planet should eat them, but, then again, pigeons are everywhere too and no one’s eating those dirty winged rats. Benny thought of the chicken as he sat on a stool looking over the meat orders for the week. So many chickens. Why don’t they fly?
There is something about chicken that most people (except those who won’t eat anything that once had a face) feel a sense of comfort eating There is something unassuming about chicken that leaves little to be feared, but, accordingly, little to be desired. Benny had never seen anyone moan orgasmically over a chicken burger to be sure.
Most girls order chicken. Not only girls of course, but, indeed, more girls than boys thought chicken first when at his restaurant. Perhaps it would be more accurate to say that the unadventurous order chicken. Adventure is interesting when it comes to food. A tricky game. One pays for food, and thus doesn’t want to waste his or her money, and yet one does pay for food, so shouldn’t the food be worth it? Shouldn’t there be something special in it? Those who order chicken have decided not. Benny always tried to veer those timid souls away from the flightless white meat, but people are scared of adventure. He had come to that conclusion.
What of the chickens as beings then? Their lives’ journey is one from gross uncomfortable communal ghetto, to slaughter, to the mouths of the unadventurous? Fuel for the frightened. The chicken, then, is somewhat of a tragedy.
Then again, chickens are pretty boring animals when they’re alive. Pecking and clucking with little grace. Perhaps we shouldn’t feel sorry for them. Eat away. Benny had a restaurant to open.
Lunch special. The first thing in the morning to decide in a day of decisions for Benny. Benny liked this decision. It was a chance for him to control the menu. So much of the menu (all menus really) was set in stone, and the special remained a chance for the daytime shift manager to control and adventure outside the box. Benny liked control of some things. He was not control obsessed, but he did like to make decisions at times. A restaurant suited him fine. Control of the special suited his desires.
Benny. There’s something about a boy who gets a girl pregnant when he’s 17 that creates a persona different from all those around him, yet similar to a tee to those in the same predicament. He becomes a man, but not in any conventional sense. The risks of his life are over, or at the very least put on pause for a number of years. The daredevil inside must wait. The number of years being the ones in between that fateful night, and the night he gets over himself and realizes his life is neither over, nor defined by his being a single father. He is older, yet younger. He is both a middle-aged mortgage dad, and a child in need of simple love. The simple love that is choked by the pressures of the age of young men with too much imaginary going against them, and not enough visible going for them.
Benny was solid. He was not going to let the imaginary pressures that seemed against him rule him. He neither had to succeed in business nor become the starting striker for Liverpool FC. His pressure would be to provide. He was not going to let the joy that he felt when he saw his infant daughter shortly after his eighteenth birthday be taken from him by delusions of grandeur. He would not let down. He would do what needed to be done to raise her. He decided this then, when looking at his soon to be ex-girlfriend, Melanie, cradling his daughter Aspir, and he thought of this as he stood in the middle of his seventh straight shift at the restaurant. He was a warrior.
“You got any ideas for Specials Russ?” Benny yelled to the hole in the back where his morning prep guy Russ was mixing a bowl of potato salad.
“Umm. We should probably do something with ribs because I’ve got about three trays of them in the back,” Russ bellowed over his headphones.
“Right. Ribs and fries it is.”
Lunch specials are always more or less left-overs. Ribs and Fries. Classic. Just add fries to anything and all of a sudden it’s a meal. Fries. The chicken of side dishes. Predictable and always in need of seasoning. The western world is a fries world. Why have nan bread or rice when you can have fries? Fries with all, and all going with fries. Fries, fries, fries from here until the end of the west. Benny wondered why so many people wanted to live where he did. What is a standard of living if your basic food is so lacking?
There was a time when Benny wanted to go elsewhere. He wanted to leave the island he lived on and travel to exotic places and place bets at casinos where he couldn’t speak the language. Lay on beaches. Get in trouble. Waste money. Adventure. Staring at the upturned chairs on tables, he wondered if he would go anywhere in his life. Anywhere physically. Anywhere professionally. Scanning the room he stopped and the chalkboard, grabbed his chalk, and approached. The day’s lunch needed a special. The adventures of the world would have to wait.
Benny wrote as neatly as possible: Ribs n’ Fries, $9.95. He scowled at his sloppy penmanship, but was pleased with the message. He knew what was on the board could be on the menu, but people would pick the board because of its implication. Special. The person eating the meal now is him or herself something special because they are part of the special, and the special is part of them. Kind of like diet soda pop. “I’m drinking a diet drink, therefore I’m on a diet.” That special combination of left-overs with fries has created a special moment in the diner’s day. Benny loved knowing that last night’s cast offs became an event. The magical unchartered world off the menu.
A word about Russ, the morning prep guy. Benny spent a moment practically every day wondering what paths he had chosen to put him in a workplace where Russ was a part of almost every one of his days. Russ was a prep guy through and through. He arrived first so he could have a few hours to work by himself and listen to speed metal. He took some of every one of Benny’s day talking animatedly about soccer, video games, metal or weed before crashing from his sugar high and retreating to the prep area to mumble, rub meat, mix salads or stir sauces. His sanctuary. Russ always left at two and could never get along with any of the other staff members. Benny sometimes wondered about his life outside of the restaurant, but never ventured to go there. Some scenes are better left unexplored. Russ drank about a pot and a half of coffee a day.
Russ emerged from the back ready to talk. “I was listening to Killswitch Engage this morning,” started Russ wiping his meaty hand on his already mustard, pepper, soy sauce, and about twelve other spices and spreads covered apron, “A little mellow, but still alright.”
“Yeah,” Benny hardly ever knew what bands Russ was talking about, but he also knew that Russ would explain them to him whether he wanted enlightenment or not.
“Yeah, well, the guitar is solid, but… I don’t know… It doesn’t have the sort of… I don’t know… Grindtooth! Now they had it! That drummer… Man… I was listening to them when I was playing World of Warcraft and man…”
“Right.” Benny started counting the cash. The cash floated through his hands, and he thought of its journey. Passed on to others who have not been passed on. Benny thought at times that he was passed on. He thought of his daughter, and dreaded that she would some day grow and see him as a lowly middleman. The man in between food and money. The man who took money that was not his and exchanged it for food that was not his. Subsistence and existence. She would be fed and he would eat, but would they ever get past the main course. He felt that he would never, if he remained wise and of sound judgment, be allowed that after dinner coffee, or glass of true full bodied wine. An adventurous meal. The extravagances meant for those who had not been passed on. Those people that ordered from Benny, and thought not about the dent it put in their week’s grocery money. To be a have of this world, Benny thought, would be a sweet thing indeed. These thoughts could sink his spirits, but that day Benny decided that they would not. Not that day.
“Those damn Pudlians,” blurted Russ, “Damn coach Benitez is going to blow the whole wad at this rate.”
“Yeah,” said Benny picking up on the subject change that he hadn’t noticed. He still had about five more minutes of Russ’s dialogue before his sugar and caffeine crash.
“I just don’t understand why he keeps changing the line-up,” Russ continues ignoring all, “I mean if you win a game, you gotta keep that line-up. Right? He’s just going to blow it all. It’s too bad that I’ve got four of their players in my pool cuz I really thought they were going to do it this time around, but with Benitez who knows.” A brief pause. “Then again, with owners that won’t spend any money to get some decent players, what are you gonna do? They need to start spending some money. Buy a big name who can put games away. I guess they did, but then he got injured. There are a lot of injuries on the team. Frustrating… I don’t know… I’m just frustrated.”
Benny continued counting, nodding, and mumbling affirmation while Russ talked on. Benny knew that Russ just needed to be heard. Benny could bear the distraction. The inane dialogue kept him from thinking of depressing things. Also Benny always felt that if he didn’t listen, Russ would stop talking and his thoughts would fade into the stratosphere. The resting place for the voices of the unheard. Dissipating into the cloudy area between air and space. Benny sometimes wished he was a phantom of sorts that could travel to this space and listen to all the voices of the unheard and write them down. Create a ten part volume of unheard wisdom.
“I just want to see things come to something some day. I don’t want to die without a taste of victory. They were powerhouses once. Then I was born, and they’ve sucked ever since. I want some silverware,” Russ was coming to the end, “to see something you’ve invested in for so long not be rewarded is infuriating. Like when my dwarf died in Warcraft. That was really upsetting.”
“Yeah,” Benny responded finding a surprising wisdom in the conclusion of Russ’s diatribe, “It’s a shame.”
Russ muttered a few other things about the a character from his World of Warcraft universe and returned to his sanctuary at the back of the restaurant. Benny closed the cash drawer.
Walking the chalkboard ad sign outside the restaurant he looked at the passing traffic while flipping the sign from CLOSED to OPEN. He knew what his day would be like. The meandering of people on a dreary January Tuesday generally was slow, low paying and consistent. By the look of the grey sky and the cool temperature, it seemed that the day would be as per normal. Like a fishing line being towed behind a low power aluminum boat. One customer per twenty minutes ordering a sandwich (or special!), and, if Benny was lucky, if he could muster the up-sell, if he could bend a will, a drink that wasn’t water.
The prize of all prizes for the restaurateur: a beverage sale. The most marked up item on the menu with zero prep time. The extended warranty of a restaurant. Soda pop, great; alcohol, glorious. Benny mused on drinks, and realized that the coffee had to be made, so he went back inside. The pot Russ made was empty.
It had been the habit of Benny to take an hour’s worth of orders then smoke, return, then invent a managerial job so he would have excuse to leave the store for between thirty minutes and an hour. Get change, buy supplies, liquor run. Something to give him a change. There was something on Benny’s mind that day, however, that caused a riff in his routine.
Benny spent the late morning and afternoon mindlessly taking lunch orders, while his mind remained elsewhere. His six month performance review was coming up later in the day, which Benny had been waiting on for the past three weeks. The owners had put it off four times. There was nothing too too dramatic about a performance review, but if he got the full raise that accompanied such reviews, things would be exponentially better for him and Aspir in the coming year. A couple hundred extra dollars would be amazing.
The days orders rattled on as Benny’s mind was all numbers. Special, pork sandwich, chicken sandwich, pork sandwich, beef sandwich, special, special, special, chicken sandwich. He thought if he looked hard enough and dimmed his focus enough, Benny could find a pattern in the orders. A magical numeric coincidence that would change the universe. Chicken sandwich’s ratio to soda pop over special to the power of pork sandwich divided by beef sandwich add fries inverted cosine of chili with a negative factor of chicken sandwich equals… It was time for a smoke. Benny knew it.
He thought of what the owners would say to him while taking long drags of his fourth cigarette of the day. The owners, Chuck and Guy, were not bad people. Benny knew bad owners, and his current ones were not that. What they were was cheap? Chuck always talked about how he needed to sell more wine, and Guy talked of supplies. They were losing too many forks. He hadn’t sold any of the Sangiovese, and it had been on the list for a month. Classic tales of waste and woe. He stared across the dirty parking lot full of reeking dumpsters and oil stains, and thought of what they would offer him.
Chuck and Guy knew what they had, but never wanted to admit it. The restaurant was a successful one, but they made sure to keep their lowly peons (Benny among them) thinking that tomorrow might spell doom for the whole place if belts weren’t tightened and funds weren’t cut. Benny had heard the speeches and he had stopped listening. He heard the wailing and wasn’t saddened by it. He knew his worth and he knew theirs.
Worth ten pies more if not eight, Benny knew he would only get a slice for his raise. It was always the same thing when it came to reviews and raises. An epic tale of his moments of greatness, and a foreboding caution about those times he fell short of the mark. That time he sold a catering order worth five grand was really nice, but that day he forgot to put the water bottles away must be noted as well. The end result: a slightly above average raise. He knew the owners could not lose him, but he also knew they didn’t want to give him too much of their precious coin. The day of his review he hoped for more, but was ready for the norm.
What could Chuck and Guy really do for him in the end? They didn’t have the power to make him a superhero his daughter would rave to her friends about. They couldn’t make him fly. They had no magic amulet that he knew of. They wouldn’t give him the sense of meaning he had always thought he lacked. They couldn’t stop the frustration of responsibility and the pressure of wisdom.
Benny’s life was what it was, and he was responsible for living it. His daughter was his concern, and he would do good by her even if he was average for it. The casinos of Macau would have to wait. The owners were only owners. He couldn’t change that.
“Um. Hey Benny!” called Russ from inside, “there’s some customers here that are asking about the chicken, and if it has any gluten in it. Something about allergies.”
“Right,” answered Benny stubbing out his half finished cigarette, “I’ll be right there.”
A paraphrasing of Benny’s review:
Alright man, so your last six months have been good for the most part. Your co-managers, Murray and Connor, like working with you, and haven’t had too many problems. We like that your beverage sales are up even if we’d like to see a bit more in the wine and hard alcohol department. You know, that’s where we make are biggest margin. Murray says that sometimes projects get left unfinished and that he’s had to ask you more than once to complete some tasks. And there was that day we ran out of baseball steaks. You need to stay on top of the ordering situation. More or less though, he says you do a good job. You gotta take a more active role in getting on your dish washers to work more efficiently and not lose so much silverware and waste so much dish soap. That stuff’ll kill us in the end. Eighty five percent of all restaurants go out of business in the first five years, so we gotta tighten up if we want to make it that far. We’ll give you an eight percent raise starting your next paycheque, and we’ll look at moving you up to store manager by the end of next year. Sound good? Alright, we gotta go meet someone about our new location, so we’ll talk later. Thanks man.
Benny was unimpressed and unsurprised. His life would go on.
Benny, walking to the bank later that day, looked at the street around him. There were cars, buses, walkers, and bicycles; all en route. Benny thought of the flow of human traffic along Broadway at midday. A river of obligations and rendezvous of people who find themselves important in a thousand ways. No more horses though. Organic people riding organic beasts in concert with one another, and pushing each other to where they needed to go; those days were gone. No more horses. Now, people drove it instead of riding it. The horse had been pushed out to the suburbs or beyond. People were now alone in the city. No more horses.
Benny was on his way to the bank and he could not stray from the path. Benny thought of banks, cars and money and pulled on his hoodie strings walking heavily along the pavement. Thoughts pulled him down toward the greyness of the street with each step. Thoughts of his tiny raise. Thoughts of his meaning. Thoughts of how unadventurous his life was. Thoughts of how dirty the restaurant was and how he needed to clean when he returned. The blue and yellow of the bank pulled him forward while the grey pavement pulled him down. He wished a horse would appear to rescue him.
Benny lit up a cigarette, and checked his cell phone. A text message from Melanie, the ex and constant presence in his life, shone on the display. “Should chk about prvat school for Aspir l8tr.”
“Why?” Benny typed.
Melanie had become obsessed with private schools lately. She listened attentively to young parents’ tales of how horrible the public school system was, and how children doomed to their halls learned the equivalent of one ten years younger in Sweden. She was convinced that if Aspir didn’t go to a private school, she would be forced into the world sans meaning. The world of janitors, garbage men, telemarketers and restaurant managers. Benny had graduated from public school, and took all of Melanie’s slurs as symptomatic of her disappointment in him.
Benny knew, even if Melanie forgot, what his paycheque was every other week. He got his average raise after his predictable review, but he knew that meant only a trickle more; no river. He also knew how wise his daughter was. He believed she would succeed no matter what obstacle. He prided himself an objective man, and he thought, honestly, that his daughter was more talented than any four year old he had met in his life. Aspir would become queen of the world from a snake pit if it came to that, and no public school was going to be to tough for her to bust out of.
“We’ll talk on Saturday,” he texted back glaring at the screen as he typed.
“Fne, bt Im serios. We nd to dside sn.”
Taking a drag he felt himself loosened from the tug of the pavement, and moved slovenly towards the bank. Thinking of Aspir had that effect. He had to get change for the night shift. He never minded going to the bank.
His dream girl, Trish, worked there, which caused unchartable joy in his day. She flirted with him. She was pleasant and bent the bills to count the money in such a sexy way. Who cares if she had a rock the size of a coconut on her left ring finger? To be charmed was enough for Benny. To be flirted with was to be inspired.
Gripping the few bills for change in one hand, Benny opened the door to the bank, and entered to where the change girl was, and gave what he thought of as a charming smirk towards Trish when he caught her eye. She smiled in recognition as he approached the window. Oh that smile. Oh those deep green eyes. Oh that smooth black hair. An urban princess to be sure. A welcome part of his day.
“Hey Trish,” Benny said with the cool calm of the smoothest of operators, “Just need to get some change.”
“Really? I thought you were coming here to whisk me away from all this.”
“Maybe next time.”
“Such a shame. Every girl is waiting for someone like you.”
“Well, if they waited this long, they can probably wait until tomorrow.”
“Right. I’ll be right back.”
Trish counted the bills as she always did: bending the bills over her index finger, holding the wad with her thumb and flicking each twenty with her diamond ringed finger. Precision and speed. A Ferrari in a bank. Benny watched and marveled as Trish counted off the bills that would become coins. An alchemist. Then, in a moment, as quickly as it began, it ended.
“Two rolls of toonies, one roll of loonies, four quarters, one dime, and two pennies. All set. Have a great day Benny. Maybe I’ll come by for a chicken sandwich later.” She never did.
“Cool,” realizing why dream girls’ worlds should never be entered. Disappointment could ensue.
“Talk to you tomorrow.”
“Indeed. Wouldn’t miss it.”
Benny loved the thought of his dream girl Trish. She would always be in the glass cage and he would be on the other side. He would never have to enter her world, and she would never enter his. It was the perfect arrangement of elements. He did not have to see the dark days when she battled for control of his soul. He did not have look in her eyes of disappointment when he couldn’t take her away for a weekend. She remained his dream girl in a plastic cage, and he remained safe and secure in his world of two.
He thought of Aspir as his shift was coming to an end. His sweet small angel with blue eyes that flashed of green in the water. He thought of her strawberry hair falling down her back as she ran with her friends. His world was her world and there was a peace in it. Performance reviews, fights with her mother, the monotony of work and the loneliness of the city all faded when he thought about the progression of their life together. She was his adventure, and he would succeed.
“Come to me now Aspir. See your dad. See him work and know that it’s all you my sweet baby. All for you. Your days of being small and sweet are so short, and then you lose the honesty which comes from the true centre of your small self. All for you. I trade my frustration for your joy. Your joy becomes my joy.” Benny stopped himself as he noticed he was speaking aloud, and not listening to the customer.
“What ?” a dyed blond girl asked annoyed, “I said I wanted a smoked chicken sandwich.”
“Right. Anything to drink.”
“Uhh. Maybe a diet coke.”
“Sure thing,” he said as he smiled knowingly and printed out her order.
Friday, 18 December 2009
A Poem, For Grant
For Grant
Spineless boy
I laughed with
the head mocker,
jackal,
who danced with words
spewing tar
on you, innocent,
barratonist.
The smooth low
tones of the jazz cats’
spinal chord.
I laughed though
building regret.
my trombone
missing
crucial beats.
Vital apologies.
A Sicilian funeral
march follows
a procession of mourners
clad in black
walking over dry rocks
regretting forward
momentum.
Spineless boy
I laughed with
the head mocker,
jackal,
who danced with words
spewing tar
on you, innocent,
barratonist.
The smooth low
tones of the jazz cats’
spinal chord.
I laughed though
building regret.
my trombone
missing
crucial beats.
Vital apologies.
A Sicilian funeral
march follows
a procession of mourners
clad in black
walking over dry rocks
regretting forward
momentum.
Monday, 30 November 2009
A Quote, Mordecai Richler
"Yet another Canadian bigmouth trying to make a name for himself in London."
- St. Urbain's Horseman, Mordecai Richler
- St. Urbain's Horseman, Mordecai Richler
Friday, 13 November 2009
A Haiku, Scared at a Fair
Scared at a Fair
Take me away Dad
confusing noises, strange men
bad cotton candy
Take me away Dad
confusing noises, strange men
bad cotton candy
A Poem, Untitled
The guy who covers
Johnny Cash
is the hottest ticket
tonight.
The real deals are dead
and cheap copies remain.
A scenester can’t stand
to scratch her itchy nose,
and a slide guitar is heard
on the other side of town.
An unimpressed crowd
nods semi-rhythmically
in between text messages
and sighs,
and a pallimani plays.
I turn my head from
a sardonic smirk to
and ironic mustache
to stylish eye glasses,
to a button made of yard,
a checkered table cloth I recall.
I sometimes go to the
open mic blue grass jam
at the wheel club
outside of town.
Where they serve wine
from jugs
and bags of old dutch.
Out of town.
Johnny Cash
is the hottest ticket
tonight.
The real deals are dead
and cheap copies remain.
A scenester can’t stand
to scratch her itchy nose,
and a slide guitar is heard
on the other side of town.
An unimpressed crowd
nods semi-rhythmically
in between text messages
and sighs,
and a pallimani plays.
I turn my head from
a sardonic smirk to
and ironic mustache
to stylish eye glasses,
to a button made of yard,
a checkered table cloth I recall.
I sometimes go to the
open mic blue grass jam
at the wheel club
outside of town.
Where they serve wine
from jugs
and bags of old dutch.
Out of town.
A Poem, A Day
A Day
Single female janitor
raises three girls
- two autistic -
cries at night.
A row of repossessed
houses across town
are weathered by
the elements.
A paperboy works for
his allowance as
he stuffs the daily
courier into a
yellow box.
Today’s headline
STIMULUS.
The janitor looks
at her glassy floor
- not hers -
just mopped
tracing the tile lines
and orange colour blocks,
absenting herself
for a moment.
Alone and absolved.
The paperboy bikes by
vacant houses,
peddling harder
scared of the ghosts
who come up
short on judgment day
that try to pull
you in.
The sun goes down,
the streetlight turns on,
a day turns to night.
Single female janitor
raises three girls
- two autistic -
cries at night.
A row of repossessed
houses across town
are weathered by
the elements.
A paperboy works for
his allowance as
he stuffs the daily
courier into a
yellow box.
Today’s headline
STIMULUS.
The janitor looks
at her glassy floor
- not hers -
just mopped
tracing the tile lines
and orange colour blocks,
absenting herself
for a moment.
Alone and absolved.
The paperboy bikes by
vacant houses,
peddling harder
scared of the ghosts
who come up
short on judgment day
that try to pull
you in.
The sun goes down,
the streetlight turns on,
a day turns to night.
Friday, 30 October 2009
A Reflection, Tom Gibson
Tom
Fasten belts light
Hard working rugby winger
Green soccer jersey
Saxophone
Glasses
Braces (He will not be wearing the retainer)
Choice interview
Argue, argue, argue – laugh
Shots of Zambucca
NDP rally
Dinner
Washroom bump into
Outside the Portugese Meat Bun shop
History of the Working Class
Medieval sword play
Simpson’s Episode (Particularly the one when Mr. Burns hits Bart with his car)
Japan’s turn in Axis and Allies (Keeping to the original strategy)
A Westside boy
Braveheart cutout
Smiling. Always, smiling
Farewell good friend
Good friend
Fasten belts light
Hard working rugby winger
Green soccer jersey
Saxophone
Glasses
Braces (He will not be wearing the retainer)
Choice interview
Argue, argue, argue – laugh
Shots of Zambucca
NDP rally
Dinner
Washroom bump into
Outside the Portugese Meat Bun shop
History of the Working Class
Medieval sword play
Simpson’s Episode (Particularly the one when Mr. Burns hits Bart with his car)
Japan’s turn in Axis and Allies (Keeping to the original strategy)
A Westside boy
Braveheart cutout
Smiling. Always, smiling
Farewell good friend
Good friend
Friday, 16 October 2009
A Poem, Of Kings, The Seduction of Adding Machines and the Smell of Flowers
The Seduction of an Adding Machine and the Smell of Flowers
The clatter, clack, clack
Of the adding machine stops,
And he inhales the memory of
The city of kings
stone steps
domed cathedrals.
To be king.
He exhales,
with
sorrow filled repressed memory:
Her:
containing will
strength
peddling flowers
in the city of ancient kings.
Knights’ horses clopping with daisies in their manes.
Her daisies.
He:
absent strength,
no will,
sorrow repressed memory,
bidding the call of the number machine:
clatter, clack, clack, clack.
He:
thinking of kings and flowers.
She:
selling flowers
the city of kings.
Auditing the numbers of strangers,
repressing all else.
To be king.
The clatter, clack, clack
Of the adding machine stops,
And he inhales the memory of
The city of kings
stone steps
domed cathedrals.
To be king.
He exhales,
with
sorrow filled repressed memory:
Her:
containing will
strength
peddling flowers
in the city of ancient kings.
Knights’ horses clopping with daisies in their manes.
Her daisies.
He:
absent strength,
no will,
sorrow repressed memory,
bidding the call of the number machine:
clatter, clack, clack, clack.
He:
thinking of kings and flowers.
She:
selling flowers
the city of kings.
Auditing the numbers of strangers,
repressing all else.
To be king.
A Poem, Boxes and Flying Fish
Boxes and Flying Fish
The smoke snails before my eyes,
And fades in a jellyfish
cloud above my head,
I squint catching two
friends’ alligator smiles.
Not mine.
I saw the fish that
fly on the Indian ocean,
Exocoetidae,
the mist from the cable laying
ship bounced on the water.
disrupting.
I have no goal.
I ran the race with
creaking crab knees,
tumbled lifeless as a shell on a mattress,
while the ferry
sailed from the mainland to the island,
and sweat beads dried on my forehead.
Salt crusting.
They crush me.
Whales wrestling
shrimp getting crushed
I work.
Now I smoke and think of experience
dreading them.
I work within a circuitboard plugging in cables that overpower others,
and retire to a box with a four portioned box for dinner,
while action movies glow from a small blue glowing box I mistake for entertainment.
A mountain.
Stale smoke.
Sitting in a shark
cage smoking section.
Boxed.
A flying fish escapes
in the air.
The smoke exits his mouth, as he thinks of stale flying fish near a ship.
The smoke snails before my eyes,
And fades in a jellyfish
cloud above my head,
I squint catching two
friends’ alligator smiles.
Not mine.
I saw the fish that
fly on the Indian ocean,
Exocoetidae,
the mist from the cable laying
ship bounced on the water.
disrupting.
I have no goal.
I ran the race with
creaking crab knees,
tumbled lifeless as a shell on a mattress,
while the ferry
sailed from the mainland to the island,
and sweat beads dried on my forehead.
Salt crusting.
They crush me.
Whales wrestling
shrimp getting crushed
I work.
Now I smoke and think of experience
dreading them.
I work within a circuitboard plugging in cables that overpower others,
and retire to a box with a four portioned box for dinner,
while action movies glow from a small blue glowing box I mistake for entertainment.
A mountain.
Stale smoke.
Sitting in a shark
cage smoking section.
Boxed.
A flying fish escapes
in the air.
The smoke exits his mouth, as he thinks of stale flying fish near a ship.
A Poem, A Day
A Day
Single female janitor
raises three girls
- two autistic -
cries at night.
A row of repossessed
houses across town
are weathered by
the elements.
A paperboy works for
his allowance as
he stuffs the daily
courier into a
yellow box.
Today’s headline
STIMULUS.
The janitor looks
at her glassy floor
- not hers -
just mopped
tracing the tile lines
and orange colour blocks,
absenting herself
for a moment.
Alone and absolved.
The paperboy bikes by
vacant houses,
peddling harder
scared of the ghosts
who come up
short on judgment day
that try to pull
you in.
The sun goes down,
the streetlight turns on,
a day turns to night.
Single female janitor
raises three girls
- two autistic -
cries at night.
A row of repossessed
houses across town
are weathered by
the elements.
A paperboy works for
his allowance as
he stuffs the daily
courier into a
yellow box.
Today’s headline
STIMULUS.
The janitor looks
at her glassy floor
- not hers -
just mopped
tracing the tile lines
and orange colour blocks,
absenting herself
for a moment.
Alone and absolved.
The paperboy bikes by
vacant houses,
peddling harder
scared of the ghosts
who come up
short on judgment day
that try to pull
you in.
The sun goes down,
the streetlight turns on,
a day turns to night.
Thursday, 1 October 2009
Monday, 28 September 2009
Friday, 25 September 2009
A Poem, Queued
Queued
Sixty eight people hold tickets
Waiting their turn
Always waiting
For a moment at a window
A rubber stamp
A stamp of approval
Fearing rejection
Anticipating denial
Hoping for ok
Praying for approval
They all sit
Vents blow recycled semi-cool air
On angry heads
Eyeing minute hands
That blur into hours
A forty two year old man grinds teeth
Hours hours hours
Days days days
How did it come to this?
The horseman rode in his fields
The engineer built bridges out of metal
The builder pounded wood
And now
Flesh sits on pleather chairs
Under fluorescents
Scraping light
Illuminating the flaws of humanity
Three more numbers until the twenty four year old man in the baseball cap gets his turn at the window
The chance to fill out forms
Sixty eight people hold tickets
Waiting their turn
Always waiting
For a moment at a window
A rubber stamp
A stamp of approval
Fearing rejection
Anticipating denial
Hoping for ok
Praying for approval
They all sit
Vents blow recycled semi-cool air
On angry heads
Eyeing minute hands
That blur into hours
A forty two year old man grinds teeth
Hours hours hours
Days days days
How did it come to this?
The horseman rode in his fields
The engineer built bridges out of metal
The builder pounded wood
And now
Flesh sits on pleather chairs
Under fluorescents
Scraping light
Illuminating the flaws of humanity
Three more numbers until the twenty four year old man in the baseball cap gets his turn at the window
The chance to fill out forms
A Poem, Cooking Corn
Cooking Corn
The boy picks up a husked corn
From the bucket of water she prepared.
Putting it on the grate
Over the hot coals.
Peeling crisped husks one by one.
Through the screen door
She mashes sweet potatoes.
Wine gurgles into a third glass,
A husk leaf is removed,
Corn is heated on hot coals
On a fire escape.
A new home.
Fragility.
Security.
Comfort.
Unease.
All battling within.
A wind flutters through an elm,
Making fluorescent the few coals
Heating moisture within each kernel.
Another husk leaf is peeled.
The sweet potatoes are ready.
The golden rows emerge
As the final husk peels are removed.
Sweet smoke through the neighbourhood.
The boy picks up a husked corn
From the bucket of water she prepared.
Putting it on the grate
Over the hot coals.
Peeling crisped husks one by one.
Through the screen door
She mashes sweet potatoes.
Wine gurgles into a third glass,
A husk leaf is removed,
Corn is heated on hot coals
On a fire escape.
A new home.
Fragility.
Security.
Comfort.
Unease.
All battling within.
A wind flutters through an elm,
Making fluorescent the few coals
Heating moisture within each kernel.
Another husk leaf is peeled.
The sweet potatoes are ready.
The golden rows emerge
As the final husk peels are removed.
Sweet smoke through the neighbourhood.
A Poem, Wasps
Wasps
The wasps hover over the browning grass.
I don’t know what they’re looking for
But I know they are menacing.
The fear of children and the weak fleshed
Patrolling for sweet things
Stinging the unsuspecting
Batted at only to return with fervor.
I have always known of the wasp’s danger.
Yet at times,
When frustrated beyond clairvoyance,
I threw rocks at their nests.
I pitied those drowning in my parents wasp trap.
I picked up a dead one,
And lamented that it could no longer
Bother those that swatted at them
Cursing them for their nature.
The wasps hover over the browning grass.
I don’t know what they’re looking for
But I know they are menacing.
The fear of children and the weak fleshed
Patrolling for sweet things
Stinging the unsuspecting
Batted at only to return with fervor.
I have always known of the wasp’s danger.
Yet at times,
When frustrated beyond clairvoyance,
I threw rocks at their nests.
I pitied those drowning in my parents wasp trap.
I picked up a dead one,
And lamented that it could no longer
Bother those that swatted at them
Cursing them for their nature.
Tuesday, 22 September 2009
Tuesday, 15 September 2009
A Story, Whispers of Jane
Whispers of Jane
I will recount now, with the help of the blue and white pills Dr. Conte gave me this morning, the events that got me here. This is my moment of clarity, this is my moment when I can remember the shadow of who I used to be and who I became. I have no explanations as to why I am this sedated shell now, but I will tell you of the days when the whispering would not be quiet, and though I tried and tried, I found no way in which to silence them. Now they are silenced for me (save for the nightmares and the flashbacked moments of clarity). Now I hardly remember them, and I am thankful.
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Whispering noise in my ear that morning. That’s the closest I can get to spelling the sound in my ear: ffffffffffffsssssssssssssssshhhhhhhhhhhhhhffffffffffffffffff. Like a mosquito whispering through a rotary dial phone that should have been replaced long ago. Product of a rough night last night perhaps. Rough nights always made me feel disastrous in the mornings. Shake my head. Headache. Stick a finger in my ear. Shower. Let the hot water pour over me and be still. Still while the water pours over me. Try to remember last night. Where was I? Yeah right at that party, but what happened? I’ll never know, I guess, save for second hand tales told by friends who glorify the fool I become at parties of the sort. Why are they my friends again? The water pours over me for a lifetime if it is a minute. Eat. Eat as much as possible. Fill my stomach with bacon and toast. Maybe that’s what this headache is from. Hunger. Maybe that’s what this noise is from. This whispering. Feels like there’s a mosquito in my brain. Leave please. Leave! I don’t think I’ll drink for a long time. Now, however, I’m full, and late, and tired, and hurting.
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Waiting for the bus. Head still buzzing. Still with the headache and the stomach ache from eating too much, and the whispering. Cold out. Definitely not helping my head ache. Hunch over and have a smoke before the bus comes. Finger a design in the road sand. Kind of looks like a mushroom on a hill. The bus is always late. Smoke to pass the time away. Smoke to pass my life away. That hurts in the stomach. Like every wisp of smoke is a poisonous vapor snake biting me from the inside. Choke it down. Choke, choke, choke. That whispering. Why won’t it stop? I’ll smoke another for the head rush then it will go away. Smoke some more. Hurt some more. Whispering, whispering, whispering. I’m going to be late for work. It’s 7:36, I need to be at work at 8:00. Bus ride takes at least a half an hour. The bus is on the horizon.
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Now sitting on the bus reading my book. “A telltale heart”. I’m not really concentrating. Trying to think of that girl I met last night. What did she say? Why did I look? What is it? Jane or something? I liked her I think. I remember her, but what did I say? I always make a fool of myself when I drink. Andrew’s parents’ house party. Whispering. My head is starting to clear. Stomach still hurts from all the smoke and bacon. Why did I eat so much bacon? Oh yeah, to quell the headache. And the whispering. Jane. Jane what? Where was she from? I never saw her before. She was visiting or from the other side of town. Hair. I remember hair. Black hair. What did I say? What did she say that made me remember her? It’s like somebody is blowing in my ear and humming. I wish it would stop. This book isn’t helping anything. Whispers persisting to ruin my train of thought. This bus is so bumpy. The driver keeps spiking the brakes and goosing the gas. He sure isn’t helping. Look at these people on the bus. All of them tired, all of them staring blankly at something. Backs of heads, the horrible world through the window, trash magazines, figures. Jane. Who was Jane?
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Bus stopped now. Waiting for the driver change. What are the whispers saying? I hate these times. Making us wait for them to change. Their job to take us places. Hurry up please! I am late for work! It’s 7:49, and I’m at least 20 minutes from work. Just get in the bus and drive. Jane was from across town. Jane had black hair. Jane talked to me. Jane smiled at me. She was laughing. Blue eyes. She didn’t want to touch me. She was laughing. Whispers in my ear. Who did? Jane. Somebody whispering right now. What are they saying. Jerry was at the party too. We look out for each other. Where was he that night. I take out some gum to kill the fire in my mouth from the smoke and the bacon. Stomach ache fading, headache gone. Buzzing, whispering, ringing in my ear. Was I right next to a speaker? No I was talking with Jane. Where was Jerry? Had to leave? Wanted to leave? What happened to Jerry? Jane and I were talking outside. It was cold. She was smiling. The bus driver sure is taking his time. Does he not care about our jobs? To be honest, I don’t care about mine, but I need to do it. The gum is peppermint. Always gives me a bit of heartburn peppermint. Need the fire in my mouth put out. Rumbling of the bus starts again. Sure don’t want the “talking to” I’m going to get at work for sure.
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Can’t hear what she’s saying. She’s talking to me, but all I hear is whispers. I caught something about being late and responsibility and being a grown up, but I don’t want to hear the rest. She is my boss. She is Tanya. She doesn’t like me very much. She likes to talk to me condescendingly. Tanya wants me to get in the game and be part of the team. That and to be a little more professional. I work at a hardware store. Jane smiled at me. Tanya thinks I need to have less party nights when I work the next day. This is a verbal warning. She writes it down.
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Nails. Stacking nails. Well, dumping nails into boxes and then stacking them over the aisles. Nails rattle and chingle as they fall into their home in the big box. The big box of nails. Special nails for mounting pictures of families and paintings. Must separate the nails. If they get together, the customers get confused. Rattle, rattle, chingle. Whisper, rattle, rattle. Can’t hear anyone. Can’t hear anything, but the rattling and the whispering. Jane wouldn’t be impressed by this. Jerry stops by my work.
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I wish the whispering would stop so Jerry can fill me in. He was there. He met someone, Terry. Terry? Really Jerry? That’s who you wind up meeting? Jane is Terry’s friend. I was out of it. I was covered in sweat. Jerry wanted to be with Terry. He left. He whispered in my ear: “Back in twenty.” He left. He wanted to be with Terry. Jane was left with me. She talked to me. I was loud. She laughed with me. She laughed at me? She had black hair. She tried to help me up when I fell in the goldfish pond in the back
yard. Goldfish pond? It was Andrew’s parents’ house. They have a goldfish pond in the backyard. I fell in. I drank too much. Jane tried to help me. Jerry took me home. He was with Terry. Now he has to go to work himself. I don’t want to drink ever again. Whisper, whisper, whisper. “You should call Jane, tell her you’re all right,” Jerry says. Jerry leaves, again. The nails keep rattling. Work keeps on a’ going.
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“I hear you got written up again.” I hear that sentence at least. Hoping for poetry and getting Jeff. Jeff. Jeff drives me crazy. All he thinks about is work and his truck. Or at least all he talks about is work and his truck. I’m trying to eat my lunch. Tacos. Still trying to get the whisper out of my ear. Like a mosquito living in my brain. Jeff go away. He’s talking, but I’m not listening. He thinks it’s funny what happened to me. He heard about it. He’s never there, he just hears about it. Now I like the whispering. It silences Jeff. Looking at the paper, but none of the words make it from my eyes to my brain. Jeff keeps talking. I wonder what Jane does. Whispering, whispering, whispering. Grey clouds. Try to understand, I was a little drunk. That’s what I’ll say to her. She would understand that. I close my eyes. I see nails. Picture hanging nails. I’ve worked here too long. I close my eyes harder. I see a mosquito. I see a mosquito with blue eyes and black hair. I want to see Jane. I can’t see her. The whispering is too distracting. And Jeff. He’s distracting too.
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I finished the day of work somehow. Home now. Momma. Oh she’s so sweet. Man this
whispering in my ear is driving me up the wall. Keep scratching there. In the ear. Keep going deeper. Deeper. Must stop the ringing. Whispers keep me occupied. Can’t hear my mom. Trying to make me feel better. I’m upset. I don’t like the ringing, which alternates with the whispering. Sometimes it’s the same, sometimes it goes back and forth. I wish I could’ve talked to Jane. Wish I was a little bit smarter. Wish I could talk to the ladies. Jerry can talk to the ladies. That’s why he got with Terry. “Back in twenty.” Frustrating. I was in a goldfish pond. I keep scratching my ear. I hope I don’t hit my brain. Probably wouldn’t change anything. Mom sees it’s bothering me. Jane. Did she have my number? Did I give it to her? What about Jerry? We look out for each other. Sort of. He must’ve given it to her. Maybe. Mom sees it’s distracting me. “You should go to the doctor if it keeps up.” Momma. Always concerned. He did give it to her. He told me when he stopped by my work. I remember. We look out for each other. Man this whispering. Shut up! “No, not you mom.” She understands me. She always understands. Momma, smiling at me. Jane was smiling. “Has she called, Mom?” Momma says something. I don‘t hear it except for the “no” part.
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So much louder now. A week passes. It’s out of control. Just won’t stop whispering. Doctor gave me pills. Thought it might be nasal. Gave me sprays too. “Just pop your
ear drums occasionally.” Still the whispering. Whispers, whispers, whispers. Take pills, spray stuff up my nose. Smells like roses. Helps nothing. Sitting on the side of my bed now. Haven’t slept all night. Don’t sleep that much anymore. Scratching my ear. Going as deep as I can. Nothing will stop this. Will my life always be like this? Is this ever going to stop? I can’t hear anyone anymore. Whispers, only whispers. I wish I could talk to my Momma this morning. I just can’t think of anything else. Sometimes I press my hands against my ears as hard as I can, and I can’t hear anything, or maybe it’s just the whispers, and I’ve confused those with silence. I wait for the silence. Jane never called. I called I think. Maybe twice. Maybe more times than that. Okay, maybe a few times. Got the number from Jerry. We look out for each other. Things are going well with Jerry and Terry. I don’t see him much. Tells me things are going well. I’m glad. Sort of.
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On the bus again now. Sitting. Can’t read anymore. Can’t seem to concentrate. Bumpy ride again. I’ve already smoked five today. I smoke more than a pack a day. Just hoping
Rowe, Whispers of Jane
that it will silence the whispers. When I think about them they’re louder. I think of Jane to silence them. Also drink. Bumpy ride. Always so bumpy. It’s 8:34am. I get the later shift now. 9:00am. I’m still going to be late. I don’t care. I don’t think the bus driver
should hurry. I take another pill. This one’s different. It’ll take care of the chemical imbalance. Grey clouds drifting. Whispering. Try not to think about it. I look like hell. My eyes are red. Below my eyes are black. So tired. Just want to sleep in silence.
Bumpy ride. Stop. Wait. Bus turned off. Nobody says anything. I wish someone would talk to me now. No words; just whispering.
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At work. Taking a bathroom break. I take a lot of them. They can’t take that away from me. Tanya talked to me yesterday. Thought I was “lacking in inspiration” at work. I don’t feel inspired. How can I really? Try to hear the noises in the store. Close my eyes to concentrate. Only hear clanging and musak and the whispering. I hate the musak, but today it comforts me. Synthetic saxophone and piano pieces sound like a Mozart sonata. I think of Momma. I think of a lake in a mountain.
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Today I’m unloading hammers. The sound of metal on wood on metal ringing in my
head. Jeff talking to me about something. I’m not listening. I never listen to him anymore. I listen to the hammers clanging. I listen to the musak. Sometimes I think his stories about his truck would be a nice change, but I choose the musak and the hammers. Would have been nice for Jane to call. Black hair. Actually I don’t know anymore.
Well I remember black hair. I close my eyes and press my hands over my ears. I see black. A mosquito too. Mosquito with blue eyes and black hair. Smiling? Do mosquitoes have mouths? It’s water. Open my eyes. Jeff thinks I’m nuts. Geez this
guy. Tell him I don’t feel well. Need to go to the bathroom. Close my eyes again in the bathroom. I see water. Grey clouds hovering over water. I avoid the mosquito, and look at the water.
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I’m at home now. Did I even end the day. I don’t remember. Maybe got sent home. Maybe just left. Not an inspiring day. Laying on my bed. Momma strokes my hair. Hurts her to see me hurt. She knows about the whispering. Only her. Tried to tell Jane I think. Well I called her. Once. Twice. Maybe more Well I tried. Haven’t seen her. Momma thinks I should go out. My head’s on her lap now. I think I’m crying. I just wish it would stop. Whisper, whisper, whisper. Momma’s singing Cat Stevens songs.
Father and Son. Sometimes I think she’s not real. It’s getting quieter. I close my eyes. The mosquito’s not there. Just a heartbeat. I sleep in silence.
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I’m out now. Whispering’s quieter. I know it’s there, but it’s quieter. I can ignore it now. Don’t smoke tonight. At a forgettable bar. Jerry’s there. He’s with Terry. I’m anxious. Maybe Jane will be too. She is! Black hair. Blue eyes. Smiles. Smiles?
Smirks? Something behind those eyes. Not what I thought. Not how I remember. She talks to me. Talks about herself mainly. She’s a manager somewhere that sells wicker or something. I’m not really listening. I feel alone. I look in her eyes. I feel alone. Her
eyes make me feel alone. This is not right. I feel dizzy. My head hurts now. I’m not looking at her now. Kind of glancing from the floor to the ceiling fan to the table to the bottle in front of me to the floor and around her, but not at her. Something’s wrong. She doesn’t like me. This isn’t what it was. Anger. Whispering. Blue eyes. Black hair. Mosquitoes. Goldfish pond. Nails. Jeff. Hammers. Anger. Tanya. Jerry. Smiles. Black. I need to leave. I need out. I need it to stop.
So now I am where I am. In an institution of some kind. Let’s just call it a hospital. Doctor Conte helps me clarify what it is I want to say. He gives me pills that are blue and white, and listens while I talk to him about Jane and Jerry and the whispers and the lack of inspiration at work. Momma comes here to visit me and tries sometimes to tell me what happened after that time, but I can’t tell you about that because I’m not
Rowe, Whispers of Jane
comfortable telling you because it’s all hearsay as they say. What happened after is what everyone knows, and, really, the only thing anyone cares about. My momma and I watch Law and Order when she comes. She’s the only one who comes to visit me. I don’t see Jerry anymore. He said something about a broken bottle and a fight and someone got hurt then he never came to talk again.
I just couldn’t stop the whispering without stopping Jane I think. Something happened after it all went black and then the whispering stopped. I only remember after
when Dr. Conte gave me the pills to calm the whispering and I remembered seeing Jane smiling and it makes me happy. Not real happy though. More the hazy happy that I used to get when I would party with Jerry. I close my eyes and think of the water. Grey clouds that come and go, but always the water. I listen for Father and Son and try to hear a heartbeat to fall asleep to. I am happy in that thought, and the whispering is stopped and the mosquito is gone.
I will recount now, with the help of the blue and white pills Dr. Conte gave me this morning, the events that got me here. This is my moment of clarity, this is my moment when I can remember the shadow of who I used to be and who I became. I have no explanations as to why I am this sedated shell now, but I will tell you of the days when the whispering would not be quiet, and though I tried and tried, I found no way in which to silence them. Now they are silenced for me (save for the nightmares and the flashbacked moments of clarity). Now I hardly remember them, and I am thankful.
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Whispering noise in my ear that morning. That’s the closest I can get to spelling the sound in my ear: ffffffffffffsssssssssssssssshhhhhhhhhhhhhhffffffffffffffffff. Like a mosquito whispering through a rotary dial phone that should have been replaced long ago. Product of a rough night last night perhaps. Rough nights always made me feel disastrous in the mornings. Shake my head. Headache. Stick a finger in my ear. Shower. Let the hot water pour over me and be still. Still while the water pours over me. Try to remember last night. Where was I? Yeah right at that party, but what happened? I’ll never know, I guess, save for second hand tales told by friends who glorify the fool I become at parties of the sort. Why are they my friends again? The water pours over me for a lifetime if it is a minute. Eat. Eat as much as possible. Fill my stomach with bacon and toast. Maybe that’s what this headache is from. Hunger. Maybe that’s what this noise is from. This whispering. Feels like there’s a mosquito in my brain. Leave please. Leave! I don’t think I’ll drink for a long time. Now, however, I’m full, and late, and tired, and hurting.
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Waiting for the bus. Head still buzzing. Still with the headache and the stomach ache from eating too much, and the whispering. Cold out. Definitely not helping my head ache. Hunch over and have a smoke before the bus comes. Finger a design in the road sand. Kind of looks like a mushroom on a hill. The bus is always late. Smoke to pass the time away. Smoke to pass my life away. That hurts in the stomach. Like every wisp of smoke is a poisonous vapor snake biting me from the inside. Choke it down. Choke, choke, choke. That whispering. Why won’t it stop? I’ll smoke another for the head rush then it will go away. Smoke some more. Hurt some more. Whispering, whispering, whispering. I’m going to be late for work. It’s 7:36, I need to be at work at 8:00. Bus ride takes at least a half an hour. The bus is on the horizon.
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Now sitting on the bus reading my book. “A telltale heart”. I’m not really concentrating. Trying to think of that girl I met last night. What did she say? Why did I look? What is it? Jane or something? I liked her I think. I remember her, but what did I say? I always make a fool of myself when I drink. Andrew’s parents’ house party. Whispering. My head is starting to clear. Stomach still hurts from all the smoke and bacon. Why did I eat so much bacon? Oh yeah, to quell the headache. And the whispering. Jane. Jane what? Where was she from? I never saw her before. She was visiting or from the other side of town. Hair. I remember hair. Black hair. What did I say? What did she say that made me remember her? It’s like somebody is blowing in my ear and humming. I wish it would stop. This book isn’t helping anything. Whispers persisting to ruin my train of thought. This bus is so bumpy. The driver keeps spiking the brakes and goosing the gas. He sure isn’t helping. Look at these people on the bus. All of them tired, all of them staring blankly at something. Backs of heads, the horrible world through the window, trash magazines, figures. Jane. Who was Jane?
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Bus stopped now. Waiting for the driver change. What are the whispers saying? I hate these times. Making us wait for them to change. Their job to take us places. Hurry up please! I am late for work! It’s 7:49, and I’m at least 20 minutes from work. Just get in the bus and drive. Jane was from across town. Jane had black hair. Jane talked to me. Jane smiled at me. She was laughing. Blue eyes. She didn’t want to touch me. She was laughing. Whispers in my ear. Who did? Jane. Somebody whispering right now. What are they saying. Jerry was at the party too. We look out for each other. Where was he that night. I take out some gum to kill the fire in my mouth from the smoke and the bacon. Stomach ache fading, headache gone. Buzzing, whispering, ringing in my ear. Was I right next to a speaker? No I was talking with Jane. Where was Jerry? Had to leave? Wanted to leave? What happened to Jerry? Jane and I were talking outside. It was cold. She was smiling. The bus driver sure is taking his time. Does he not care about our jobs? To be honest, I don’t care about mine, but I need to do it. The gum is peppermint. Always gives me a bit of heartburn peppermint. Need the fire in my mouth put out. Rumbling of the bus starts again. Sure don’t want the “talking to” I’m going to get at work for sure.
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Can’t hear what she’s saying. She’s talking to me, but all I hear is whispers. I caught something about being late and responsibility and being a grown up, but I don’t want to hear the rest. She is my boss. She is Tanya. She doesn’t like me very much. She likes to talk to me condescendingly. Tanya wants me to get in the game and be part of the team. That and to be a little more professional. I work at a hardware store. Jane smiled at me. Tanya thinks I need to have less party nights when I work the next day. This is a verbal warning. She writes it down.
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Nails. Stacking nails. Well, dumping nails into boxes and then stacking them over the aisles. Nails rattle and chingle as they fall into their home in the big box. The big box of nails. Special nails for mounting pictures of families and paintings. Must separate the nails. If they get together, the customers get confused. Rattle, rattle, chingle. Whisper, rattle, rattle. Can’t hear anyone. Can’t hear anything, but the rattling and the whispering. Jane wouldn’t be impressed by this. Jerry stops by my work.
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I wish the whispering would stop so Jerry can fill me in. He was there. He met someone, Terry. Terry? Really Jerry? That’s who you wind up meeting? Jane is Terry’s friend. I was out of it. I was covered in sweat. Jerry wanted to be with Terry. He left. He whispered in my ear: “Back in twenty.” He left. He wanted to be with Terry. Jane was left with me. She talked to me. I was loud. She laughed with me. She laughed at me? She had black hair. She tried to help me up when I fell in the goldfish pond in the back
yard. Goldfish pond? It was Andrew’s parents’ house. They have a goldfish pond in the backyard. I fell in. I drank too much. Jane tried to help me. Jerry took me home. He was with Terry. Now he has to go to work himself. I don’t want to drink ever again. Whisper, whisper, whisper. “You should call Jane, tell her you’re all right,” Jerry says. Jerry leaves, again. The nails keep rattling. Work keeps on a’ going.
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“I hear you got written up again.” I hear that sentence at least. Hoping for poetry and getting Jeff. Jeff. Jeff drives me crazy. All he thinks about is work and his truck. Or at least all he talks about is work and his truck. I’m trying to eat my lunch. Tacos. Still trying to get the whisper out of my ear. Like a mosquito living in my brain. Jeff go away. He’s talking, but I’m not listening. He thinks it’s funny what happened to me. He heard about it. He’s never there, he just hears about it. Now I like the whispering. It silences Jeff. Looking at the paper, but none of the words make it from my eyes to my brain. Jeff keeps talking. I wonder what Jane does. Whispering, whispering, whispering. Grey clouds. Try to understand, I was a little drunk. That’s what I’ll say to her. She would understand that. I close my eyes. I see nails. Picture hanging nails. I’ve worked here too long. I close my eyes harder. I see a mosquito. I see a mosquito with blue eyes and black hair. I want to see Jane. I can’t see her. The whispering is too distracting. And Jeff. He’s distracting too.
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I finished the day of work somehow. Home now. Momma. Oh she’s so sweet. Man this
whispering in my ear is driving me up the wall. Keep scratching there. In the ear. Keep going deeper. Deeper. Must stop the ringing. Whispers keep me occupied. Can’t hear my mom. Trying to make me feel better. I’m upset. I don’t like the ringing, which alternates with the whispering. Sometimes it’s the same, sometimes it goes back and forth. I wish I could’ve talked to Jane. Wish I was a little bit smarter. Wish I could talk to the ladies. Jerry can talk to the ladies. That’s why he got with Terry. “Back in twenty.” Frustrating. I was in a goldfish pond. I keep scratching my ear. I hope I don’t hit my brain. Probably wouldn’t change anything. Mom sees it’s bothering me. Jane. Did she have my number? Did I give it to her? What about Jerry? We look out for each other. Sort of. He must’ve given it to her. Maybe. Mom sees it’s distracting me. “You should go to the doctor if it keeps up.” Momma. Always concerned. He did give it to her. He told me when he stopped by my work. I remember. We look out for each other. Man this whispering. Shut up! “No, not you mom.” She understands me. She always understands. Momma, smiling at me. Jane was smiling. “Has she called, Mom?” Momma says something. I don‘t hear it except for the “no” part.
fffffffffffffsssssssssssssssshhhhhhhhhhhhhhffffffffffffffffff.fffffffffffffsssssssssssssssshhhhhhhhhhhhhhffffff.
So much louder now. A week passes. It’s out of control. Just won’t stop whispering. Doctor gave me pills. Thought it might be nasal. Gave me sprays too. “Just pop your
ear drums occasionally.” Still the whispering. Whispers, whispers, whispers. Take pills, spray stuff up my nose. Smells like roses. Helps nothing. Sitting on the side of my bed now. Haven’t slept all night. Don’t sleep that much anymore. Scratching my ear. Going as deep as I can. Nothing will stop this. Will my life always be like this? Is this ever going to stop? I can’t hear anyone anymore. Whispers, only whispers. I wish I could talk to my Momma this morning. I just can’t think of anything else. Sometimes I press my hands against my ears as hard as I can, and I can’t hear anything, or maybe it’s just the whispers, and I’ve confused those with silence. I wait for the silence. Jane never called. I called I think. Maybe twice. Maybe more times than that. Okay, maybe a few times. Got the number from Jerry. We look out for each other. Things are going well with Jerry and Terry. I don’t see him much. Tells me things are going well. I’m glad. Sort of.
fffffffffffffsssssssssssssssshhhhhhhhhhhhhhffffffffffffffffff.fffffffffffffsssssssssssssssshhhhhhhhhhhhhhffffff.
On the bus again now. Sitting. Can’t read anymore. Can’t seem to concentrate. Bumpy ride again. I’ve already smoked five today. I smoke more than a pack a day. Just hoping
Rowe, Whispers of Jane
that it will silence the whispers. When I think about them they’re louder. I think of Jane to silence them. Also drink. Bumpy ride. Always so bumpy. It’s 8:34am. I get the later shift now. 9:00am. I’m still going to be late. I don’t care. I don’t think the bus driver
should hurry. I take another pill. This one’s different. It’ll take care of the chemical imbalance. Grey clouds drifting. Whispering. Try not to think about it. I look like hell. My eyes are red. Below my eyes are black. So tired. Just want to sleep in silence.
Bumpy ride. Stop. Wait. Bus turned off. Nobody says anything. I wish someone would talk to me now. No words; just whispering.
fffffffffffffsssssssssssssssshhhhhhhhhhhhhhffffffffffffffffff.fffffffffffffsssssssssssssssshhhhhhhhhhhhhhffffff.
At work. Taking a bathroom break. I take a lot of them. They can’t take that away from me. Tanya talked to me yesterday. Thought I was “lacking in inspiration” at work. I don’t feel inspired. How can I really? Try to hear the noises in the store. Close my eyes to concentrate. Only hear clanging and musak and the whispering. I hate the musak, but today it comforts me. Synthetic saxophone and piano pieces sound like a Mozart sonata. I think of Momma. I think of a lake in a mountain.
fffffffffffffsssssssssssssssshhhhhhhhhhhhhhffffffffffffffffff.fffffffffffffsssssssssssssssshhhhhhhhhhhhhhffffff.
Today I’m unloading hammers. The sound of metal on wood on metal ringing in my
head. Jeff talking to me about something. I’m not listening. I never listen to him anymore. I listen to the hammers clanging. I listen to the musak. Sometimes I think his stories about his truck would be a nice change, but I choose the musak and the hammers. Would have been nice for Jane to call. Black hair. Actually I don’t know anymore.
Well I remember black hair. I close my eyes and press my hands over my ears. I see black. A mosquito too. Mosquito with blue eyes and black hair. Smiling? Do mosquitoes have mouths? It’s water. Open my eyes. Jeff thinks I’m nuts. Geez this
guy. Tell him I don’t feel well. Need to go to the bathroom. Close my eyes again in the bathroom. I see water. Grey clouds hovering over water. I avoid the mosquito, and look at the water.
fffffffffffffsssssssssssssssshhhhhhhhhhhhhhffffffffffffffffff.fffffffffffffsssssssssssssssshhhhhhhhhhhhhhffffff.
I’m at home now. Did I even end the day. I don’t remember. Maybe got sent home. Maybe just left. Not an inspiring day. Laying on my bed. Momma strokes my hair. Hurts her to see me hurt. She knows about the whispering. Only her. Tried to tell Jane I think. Well I called her. Once. Twice. Maybe more Well I tried. Haven’t seen her. Momma thinks I should go out. My head’s on her lap now. I think I’m crying. I just wish it would stop. Whisper, whisper, whisper. Momma’s singing Cat Stevens songs.
Father and Son. Sometimes I think she’s not real. It’s getting quieter. I close my eyes. The mosquito’s not there. Just a heartbeat. I sleep in silence.
fffffffffffffsssssssssssssssshhhhhhhhhhhhhhffffffffffffffffff.
I’m out now. Whispering’s quieter. I know it’s there, but it’s quieter. I can ignore it now. Don’t smoke tonight. At a forgettable bar. Jerry’s there. He’s with Terry. I’m anxious. Maybe Jane will be too. She is! Black hair. Blue eyes. Smiles. Smiles?
Smirks? Something behind those eyes. Not what I thought. Not how I remember. She talks to me. Talks about herself mainly. She’s a manager somewhere that sells wicker or something. I’m not really listening. I feel alone. I look in her eyes. I feel alone. Her
eyes make me feel alone. This is not right. I feel dizzy. My head hurts now. I’m not looking at her now. Kind of glancing from the floor to the ceiling fan to the table to the bottle in front of me to the floor and around her, but not at her. Something’s wrong. She doesn’t like me. This isn’t what it was. Anger. Whispering. Blue eyes. Black hair. Mosquitoes. Goldfish pond. Nails. Jeff. Hammers. Anger. Tanya. Jerry. Smiles. Black. I need to leave. I need out. I need it to stop.
So now I am where I am. In an institution of some kind. Let’s just call it a hospital. Doctor Conte helps me clarify what it is I want to say. He gives me pills that are blue and white, and listens while I talk to him about Jane and Jerry and the whispers and the lack of inspiration at work. Momma comes here to visit me and tries sometimes to tell me what happened after that time, but I can’t tell you about that because I’m not
Rowe, Whispers of Jane
comfortable telling you because it’s all hearsay as they say. What happened after is what everyone knows, and, really, the only thing anyone cares about. My momma and I watch Law and Order when she comes. She’s the only one who comes to visit me. I don’t see Jerry anymore. He said something about a broken bottle and a fight and someone got hurt then he never came to talk again.
I just couldn’t stop the whispering without stopping Jane I think. Something happened after it all went black and then the whispering stopped. I only remember after
when Dr. Conte gave me the pills to calm the whispering and I remembered seeing Jane smiling and it makes me happy. Not real happy though. More the hazy happy that I used to get when I would party with Jerry. I close my eyes and think of the water. Grey clouds that come and go, but always the water. I listen for Father and Son and try to hear a heartbeat to fall asleep to. I am happy in that thought, and the whispering is stopped and the mosquito is gone.
A Train of Thought Poem, Plumbing the Poet Springsteen
Plumbing the Poet Springsteen
I feel transferred by the words of Bruce Springsteen to a place where I can see my heart clearly and cry at the sight of it. The brilliant disguise that I see when I look in the mirror is reflected in every sentence of that masterful song. I know that what I see in people, in women is sometimes just such a disguise that I don’t trust what they are. I don’t trust them until I can see enough of them to judge how much of myself I will let them see. Then, I have myself in a paradox of reason as they can only see my disguise that I allow them to see. Then, at times it drops. Then at times it drops and they see the somewhat tattered remains of the images I have collected over my years. La, la, la, la, la, la, la, la na na. Oh, my oh my, what is this thing I’ve created in myself to show all. It is nothing like the sorrow of the lonely nights or the insecurity of the days I spent feeling the latest hair to leave my head. They won’t see this because I don’t trust them. I only trust them with what I feel they can handle. Wait. Not what they can handle, what I decide they can handle. I have no interest in their knowing any more than what I have determined to be what will hurt me the least if thrown back at me, or questioned. However, there is hope. There is hope in those who write my thoughts and mirror my heart. There is hope in this simple letter. There is hope in the letters that form the words that form the sentences that form the story that is my heart and my soul. The voice crying in the wilderness to be heard. The silent mutterings in the night when no one else is around, so that the only one who can understand and appreciate them can filter them back to prepare me for what will come and who will come. Those who now have a whole new line of defense to penetrate in the hopes of finding lucky town. Bruised and battered, I’m lying awake, and I can feel myself fading away. Fading to that plane of existence where we are all connected by lack of pretension and expectation and are free to kick soccer balls against park walls alone with a patient smile across our faces. The love of all flowing up through the souls of our feet. Where we are born and able to connect with all and none at the same time, so as not to be compromised or compressed so much and far down that the sight of what is clean and pure is lost in the muddled waters of screaming voices of attention and fame and fortune. I will never be that. I will never be successful in any sense of the word. I will never achieve stardom, and few if any will hear my voice, as I am in the wilderness, but once we fade... Once we fade and feel each other and connect with obstacles like distance and time destroyed by He who can. .. Then we can feel and hear each other and fortune and fame mean as little as the fifty cents we were saving for that special day when we could buy a solitary flower to wear on our lapel while the crowds cheered at our heroics, only to realize that the day ended before it started and the flower would have been better left in the ground where it could have fulfilled its days staring at the sun and rain and moving with the motions of the air while we passed by and smiled at the bright beauty that it gave us just for that one minute. That day of grandeur, gone, with the fading of ourselves as we became I, and forgot what it was that separated ourselves. The heart that I left across the Pacific ocean once more beating in my chest and I cruising post haste into the horizon with the warmth of all around me. My all and all being in one, and sharing in a little of that human touch that was so destroyed by the excess touch of romantic recklessness and heartless discipline. The fuel of anger causing the pain and distortion of reality so prevalent to those who cannot breath and see their own disguise so brilliant in its deceptive intrigue. Holding those close whose hearts beat at the same rhythm as yours as they let the cloak of disguise fall off to be comforted by the lack of judgment and expectation. 41 shots in the face of those who wait patiently and take the heat of living with the expectation of inspiration and the acceptance of its absence. The patience of it all. The patience of it all. Some quiet inspiration as real as the plates shifting below the ground below us, moving us, taking us where they will without our input. Safe and sound in the city in the clouds of our minds. Allow what may come what may and let all else fade away. I take a picture of an empty courtyard in a mountain city in Portugal and all at once expose my soul and my heart to those that are perceptive enough to see it. If they care, if they don’t is of no consequence to me, as I see the image in the shudder forever printed in black and white exposing the lines and cracks of the city never to be seen again in the same time, space and locale. Only to be seen in retrospect. Cry my sweet angel of the East who flies away. Cry my angel of the West who cannot comprehend the impact of leaving. Cannot comprehend and thus understands it all clearly. Sees the vivid lights and colors of the world and goes beyond them into the fade where we all meet. I see her in my eyes, while the band plays, what were those words whispered baby while I turned away. Were they that you could feel and see me without my disguise on, or were they simply that you couldn’t see. You see that whether you knew or didn’t know did not matter, but that you felt and in feeling you knew it all. That message that was swimming below the waves of what was being said was what you wanted to say , but didn’t have to. You didn’t have to as we were both underneath the waves all along, safe and secure in our beauty. You saw me, and I saw you, and words mattered not. You better get it straight darlin’. I believed in the love you gave me. I believe, I believe, I believe, and I rock my head from side to side, and hear it all. The badlands of the days of old that no one ever wants to return to, and I see them now fading with every happy thought. Ocean deep inside, and all of those things that hint at a depth that cannot be plumbed.
I feel transferred by the words of Bruce Springsteen to a place where I can see my heart clearly and cry at the sight of it. The brilliant disguise that I see when I look in the mirror is reflected in every sentence of that masterful song. I know that what I see in people, in women is sometimes just such a disguise that I don’t trust what they are. I don’t trust them until I can see enough of them to judge how much of myself I will let them see. Then, I have myself in a paradox of reason as they can only see my disguise that I allow them to see. Then, at times it drops. Then at times it drops and they see the somewhat tattered remains of the images I have collected over my years. La, la, la, la, la, la, la, la na na. Oh, my oh my, what is this thing I’ve created in myself to show all. It is nothing like the sorrow of the lonely nights or the insecurity of the days I spent feeling the latest hair to leave my head. They won’t see this because I don’t trust them. I only trust them with what I feel they can handle. Wait. Not what they can handle, what I decide they can handle. I have no interest in their knowing any more than what I have determined to be what will hurt me the least if thrown back at me, or questioned. However, there is hope. There is hope in those who write my thoughts and mirror my heart. There is hope in this simple letter. There is hope in the letters that form the words that form the sentences that form the story that is my heart and my soul. The voice crying in the wilderness to be heard. The silent mutterings in the night when no one else is around, so that the only one who can understand and appreciate them can filter them back to prepare me for what will come and who will come. Those who now have a whole new line of defense to penetrate in the hopes of finding lucky town. Bruised and battered, I’m lying awake, and I can feel myself fading away. Fading to that plane of existence where we are all connected by lack of pretension and expectation and are free to kick soccer balls against park walls alone with a patient smile across our faces. The love of all flowing up through the souls of our feet. Where we are born and able to connect with all and none at the same time, so as not to be compromised or compressed so much and far down that the sight of what is clean and pure is lost in the muddled waters of screaming voices of attention and fame and fortune. I will never be that. I will never be successful in any sense of the word. I will never achieve stardom, and few if any will hear my voice, as I am in the wilderness, but once we fade... Once we fade and feel each other and connect with obstacles like distance and time destroyed by He who can. .. Then we can feel and hear each other and fortune and fame mean as little as the fifty cents we were saving for that special day when we could buy a solitary flower to wear on our lapel while the crowds cheered at our heroics, only to realize that the day ended before it started and the flower would have been better left in the ground where it could have fulfilled its days staring at the sun and rain and moving with the motions of the air while we passed by and smiled at the bright beauty that it gave us just for that one minute. That day of grandeur, gone, with the fading of ourselves as we became I, and forgot what it was that separated ourselves. The heart that I left across the Pacific ocean once more beating in my chest and I cruising post haste into the horizon with the warmth of all around me. My all and all being in one, and sharing in a little of that human touch that was so destroyed by the excess touch of romantic recklessness and heartless discipline. The fuel of anger causing the pain and distortion of reality so prevalent to those who cannot breath and see their own disguise so brilliant in its deceptive intrigue. Holding those close whose hearts beat at the same rhythm as yours as they let the cloak of disguise fall off to be comforted by the lack of judgment and expectation. 41 shots in the face of those who wait patiently and take the heat of living with the expectation of inspiration and the acceptance of its absence. The patience of it all. The patience of it all. Some quiet inspiration as real as the plates shifting below the ground below us, moving us, taking us where they will without our input. Safe and sound in the city in the clouds of our minds. Allow what may come what may and let all else fade away. I take a picture of an empty courtyard in a mountain city in Portugal and all at once expose my soul and my heart to those that are perceptive enough to see it. If they care, if they don’t is of no consequence to me, as I see the image in the shudder forever printed in black and white exposing the lines and cracks of the city never to be seen again in the same time, space and locale. Only to be seen in retrospect. Cry my sweet angel of the East who flies away. Cry my angel of the West who cannot comprehend the impact of leaving. Cannot comprehend and thus understands it all clearly. Sees the vivid lights and colors of the world and goes beyond them into the fade where we all meet. I see her in my eyes, while the band plays, what were those words whispered baby while I turned away. Were they that you could feel and see me without my disguise on, or were they simply that you couldn’t see. You see that whether you knew or didn’t know did not matter, but that you felt and in feeling you knew it all. That message that was swimming below the waves of what was being said was what you wanted to say , but didn’t have to. You didn’t have to as we were both underneath the waves all along, safe and secure in our beauty. You saw me, and I saw you, and words mattered not. You better get it straight darlin’. I believed in the love you gave me. I believe, I believe, I believe, and I rock my head from side to side, and hear it all. The badlands of the days of old that no one ever wants to return to, and I see them now fading with every happy thought. Ocean deep inside, and all of those things that hint at a depth that cannot be plumbed.
A Poem, MJ
MJ
Zap, chicka chicka chicka chicka chicka,
And it moves.
It moves with the rattattattattatta tap of
The chicky chack rat trapper.
Then the chorus.
Oh the angels are singing today aren’t they.
And there’s a chinnychinnychinny to the zap zap zap,
But always the chuck chuck chuck.
Hit it one more time.
The time was there,
And you took it.
Chacka batta tata. Sha ha. Sha ha. Na ha. Sha ha. Battata.
Hit it again and again. Tak tak tak.
There is no cool, but your cool
You fly through it like a rocket, block it and shock it.
You blast it, and it moves.
It moves.
Slides down bulb floorboards and shimmering icicle planks.
Smoother than a ten speed bicycle tire.
Smoother than the wet ice storm street.
Screaming and a bounce bounce bounce,
Now it’s slower, and it’s chill,
But still oh so cool.
Ramble it up and down and
Bodies move.
Smoo smoo smoo
Oh do bodies move.
They must move.
Sitting on a chair,
And heads move.
Swoosh swoosh swoosh hair waves in slow mo.
You rock it back and forth,
And bounce bounce bounce.
Walking in the night time, and a crack knacks right behind.
A swinging side step and a flashlight eye hits you.
There are people here, though it’s vacant.
They come and they move.
Dunkadundunka dunk.
Careful now, though,
It may be too big.
It feels so grand, but it may be too big.
That creature creeping up behind is all the rest.
Those who can’t do it.
Those who squawk and squawk and can’t move.
They’re coming, and they want it.
They wanna take the shacka shacka shamon,
And morph it to blahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh.
Shicka shimon, and they come for you.
You still move though.
You must move still.
It’s over now. It’s ending.
The beats are tah tah tah and not chacka sha sha.
There’s something missing.
Everything’s missing. Too much.
That fifty three seconds to introduce your point is wasted.
No one wanted that even if they used to.
Fifty three seconds of void.
Void. Silence. Idleness. Sadness.
It does not shake it like it did.
There’s sadness and slowness now.
Ramba ramba shamba shah, and a slow blah blah blah.
Where am I, but where are you?
Screaming from under yourself.
The pile is high.
The weight is massive.
It will not take. It will not keep. It may be over.
Golden statues and bad moves.
Memories of dance floors seen through smoke.
Mirrors that show a different tint.
A man that has fallen apart.
A beat is heard over a canyon, but it’s the past.
The past that succeeded in failing.
…but the heartbeat.
I still hear the heartbeat.
After the last breath the heartbeat comes.
Now I’m chack cha and shaka shamon,
The rattattattattattattattattattattatat
And the mat back slack knack and back racked with smack smack smack
Of feet sliding on boardwalks,
And, dead, it remains.
Zap, chicka chicka chicka chicka chicka,
And it moves.
It moves with the rattattattattatta tap of
The chicky chack rat trapper.
Then the chorus.
Oh the angels are singing today aren’t they.
And there’s a chinnychinnychinny to the zap zap zap,
But always the chuck chuck chuck.
Hit it one more time.
The time was there,
And you took it.
Chacka batta tata. Sha ha. Sha ha. Na ha. Sha ha. Battata.
Hit it again and again. Tak tak tak.
There is no cool, but your cool
You fly through it like a rocket, block it and shock it.
You blast it, and it moves.
It moves.
Slides down bulb floorboards and shimmering icicle planks.
Smoother than a ten speed bicycle tire.
Smoother than the wet ice storm street.
Screaming and a bounce bounce bounce,
Now it’s slower, and it’s chill,
But still oh so cool.
Ramble it up and down and
Bodies move.
Smoo smoo smoo
Oh do bodies move.
They must move.
Sitting on a chair,
And heads move.
Swoosh swoosh swoosh hair waves in slow mo.
You rock it back and forth,
And bounce bounce bounce.
Walking in the night time, and a crack knacks right behind.
A swinging side step and a flashlight eye hits you.
There are people here, though it’s vacant.
They come and they move.
Dunkadundunka dunk.
Careful now, though,
It may be too big.
It feels so grand, but it may be too big.
That creature creeping up behind is all the rest.
Those who can’t do it.
Those who squawk and squawk and can’t move.
They’re coming, and they want it.
They wanna take the shacka shacka shamon,
And morph it to blahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh.
Shicka shimon, and they come for you.
You still move though.
You must move still.
It’s over now. It’s ending.
The beats are tah tah tah and not chacka sha sha.
There’s something missing.
Everything’s missing. Too much.
That fifty three seconds to introduce your point is wasted.
No one wanted that even if they used to.
Fifty three seconds of void.
Void. Silence. Idleness. Sadness.
It does not shake it like it did.
There’s sadness and slowness now.
Ramba ramba shamba shah, and a slow blah blah blah.
Where am I, but where are you?
Screaming from under yourself.
The pile is high.
The weight is massive.
It will not take. It will not keep. It may be over.
Golden statues and bad moves.
Memories of dance floors seen through smoke.
Mirrors that show a different tint.
A man that has fallen apart.
A beat is heard over a canyon, but it’s the past.
The past that succeeded in failing.
…but the heartbeat.
I still hear the heartbeat.
After the last breath the heartbeat comes.
Now I’m chack cha and shaka shamon,
The rattattattattattattattattattattatat
And the mat back slack knack and back racked with smack smack smack
Of feet sliding on boardwalks,
And, dead, it remains.
Thursday, 10 September 2009
Four Quotes, Don Delillo
Quote 1 -
"To be a tourist is to escape accountability. Errors and failings don't cling to you the way they do back home. You're able to drift across continents and languages, suspending the operation of sound thought. Tourism is the march of stupidity. You're expected to be stupid."
Quote 2 -
"You know how it is with Canadians," she said. "We love to be disappointed. Everything we do ends up disappointingly. We know this, we expect this, so we've made disappointment part of the inner requirement of our lives. disappointment is our native emotion. it's our guiding spirit. We arrange things to make disappointment inevitable. This is how we feed ourselves in the winter."
Quote 3 -
"America is the world's living myth. There's no sense of wrong when you kill an American or blame America for some local disaster. This is our function, to be character types, to embody recurring themes that people can use to comfort themselves, justify themselves, and so on. We're here to accommodate. Whatever people need, we provide. A myth is a useful thing. People expect us to absorb the impact of their grievances. Interesting, when I talk to a Mideastern businessman who expresses affection and respect fo rthe U.S., I automatically assume he's either a fool or a liar. The sense of grievance affects all of us, on way or another."
Quote 4 -
"Sky is opened, the preacher says. Rain is coming down... He moves among them, touching a shoulder here, a head there, touching roughly, reminding them of something they'd forgotten or chosen to disregard. There is a Spirit lurking here. Show me the scripture that says we have to speak English to know the joy of talking freely to God. Ridiculous, we say. There's no such document. Paul to the Corinthians said men can speak with the tongues of angels. In our time we can do the same."
- Don Delillo, The Names
"To be a tourist is to escape accountability. Errors and failings don't cling to you the way they do back home. You're able to drift across continents and languages, suspending the operation of sound thought. Tourism is the march of stupidity. You're expected to be stupid."
Quote 2 -
"You know how it is with Canadians," she said. "We love to be disappointed. Everything we do ends up disappointingly. We know this, we expect this, so we've made disappointment part of the inner requirement of our lives. disappointment is our native emotion. it's our guiding spirit. We arrange things to make disappointment inevitable. This is how we feed ourselves in the winter."
Quote 3 -
"America is the world's living myth. There's no sense of wrong when you kill an American or blame America for some local disaster. This is our function, to be character types, to embody recurring themes that people can use to comfort themselves, justify themselves, and so on. We're here to accommodate. Whatever people need, we provide. A myth is a useful thing. People expect us to absorb the impact of their grievances. Interesting, when I talk to a Mideastern businessman who expresses affection and respect fo rthe U.S., I automatically assume he's either a fool or a liar. The sense of grievance affects all of us, on way or another."
Quote 4 -
"Sky is opened, the preacher says. Rain is coming down... He moves among them, touching a shoulder here, a head there, touching roughly, reminding them of something they'd forgotten or chosen to disregard. There is a Spirit lurking here. Show me the scripture that says we have to speak English to know the joy of talking freely to God. Ridiculous, we say. There's no such document. Paul to the Corinthians said men can speak with the tongues of angels. In our time we can do the same."
- Don Delillo, The Names
Saturday, 5 September 2009
A Poem, The Park
The Park
Melancholy,
The brunette auburn eyed girl leans,
On a blue-black rock
On a semi-still navy pond,
And texts on a metallic cerulean cell phone,
Because he said he would come,
And he has not come.
Four female grey-brown ducks coolly glide by.
A community theatre group sets up orange gates for its production
She waits.
Three grey men on a bench exchange stories.
Their weeks were similar and hard.
A repose.
The eldest of the three
Gestures to the opposing shore
And notes a housing development’s blight on the landscape:
- “Such a mess of tan, burnt sienna, gamboge, ochre, and taupe,
Give me liver and mustard.” –
Rain starts to sprinkle.
Oil-slick-rainbow pigeons frantically tussle for buff and turquoise crumbs.
The middle aged of the three
Smokes a rolled saffron cigarette,
While the youngest inserts
Comments shifting left to right.
An albino squirrel scurries among her xanadu pelted cousins
(why do I assume an albino squirrel is female?)
She waits
A thousand venetian red flags
Fly in her mind,
But she waits.
A bad taste
Rests impatiently in her mouth,
But she waits.
A team of hungry bugs feed on small bronzed shirtless boys playing ball.
A bongo/guitar duo plays covers
(the same beat over and over, the same strumming over and over).
She waits.
A crusty charcoal clad punk rides a hot dark cardinal bike
Passed a patch of cerise flowers,
And whistles.
-Pawn shop merchandise in a week.-
The oldest of the three grey men is up,
Animatedly gesturing and explaining,
The other two sit on the bench,
The middle one smokes,
The youngest listens.
A would be cirque star bounces on a green-yellow wire between two trees.
Dirty brown and brass dogs eye everything, and wait for a lazy squirrel or duck.
Crusty punk scans groups for weakness.
He looks at a foursome on a carmine-pink blanket,
And continues.
His amber eyes watch for solos.
He whistles.
Young, fallow cap wearing would be poet,
Gets dizzy jawing a cinnamon cigar.
She texts again,
And waits.
On a blue-black rock she waits.
He rides and whistles.
The old grey man gesticulates.
Grass cutting international-orange masked men walk with purpose,
Maize dust and spring-bud grass swirl under weed whackers.
Unnerving noise whisked by.
He whistles.
Foolishness masked in persistence,
Perhaps.
Ignorance masked in patience,
Perhaps.
She looks from her metallic cerulean phone
To the chartreuse and harlequin foliage
Framing khaki clouds sprinkling rain.
She waits.
Newlyweds decide to not be careful.
A couple scolds a chocolate lab puppy for chewing her copper coloured sandal.
He decides to come back
When things are darker.
She will wait.
Three grey men get up from a bench to find shelter from the rain.
Melancholy,
The brunette auburn eyed girl leans,
On a blue-black rock
On a semi-still navy pond,
And texts on a metallic cerulean cell phone,
Because he said he would come,
And he has not come.
Four female grey-brown ducks coolly glide by.
A community theatre group sets up orange gates for its production
She waits.
Three grey men on a bench exchange stories.
Their weeks were similar and hard.
A repose.
The eldest of the three
Gestures to the opposing shore
And notes a housing development’s blight on the landscape:
- “Such a mess of tan, burnt sienna, gamboge, ochre, and taupe,
Give me liver and mustard.” –
Rain starts to sprinkle.
Oil-slick-rainbow pigeons frantically tussle for buff and turquoise crumbs.
The middle aged of the three
Smokes a rolled saffron cigarette,
While the youngest inserts
Comments shifting left to right.
An albino squirrel scurries among her xanadu pelted cousins
(why do I assume an albino squirrel is female?)
She waits
A thousand venetian red flags
Fly in her mind,
But she waits.
A bad taste
Rests impatiently in her mouth,
But she waits.
A team of hungry bugs feed on small bronzed shirtless boys playing ball.
A bongo/guitar duo plays covers
(the same beat over and over, the same strumming over and over).
She waits.
A crusty charcoal clad punk rides a hot dark cardinal bike
Passed a patch of cerise flowers,
And whistles.
-Pawn shop merchandise in a week.-
The oldest of the three grey men is up,
Animatedly gesturing and explaining,
The other two sit on the bench,
The middle one smokes,
The youngest listens.
A would be cirque star bounces on a green-yellow wire between two trees.
Dirty brown and brass dogs eye everything, and wait for a lazy squirrel or duck.
Crusty punk scans groups for weakness.
He looks at a foursome on a carmine-pink blanket,
And continues.
His amber eyes watch for solos.
He whistles.
Young, fallow cap wearing would be poet,
Gets dizzy jawing a cinnamon cigar.
She texts again,
And waits.
On a blue-black rock she waits.
He rides and whistles.
The old grey man gesticulates.
Grass cutting international-orange masked men walk with purpose,
Maize dust and spring-bud grass swirl under weed whackers.
Unnerving noise whisked by.
He whistles.
Foolishness masked in persistence,
Perhaps.
Ignorance masked in patience,
Perhaps.
She looks from her metallic cerulean phone
To the chartreuse and harlequin foliage
Framing khaki clouds sprinkling rain.
She waits.
Newlyweds decide to not be careful.
A couple scolds a chocolate lab puppy for chewing her copper coloured sandal.
He decides to come back
When things are darker.
She will wait.
Three grey men get up from a bench to find shelter from the rain.
Five Senryus, Left
Left
Divorcee
Divorcee reads, cries
Jesuit wisdom strips wounds
A moth emerges
Leaver
Leaving her, he leaves
Her pain, his escape, pardon.
Cleaned, pressed, rental tux.
Vacancy
Lying on a bed
Formerly her lust’s release.
False posed photos hung.
Broken
Pounding on locked door
Humiliated she sobs.
A mistake was made.
Freed
Sweaty grind dancing
She eyes a haircut to do.
Fading ring tan line.
Divorcee
Divorcee reads, cries
Jesuit wisdom strips wounds
A moth emerges
Leaver
Leaving her, he leaves
Her pain, his escape, pardon.
Cleaned, pressed, rental tux.
Vacancy
Lying on a bed
Formerly her lust’s release.
False posed photos hung.
Broken
Pounding on locked door
Humiliated she sobs.
A mistake was made.
Freed
Sweaty grind dancing
She eyes a haircut to do.
Fading ring tan line.
Thursday, 27 August 2009
A Quote, JRR Tokein
"Where is the horse and the rider? Where is the horn that was blowing? They have passed like rain on the mountain, like wind in the meadow. The days have gone down in the West behind the hills into shadow. How did it come to this? "
- King Theoden, The Two Towers (movie quote)
- King Theoden, The Two Towers (movie quote)
A Story, Sophistication Based on Depression
A Sophistication Based on Depression
Half full bottle of wine, lit cigar, pensive look on his face, and nothing inside; the intellectual sat. It’s all a mask. A caricature. A mask that’s cracking. Fading. Not real. HE doesn’t understand the leather-bound copy of Yates frowning at him from the antique oak bookshelf he found on the street. The fireplace burning a fake fire log. The bottle of brandy on the shelf he stole from an airplane drink cart coming from nowhere special. The wine and cigar bought in tandem at the corner store. He was a phony and he knew it. His blazer might as well be a guilty placard, showing his shallow crime of pretention. Empty words relating ripped off ideas of others smarter than he; this was his work.
When did he stop thinking for himself? When did he stop doing for himself? He was eager and inspired once. He used to think he could prove things. Do things. Then it all changed, and he spent his days reading other peoples’ opinions and told himself that his person was becoming more well rounded by adopting their thoughts and abandoning his own. But he forgot, in all his studying and critiquing, to think. He forgot to do. To think maybe they were wrong. Maybe his thoughts had value along with theirs. Maybe, just because they were in print didn’t mean that he should replace his mind, and soul and heart for their rehashed thoughts.
He glanced at his latest writing on Patrick Suskind’s Perfume, and sighed while wiping his forehead. Was it worth a penny? Or a damn? No one would quote him as a thinker. HE knew it. If they did, they were fools. Fools following a fool. To think if someone thought to use his words. His thoughts. His knowledge. Awards for plagiarism would be given to anyone who forced his tired sentences into worthwhile footnotes. He grew angry with himself for every word he had written. What were they written in aid of? How could he have let his thoughts on subjects be drown out by what he thought he should have thought by those who thought for themselves. Now his head was spinning. His thoughts mattered, but could he remember them? He could only remember other peoples’ opinions now, and the pain they caused. How much he had written, or not written, and not a word of it made a smile creep to his face.
He thought about the days of his youth and beyond. He used to be lightened by the mood of simple things. He used to think it grand to run and watch and smile. Those days were different. What had happened to them? He tried to remember back to when he was seven and used to play soccer while his parents watched in awe. Before he found out they were just people and he could outsmart them. Could he though?
He thought of the times before he started winning arguments and mocking the passions of the people who were only there for biology’s sake. That was his catchphrase wasn’t it “You’re only here because of the biological process.” Harsh words from a cocky boy. What did he owe them though really? They did for him only what they would have done for anyone in his place. They did not add anything to the world of the mind, and thus should be given the gravitas equal to their achievements. “No hard feelings,” he had always said, “but no misplaced praise.”
Before then though... Before then he thought... When he would join his father to watch the World Cup and smile when his father’s team won, or feel helpless is consoling him when they lost. Back then when he would enjoy hearing the sound of his mother’s voice while she read aloud the crossword puzzle clues and answers. His mind was young then, and his thoughts were limitless. He had passion for almost all things. He read comic books and went to coffee shops. He played sports and egged houses. Chewed gum and went to the beach. Listened to pop songs and threw a stick for a dog. He had passion. He had fun. He grew and experienced.
Then he got smart. Then he started to read and think and criticize. The mask of pretention started to form. Then he would see the things of his youth as trivial and trite. “Distractions made for the ignorant masses who knew no better.” Then he would tell of the complete worthlessness of sport, pop music and movies that made money. He would tell of the dietary detriment of fast food and candy. He would tell, tell, tell, and care not if any were listening.
“There is no redeeming feature to this self-aggrandizing charade,” he would say to his father as he watched the Masters on a relaxing Saturday afternoon, and not see or care the hurt it caused him.
He withdrew in these later days of his early manhood. He withdrew from all who would not stimulate his mind. He took himself out of the world of the gratuitous and the leisure, and placed himself in the tower of the intellect and the word. He read and read and read and read. He read everything and talked about it. He read big books. The classics. The critically acclaimed. The untouchables. He read what most did not, and comforted himself in his exclusivity.
He continued on in his academic pomp through his early manhood and into manhood. He established himself as someone who could write. He got published, he got critiqued, he got noticed, and he got a job. He ripped to shreds those he didn’t approve of (or was it that he didn’t understand them?). He praised those most didn’t. He talked with the other masked men of the intellectual world and only them. Childhood friends were greeted with patronizing civility, and the parents were visited begrudgingly and in line with his standards. The pomp became him, and he hid in it.
With the creeping slowness of decay, however, things changed. The man who eagerly gobbled great works of great writers, found little he could read on his own. He relied on opinions of others to form his own when deconstructing a work. He grew tired. He grew impatient. He hated most things, and sarcastically derided the rest. He taught less classes, and talked to fewer colleagues. He grew a beard, and looked down when he walked. The days grew longer, and the mornings harder to face. He bought a blazer and started smoking cigars and drinking fine wine. A sophistication based on depression.
Now, he sat alone in a chair disgusted with that young man before the fade. He realized now that he was unable to share the joy of intellect with those that didn’t live in his tower, and, thus, lost those who would broaden his person. He was flat. He lost his father. He lost his mother. They were not of interest to him. He would write. He would think. The blinders and visors were on. He was focused. He didn’t notice, at that time, that the words coming from without were taking over his thoughts. Few thoughts of his own would remain, as he worshipped those who entered his mind so blindly, and discarded his own mortal thoughts. His own mortal errors. His mortal failures. His mortal shortcomings.
He sat now beside the fireplace. He sat and frowned. He looked at his bookshelf. The pride of his room. The pride of his head. The pride of nothing. Nothing indeed. All those words written and read, and yet nothing understood. No insight into the reality of intelligence or wisdom for he who thought himself and intellectual. Just the knowledge that someone else there was smarter than he here. Smarter. More important. Important in general, as he now saw that nothing about him was important.
That kid running down a field chasing a ball while his mother smiled at him from the sidelines was nothing now. Just past. A past that made him cry to think of. A past outside of his cycle. Beyond his mask. A past he wanted to reclaim and rewrite.
Placing his half full glass of wine on the end table and getting himself off the chair where he “did his most profound thinking,” he got up. He stubbed his cigar in the ashtray and put his wine down. Walked. Walked. Walked. He found his way to the door. He found his way to his jacket. Not his blazer, but his jacket. The one that he would wear when running to the store for a treat.
(When was the last time he did that? In his early scholastic years when he was too wound up to figure anymore things out, he used to get up and go get a cola or a chocolate bar. Now what did he do? Did he ever get up? He didn’t He always just kept going even when there was nothing else for him to say. He just wrote on.)
Now, however, he was up and had his jacket on and was turning the handle to the door to the outside. He opened the door and left.
The fire log becoming embers, the unfinished wine on the table, the cigar butted in the ashtray, the paper on Suskind left unedited, the leather bound copy of Yeats frowning at an empty room, and the despair of his writing chair unoccupied in its proper place; he left.
Half full bottle of wine, lit cigar, pensive look on his face, and nothing inside; the intellectual sat. It’s all a mask. A caricature. A mask that’s cracking. Fading. Not real. HE doesn’t understand the leather-bound copy of Yates frowning at him from the antique oak bookshelf he found on the street. The fireplace burning a fake fire log. The bottle of brandy on the shelf he stole from an airplane drink cart coming from nowhere special. The wine and cigar bought in tandem at the corner store. He was a phony and he knew it. His blazer might as well be a guilty placard, showing his shallow crime of pretention. Empty words relating ripped off ideas of others smarter than he; this was his work.
When did he stop thinking for himself? When did he stop doing for himself? He was eager and inspired once. He used to think he could prove things. Do things. Then it all changed, and he spent his days reading other peoples’ opinions and told himself that his person was becoming more well rounded by adopting their thoughts and abandoning his own. But he forgot, in all his studying and critiquing, to think. He forgot to do. To think maybe they were wrong. Maybe his thoughts had value along with theirs. Maybe, just because they were in print didn’t mean that he should replace his mind, and soul and heart for their rehashed thoughts.
He glanced at his latest writing on Patrick Suskind’s Perfume, and sighed while wiping his forehead. Was it worth a penny? Or a damn? No one would quote him as a thinker. HE knew it. If they did, they were fools. Fools following a fool. To think if someone thought to use his words. His thoughts. His knowledge. Awards for plagiarism would be given to anyone who forced his tired sentences into worthwhile footnotes. He grew angry with himself for every word he had written. What were they written in aid of? How could he have let his thoughts on subjects be drown out by what he thought he should have thought by those who thought for themselves. Now his head was spinning. His thoughts mattered, but could he remember them? He could only remember other peoples’ opinions now, and the pain they caused. How much he had written, or not written, and not a word of it made a smile creep to his face.
He thought about the days of his youth and beyond. He used to be lightened by the mood of simple things. He used to think it grand to run and watch and smile. Those days were different. What had happened to them? He tried to remember back to when he was seven and used to play soccer while his parents watched in awe. Before he found out they were just people and he could outsmart them. Could he though?
He thought of the times before he started winning arguments and mocking the passions of the people who were only there for biology’s sake. That was his catchphrase wasn’t it “You’re only here because of the biological process.” Harsh words from a cocky boy. What did he owe them though really? They did for him only what they would have done for anyone in his place. They did not add anything to the world of the mind, and thus should be given the gravitas equal to their achievements. “No hard feelings,” he had always said, “but no misplaced praise.”
Before then though... Before then he thought... When he would join his father to watch the World Cup and smile when his father’s team won, or feel helpless is consoling him when they lost. Back then when he would enjoy hearing the sound of his mother’s voice while she read aloud the crossword puzzle clues and answers. His mind was young then, and his thoughts were limitless. He had passion for almost all things. He read comic books and went to coffee shops. He played sports and egged houses. Chewed gum and went to the beach. Listened to pop songs and threw a stick for a dog. He had passion. He had fun. He grew and experienced.
Then he got smart. Then he started to read and think and criticize. The mask of pretention started to form. Then he would see the things of his youth as trivial and trite. “Distractions made for the ignorant masses who knew no better.” Then he would tell of the complete worthlessness of sport, pop music and movies that made money. He would tell of the dietary detriment of fast food and candy. He would tell, tell, tell, and care not if any were listening.
“There is no redeeming feature to this self-aggrandizing charade,” he would say to his father as he watched the Masters on a relaxing Saturday afternoon, and not see or care the hurt it caused him.
He withdrew in these later days of his early manhood. He withdrew from all who would not stimulate his mind. He took himself out of the world of the gratuitous and the leisure, and placed himself in the tower of the intellect and the word. He read and read and read and read. He read everything and talked about it. He read big books. The classics. The critically acclaimed. The untouchables. He read what most did not, and comforted himself in his exclusivity.
He continued on in his academic pomp through his early manhood and into manhood. He established himself as someone who could write. He got published, he got critiqued, he got noticed, and he got a job. He ripped to shreds those he didn’t approve of (or was it that he didn’t understand them?). He praised those most didn’t. He talked with the other masked men of the intellectual world and only them. Childhood friends were greeted with patronizing civility, and the parents were visited begrudgingly and in line with his standards. The pomp became him, and he hid in it.
With the creeping slowness of decay, however, things changed. The man who eagerly gobbled great works of great writers, found little he could read on his own. He relied on opinions of others to form his own when deconstructing a work. He grew tired. He grew impatient. He hated most things, and sarcastically derided the rest. He taught less classes, and talked to fewer colleagues. He grew a beard, and looked down when he walked. The days grew longer, and the mornings harder to face. He bought a blazer and started smoking cigars and drinking fine wine. A sophistication based on depression.
Now, he sat alone in a chair disgusted with that young man before the fade. He realized now that he was unable to share the joy of intellect with those that didn’t live in his tower, and, thus, lost those who would broaden his person. He was flat. He lost his father. He lost his mother. They were not of interest to him. He would write. He would think. The blinders and visors were on. He was focused. He didn’t notice, at that time, that the words coming from without were taking over his thoughts. Few thoughts of his own would remain, as he worshipped those who entered his mind so blindly, and discarded his own mortal thoughts. His own mortal errors. His mortal failures. His mortal shortcomings.
He sat now beside the fireplace. He sat and frowned. He looked at his bookshelf. The pride of his room. The pride of his head. The pride of nothing. Nothing indeed. All those words written and read, and yet nothing understood. No insight into the reality of intelligence or wisdom for he who thought himself and intellectual. Just the knowledge that someone else there was smarter than he here. Smarter. More important. Important in general, as he now saw that nothing about him was important.
That kid running down a field chasing a ball while his mother smiled at him from the sidelines was nothing now. Just past. A past that made him cry to think of. A past outside of his cycle. Beyond his mask. A past he wanted to reclaim and rewrite.
Placing his half full glass of wine on the end table and getting himself off the chair where he “did his most profound thinking,” he got up. He stubbed his cigar in the ashtray and put his wine down. Walked. Walked. Walked. He found his way to the door. He found his way to his jacket. Not his blazer, but his jacket. The one that he would wear when running to the store for a treat.
(When was the last time he did that? In his early scholastic years when he was too wound up to figure anymore things out, he used to get up and go get a cola or a chocolate bar. Now what did he do? Did he ever get up? He didn’t He always just kept going even when there was nothing else for him to say. He just wrote on.)
Now, however, he was up and had his jacket on and was turning the handle to the door to the outside. He opened the door and left.
The fire log becoming embers, the unfinished wine on the table, the cigar butted in the ashtray, the paper on Suskind left unedited, the leather bound copy of Yeats frowning at an empty room, and the despair of his writing chair unoccupied in its proper place; he left.
Saturday, 22 August 2009
A Quote, Charles Dickens
"Waste forces within him, and a desert all around, this man stood still on his way across a silent terrace, and saw for a moment, lying in the wilderness before him, a mirage of honourable ambition, self-denial, and perseverance. In the fair city of this vision, there were airy galleries from which the loves and graces looked upon him, gardens in which the fruits of life hung ripening, waters of Hope that sparkled in his sight. A moment, and it was gone. Climbing to a high chamber, in a well of houses, he threw himself down in his clothes on a neglected bed, and its pillow was wet with wasted tears."
- A Tale of Two Cities, Charles Dickens
- A Tale of Two Cities, Charles Dickens
Monday, 17 August 2009
A Poem, Standing in Front of Woman in Gray
Standing in Front of Woman in Gray
How do I come to stand near you whose beauty,
crafted by genius beyond me,
and who remain while I move, shake, live, and
die with such small meaning by comparison.
Time shifting-Floating Life.
How do I come to stand near you whose beauty,
crafted by genius beyond me,
and who remain while I move, shake, live, and
die with such small meaning by comparison.
Time shifting-Floating Life.
Saturday, 15 August 2009
A Quote, Kurt Vonnegut
"...but I have yet to see an octopus, or any sort of animal, for that matter, which wasn't entirely content to pass its time on earth as a food gatherer, to shun experiments with unlimited greed and ambition performed by humankind."
- Kurt Vonnegut, Galapagos.
- Kurt Vonnegut, Galapagos.
Friday, 7 August 2009
A Haiku, Slow Dance
Slow Dance
Dance one more time for
The silence is coming soon
Trumpet whispers jazz.
Dance one more time for
The silence is coming soon
Trumpet whispers jazz.
A Poem, Boards of Assisi
Boards on Assisi
The Franciscan church
Is boarded up and fenced.
Little flowers and divine poverty
In an age of fluorescent light,
And made to order condos.
The brown hooded monks tighten their cords,
And leave the city.
The Franciscan church
Is boarded up and fenced.
Little flowers and divine poverty
In an age of fluorescent light,
And made to order condos.
The brown hooded monks tighten their cords,
And leave the city.
Three Haikus, Finland
Helsinki
Helsinki Finland
Druids faces are stone straight
A bear is roaming.
Kaustinen
Kaustenin Finland
A pelimanni on stage
The forest is folk
Sauna
Sauna heat travels
On naked women relaxed
Ice cracking outside.
Helsinki Finland
Druids faces are stone straight
A bear is roaming.
Kaustinen
Kaustenin Finland
A pelimanni on stage
The forest is folk
Sauna
Sauna heat travels
On naked women relaxed
Ice cracking outside.
Two Senryus: Ornament, Bedside Table
Ornament
Big stuffed owl in hand
Marching towards a mantle
Focal point is found
Bedside Table
Lamp table unit
Slung over shoulder homeward.
He will read tonight.
Big stuffed owl in hand
Marching towards a mantle
Focal point is found
Bedside Table
Lamp table unit
Slung over shoulder homeward.
He will read tonight.
A Poem, The Guardian of the Trees
The Guardian of the Trees
White baggy unbelted pants,
And no shirt.
The long greasy flowing hair
Of the politically sure.
Unkempt beard.
Fast paced walk (march?)
And a white cloth sign
Held proudly and militantly overhead.
On the cloth:
A single tree.
The symbol is sure,
But he is silent.
He says nothing.
The tree is plain.
Brown and green on white.
He says everything loud and proud in silence.
He marches through the crowd.
The crowd looks at him.
White baggy unbelted pants,
And no shirt.
The long greasy flowing hair
Of the politically sure.
Unkempt beard.
Fast paced walk (march?)
And a white cloth sign
Held proudly and militantly overhead.
On the cloth:
A single tree.
The symbol is sure,
But he is silent.
He says nothing.
The tree is plain.
Brown and green on white.
He says everything loud and proud in silence.
He marches through the crowd.
The crowd looks at him.
Sunday, 26 July 2009
Friday, 24 July 2009
Wednesday, 22 July 2009
A Poem, Creating Castes
Creating Castes
An innocent ignorance
Encourages a friend to
Ask a friend her hourly wage.
A judgment is made.
A status is set.
An assumptive suggestion
Is made by a mate to
A mate to dine will this
Evening.
A point is made.
An insecurity is birthed.
A self absorbed justification
Is made disguising itself
As an apology from a
Lover to a lover.
A tension is unleashed.
A tyrant is born.
An innocent ignorance
Encourages a friend to
Ask a friend her hourly wage.
A judgment is made.
A status is set.
An assumptive suggestion
Is made by a mate to
A mate to dine will this
Evening.
A point is made.
An insecurity is birthed.
A self absorbed justification
Is made disguising itself
As an apology from a
Lover to a lover.
A tension is unleashed.
A tyrant is born.
Three Haikus - Games
Games
Bishop takes castle
A strategist’s eyes narrow
Black white minds battle.
Diagonal Slide
A second Knight is Taken
The Kind is mated.
A picnic table
Seniors gathered round playing
Park days eternal.
Bishop takes castle
A strategist’s eyes narrow
Black white minds battle.
Diagonal Slide
A second Knight is Taken
The Kind is mated.
A picnic table
Seniors gathered round playing
Park days eternal.
A Poem, The Shores
The Shores
Bronzed bodies bake
On sandy shores.
Licking lollies and
Casting careless chit-chat
At laughing lads and lasses.
Brief baths,
Splashes sprays
In temperate terrific
Water.
On the other shore is industry.
They work.
Bronzed bodies bake
On sandy shores.
Licking lollies and
Casting careless chit-chat
At laughing lads and lasses.
Brief baths,
Splashes sprays
In temperate terrific
Water.
On the other shore is industry.
They work.
A Rant
They just don’t help!
Weasel out of every
Thing
Leave you dangling,
Waiting.
Why try?
-because you have so little.
Weasel out of every
Thing
Leave you dangling,
Waiting.
Why try?
-because you have so little.
A Poem, The Chairman
The Chairman
Chairman will always
Be chairman.
Step down
And will always
Be chairman.
A tag taken is
A tag.
The aura remains.
The voice remains.
Answers questions by proxy.
Summing mute statements.
Blast paraphrase
TOK TOK TOK!
Chairman will always
Be chairman.
Step down
And will always
Be chairman.
A tag taken is
A tag.
The aura remains.
The voice remains.
Answers questions by proxy.
Summing mute statements.
Blast paraphrase
TOK TOK TOK!
A Poem, Montreal
Montreal
Bike rolling bounced
A pothole socialist
Tax rate teamsters
Repair Things!
Patch of ash fault.
Road is Needed!
Bike rolling bounced
A pothole socialist
Tax rate teamsters
Repair Things!
Patch of ash fault.
Road is Needed!
A Poem, Wolf as Joan Smith told it.
Wolf as Joan Smith told it
Wolf. Death.
In the middle of a church.
Eyes and muzzles.
Sexual Immorality.
Financial greed.
Division.
The wolf will claim his turf.
Turf patrolled and returned to.
Wolf as big as the room.
Eyeing a scared preacher’s wife.
Turning and closing the door behind her.
Wolf. Death.
In the middle of a church.
Eyes and muzzles.
Sexual Immorality.
Financial greed.
Division.
The wolf will claim his turf.
Turf patrolled and returned to.
Wolf as big as the room.
Eyeing a scared preacher’s wife.
Turning and closing the door behind her.
A Portrait, untitled
I read a part of a big book today.
Then, I went out.
Small boy running through my house
Calling my girl ma’.
It was what I ‘as told to do.
I walk then, scowling
At ‘em all. Kickin’ stuff.
Circlin’ down and around.
Then, six cigs worth o’
Strollin’ and I got back
Home. I see ‘im an’
I know I gotta do it.
I gotta get over all those
Passed pictures in ma’ head
N’ raise ‘im. Praise ‘em both
Cuz I need t’ heal. Or
I’ll just keep starin’ at
The dredge at the bottom
Of this barrel ‘tween zero
And one and goin’ nowhere
‘cept in circles like some
Stupid dog on a chain.
So I pick him up.
Then, I went out.
Small boy running through my house
Calling my girl ma’.
It was what I ‘as told to do.
I walk then, scowling
At ‘em all. Kickin’ stuff.
Circlin’ down and around.
Then, six cigs worth o’
Strollin’ and I got back
Home. I see ‘im an’
I know I gotta do it.
I gotta get over all those
Passed pictures in ma’ head
N’ raise ‘im. Praise ‘em both
Cuz I need t’ heal. Or
I’ll just keep starin’ at
The dredge at the bottom
Of this barrel ‘tween zero
And one and goin’ nowhere
‘cept in circles like some
Stupid dog on a chain.
So I pick him up.
A Poem, A Mountain Swing
A Mountain Swing
Buzzing pine bugs
A couple of obsessive
Black flies are
Landing on legs
An idle barbeque
Waits for its time
To shine. Swinging
Languidly in the
Mountains.
Buzzing pine bugs
A couple of obsessive
Black flies are
Landing on legs
An idle barbeque
Waits for its time
To shine. Swinging
Languidly in the
Mountains.
An Announcement, The Spiritual Rejuvenation of Winners
The Spiritual Rejuvenation of Winners
This month’s spiritual rejuvenation seminar
has been moved from the legion hall
to the former Winners store next to the Fabricland.
This month’s spiritual rejuvenation seminar
has been moved from the legion hall
to the former Winners store next to the Fabricland.
A Poem, Fuji
Fuji
Basalt, blasted by
Snow sleet sweat
Dazzles dawn’s design.
Night’s nasty near
Tearful trek took
Eight eye-opening ear-aching
Hours. How high
Fuji feels faced
With weary weak
Bodies branded by
Rocks rays rain
Three thousand then
Some. Symbolic sun
Dusty decline. Dormant
Volcano verifies vitality.
Basalt, blasted by
Snow sleet sweat
Dazzles dawn’s design.
Night’s nasty near
Tearful trek took
Eight eye-opening ear-aching
Hours. How high
Fuji feels faced
With weary weak
Bodies branded by
Rocks rays rain
Three thousand then
Some. Symbolic sun
Dusty decline. Dormant
Volcano verifies vitality.
Sunday, 19 July 2009
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