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 ?