XXVII

she's 27 and I can't help it

when she hugs me hello
and the earth spins off its orbit
in daydream highlights
under the sun we both share
but never indulge

as pistols scream over
lace and vanilla and
junkies nod off to
a Gershwin score

I can't help being
wrapped up in her
close and warm
as the equinox

slender hips pressed
belly flat and breath
against the earth

I think I've fallen off the edge
every time and she just moves
moves the tide

moves the tide.

Happy Mother's Day

(THIS POST RE-PUBLISHED BY REQUEST)

Today is Mother's Day and I thought I would share a story with those of you who, like me, have slightly odd tastes and, perhaps, a bit of the voyeur inside them. This goes back about ten years, when I was placing a call to my mother on that most important tele-communications day of all, Mother's Day. It was early evening - perhaps 5:00 or 6:00 Central Time U.S. - and I had picked up my cordless phone to place my call. My normal habit was (and still is) to pick up the handset, click the TALK button, bring it to my ear quickly to check for a dial tone, and then start dialing. Logical enough. I think 99% of the popualtion does it this way. (The remaining 1% have lost their phone priveleges.)

However, on this particular occasion I apparently picked up the handset, clicked the TALK button, and dialed "1", and then brought it to my ear. And what I heard was one of the most oddly beautiful pieces of music I've ever encountered. Over the phone, anyway.

I heard a calliope of beeps and tones coming from other callers, who were at that same moment dialing their own mothers. They were out there in tele-space somewhere - all over the country - seperated from their mothers by geography, but not by modern communication. The calls were singing out. Some tones were strong and clear, as if the caller were on the same line. Most of them were in the audible mid-range, where I could discern the pitch and duration of the "note" being sounded. It was a constant swirl, like the revolving doors of a downtown skyscraper at noon on a Tuesday - the excited and hurried rush of individuals pushing their own path through a shared telephonic doorway. And there I was, right near it - but not a part of it. An invisible doorman.

The most intriguing tones of all were the faint ones. I listened intently for them. They were so fragile and rare that I imagined these calls to be the most important. Phone calls placed from the desert, a lonely motel, or a snowbound cabin. Last-minute phone calls. Change-of-heart phone calls. Phone calls on the night before surgery.

I went to the kitchen for a glass of wine, returned and sat down on the floor next to the phone stand. I stretched out my legs and the cat invited himself to stretch out over them. We relaxed there for about twenty minutes, listening to the distant music of telephonic exchanges. I thought I might actually overhear a conversation, but that never happened. I don't know a lot about telephones, but it was obvious that this was an extremely busy day on the routers(?) and that the overflow from the dialer pipeline(?) was spilling into my home reservoir(!). Whatever the technical reasons, it was a curious glitch that provided a few moments of imagination and wonder.

I drained the wine glass, clicked first the OFF button, then the TALK button, and proceeded to call Mom. It was now my turn to join in the song.

win PLACE show

She was the daughter of Unbridled's Song (Breeder's Cup Juvenile winner and Florida Derby champion) and the grand-daughter of Unbridled (Eclipse Award winner and Kentucky Derby champion).

She had won four consecutive races coming into Saturday's 134th running of The Kentucky Derby.

Her 1/2 mile workout time on April 20 was 46:60 - the fastest of any other horse that day on the track.

On the first Saturday in May, the entire world of horse racing turned its attention to Churchill Downs in Kentucky. Eight Belles was the only girl in a field of 20 boys - champions all, with superior bloodlines, top trainers and jockeys, and visions of victory.

And she defeated all but one.

Big Brown crossed the finish-line four lengths ahead of her to take the win, but seconds later, the eyes of the racing world turned to Eight Belles yet again. She had stumbled badly and collapsed on the track, breaking both of her front ankles. The track veternarian rushed to her side, made a quick call to the owners, and a decision was made.

She was euthanized there on a stretch of Kentucky dirt, under a Southern spring sky, with millions of fans watching - and grieving - from around the world.

In nautical terms, the phrase "eight bells" means a sailor's watch is over. In everyday use, sailors use it to mean "finished".

"Client Number 9"

Did anyone else notice that the Spitzer scandal story broke on the same day The Rock and Roll Hall of Fame held its 2008 induction ceremonies ?

I will not suggest any conspiracy. I will, however, note the sad irony of Spitzer's reputation being destroyed within the same 24-hour news cycle that celebrated the music industry's most narcissistic glory orgy. You see, he first made his name prosecuting major record labels who ripped off artists - most of them rock musicians. He won huge back settlements for deserving songwriters who otherwise could not afford the kind of high-powered attorneys needed for such work.

Kind of sad to imagine sleazy corporate rock honchos toasting his demise at the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame after-hours parties. I'm sure that happened. I'm also sure that one day, another Eliot Spitzer will come along and kick their fat asses on behalf of underpaid artists.

But hopefully THAT guy will have the sense to avoid call girls and stick with the groupies.

Barack Obama, 1961 - 2008

OK - now that I've got your attention, I have something to say that has been bothering me for awhile now. I am really starting to worry about the safety of our nation's first legitimate African-American presidential candidate. Our nation's first populist - and popular - anti-war candidate since Bobby Kennedy.

I first got a little nervous when I heard a couple of reports about his plane being mis-directed to the wrong airport in Iowa. The media kind of laughed this one off as one of those zany campaign trail mis-haps. Ha Ha ! Those Washington politicians don't know Des Moines from Ottumwa ! After that came a story about his plane narrowly missing a runway collision during take-off at yet another airport. And this was when I started getting really worried.

What if there was something more sinister at work here ? What if someone was carefully setting up a scenario in which a final "accident" would occur, taking Obama's life in the process ? If you think about it, the best way to make an accident look "inevitable" would be to stage some near-accidents before-hand. Goddamnit - I hate to think like this, but I can't help it. Especially after what later happened in Texas.

Supposedly, the Dallas police were told by The Secret Service to stop searching people at the door to an Obama rally. There had been such a huge turnout, someone made the decision to keep things moving along by dropping all safety-checks and allowing everyone to enter unsearched. What the hell was that about ? Is it really a good idea to let political candidates make an appearance before a live crowd without conducting the same inspections you find at a baseball park, for Chrissakes ?

I'm not buying it. I'm worried. And scared. I'm fucking terrified that there may be forces at work who want to see Barack Obama's rise to national leadership stopped and discarded for good. He has distinguished himself as the anti-war candidate with no embarassing authorization vote in his Senate record. His speeches have drawn record crowds and inspired young voters to get involved like almost no one before him. Charm, composure and intelligence have marked his every move upon the national stage. This is a man who took his Harvard law degree to the streets of Chicago to work for housing rights for the poor. At every subsequent step in his public service carreer - Illinois legislature, U.S. Senate, Democratic presidential nominee - he has proven himself to be worthy of his supporters expectations, hopes, and ideals. Its almost certain that his ideas for change, and his potential to carry them out, have got to have some people in some certain quarters worried.

And that is what worries me.

Thank you for indulging me in a paranoid rant.

THEN

I stare at photos
from the 1970's and

wish for grenades and flower vases
that pass for God
in a slow dissolve

there used to be a plan
drawn in blackest of ink and
stamped on the foreheads of
altar boys who could have been me

we who never volunteered
saved by our own reluctance

and the parents and relatives
who disapproved
still like to imagine
their heroes in stained glass.

Just A Pretty Picture...

Nothing more - nothing less. And isn't that enough ?

San Francisco Zoo Tiger Attack

Do you realize that a 12-foot wall is basically a CHALLENGE for an adult tiger ? And about 9 times out of 10, he will beat that challenge.

C'mon - I have seen COUGARS jump 12-15 feet, too.
And to think that a tiger will NOT respond to a taunting from a target that is within jumping distance ?

Please, bitches.

Best Poet of 2007

Okay - its a bit silly to declare someone the "best" of any particular year. Artists are continually evolving and producing work that may have its origins in years past.

Plus, this poet has been posting/publishing work for a while now. I just never stumbled upon it. But I wanted to share some of it with you, and also relate my own personal experience with the work.

When I discovered the poetry of Rebecca F. Miller, I was absolutely stunned. Her honesty and commitment to "bleeding on the page" made me feel like a pretender. There is an urgency and authenticity to her writing that makes you sit up in the middle of the night. Or stop everything on a Tuesday afternoon to listen to your own pulse. It is writing that originates in the South, spilled out through the Kentucky backroads and gulleys in a beat-up Ford with traces of meth in the ashtray. Honesty isn't pretty and there are ghosts of things that never get mentioned at the family picnic. However, in spite of all the bumps and bruises, there is a peace and resolution that settles on the reader of these poems. Read closely. This is no Slyvia Plath. Yes, life is tricky. Life can be absurd. But throughout everything is a thirst for life itself.

And my life was made a whole lot richer in 2007 for her writing. Thank you Rebecca.

Here's a quick example :

SLINGING PALE DREAMS

watercoloring in bed
trying to keep the blue from sinking
underneath my sheets


thighs speckled with the rust colored indication
that somehow i've been in this place before


cutting blood from my sleeves
& wondering why i so easily relate
to a framed butterfly


who cut blood from it's wings
before devouring the nail that pinned it.


you are anticipating a call from the mexicans
who taught you how to sling pale dreams
biting your knuckles white & wondering if they'll ask for the money or the goods


you have neither & i
a remote stirring inside my belly


that says this is not real
this is not happening
this is not what i wanted


in the beginning
when we both played with words


until we came
hot, sophisticated & fluttering
underneath sheets


not marred by some
delicate thing.

(C)Rebecca F. Miller

Best Simpsons Line I've Heard Recently....

"God - the invisible giant you turn to when you think you're about to die !"

And it was delivered by Vin Scully*. Suh-weeeet.




*as impersonated by Harry Shearer

Poetry Update

Looks like the kind folks over at Cause and Effect magazine are going to publish a poem of mine early in 2008. I'm not sure of the exact date and details yet, but will pass them along ASAP.

Also - very soon you will be reading about the best poet I have come across in years. This was promised months ago, I know, but good things are worth the wait - trust me.

BLOGSPOT for Poetry-Fiction-Madness-Etc...

Hey Everybody -

In case you thought I was the only creative writer on BLOGSPOT -

(pause for groans, guffaws and Gypsy curses)

I thought I would point out to you a terrific blog that
features a variety of inventive writing.

http://gloomcupboard.blogspot.com/

Poetry that itches and fiction that paces the hallway.
Can you sleep ? Neither can they. The two of you should meet.

RAVENSONG

to
winter farms
and silos

the bells
are singing
high and away

over field
and blank pasture
the ravens return
a soft chorus.

ellen has gone now
gone to seed the grass.


(C)2007DaveDonovan

Popcorn (not a poem-just the truth)

Popcorn eased introductions at Jamestown dinner parties.
Popcorn is a fiber-rich snack that tastes good.
Popcorn and butter could prevent nuclear war.
Popcorn and ketchup could start it.
Popcorn is God (and she doesn't want to argue about it)
Popcorn and the movies.
Popcorn as a mood-enhancer.
Popcorn as the answer to the riddle.
Popcorn sits perfectly still....until needed.
Popcorn. Fuck yeah.

LEAN

didn't that shift in
your chair just now
that change of direction
as you asked and i answered
make you think

or am i over-thinking this
that you and i could build mazes
of future contacts
that might lead back to here

on your elbows
leaning on a single arm
of the chair
your smile with your
hair framing the edges

i think i'm seeing things
or maybe just dreaming them.

(c)2007DaveDonovan



(untitled)

tumble and twist
in elegant turns

the scarlet nights are falling

through stairwells
and dusty backporch curtains
over vinyl shades

in that apartment
the summer you got divorced
i remember

turn and toss
your hair like that again

please.

(c)2007DaveDonovan

and take it away....Bill !

The GPP is proud to announce, in celebration of our 1st anniversary:


The GPP Reader

Selections From The Poets Of The Guerilla Poetics Project


A beast of a compilation, perfect bound, slick glossy cover with a letterpress dust-jacket title band, 144 pages, edited by Ed Kauffman, featuring work from these talented GPP Poets:

• David Barker • justin.barrett • Miles J. Bell • Luis C. Berriozabal • JJ Campbell • Alan Catlin • Leonard J. Cirino • Glenn W. Cooper • Christopher Cunningham • Soheyl Dahi • DAVE DONOVAN • Doug Draime • Nathan Graziano • S.A. Griffin • Christopher Harter • Christopher Kornacki • Richard Krech • Mike Kriesel • Ellaraine Lockie • Adrian Manning • Al Markowitz • Hosho McCreesh • Brian McGettrick • Amanda Oaks • Bob Pajich • Kathleen Paul-Flanagan • Michael Phillips • Sam Pierstorff • C. Allen Rearick • Charles P. Ries • Ross Runfola • William Taylor, Jr. • Don Winter

You can buy one at the store link on Guerillapoetics.org or by contacting me for a mailing address. The price is $15 post paid.

Thanks,
Bill

My First Cat

This is not an actual photo of the first cat our family had, but a remarkable look-alike. Especially in those pale green eyes - the look of a hunter. No bird or squirrel was safe on our block.

His name was Arthur and he fathered LOTS of offspring. Could this be one of his descendants ? I'm going to go ahead and believe...

Happy Labor Day

CUSTOMER SERVICE

its a tightness
in the small of your back
that reminds you
not to kill the customer

the customer is always right

exactly right about
your outdated equipment
short-sighted management
underqualified staffing
ill-prepared strategies
badly-timed promotions
awkward public relations
and odd-smelling restrooms

you can't kill the customer
for being right
and the small of your back
reminds you

eight
hours
a
day.

(c)2007DaveDonovan

Still The King

Our Fortress

Let's Meet Here...

The next time Bush demands more time, patience, and money for his delusional pursuit of revenge against a nation that never wronged us in the first place.

The next time Democratic congressional leaders say one thing and do another.

The next time some analyst/pundit/wanna-be-comic makes a crack about Rep. Dennis Kucinich (D-Ohio) and his big ears, slight physical stature, hopeless presidential aspirations, and - oh yeah - his unwavering courage and consistency of principle.

The next time pollsters remind us that the average American can name more "American Idol" winners than signers of the Declaration of Independence. Or more "Laguna Beach" characters than members of The Supreme Court. Whatever. Same shit - different flies.....

The next time we allow advertising to shorten our attention span and increase our tolerance. TO ANYTHING.

The next time an attractive 20-something celebrity gets arrested and the world stands still. Or the next time the 20th century's finest film director dies and the world doesn't.


Let's make a fortress, shall we ?

A Light Goes Out In Chicago

First thing I hear on the car radio this morning is "Johnny Frigo is dead." And the day only got worse.

Music lost a composer, bassist, violinist, and goodwill ambassador today. He was a classy guy - and inspired myself and all who met and/or played with him. My own chops were never on his level, so I never dared to ask to sit in on any of his numerous gigs around town. Frigo was a master musician and a very gentle soul who ruled the cabaret scene with Joe Zito on piano in the 90's.

But that was merely the 90's. Decades before, he distinguished himself in the Jimmy Dorsey Big Band, and recorded with guitarist Herb Ellis and bassist Ray Brown. Barbra Streisand and Dinah Washington hired him to play on their albums. And on two occasions, he appeared on The Tonight Show with Johnny Carson, as a solo artist.

I last saw him at the Green Mill, sitting in on a couple numbers with Jackie Allen . He was in his late 80's but still playing beautifully and cracking jokes in between songs. It was apparent why Chico Marx had hired him years earlier for his own touring show-band.

He will be missed.

Songs To Play..........

THINGS

i have the worst dreams
i dream the worst things
a wave of your hand
the turn of your head from a distance

i save the least things
the things-i-need-least-things
the song of your sigh
the dance of your breath in December

they wander and drift through the door
intruders i cannot ignore

then i hear the worst things
your voice in the morning
calling to me
invitations to sleep a little longer

the answers i never could get
the stain that has not lifted yet

but that’s just me
someday i’ll see
the world wakes up
and moves on

i lose the worst things
colors and shadings
the purpose and drive
to fill in a new frame come tomorrow

i want the worst things
bad worse and worst things
filling my head with the false-alarm red of a sunset

they wander and drift out the door
deserters i cannot ignore

but that’s just me
someday i’ll see
the world wakes up
and moves on.

Summer of Change - Summer of Return

I drove north on the Interstate in search of the cicada song. We don't get to hear them in the city and I miss them. Most people think I'm crazy to say that and wish they could trade places. I would if I could. Growing up downstate, the whirring buzz of our once-every-17th-year visitors rang through the trees and provided the soundtrack to those rare summers - the ones that live faintly in memory when you move to bigger, more "important" places.

Chicago is fantastic, but it doesn't keep you awake at night for the right reasons. More bugs - less guns, please.

I decided to check out the future home of my brother's family. By the end of this summer they will have moved to a northern suburb of lovely homes, spacious lawns, and first-rate schools. I was curious to get a feel for the area. Their current neighborhood was changing for the worse - with slipping school standards being the primary concern - and they were headed for greener property values.

As I entered the city limits, I noticed a couple of things. The police station was perhaps the most inviting-looking and non-threatening public building I have ever seen - nicely landscaped with carefully-chosen shrubbery and plentiful parking. It was night time and discreet floodlights lit up the department's name, scripted in "Book Antiqua", posted on sand-colored flagstone. Damn. I wanted a reason to stop in and see if they offered gourmet coffee at the seargent's desk.

The other thing I took note of was the local funeral home. It had a hyphenated name. And those two particular names were the same as an old high school buddy of mine AND the actual name of the high school we attended. Let's call the funeral home "K-S". About 1/4 mile beyond the funeral home, I turned left - off the main strip - to explore the residential area of this town. It was quiet - with a canopy of trees hanging over the gently curving lanes that wound through the neighborhood. Absolutely no 90 degree-angle intersections to be found anywhere. Instead, every crossing-area was like a soft pretzel that might twist you towards NW or NNW or SE or SSW... only the locals knew for sure. I cruised along with my windows down - trying to hear the cicadas. There was only the familiar sound of crickets and external air-conditioning units humming in unison. It was a peaceful campus of lawns and driveways - no cars parked along the curb, but then again, no signs prohibiting it either. A bit further and the surrounding trees grew thicker but still no cicadas. At one point, the road narrowed a bit to accomodate a small creek bridge and I realized that there was actually a jogging/biking path coming out of the woods, on my right. Oh yeah - my nephews are going to love this. As I drove on I realized that all these meandering streets had completely disoriented me. Where the hell was I - and who the hell cares. I was lost in a quiet sidebar of July that can only happen if you let it.

A middle-aged couple sipped wine on their patio.
A Saturday night card game glowed through a picture window.
Two girls walked their Irish Setter along the sidewalk in perfect safety.

That was about all the "action" I saw happening in the area. Beautiful homes and lawns that rolled out to perfect sidewalks under arches of maple. Clear skies with more stars than the city. And a lot less noise. As I was leaving, the radio station I was listening to in the car began a "Todd Rundgren Hour". I suddenly remembered my buddy "K" and how this area was similar to his own neighborhood back home. Back in high school, we spent many a summer night in the quiet splendor of manicured lawns and hushed driveways - smoking cigarettes and chugging bottles of "something/anything". Our acoustic guitars lit up every backyard party we attended and Rundgren was like a silent partner - hovering in the branches of our youth and smiling in stereo.

And here I was - in the soon-to-be-hometown of my nephews. Would they even care about Todd Rundgren at any point in their lives ? Who knows. I doubt it. They will carve out their own summers - their own getaways of music and art and memory. And I will do my share to make sure they hold off on the indulgences that "K" and myself and our friends undertook at that age. Summer is a buzz all its own.

I never did hear the cicadas, but I caught an unexpected echo. As "Real Man" kicked in on the radio, I wheeled out of the subdivision and headed back to the city. Summer is for kids, summer is forever and, at the age of 45, I think I'm the last teenager standing.

4 or 5 Cycles - Maybe 6, If You're Lucky

2007

1990

1973

1956

1939

1922

1905

1888

1871

1854

1837

1820

1803

1786

1769

I'm thrilled that they're back. I love the music they make day and night. They're only above ground for six weeks and have to wait seventeen years underground to get that. And our chances to see them are limited, also. If your first encounter with them was at the age of 5 (and your power of recall is sufficient), then you're only going to have six opportunities - assuming you live to the age of 87. Enjoy their visit. Or to quote a subway graffiti message I saw years ago : "ENJOY YOURSELF. IT'S LATER THAN YOU THINK."

Stick It To The Man (towards the back,firmly into the spine)

The Guerilla Poetics Project is a literary middle finger extended in the direction of mainstream publishing. High-quality broadsides (4.25w 5.50l), printed on an antique letter-press and featuring original poetry, are smuggled into bookstores and placed inside works of great literature to be discovered by the unsuspecting reader.

You can read all about it HERE. And while you are there, look around the rest of the site and be amazed at the power of independent writers and what they really care about : Connecting with readers WITHOUT getting rich or famous. Priorities, people. The key word is priorities.

Enjoy.

THOSE TWO LITTLE WORDS

the wonderful smoke
of her final words

"hopefully soon"...

drifts in circles
this early June afternoon
as I pass the time
collecting copper in
small baskets

the radio breaks in
to announce traffic and weather
as paper is stacked and
counted and stacked again

"hopefully soon"...

swirls about and I
try to remember why I bother
getting out of bed or
tying my shoes

war at center stage
viruses waiting in the wings
and no exits anywhere

but closing my eyes
I can draw those words in belly-deep
the scent of woodfire and
lilac closing around
a lost lake in the hills

"hopefully soon"...

(C)2007DaveDonovan


BAR STAFF

the waitresses
are in sleeves of spring
3/4 length soft and pastel
shades of
rose
yellow
ivory

lighting the room in
tones from an Easter ballet

sherbet swirls of movement
passing over the oak floor
in ribbons of purpose

I settle in at the corner
spying over my paper
and the sun approves.

(C)2007DaveDonovan

National Poetry Day Celebration

This is a few weeks late, but the reading at The Mercury Cafe on 4/28 went very well. There were some terrific artists sharing their work and before you knew it, three hours had flown out the door and down Chicago Avenue never to be seen again. Until next year's celebration. Here were my humble contributions :

CHICAGO

in Chicago
there are souls
who pass for
a sack of pennies
and honeybees
that dance on
the tip of a match

I've seen water rise
to the concrete edge
where men sleep with
dreams tucked
into their boots

safe from the newspaper saviors
who wave at the traffic

in Chicago
we have mercy
on our tongue like rain
strikes the oak and marble
of Grant Park

like snow calms
the fever of LaSalle Street

as the wind jumps
from C to C-sharp
all the way down Ogden Ave.
where geniuses in basements
shatter the light
in twelve different pieces

redemption must be coming
and it should be thick
in the tall grass
under the L-tracks by now

the lost songs of
Maxwell St. could return
roaring over the playgrounds and
bus-stops shaking Amens
from the unforgiven

or in between
the three-flats
where the city warms its hands
over a burning book of proverbs.


STICK-MEN

the stick-men are following
me around again

as the sun erupts over Lake Michigan
in a thousand Nagasaki blossoms
lighting another chance
at a day's worth of disaster

they say give it up
you're a laughingstock in wet clothes
and the kids are throwing rocks

as the breeze sweeps in
on paratrooper boots
lifting scent and memory
from their rightful place

they say you haven't got it
never did and
the serpents are counting the minutes

as music feathers down from a balcony
teasing the heart
with a lover's lost whisper

as bullies rush the playground
kicking over the chessboard
and laughing at the sprawl of
bloody noses and
stained shirts

they say quit right now
you are the pitiful shape
of a blank soul

as an elderly woman
shares her can of tuna
with an alley cat
scared and lonely as she is
grateful for the company

the stick-men say nothing

and I say
FUCK YOU.


THE COUNTER

a six-pack of
12 oz. beers
one pint of tequila
and
a
single
red
tomato

she sets on the counter
before handing a twenty
to the clerk and
searching her purse again

i have the 41 cents
she promises him

and me
and everyone else
watching this pixie-cut
daydream in grey-hooded flannel
and purple nail-polish

in a spin i wonder
where she is going
maybe to her boyfriend's
or a party
or to the end of my imagination

and i think of
what we might do with that tomato

top off a salad
to share from a china plate
found in a thrift store

toss at a picture
of the bastard who broke her heart

set in a windowsill
facing south
absorbing another day's sunlight
for tomorrow's ideas

or balance on my head
for Mexican target practice
like Burroughs did
but this time
the girls win

and maybe i deserve it
because she is twenty years younger
and lovely in a way i can
only admire from the balcony

pixie-cut hair
shamble of cotton and flannel
off the shoulder with
cheap sneakers and
purple nail-polish
what the hell am i thinking

she probably thinks Boz Skaggs
was a porn star

i am so fucked

and this is so doomed
except for the possibility
that she is drinking alone tonight
as I am too.

cheers.

Lunch With Dennis Miller

Yeah - that's right. I've spent many a lunch hour with my favorite comic ever.
Because he is on the radio from Noon-to-2:00 weekdays on 560-AM here in Chicago. Intelligent discussion and terrific anecdotes from a NON-ASSHOLE right-winger.

Bright guy.
Fast Wit.
With a beard like Bukowski's ashtray.

I'm just sayin.............

Virginia Tech Tragedy and Vonnegut

I don't mean to be flippant here. I mean no dis-respect to the families and friends of those lost in yeaterday's massacre on the campus of Virginia Tech University. And most of all, I am not trying to suggest that my previous post was anything other than a cosmic co-incidence. But I have been fuckin' freaked out by the timeliness of that KV quote I posted on Sunday.

"Godammit -you've got to be kind !"

It applies in every situation where madness and senseless violence tries to prevail. In every generation and across all boundries of ethnicity, economics etc..

"Godammit - you've got to be kind !"

And in extreme cases of mental illness such as this one, the kindest thing a person can do for another is TO RECOGNIZE THE SIGNS OF TROUBLE AND FIND HELP. IMMEDIATELY !.

Especially if that person is unwilling to do so for himself.

We ALL need to be aware of the general symptoms that a mentally ill person exhibits.

"GODAMMIT - YOU'VE GOT TO BE KIND !"

...and for those who believe in penance, let me offer 3 "God Bless You's" to balance out the previous "Godammits" - hey I'm a recovering Catholic - what can I say ?

:>)

Quote Of The Week

"Godammit - You've got to be kind !"

-Kurt Vonnegut

Last Saturday In April

For your dining and dancing pleasure :

NATIONAL POETRY MONTH CELEBRATION

**Sat April 28: ChicagoPoetry.com presents its
annual National Poetry Month Celebration at
Mercury Cafe, 1505 W. Chicago Ave, featuring Erika
Mikkalo, Mike Puican, David Gecic, Laurie Slicer,
Lara Unnerstall, LaRaie Zimm, Ruan Wright,
Buddha309, Jose Bono, Larry O. Dean, Ominiphonic,
Sandy Goldsmith, Danette TM Velez, Andrea Change,
Dina Stengel, Pamela Miller, Kevin Blanchard,
Charlotte Hart, Somara Zwick, Dave Donovan,
Charlie Newman, Michael Brownstein, Robert
Lawrence, Margie Mack, Donna Pecore, Kathy Kubik,
Steven Hammond, Jacqueline Harris and more, with
host C. J. Laity, 6 – 9 PM sharp, free.

A Couple More Poems (it's been awhile...)

DRIVING LESSON

so i was riding
along with my cousin
to a party
and we were talking about
when we were kids

how our family cookouts and
get-togethers were so much fun
how our mothers and aunts made the best food
serving fresh lemonade and sandwiches
how our fathers and uncles told the best jokes
and drank cold Hamms beer from
aluminum pop-top cans
with a baseball game
crackling out of a transistor radio
on the picnic table

and I laughed about Uncle so-and-so
and his chain-smoking Marlboro cigarettes
when she said
No - they were Salems and
the reason I remember that
she said
is because one time
he asked me to run to his car and
grab another pack for him
and so I did
but I couldn't find those cigarettes

and I searched and searched
and checked the glove compartment
and under the seat
but didn't see them anywhere and
when I gave up looking
I turned around and there he was

he tried to kiss me

but i slipped away
and ran off as he was trying to say
he was sorry and please don't tell

about 30 seconds passed
as we drove along
before I could think of anything to say

so i said
are you SURE they weren't Marlboros ?


HAPPY BIRTHDAY JOE R.

at that suburban bar you don't want to park in the parking lot
because the suburban cops watch over it and
pull over the patrons sometimes so it's best to
park a couple blocks away in the neighborhood
and that's what I did tonight before walking into the
birthday party of Joe R. and when you walk into
that suburban bar where Joe R. is throwing a party
you are walking into a family celebration and
he wraps you up in a big hug and then walks you around to
the rest of the group and brother, you are in
in like a capo to the Corleones

where tonight Emily was waiting the tables
tall and lean in her hip eyeglasses
that frame her lovely face perfectly as she
rounds the tables picking up emptys and
replacing the ashtrays with the kind of attitude
you wish every waitress had but truth be told
there's no one like Emily and you are
just happy with that

and the party carries on as Lefty the manager
tells Joe R. the next 3 shots are on him and
Joe R. says "I need a hug, then !" and Lefty says
"No thanks" but Joe R. insists "I'm Italian - don't deny me!"
and he walks behind the bar and grabs Lefty who
complies and then says "Get your dago ass back where it belongs!"
and we all laugh and raise our glasses
to the birthday boy and the manager who loves him
and to ourselves who are lucky enough to
be invited to such a party and
smart enough to park a couple blocks away
so the cops have no chance of ruining everything.

Change For The Worse

OK - a few days ago I thought a change of template would be in order. You know, maybe the black background was a little "heavy" ( not to mention difficult to read ) and perhaps a different "feel" would be something to inspire myself to a brand new start, after being idle for so long. Ha ! It turns out you cannot simply switch templates without creating a whole new blog. Or at least I couldn't figure out how to do it. And the harder I tried to figure it out, the more convinced I became that computers were invented just to piss me off. And, of course, I became more convinced that the original template was just fine. I made just a couple posts on that failed-experiment-of-a-blog before deleting it altogether. (Chris - it was nice of you to comment just the same ). I'm not that adaptable to change, I guess. You know, there's a reason I have 9-year old shirts I still wear and have my cupboard stacked with basically the same dishware since I moved into this apartment in 1995. Fuck it. I'm a dinosaur/poet/blogger and someday my fossil record will verify that fact. Onward and into the future.........

Avant-garde Jazz, American Idol, and The Form of No-Form

Just returned from a Tuesday night at Hotti Biscotti where the music is free-form or avant-garde jazz - or simply "improvised music". There is quite an art to experiencing this type of music and it took me a little while to get a grip on it. I used to think that this type of music was self-indulgent and intended for the enjoyment of the players rather than the listeners. Not true. Consider this : In "conventional music" of any style, the musicians play for the audience and basically go through established forms and routines. No matter how brilliant a particular soloist is, he is always backed by the familiar patterns of that genre. Consequently, not a whole lot is required of the audience, because they can sit there and evaluate the music on comfortable, well-known terms. However, in improvised music, everything is brand new - especially to the musicians themselves. So, the audience must get involved and follow closely. Otherwise it is just noise. As listeners, we have to organize sound into patterns - however loose and vague. In regular music, most of this is done for us. But in avant/free-form/improv/blow-your-mind music YOU HAVE TO PARTICIPATE !

Another thing about listening to this music is that you realize there are very few fundamentals to any kind of music in the first place. There is tonality and rhythm. These two units are about all there is to The Form Of Music. In Zen Buddhism, there is a concept called "the form of no-form" and I am always reminded of this philosophical insight when listening to challenging and bold music. All is in the elements and when you scrutinize it closely, there is no form, but "no-form".

Which, improbably leads me to American Idol. No, I'm not going to trash that show. I merely want to point out a humorous link between one of the smallest audiences possible (like improv-jazz) and one of the largest in the world (American Idol). On tomorrow night's show (2/21/07), America and the world will hear a young woman named Leslie Hunt. She is the daughter of Steve Hunt - a Tuesday night regular behind the drum-kit at HB. Yes, the musical torch has been passed from father to daughter and Leslie will attempt to catch the attention of a has-been studio bassist, a smarmy British guy and a chick who's either really crazy, or really smart. Or perhaps, my idea of a perfect woman. No idea what song Leslie will sing, but here's hoping she knocks it out of the park.

Anyway - we wish her well and have our TiVo's set on STUN.

A Difficult Return

OK - I don't know what the hell Blogger is thinking with this "new and improved" version with Google getting involved. I could not for the life of me sign in here, until I signed in on a different blog (on this same site) and THEN came back here and signed in to SSP. I fail to see the logic in this, but what the hell - I'm an artist, not an engineer.

Been a long time, I know. Since November, actually.

A brief re-cap:

October to December - Back trouble that wouldn't go away. Like Vicodin-level back pain. Thank you Doctor for the generous re-fill. It was needed. Much better now. Pain-free and drug-free also.

Then came the holidays and I didn't even think of posting. After that, a nice cold/sinus infection that laid me out for a couple of weeks. Finally over that, too.

Throughout this time period, I considered the fate of SSP. Should I just abandon it ? Or should I launch a second blog that will feature my poetry only, and maintain SSP for other writers and things that I want people to notice. In the end, this seemed like too much work. I will stay with SSP in it's current format. Sometimes I will share a poem, sometimes I will share a link to something cool/weird/idiotic, etc.. Other times I will let loose with a commentary that will leave the real world entirely unaffected but will make me feel better anyway.

And so you have it. Nearly three months off and nothing has changed. Such is life, sometimes.

Two really nice things have happened to me personally, though.

ONE - The baseball team that I have followed and cheered for and fretted over and worried about and prayed for all these years - from childhood to today - finally went all the way into October and WON IT ALL ! And they did it by working through the injuries. They did it despite everyone saying they couldn't. They did it as underdogs. They beat probably the best team in baseball in 2006 (The Detroit Tigers) and it only took them FIVE GAMES. I love my St. Louis Cardinals and I love the example they set by never giving up and by pulling together as a team. The Cardinals ROCK.

TWO - I have discovered one of the best poets I have ever read - an American voice, authentic and real. She is from Kentucky and the images she creates are stunning. I will devote an entire entry just to her, complete with a link to her site. She is remarkable - trust me.

Time to go now. See you sooner than three months from now - I promise.

Clouds and Collisions

"We owe our existence to random collisions in some long-forgotten cloud". - Dr. Carl Sagan

Good News / Bad News About Hannity & Colmes

Well, a few minutes ago I was watching TV and decided to check in with that beloved American propoganda machine FNC (Fox News Channel, or Fucking Nut Cases as I lovingly refer to them). The program was "Hannity & Colmes", and their guest was Betty Phelps-Schurle, wife of the Rev. Fred Phelps, who first made names for themselves by picketing the funeral of Matthew Shephard.
They've since moved on to picketing the funerals of American soldiers killed in Iraq and Afghanistan. Basically they feel that whatever tragedy befalls America these days is because God is punishing the U.S. for allowing homosexuality to "flourish". (Tell that to the gay-marriage supporters.)

When asked if the Amish schoolgirls killed this week deserved to die, this rhymes-with-witch actually answered "yes". Not because they were homosexual, but because they refused to "obey God". Quite frankly, if I had to point to an example of a God-fearing American, it would be hard to top the Amish, but whatever......

My point about the good news / bad news angle in this affair is as follows. I think it is GOOD that H & C allowed this woman to spew her hatred and insanity on national television. The more that people see this, the better warned they are. Certain types of horrible ideas need exposure in the same manner that vampires need sunlight - so they can wither and die.

However, I think it is bad because they only attacked her on her own terms. Their questions were along the lines of "Are you not a sinner, too?" That is, they took the position that her version of Christianity was harmful and hateful. I would have taken a different approach. At her first mention of "God", I would have asked : Which god are you talking about ? The one who shoots 6 year-old Amish girls, the one who flies airplanes into skyscrapers, or the one who stood by while six million of his followers went to the gas chambers in WWII ?

I know that according to the traditional rules of debate and deliberation, I just flew off the rails right there with those questions. But these are extrordinarily dangerous times and most of it is due to religious fanaticism. It's time that people get a grip on their beliefs and realize that their faith is basically an un-testable hypothesis. And I don't say this as an atheist, either. I'm not sure what to believe, but I also find it hard to believe we are a cosmic accident. One thing I am sure of is that it is now 3:00 A.M. and I may not have made perfect sense here. Maybe I'll come back and refine this tomorrow. Maybe not. In any case, I know that I will continue through life discovering some things to be true, some to be false, and some an eternal mystery. But I won't accept ancient writings from the desert to be THE TRUE WORD just because my parents, church, teacher or president told me to.

To paraphrase W.C. Fields, I may be drunk, but the world is insane. And tomorrow I'll be sober.

:>)

Testing...One...two...

...Is this thing on ? Hello ?

Poem (inspired by chrisn'cats photos)

A TOAST

to lift
and tip back
at an angle
most welcome

the cold wash
of day's end mercy

curved glass and
beaded wonder
singing under the fingertips
to a song
our hearts
learned long ago

open the evening now
and let it breathe

we have skies to admire.

Fear is temporary - Regret is forever

the greatest words i have heard (recently)....

New York vs. Chicago

OK - the law is on the side of New York-based Federated Department Stores, the new owners of Marshall Field's store. They have every right to issue cease-and-desist orders to a local deli for selling a sandwich called "The Marshall Field." Fine.

If it's copyrighted/trademarked, it's your property. You don't have to share.

That's why I think the deli owner should stop selling that sandwich as "The Marshall Field". Instead, the name should be abbreviated. With initials.

Call it "The M. F. "

Let New York interpret that any way they want.

Chicago Poetry Fest 2006

This Sunday, August 27th, I will have the pleasure of reading at this year's Chicago Poetry Fest. There will be great mix of known and unknown (like me!) poets reading their work outdoors at Giddings Plaza in Lincoln Square on Chicago's Northwest side.
We each have seven minutes to read our best stuff and impress the crowd with our fabulous-ness. I'm just hoping for a microphone that doesn't squeal with feedback.

Here is the poem I submitted to the editor C. J. Laity of www.chicagopoetry.com which earned me a slot at the fest.

TWO-WAY STOP

i love to kiss her

my lesbian friend
when saying hello
or goodbye

i never go for the lips
or even the cheek
i dive

for the base of the neck
where that collarbone
scoops out
a lovely depression

where the heart lung and nerve
trade pulses
like the smoothest freeway
exchange you ever saw
and my mouth
searches

for that cellular dividing line
that changes traffic forever

turning her one way and me another

and i wonder where it is
where that answer is buried

in science
in childhood
or under my kiss
beneath her lovely depression

but that doesn't matter

doesn't matter at all
and neither do I.

Thank God/Buddha/Joni Mitchell For Fire-Retardant Carpeting

20 minutes ago I walked into my apartment and panicked.

No air-conditioning. In this weather. No sound of an air-conditioner. In this heat. Hot enough inside to tell me that the freon had probably run out again. There goes 75 bucks, I thought. Nothin that bad except the money. And then I stepped into the room where the AC was and turned on the light. What I saw scared the spit out of me.

A six-inch section of the extension cord was coal-black. And so was approximately 12-18 inches of my bedroom carpeting. Scorched (but not smoking). But here's the best part- MY CAT DID NOT DIE IN A FIRE. So I've got that to be grateful for.

And the flame-retardant carpeting was key. 50 years ago, my cat would have been dead and this apartment - with its guitars and poems and songs and letters - might have made the sad "Weather Round-Up" fatalities report on Channel 9.

(gettin up early to buy new extension cord and carpet de-odorizer).

Thank God/Buddha/Joni Mitchell - The Holy Trinity

A Quick Test of Verbal Skills

Try this : Describe the difference between a tank-top and a sleeveless T-shirt without using your hands. Be precise. Simply describe each type of shirt. Words only. No gestures.

Good luck and try not to sound like an idiot.

Chris n' Cats

Everyone should check out Chris' Blog.

I Will Say It One More Time....

Every single person in the Unites States should read this.

A Poem

THEY KILL ME

what is it with green eyes.

is it because they usually
look blue at first glance
and when you realize that
holy fuck
those are not blue
they're actually green
and not a milky hazel
or a fiery hazel
or a set of colored lenses
from the trendy eye boutique
where the shallow and wealthy
collide in one big urban disaster
or a trick of the light
(or a dimming of yours)
but honest-to-God green
like the shade of backyard maples
in 1972 or the color of
your first bicycle

yes that green

what is it with green eyes.

Let Me Share Two Quotes Completely Out Of Context

1) "I'm tired of talking about my breasts, so I'm picking up my accordian and going home".

2) "You might think that the three of us times 10,000 makes a great neighborhood, but No - we need hookers and crackheads and stuff to keep from boring each other to death".

God bless my friends.

Gig Tonight

Yeah this is stupid to post at this late hour, but there is a gig tonight at Hotti Biscotti, 3545 W. Fullerton, Chicago IL featuring myself and another poster to this blog, Julie. We will entertain you. You will have fun. You have no choice. It begins in two hours. Be there.

( HB is a place where all the cool cats hang, like the one in the picture. )

Mark Cordell !

I have been meaning to post a thank you since Memorial Day. On that holiday weekend, the weather here in Chicago was brutally hot and humid with the kind of air that seals your skin like blacktop. Temperatures made a one day jump from the mid-60's to the upper 90's. And picnics, cookouts, and outdoor gatherings all around were affected. Suddenly, smoky grills and BBQ pits were to be avoided like wind sprints in August from your football coach. Sweaty, dirty , and dangerous work that only the truly dedicated should undertake.

And on that day, I was due to attend a backyard cookout with friends and family. Trouble was, I had no sleeveless t-shirts in my wardrobe. As I have said, this was a day unsuited for mere short-sleeve t-shirts. It required NO SLEEVES AT ALL. If I were in better shape physically, I would have gone shirtless. But, alas, I no longer have the flat stomach I had at age 22. So it was time for a sleeveless solution - And where to get it ? The local re-sale shop, of course. My favorite re-sale shop has been the source of many a 3 or 4 dollar wardrobe treasure, and this time it came through again.

I found two perfectly good Fruit-Of-The-Loom sleeveless t-shirts, one yellow and one light-blue. My size exactly and no defects whatsoever. However there was one detail I had to inspect : there was some writing above the tag. It was in black felt-tipped marker. And the writing said "Mark Cordell ! " That's right. Mr. Cordell not only had to mark his shirt with his name, he had to add an exclamation point. Dammit ! These were HIS SHIRTS. And you had better KNOW IT ! . I wonder what had happened to him in whatever locker room in the past that made him take a stand.
Stolen clothing obviously, and maybe a confrontation with someone. (Somebody shirtless and threatening ? ) Who knows.

I paid a total of $4.34 for the two shirts and they will serve me well for the rest of the summer. Quality cotton. Good stitching and still-bright colors. And the black felt-tipped marker which reminds me that once upon a time, Mark Cordell(!) valued these shirts so much that he personally autographed them.

I am lucky and I know who to thank.

Happy Memorial Day

The closest I ever came to being in the Army was the Cub scouts. History chose to make me a stateside hero, earning my ribbons in peacetime. In the midwest.

In fourth grade.

It's the least I can do to pass on my uniform to my oldest nephew.Happy Holidays America.

The Sweet Tones Of Mother's Day

Today is Mother's Day and I thought I would share a story with those of you who, like me, have slightly odd tastes and, perhaps, a bit of the voyeur inside them. This goes back about ten years, when I was placing a call to my mother on that most important tele-communications day of all, Mother's Day. It was early evening - perhaps 5:00 or 6:00 Central Time U.S. - and I had picked up my cordless phone to place my call. My normal habit was (and still is) to pick up the handset, click the TALK button, bring it to my ear quickly to check for a dial tone, and then start dialing. Logical enough. I think 99% of the popualtion does it this way. (The remaining 1% have lost their phone priveleges.)

However, on this particular occasion I apparently picked up the handset, clicked the TALK button, and dialed "1", and then brought it to my ear. And what I heard was one of the most oddly beautiful pieces of music I've ever encountered. Over the phone, anyway.

I heard a calliope of beeps and tones coming from other callers, who were at that same moment dialing their own mothers. They were out there in tele-space somewhere - all over the country - seperated from their mothers by geography, but not by modern communication. The calls were singing out. Some tones were strong and clear, as if the caller were on the same line. Most of them were in the audible mid-range, where I could discern the pitch and duration of the "note" being sounded. It was a constant swirl, like the revolving doors of a downtown skyscraper at noon on a Tuesday - the excited and hurried rush of individuals pushing their own path through a shared telephonic doorway. And there I was, right near it - but not a part of it. An invisible doorman.

The most intriguing tones of all were the faint ones. I listened intently for them. They were so fragile and rare that I imagined these calls to be the most important. Phone calls placed from the desert, a lonely motel, or a snowbound cabin. Last-minute phone calls. Change-of-heart phone calls. Phone calls on the night before surgery.

I went to the kitchen for a glass of wine, returned and sat down on the floor next to the phone stand. I stretched out my legs and the cat invited himself to stretch out over them. We relaxed there for about twenty minutes, listening to the distant music of telephonic exchanges. I thought I might actually overhear a conversation, but that never happened. I don't know a lot about telephones, but it was obvious that this was an extremely busy day on the routers(?) and that the overflow from the dialer pipeline(?) was spilling into my home reservoir(!). Whatever the technical reasons, it was a curious glitch that provided a few moments of imagination and wonder.

I drained the wine glass, clicked first the OFF button, then the TALK button, and proceeded to call Mom. It was now my turn to join in the song.

I Used To Think This Guy Was A Jerk - Now I Think He's My Hero

Just wanted to spread the word about a brave decision made by a local poetry publisher, here in Chicago. His name is C.J. Laity, and this week, he voluntarily underwent a procedure to have 60% of his liver removed and transplanted into someone with a fatal liver disease. (How has your week measured up? Yeah - me too.)

A few months ago, I decided he was a jerk. I had submitted some poems to him and I never heard back. Rejection I can handle - but being ignored ? How rude of him, I thought. Is he sending a message ? Is my work not even worthy of a response ? Well, of course, it turns out he has been busy with a lot more important stuff than poetry submissions. You can read all the details here but you must click "Operation Liver Of Life" on the home page, first.

He is far from a jerk. He is actually my new hero. And I think he will be yours , too.

Lost And Found

So, the title kind of describes my life the past few weeks.

Let's look at "Lost". Lost and nowhere to be found around this blog, lately, for one. I seem to have lost the time for a few different things. Pondering. Daydreaming. Creating. On some days, sleep seems to get lost. Yet, I have managed to keep my promise to myself about swimming at least 4 days a week (often 5). I guess it all comes from lost spare time. And how did that happen ?

Let's look at "Found". Found a new job location with new responsibilities and a new attitude. New co-workers and new bosses who actually appreciate me for the work I do. How about that !
What a find !

Its been a crazy couple weeks and will remain so for a couple more. No problem. The daydreams and ideas will return. My 50 to 55-hour work weeks will subside to a more manageable 36 to 40 and the muse shall make her return - bearing gifts, I hope.

Until then, may I share a poem that I wrote a while back, when I was pissed-off about the lobbyist scandal in Congress. There was one angle to the story that I took personally and it "got my Irish up", as my Grandma Kelly used to say. A new magazine called Cesium liked it well enough to publish, recently.
You can read it here.

So long from the Lost and Found Department.

Money or Historical Status - You Can't Have Both....

I just heard the basics of this story, but it appears that historic Soldier Field - home of the beloved Chicago Bears football team - has been stripped of it's historic landmark status. Why ? Because,a couple years ago,the owners decided to "upgrade" the stadium to such an extent that it now no longer resmbles the original early 20th century design that Chicagoans (and architecture buffs everywhere) have admired for generations. That's right. They "needed" luxury skyboxes and expanded seating and more amenities and more parking and more. more, more.....

Money, of course. Thats what it comes down to. Now, this is probably just a semantic difference to the bean-counters in charge of the team and its now-less-than-historic-home. They don't care. But this fan does. And I'm betting that others do too. Even non-sports fans are probably taking notice of another instance where commerce has steamrolled art.

If this has any ill-effects upon the ownership, or the city, I say GOOD. You made your choice. You went for the money. You got paid. You will continue to get paid.

Now, don't you dare come crying to the media about "unfair" treatment. Take your money and shut up.

Or better yet - Take your money and shore up the offensive line, please. That's the least you owe us fans who used to be proud of both our team AND our stadium.

Fuck You, Rumsfeld

I am so sick of this arrogant prick. Treats reporters like pests, acts like press conferences are a threat to "democracy", etc... This image was spray-painted on the sidewalk in front of our neighborhood polling place in November 2004. No one has bothered removing it. God Bless the Blue States !

From The State Street Bridge - Looking East....

Doctor's Orders

So, today I had a complete physical exam, and had to face a few facts. Pizza = EVIL. Exercise = MUST DO DAILY.

Plus a set of knee exercises to build quad muscle and lessen joint stress in my leg. And learn to also live with bursitis in the left hip. Good enough.

I am not getting any younger.

Towards cleaner living and clearer meaning.....

I REFUSE

I refuse to ever think about money more than is absolutely necessary. I'll pay the bills and have a little leftover for fun. That's all.

I refuse to start conversations at parties with work-related topics. Work pays the bills. That's all.

I refuse to watch "Judge So-and-So" shows and dysfunctional-people-get-laughed-at-by-the-audience type shows. I don't need a false sense of superiority over others.

I still refuse "smooth jazz"

I refuse to learn golf. That's it.

(And until I can think of some others...)

The Angel In The Wheelchair

First off - Yes - the title is reminiscent of a Charles Bukowski poem. Otherwise...

At the Post Office yesterday, I had to spend about 10 to 15 minutes at the window filling out paperwork. I had a package to send overseas to Australia and a there were a couple of legal hoops to jump through. I started to get annoyed at the clerk who had given me the wrong form to begin with but that was nothing compared to the self-loathing that kicked in when I started making errors myself and had to begin from scratch. TWICE. Bureaucracy is one thing but personal incompetence will eat you alive. Or at least me. I can imagine one day the coroner standing over my body, scratching his head and asking : "For cause of death, can I just put "Fatal Incompetence" ?

So there I was - trying to complete the paperwork without self-imploding when I heard the strangest music I have ever heard in my entire life. It came from a very frail and very elderly woman in a wheelchair. She was about 10 feet to my right - a thin African-American woman who appeared to be, perhaps 100 years old. No kidding. She was slumped in her wheelchair and leaning slightly to the left, like an ancient willow begging for sunlight. Her skin was veiny and creased - a map of southern history and forgotten Mississippi back roads. Country churches. Sundays. I was listening.

As her caretaker conducted her transaction at the window, the old woman's voice was rising and falling, in pursuit of a melody that only she knew. Her breath came in fragile draws and faint exhalations, gently pushing her song from verse to chorus. The lyrics didn't hold together very well because it was obvious she was deep in the shadows of Alzheimer's. Not bed-ridden yet or under doctor's orders, but unable to stay lucid or communicative, either. So she sang. Much of it was un-intelligible, although when she reached the chorus, she was dead-on. The line went : "Mama - Mama where are you now?/It's time for us to go home". It was amazing how, despite the confusion and strangeness brought on by Alzheimer's, she managed to wing it home and nest in that chorus every time.

At one point the background chatter dropped off as one by one we strained to hear the words she was singing. The clerk serving her care-attendant said sweetly, "Yes - You'll be going home soon. We're almost finished!" We listened and smiled. And then they turned toward the door.

I still hear that song "Mama - where are you now"
today

and remember my roots
on a weekday afternoon
at the post office.

Just Checkin' In ....

random velvet cigarette women

...random...but true poem excerpt.............

later, Vicki said
you don't seem too happy
and i said
you're seeing things

she said
i dont know about that
and i didn't answer

and everything else
was in alphabet blocks

Cold Snap

Here we are.

Heading down to 10 below.

First time this winter my cat actually followed me around just to sit with me. Needs body heat. Don't we all ?

Two Items -
down comforter
and thermal socks -
are key in this
volatile climate.

Brrrrr.......................

Big Ron and Little Ron

I want to say a few words about a co-worker of mine who is no longer around. He was a manager at my place of employment, and I spent many an hour working alongside of him. Unlike other fly-by-night losers with nametags that read "Manager", Big Ron was the real deal.

Officially, my job status is "below" that of the managers, yet Big Ron knew the value of myself and the other office workers who shared the same work space. He never pulled rank and we never felt condescended to. Ron knew what his job duties were and what everybody else's were and let things take care of themselves. No micro-managing and no petty bullshit.

Why was he "Big Ron" ? Well, he stood 6'11" and was approximately 275 to 285 lbs. Fit and muscular with a gleaming, handsome bald head that drew the ladies' eyes most everywhere he went. He could be intimidating when the situation called for it (he was an ex-bouncer), but we rarely saw that side. Mostly he was laid-back Ron with a no-fuss attitude.

Unfortunately, we won't be enjoying his company anymore. Last Saturday, he collapsed at work and was taken to a hospital where doctors failed to revive him. He had suffered a massive heart attack at the age of 31.

Finally, the saddest note of all. A note about "Little Ron". Yes, he left behind a smaller (for now) version of himself named Ron Jr., who is only 7 months old. He will never know how cool his Dad was. He will have no memory at all of him. But his mother will have pictures and stories, as will we - the people whose lives he touched. And someday, we can share them with him. And remember.

Official Disgust

From St. Louis to Seattle - BE STRONG MY BROTHERS!

Yep - if you're a sports fan, you can probably guess the theme of this entry. The Super Bowl was a super mess of lousy officiating. I could make the argument that it cost the Seahawks the game itself. That offensive interference call in the end zone, the supposed "touchdown" by Ruthless-burger (or however you spell his name), and that phantom holding call (???) - all were really, really bad examples of officiating.

Let me send out a note of sympathy and solidarity from the fans of the St. Louis Cardinals who got screwed over by the umpires in the NLCS last fall against Houston. The ejection of LaRussa was bad enough, but the "called strike" on Jim Edmonds right afterward? Nonsense. Also - Game Six - the phantom tag at second base which never connected, and should have left the Cards with the bases loaded, nobody out, and (possibly) Roy Oswalt headed for the showers. Arghhhh!!!!!

We stand together - Seahawk Nation and Cardinal Nation - united by our questions of "What if" ?

And it won't get any better until we can get back on the field next season.

[fast forward thru off-season please]

The Run-On

I had no plans until 10:00 Saturday night when I showered and picked out a shirt and went to the corner bar to watch a silent film with live music just like my grandparents did when they had a stretch of Saturday nights ahead of them and it was Laurel and Hardy backed by a quartet of ukeleles looped through pedals of distortion and calliope-ness into a dark room of perfect strangers watching perfect slapstick but the concession stand was better and afterward there was intelligent discussion, laughter, and spirited exchange over imported bottles of friendship when in walked Amanda with her brand new puppy Starship who was an adorable beagle and enthusiastic walker and sniffer of boots and I jumped up and kissed Amanda on the cheek and was glad to see her for the first time in many a time though she is with someone else and will be too for many a time to come and that is just fine too so after 1:00 I said my goodbyes and stepped out into the January darkness and stopped off for a six-pack to-go and stepped back out into Saturday blackness and passed a police wagon cruising for trouble and i turned the corner into a short alley over to my street and fired up a secret smoke that nobody saw then turned again onto the sidwalk and saw no cats on the way home but that was OK.

Family Talk

Today came the e-mail that announces the details of our family's annual reunion. Each year, a family member picks a Sunday in June for a picnic. We arrive from all over the Midwest, Colorado, California, and elsewhere to our hometown in Central Illinois. The afternoon is spent catching up on each others' lives over fried chicken, potato salad, and (if we're feeling especially brave in a public park !) a couple bottles of beer.

The month of June is chosen in honor of Grandma Kelly - the family matriarch of our Irish clan who used to organize these get-togethers. The tradition began in the 1970's and some of my fondest childhood memories reside there. Those Sundays always began by accompanying Grandma Kelly to 7:30 A.M. Mass and heading straight to the park afterwards. There we would reserve half a dozen picnic tables under the elms and maples. Wide stretches of grass held ball diamonds and swingsets and the promise of day-long games of tag, frisbee, or water balloon fights. Those Sunday memories still bloom today when I pass a park full of kids - with grandparents gathered at picnic tables watching over their own families.

Today, e-mail is such a simple and cost-effective way to notify family members across the country about up-coming events. In days past, the best option was the telephone, but timing was a problem. With no answering machines, you had to catch the person at home. With so many people spread out across so many time-zones, this was a challenge. An e-mail works much better. If e-mails and answering machines disappeared tomorrow, then I'm afraid the old way would be even harder still. Today's schedules are more frantic than ever. Who in the hell would have the time and patience to make those calls ?

Besides someone like Grandma Kelly ?

Served

i was at the stove/potatoes onions and garlic dancing for me/and the radio was playing/my cat moved as he pleased/from the kitchen to the back stairs/he didn't fancy the menu that night/and it was a chance to jump bail/on the four walls/on the same old same old/so i stirred the veggies/and he prowled the back porch/three stairflights and one deadbolt/to contain him/the radio rang out the news/i snarled back and the radio continued/a touch more olive oil/and the mayor expressed disappointment/the markets were steady/yankees beat the sox/and the same old same old/when behind me he howled/i heard his cry and spun around/

i spun to the white-hot stab of guilt that ever made me allow him out/please god/please/and in an instant/i could exhale/

as he looked up through a half-inch thick cobweb/strung from one ear/over his nose/and into his whiskers/like a drunken matador/thank god

i swept them away/and he turned right back around/and returned to the ring

dumb fuck

with my potatoes and
radio dinner companion
i was.

anotherpoem

ANCIENT

there was a time

when swamps ruled

and mermaids traded in copper
the sun's advance

for tables under pinwheels

that perfect slice
of morning
when even the Incas gambled.

They Make 'Em Good In Gujirat

Today at the laundromat, I cut my thumb while loading the washer. Too fast, too clumsy, too much, too soon.

And not a damn band-aid in sight. I managed to finish without any bloodstains on my clothes and headed to the corner grocery store. There, the friendly neighborhood Indian store-owner not only sold me a reasonably-priced box of Chinese bandages, he even wrapped the band-aid on my thumb, itself. How cool is that ? Don't know what his name is, but I call him Gujirat - for the region of India that is his birthplace. And I wanted to say "Thank You" in Hindu/Urdu/WhatDo/Whatever.

FACTOID : Compassion is the number one export from the Indian state of Gujirat.

Tonight...

there was a too-beautiful view of the Wrigley building from the State Street bridge

there were too many Brads roaming River North hotspots

there were too many blank faces waiting for the bus

there were too many expensive cars cruising around Cabrini

there was too much hugging before slinking into limousines

there were too many shadows along the north branch

there was too much time between faces

there was music too good for the neighborhood

there were more vampires than nurses

there was a sky with no moon

there was not enough reason to kill myself.

Hey...

I just composed and posted a poem in about 15 minutes.

Don't I qualify for a grant or something ?


ST. CHINASKI

find the narrow ladder
and climb up

just
climb
on
up

reach that platform
and breathe

breathe in
the ghosts

of calliopes
lions and
red balloons

one quick glance down
is all you're allowed
when
nothing
is there

so step off

the left foot is there
isn't it?
and
going
nowhere

now swing that right foot
thats it

now left

now right

left right left

the wire appears
and
the wire always provides

but you have
to find
that
ladder
first.

A Definition (for now)

SugarSkullParade

I started this thing with a vague idea in mind.

To connect.

As time has gone by - approaching a year now - I have shifted and squirmed about politics, culture, and the general state of the world. But I haven't connected with anyone, really. It turns out I don't have as much passion for screaming "FIRE" in the blessed theatre we call earth as I thought. So screw it.

I have a passion for art - music, poetry, and the elegant syntax with which artists string together life's verses and choruses. That's it. And that is enough.

The world is going to hell in a Wal-Mart shopping cart soon enough.

In the meantime, let's keep scribbling and typing, jotting down and scratching out, editing and perfecting the last days of our age. Art is all that matters.

And another drink wouldn't hurt, either. Join me, won't you ?

The Mssing Diary - Toward Aboard and Off The Bus

walking toward the bus stop/the Altgeld one with trees shading over brick and concrete pavement/bordered by black wrought iron/and on my way there i saw a man positively strolling/just enjoying the sunlight and October warmth/he held a glass of cola in his left hand/not a bottle/not a plastic bottle/not a platic cup/not a styrofoam cup/but a glass with ice cubes and everything/and why the hell not?


i see the bus/sitting at the stop sign/going nowhere/i step around to the door/and see a drunk/comfortable on the top step/bottle in bag/smile on his face/the driver just looks at me/so i say - there's another bus coming, right? - /before she can answer/the drunk yells - what the fuck do you want? - /without thinking i scream back - i aint talking to you! - /the driver says nothing and the drunk yells again - get out of here - /and i scream back - shut the fuck up! - /and you know what?/he shuts up/he shuts the fuck up


on the ride north to suburbia/a pair of mittens/left behind by a girl/in full I-pod armor/unaware of drunks and curses and stranded buses/are rescued by/an Eastern European man/he pantomimes to the driver/in bruised English/and the driver motions out his window/and the girl gets tapped on the shoulder/she smiles and comes back for the mittens/the Eastern European man smiles/to his fellow passenger/the driver winks in the rear-view mirror/and i concur

if not for poetry ?

The Mssing Diary

Couldn't fall asleep until 7 or 7:30 this morning/woke up at 11:00/thought it over and went back to sleep until 1:50 P.M./popped my meds/did i forget them yesterday?/i need to refill/showered/took the train downtown without my backpack/feeling naked/looking normal/picked up check/heard about power failures at work(2)/was relieved to know i'm on vacation until 11/1 and it doesn't concern me/cashed check/had lunch at Earwax (BBQ seitan burrito with chips and salsa and sour cream)/needed a Bukowski fix/went to Myopic books/picked up "What Matters Most Is How Well You Walk Through The Fire" because that title suited me today/now going to the Gallery open mic/hoping for two slots/one-music, one-poetry/if only one available i will choose poetry because the songbird in me has migrated for now/

AT THE BALLPARK

from the top row
of section 517

row 9
to be exact

you can see
past the bleachers
over the rooftops
east about half a mile
to the lake

a strip of deep blue
astonishing
and silent
as a bathtub full of paint

there are sailboats
and jet-skis
speedboats and water-skiers
gulls
swimmers
and divers

but not
a single sound
that reaches section 517

row 9
to be exact

NIGHT PASSAGE

riding the highway
at night
on a bus

half-a-dozen
of us travellers
scattered
in the forty-two seats

dozing
or chatting
maybe reading
or just staring
at the inside
of our own skulls

i like the distance
between the towns
stretches of field
and pasture
without light

only
the distant treeline
against
the faint sky

and once in a while
a tiny dot
or two
of warm yellow

from
the farmhouse windows

who have night passengers
of their own
to comfort

GIN

spanish music
on the radio

a ceiling fan spins

one glass
one bottle
and a stainless-steel .38

the last ace in the deck

HIDEOUT

my apartment has strangled the sunlight

faint sirens and whistles
dance through the brick, copper, and glass
of the cityscape outside my window

the cat rests under the desk
with one eye open,
and watches

for dogs

for pigeon blood

for a train
to the country

and I keep pinning
ribbons of text
to my swollen heart

while August crashes
and dies on the roof

Advertising Hits New Low

SugarSkullParade
Here in Chicago, there is a new development in advertising that scared the shit out of me the first time I saw it. It is in a place you would never have suspected. (I'm sure the geniuses who dream up this type of stuff have a cool handle for it like, "gotcha" whatever, or "guerilla" whatever). It is in the subway system of our fair city, but not on the usual platform billboards, or in-train placards.

No, this motherfucker is projected on the darkened tunnel wall itself as the train is moving. Between the Clark/Lake stop and the Washington stop on the Blue Line.
Like a silent movie.
Ghost-like.
Flickering images.
Creepy.

The first time I noticed it, I thought there was a fire under the tracks. The damn thing begins with flashes of light (to get your attention of course). Then a series of images flashes along the wall outside of your train window and tells the dramatic story of how Hummers can drive across mountains and desert plateaus. How impressive. Thank God that 45-second ride from Clark/Lake to Washington has something to liven it up. I was so bored.

Upon a Midnight ! - Clear ?

SugarSkullParade
Well - here we are. An I'll be darned if I know.....

Another Dream

i am walking through a weird house/i am supposed to be inspecting it for a dinner party that night/strange hybrid of design/long dining tables,chandeliers,and silverware/away from the tables/along the walls/junky 1970's TV sets/patio furniture/out-of-order vending machines/after two rooms worth of this i slip out without anyone noticing/realize i have to cash a check/it is late at night/must visit currency exchange a mile away/walk through unknown but harmless neighborhood/senior citizens and children everywhere but no adults/reach within 1/2 mile of currency exchange and begin running/effortless and smooth/athletic as i never was/people admire from passing cars/i reach store,go in,cash check/on the way out an employee mumbles something/i turn to ask what it was/another employee tells me "he said boy, that hottie can run"!/i leave saying nothing/arrive at swimming pool and meet my two nephews/we swim and play checkers at the edge of the pool/

The Pointless Adventures Of Mr. Head-In-A-Bong

I have decided to start a new series of occasional posts that will highlight the brain-damaged mis-adventures of people who make "bad choices" (often known as "fun choices"). The prime mover in these situations is usually an intoxicant of some variety, and the results are usually harmless. Sometimes embarassing. Often instructional.

I will begin with a tale as told by my friend Todd, many years ago. He had just turned legal drinking age and was eager to impress a member of the opposite sex at a downtown nightclub. After some witty conversation and a few turns on the dance floor, it was time to do the manly thing and buy a round for himself and his lady companion. It sounds so simple and oh-so-quaint, doesn't it? Like a folk song. Or a black-and-white movie. Or a shrieking epileptic on a meth binge. Yeah, maybe that last part.

So, I will break it down into 7 easy steps - the way to impress the hot ladies downtown....

1) Spill a girl's drink
2) Promise her another one
3) Forget the name of the drink when you reach the bar
4) Make your best guess
5) Discover you don't have enough money to pay for it
6) Borrow money from a semi-stranger
7) Return with drink and be informed that it is NOT what she ordered

Oh yes. If it was good enough in 1982, it's good enough today. Go get 'em tiger......

A Head Full Of Sick

Tonight I came to the end - to at least the end of the worst part of what should end soon. Is that clear enough for you? Me neither.

For the last 5 to 6 days I have been skimming pools of phlegm in a magic cough syrup-powered rocket boat. My first mate has been Lady Honeytea, but her charms are not enough. Additional help from the ibuprofen armada and kleenex patrol have been required. Our journey has been a rough one, but is now nearing its end.

May those who pass this way after us be strong. Strong as a Russian female weight-lifter. Strong as a week-long unwashed armpit. Or - even, God forbid - strong as the effort required to refrain from puking at the stench of a week-long unwashed armpit from a Russian female weightlifter.

(Special thanks to my friend clang for the malodorous metaphors.)
www.clangster.com

6 Weeks of Bullshit

Haven't posted in about 6 weeks. Been working my ass off and barely keeping up with the bills....yeah, what's new?

What's new you ask? Paul Westerberg is a drunken asshole. One of my favorite songwriters ever has relapsed and decided to drag down his band/audience,etc...along with him. Fuck him. I want my $36.00 ticket refunded. And I want Paul admitted to re-hab with Ticketmaster footing the bill. Fuck them too.

Love and sunshine everybody......

Another Dream

i am walking outside a large grocery store/i am discussing St. Patrick's Day plans with a friend/we part ways/he continues walking and i go into the store/inside i see that it has been temporarily converted to a TV studio where a live broadcast is happening/it is Lennon and McCartney circa 1965-66 and they are singing "I've Just Seen A Face" on acoustics/Lennon is singing lead for some reason and he is fucking up badly/McCartney just rolls with it and they manage to finish the tune together/immediately a teenage boy and girl run up to them/the girl hands Paul a large sponge the size of a loaf of bread/they are grinning and expecting some comedy improv/Paul obliges them by waving it over their foreheads like the pope giving a blessing/they laugh and so does the audience/Lennon takes the sponge-pretends it's a ringing telephone-answers it and says"Yes, your Holiness-Right away!"/then he clobbers McCartney with the sponge/audience roars and applauds/the show is over-audience files out-i stay to watch the crew break down the set/an overweight man approaches and hands me a stick of gum/there is no brand name visible because the outside paper wrapper is gone but i know it is Wrigley's Doublemint gum/the last thing the crew does is turn off giant light switches on the wall by swinging toward them on huge swings suspended from the ceiling like the ones in the circus/right before the last one is turned off, the overweight man returns/he says to me and the crew and the empty audience, "One more thing - You all can suck my fucking dick!"/he then unzips and exposes himself/the manager behind bulletproof glass calls out over the intercom, "That's it ! Now, everybody start over now!"/all of the employees return and begin setting up a buffet-style meal featuring whole wheat tortillas/i grab a couple tortillas,begin eating them, and walk away/

Good News and Bad News For The Neo-Cons

GOOD NEWS They got a belligerent, hard-core Europhobe as the next nominee for U.S. ambassador to the United Nations. He will probably be approved by Congress and will be embarassing us for years to come. Congratulations.

BAD NEWS Halliburton gets busted for conducting business inside Iran. According to NBC, Halliburton side-stepped our sanctions against those "evil mullahs" by setting up a subsidiary in The Cayman Islands. It is actually the subsidiary doing business in Iran - not the company itself. Here's the kicker : When NBC asked to speak with compnay spokespersons, they were referred to company HQ in Texas. Nice try, assholes.

You Too Can Be A Dream Interpreter !

Here's an idea: Once in a while I will post a summary of an actual dream I have had. You will then post your analysis in the comments section. Deal?
Here's the first one....

i am watching TV/somewhere unknown/small B&W set/recessed into the wall of a room with the lights out/an elevator to my right opens/my Dad sticks his head out to see what I'm watching/we say nothing/it is a documentary narrated by a father who's son has died/the off-screen narrator(Hispanic) laments all he failed to do & say with son/narrator then comes onscreen and recites poetry while a movie projector shows slow-motion footage of car accidents over him/i am near tears/Dad steps off elevator/goes into kitchen/puts on coat and gathers things including six-pack of beer/He is wasted,sporting a full beard,and looks depressed as hell/there is a homeless and dangerous-looking black woman standing nearby who says nothing and tries to go unnoticed but i notice her/and i know she will rob him once he steps outside/i have to step out the back door a moment/then i realize Dad has left out the front door/i rush back inside/no one there/Dad and woman gone/i rush out the front door/porch light not working/no one in sight/see a mallard duck walking alone under street lamp/it is late fall/hear a wolf-dog approaching from my left/wolf-dog meets a mate/they sniff and play/the mallard avoids them/i notice a fleeing deer to my right who escapes entirely/hooves clacking around side of house and away into the darkness/i turn my attention back to center and realize duck is now a swan that is quaking in fear/he flutters and sqwaks/i worry that the wolf-dogs will notice/

So Much For That...

It was a good concept, poorly executed. Since I don't have a laptop, I have to make notes, then take them home and post them RIGHT AWAY !!! My attention span started drifting around 3:00 A.M. and downhill it went....so...I live to blog another day....

Overnight Blog

Okay - here's the concept : For the next 6 hours or so, I am going to chronicle my Saturday night. Exterior and interior. I have no real plan for myself except to eat,drink, and be merry without falling on my face(too hard). In a partial tribute to Sam Cooke, I will call it "Another Saturday Night And I Aint Got Nobody To Blame But Myself."
Or A.S.N.A.I.A.G.N.T.B.B.M. for not-so-short.

Rain Shadows This Summer?

SugarSkullParade
Last week I read about a British artist named Andy Goldsworthy. He is currently constructing a massive stonework at The National Gallery of Art in Washington D.C., to be called "Roof". But what caught my eye was his concept of "rain shadows", wherein people lie down on the grass during a rainstorm. If you hold your position until the rain stops, you leave behind an impression in the grass. This sounds like a productive afternoon to me - anyone else interested? If you're in the Chicago area and would like to give it a whirl this summer, contact me.

Here is the article.

Uncle Duke Is Gone

I won't waste a lot of space here on adjectives like "brazen", "incendiary","ruthless", or "gonzo".

I will disregard the flamboyance,the obsession with firearms, and the river of alcohol and drugs that coursed through practically everything he ever wrote. It doesn't matter.

What matters is he had balls. Remember that. And the next time you have a chance to raise a glass, hoist one in his memory.

Then, invite the "Jeff Gannons" of the world to kiss your iconoclastic ass.

Say Goodnight, Johnny

Well, I never thought my first post after a month's absence, would concern a 79 year-old retired TV host nobody had seen in public for years. A man who didn't flaunt his celebrity, court the papparazi, or flatter himself with "coming-out-of-retirement" appearances in Las Vegas. His name was Johnny Carson and television comedy is much, much better for his having been involved in it.

Do you like stand-up comedy? Enjoy audience-participation gags? How about "Saturday Night Live" ? The man was there. He continued and actually improved upon the inroads made by Steve Allen, and others in the TV talk show genre. And as far as SNL goes, it was his clout that got the show off the ground in the first place.

In the 1970's, when television networks avoided controversial comics like Richard Pryor, and George Carlin, Carson didn't flinch.

He also invited Frank Zappa on the show, to discuss his views on the censorship of rock music lyrics. (They agreed it was political bullshit on the part of Al Gore. Sorry Al ! Wish you got elected in 2000, but in 1985 you were a jackass.)

He was a witty and polite man - the ultimate host and consummate professional. He will be missed dearly.

In fact, I would say that the TV talk show circuit has been missing him for years now.