- View from a Balcony, 2008
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.
ffffffffffffsssssssssssssssshhhhhhhhhhhhhhffffffffffffffffff.
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.
fffffffffffffsssssssssssssssshhhhhhhhhhhhhhffffffffffffffffff.
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.
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