Poetry is the language in which man explores his own amazement . . . says heaven and earth in one word . . . speaks of himself and his predicament as though for the first time. It has the virtue of being able to say twice as much as prose in half the time, and the drawback, if you do not give it your full attention, of seeming to say half as much in twice the time.
—-Christopher Fry
Woman listening to a poetry reading by Mad Swirl – at The Independent Bar and Kitchen, Deep Ellum, Dallas, Texas
Modern Poetry
There is a poetry to daily modernlife so empty of everything else. The staccato rhythm of the traffic reports off on the shoulder one lane only eastbound westbound backup clearing Or the shouts of the Barista as he calls out the orders (actually, I think he’s making most of that stuff up).
And though my lawn has gone to weeds there is still a bird that kawarbles at me as I put the key in my car to drive to work.
If I read a book and it makes my whole body so cold no fire can ever warm me, I know that it is poetry. If I feel physically as if the top of my head were taken off, I know it is poetry. These are the only ways I know it. Is there any other way?
—-Emily Dickinson
Woman listening to a poetry reading by Mad Swirl – at The Independent Bar and Kitchen, Deep Ellum, Dallas, Texas
Bad Poetry Tonight
Craig arrived early and promptly fell asleep in one of the old overstuffed chairs in the reading area. He woke up drooling on himself when the reading began.
This month’s reader, Harriet Von Snapple, was introduced as not only a poet but an amateur hard rock singer and harpist that had recently come out with a solo CD, Smeebage and Mung, after a stint with bands Creamy Blue Cheese Undressing and Schlitz the Prophet. She was different than the usual poets in that she was attractive and confident.
Her poetry was awful, but Craig liked what she said before she read her first work, “I work long hours for this awful man and I look busy and stressed but I live with it because I’m really sitting there writing bad poetry all day.”
The reason lightning doesn’t strike twice in the same place is that the same place isn’t there the second time.
—-Willie Tyler
Dallas, Texas
From my old online journal The Daily Epiphany – Sunday, November 24, 1996
The weather gets nasty
A tremendous storm blew in last night, the harbinger of our first cold front of the winter. We had high winds, and violent lightning, unusual for this time of the year. About five years ago we were hit by lightning. We had only been in this house a couple of months, Nicholas was an infant, Candy was pregnant with Lee. It was about eleven at night, Candy was asleep, I was out in the living room puttering around when the storm hit. I heard about five crashes of lighting, each one closer than the last. It was, “crash, Crash, CRAsh, CRASH—BOOM!” The last one hit the house. It was odd, I was almost expecting it, the bolts seemed to be zeroing in one us, closer and closer, until finally one hit. The bolt burned out everything electrical in the house (except my old XT which was running at the time), you don’t realize how many light bulbs you have until they all burn out at once. It burned some ducts in the attic, and burned a hole in the roof of Nick’s room above him while he slept (I didn’t tell Candy about that for several days, I knew it would spook her).
Ever since this happened, we have been afraid of lightening, so neither Candy or I slept much last night.
Some say the world will end in fire, Some say in ice. From what I’ve tasted of desire I hold with those who favor fire. But if it had to perish twice, I think I know enough of hate To say that for destruction ice Is also great And would suffice.
—-Robert Frost
It isn’t necessary to imagine the world ending in fire or ice – there are two other possibilities: one is paperwork, and the other is nostalgia.
—-Frank Zappa
(click to enlarge) “The Icebergs” by Fredrick Church, Dallas Museum of Art
Warm Weather Icebergs
There was a big ice storm last week which brought the city to a halt. But this is the South and it immediately turned hot. Once the temperature rose above freezing and the sun poked its way out, the ice melted with incredible rapidity. In a couple of days it was warm and dry.
Today, though, Craig was driving down Town East Boulevard wearing shorts, sandals, and a T-shirt and noticed as he went by a big parking lot near the mall that boasted giant still unmelted mounds of ice, pushed into the corners by plows after the ice storm. No streets and few parking lots had been graded (the roads all have these reflective bumps that snowplows will shear off) but this lot contained a big commercial hardware-lumberyard thing, and maybe they intended to be sure and sell a lot of sand and materials to repair the many carports that tumbled under the weight of the ice.
It was odd on a warm, sunny, Texas day to see the huge, angular, filthy icebergs moored along the periphery of the tarmac. They were melting fast – a torrent of water coursed across the lot. Like a glacier leaving a terminal moraine as it retreats, clumps of flotsam and jetsam remained after the ice melted – gravel and trash embedded in the deep layers of sleet and scooped up from the lot.
“Certainly in the topsy turvy world of rock and roll, having a good solid piece of wood in your hand is quite often useful.”
― Ian Faith, Spinal Tap
Toad Corners, Dallas Arboretum
Terror From the Sky
Without any warning the night sky opens up. A huge black rectangle, taking up fully a third of the heavens, swings upwards. The world shivers in terror. Quickly a giant human hand and arm plunges down out of the black sky. You and your friends scatter.
The hand gropes with hideous speed. No hiding place is free from its flashing, powerful probes. First one of your compatriots is grabbed from behind a rock and lifted into the air. Then your other friend is caught behind a tree and he too disappears skyward. You crouch shivering in the pond but the giant hand returns and inexorably traps you in a corner. You try to leap to safety but are trapped against the cold, smooth walls. The hand closes in on one ankle and you are pulled into space through the hole in the sky itself, jiggling, dangling, upside down, held by one thin leg with irresistible force.
What has caused this horror? Where are you going? What awful fate lies beyond the top of the very world. You seem to remember it happening before, but everything is so hazy now.
This morning Craig was rushing around the house looking for his keys and he noticed that the water in the toad’s terrarium was almost dried up. There was only a thin damp layer left in the little double blue plastic dish that they kept for them to swim in. He should have at least stopped to pour a little distilled into their pond, but he was late for work… as always.
“Sorry, guys, I’ve got to run. Get through the day and I’ll take care of you when I get home.”
All day Craig felt guilty for not giving up the few seconds it would have taken to give them some water. He knew there was enough dampness left for them to survive, but still, they depended on him taking care of them. So he resolved to clean out their world when he came home from work. They were always happy with a clean cage.
So that evening, Craig went through the drill. The hardest part was catching the three toads and putting them in the portable cage so he could wash the aquarium. They didn’t like getting caught so he had to chase them around and grab them, they were pretty fast, they could jump, and once he had them, they were very squirmy and hard to hold.
Eventually (well, actually pretty quickly, Craig was getting better at catching them faster than they were getting better at getting away) K’nex, Mortimer (pronounced More-Timer), and Runaway had been grabbed and hauled over to the little portable cage with the white gravel and the lid firmly locked down.
Craig’s son helped clean the thing out. While Craig scrubbed the water dish, the three rocks, the flowerpot, and the two plastic plants, his son filled the aquarium with water from the hose. He skimmed a couple of live crickets off the water and put them in the little cage so the three toads could have a quick snack while they waited. Then Craig poured the water out and rinsed the gravel to get rid of all the toad shit and cricket carcasses.
Out went the chlorinated hose-water; in went the little bowl with distilled water along with the furniture (rocks, flowerpot, etc.). Craig made completely sure the lid was locked down tight (it has suction cups) before he put the three guys back in (Craig never could figure out how that one got out that one time, let alone how he survived unseen in the kitchen for a week).
And now the three toads were happy as larks. They hopped around, looking for crickets, or floated lazily in their little dish-pond as relaxed as can be.
“Certainly in the topsy turvy world of rock and roll, having a good solid piece of wood in your hand is quite often useful.”
― Ian Faith, Spinal Tap
Wood grown into the fence.
Solid Piece of Wood
“This plan of yours, Shelly, is getting too damn complicated,” Mabel said as she gazed with her two friends at the maze of scribbled papers now almost covering the kitchen table.
“Uh, Shel, not only that, but where did you get this Cab? It’s delicious,” said Alice as she sipped her third glass, stared at the liquid, then took a full gulp.
“Alice, you won’t believe it, but it’s from Aldi. It’s dirt cheap but mostly drinkable. And Mabel, I know it’s complicated, but that bastard Craig is not going to get away with this and it will take a careful plan to pull it off.”
“We won’t be able to do this ourselves,” Mabel said.
“We have to keep it secret,” said Shelly. “We will put the plan in motion and people will help us without even knowing they are.”
“Hey, pour me another glass,” said Alice.”I can’t believe this is from Aldi.”
“What if it doesn’t work?” said Mabel.
“It’ll work. That rat bastard Craig is into so much stuff, stealing money, dealing drugs, lying, cheating and everything else. We know that better than anyone because he did all that and more to all three of us.”
“Hey, the bottle’s empty,” was Alice’s only answer. “How late is Aldi open?”
The rack held nine Cricket bats at one time, all held vertically. Craig had one, so there were eight left. He could feel the blood running down his leg as he stared into the dim glow from the store’s emergency lighting system. Water dripped from the suspended ceiling in a dozen spots and something electrical was buzzing. The wet floor must be shorting out some sort of extension cords because Craig felt an occasional shock from his one bare foot soaking in the damp. He tried to stand on the foot that still had an insulating shoe, but that was the leg he was cut on and he’d wince at the pain from the extra weight.
Craig had no idea who had jumped him after luring him down to this third rate sporting goods store. He ran his list of enemies through his head – drug deals gone bad, real estate scams left in tatters, plenty of women left with broken hearts and negative bank accounts – and realized it was too long to recall. He had borrowed the money to buy the failing shop, specializing in European sports equipment (no wonder it was going broke), spent a quarter of the loan, then declared bankruptcy and was ready to turn the now-worthless real estate back to the bank – pocketing the balance. Someone had called him down to the store, and he would never have come, but she sounded sexy and desperate – and Craig had always been able to deal sexy and desperate to his advantage. Instead, this.
There was a crash from the darkness off to his right and Craig held the solid chunk of British wood as firmly as he could. He couldn’t imagine what kind of game was played with this damn thing, but it was all he had. Whimpering in pain and fear, he limped off in the quietest direction he could find.
Paul walked down the sidewalk on his way home from working a double shift when he came across the shattered windows of the sporting goods store. The glass across the sidewalk looked fresh and smashed out from the inside. He knew he should have kept going, gone home to get a good night’s sleep, but he had always been curious so he stepped through the broken threshold. He immediately stumbled into the rack of Cricket bats, knocked over. Looking down, he saw there were five in a jumble on the floor. He picked one up, feeling its firm strength. He swung it a bit and liked it’s balance and heft.
He had played baseball for decades and still had the shoulder muscles and fast-twitch nerves to move a heavy piece of wood through the air at high speed and pin-point accuracy. The feeling made him smile. Paul heard a noise off to his left and, swinging the Cricket bat back and forth with both hands, strode off to find out what it was.
“A withered maple leaf has left its branch and is falling to the ground; its movements resemble those of a butterfly in flight. Isn’t it strange? The saddest and deadest of things is yet so like the gayest and most vital of creatures?”
― Ivan Turgenev, Fathers and Sons
Caterpillar
Monarchs
After work Craig drove over to the health club and had a good, tough workout. It was a gorgeous day and he felt like staying outside for awhile so he drove across Sunnyvale to Lake Ray Hubbard and a little park at the end of Barnes Bridge road. He had been there before… often, really… this is the place with the two wooden crosses.
The two crosses were still there. He was glad to see that someone had repaired Jason Farmer’s cross. From the look of how it was done, it might be the same people working on the other cross.
Michelle Lemay Self’s cross was still kept up with a little plot of plastic flowers. The white wood was covered with messages written in what looked like black magic marker.
There was a little line drawn about eighteen inches up from the ground. It was labeled, “Austin’s height when She left him.”
At about three feet there is another line. “Austin’s height, 7/9/98, 2 1/2 years old.”
I Love U always Your Husband Chris Self
Nearby, in crude but legible hand,
I love you MOMA Austin 7/19/98
Along one side was a longer, more ominous message.
For those of U that come and see this 1 and Lonely cross I hope u all have took the time and understand are pain & are loss. This 1 man I’d Love too c out here 1 sunny summer day. So I can end his sorry LIFE, AND then be on my happy way to go & tell my loving wife that he has finally paid. u know who u are I’m coming soon. Gregg
The park was as poorly-developed as always. Some run down playground equipment and an arc of shoddy grass, a bit of woods along the shore of the lake. Craig walked on down a path away from the parking lot.
All the lakes in North Texas were threatening to dry up with the summer’s drought. The recent deluge had helped, but the lake was still down. Instead of these little cliffs of mud-rock along the shore, there was a thin ribbon of sand which used to be lake bottom. Craig sat along this poor man’s beach and watched the gold sunset sky, the hazy distant opposite shore with its expensive homes and developments. A lone sailboat fought against the waves, a flock of white seabirds dove for fish.
The wind was blowing stoutly and that was enough to build waves from across the big lake. They came rolling in, miniature breakers. With a bit of imagination Craig felt it was like being at the ocean. It even smelt a little like the sea, mostly because of a mat of drying and rotting seaweed.
He walked on down the curl of the park ’til the stretch of public property ended in a steel barrier and “No Trespassing” signs. Away from the water was a thick grove of trees and a path. Craig walked back into a little grotto, his legs brushing away the night’s spider webs, nobody had been there all day. He looked up into the trees, still illuminated by the afterglow of the set sun and saw motion. The trees were full of Monarch Butterflies.
It was a beautiful sight. The green and yellow trees, orange sky, red and black flapping wings. The branches were lousy with them, many came fluttering down, disturbed by his approach. They flew in a cloud around him, close enough to reach out and touch.
They must have been stopping over on their annual migration. It was an unexpected treat, a special pleasure, to have them decorate this remote speck of shabby forest.
Craig needed to get home so I walked back to my car. The return drive was slow and fun, he was stuck behind a peloton, maybe thirty riders. A local club was finishing up a ride, trying to get back before dark. He especially liked slowing down on the uphills, watching them all come out of the saddle, black shorts and colorful jerseys, pumping legs and bobbing helmets.
It had been a long, tough enough day that Craig was content to sit in the bucket seat and steer, listen to a tape, let them all do all the work for once.
“Honestly, if you’re given the choice between Armageddon or tea, you don’t say ‘what kind of tea?”
― Neil Gaiman
Deep Ellum, Dallas, Texas
From my old online journal The Daily Epiphany – Saturday, February 19, 2000
Too much ice cream
Nicholas had a basketball game today. They played an undefeated first place bunch of third grade kids.
The overall tenor was set when one kid showed up with only one shoe. I had noticed the fancy basketball shoes he wears before. I could hear him talking with his dad. “Are you sure it’s not in your bag?” “Sure Dad, I checked.” “He had it out last night to show Aunt Cecilia,” his mother interjected. “I told you to put it back!”
There it is, he is so proud of his shoes he pulls one out of his bag to show his favorite aunt and then forgets to put it back. His father told him to be sure and put it back without checking it personally, which is a sure disaster, as anyone with children should know. Still, you say out loud, I told you to put it back, knowing how useless and silly it sounds. The trip home to fetch the shoe took ’til halftime.
Then, about halfway through the first quarter another player on Nick’s team stumbled away from the action bent over clutching his gut. The coach and ref walked over to talk to him and suddenly the poor kid started puking all over the court. I was sitting up way high in the bleachers but still was surprised how red the barf was. I found out later that the kid was up all night eating strawberry ice cream; that explains it.
I am amazed at the speed in which a child can go from a laughing, grinning good time to “I don’t feel so good” to spewing vile vomit. It is definitely less time than it takes to pull a car over or to get a kid out of bed and to the bathroom.
They led the kid away but he still managed another good retch right in the path where folks were piling in to watch the girl’s game on the other side of the divided gym. One of the scorekeepers had to be stationed there to warn of the vomit pool and make sure they stepped around it.
The referee and the coach collected some paper towels from somewhere and started some tentative daubing at the mess. The manager of the center disappeared for awhile before returning with a yellow bucket and mop. The three started an inefficient, clumsy attempt at cleaning things up. I was relieved when Candy left the low bench where she was sitting with Lee and properly organized the work.
Men, as a rule, simply don’t deal with puke very well. Blood, they can handle, but not barf. The coach and ref were white as sheets, Nicholas, on the bench had his shirt pulled up over his mouth to stifle the stench. With Candy helping and directing it didn’t take too long before a trashcan was full of paper towels and the court was pristine again.
I saw Lee down on the bench sketching away with his crayons. After the game I checked and was disappointed that he had only drawn some dogs and aliens and hadn’t tried to capture the kid throwing up.
Nick’s team shook off these distractions and played really well. Despite some bad luck shooting they ended up winning 16 to 13.
We stayed awhile to watch the next game, a good friend was playing in it. I told him, “You missed a great game.” “Who won?” “Nick’s team did, but that wasn’t the best part.” “What was that?” “A kid on Nick’s team ate too much ice cream and puked right on the court.” “No, you’re kidding… really?” “Really.” “Cool!” was his enthusiastic opinion.
“All over the world major museums have bowed to the influence of Disney and become theme parks in their own right. The past, whether Renaissance Italy or Ancient Egypt, is re-assimilated and homogenized into its most digestible form. Desperate for the new, but disappointed with anything but the familiar, we recolonize past and future. The same trend can be seen in personal relationships, in the way people are expected to package themselves, their emotions and sexuality, in attractive and instantly appealing forms.”
― J.G. Ballard, The Atrocity Exhibition
Paths (detail), by Steinunn Thórarinsdóttir, Arts District, Dallas, Texas
Disneyworld
I was called out of class into the Principal’s office where my mom and my little sister were already waiting for me.
“Your Aunt Cissie is very sick,” the Principal said, “I’m so very sorry to hear this.”
“Aunt Cissie?” I replied. I had no idea who he was talking about.
“You know Aunt Cissie,” my mother said, her voice sounding desperate. I knew that tone – I had heard it many times.. too many times.
“Of course,” I lied. “I hope she’s going to be OK.” I was pretty sure she would not be OK – because she didn’t exist.
“So we will have to take you and your sister out of school for a couple weeks,” my mother said. “I’m going to have to take care of Aunt Cissie and you two will come with me.”
The principal looked suspicious, but what could he say? My mom gathered the two of us up and we walked out to the car as quickly as we could.
“What is this Aunt Cissie stuff?” I asked her. “I never heard of an Aunt Cissie.”
“There isn’t any Aunt Cissie you dummy. That’s just a story to get you both out of school.”
“You lied to the principal?” my sister said. She was too young and always told the truth.
“Just a little white lie,” my mother said. “We’re going to Disneyworld.”
“In California?” I asked.
“No, Disneyworld is in Florida.”
“Why are we going all that way, California is a lot closer.”
“Don’t ask me stupid questions. Your dad has made all the arrangements. We’re going to drive to Florida, so you and your sister have to learn to be quiet in the car.”
I was excited about going to Disneyworld. All our vacations up to that point had involved lakes full of odd-smelling water, bologna sandwiches, and coolers of beer. They always ended bad – both parents way too drunk and pissed of at each other – and a drive home days early. A cross-country trip in our beat-up old car didn’t sound like much fun, but Disneyworld! I wasn’t really sure exactly what Disneyworld was, but it was something that other kids, other families talked about and I wanted to be one of those people.
The drive was even worse than I thought it would be. I tried to stretch out on the floorboards – my legs over the transmission hump. Right when I’d relax and almost go to sleep, my sister would put her feet on me, pushing down, and I’d have a claustrophobic panic attack.
I’d yell, my sister would whine, my mom would scream and my dad would lose his temper. One time somewhere, I think it was in Nebraska, we pulled over and my dad pulled us out and gave us a beating alongside this nowhere road.
The car broke down in Mississippi… I remember my Dad pouring water from an old milk jug into the radiator and having to dodge the boiling water shooting out like a geyser. An old man from the gas station was able to patch something together and we were able to get on the road. Even though it was awful hot outside, my Dad ran the heater as we rolled down the highway with all the windows down. He said it helped keep the engine from overheating.
We had a room in a motel not far from the park. It was small and a little sketchy – still I couldn’t figure out how we could afford even that. But I thought… what the hell… Disneyworld!
And the park was everything I dreamed of and more. Mom took my sister and me – my dad dropped us off and left in the car – he said he had something he needed to take care of. Fine with me, without my dad, my mom was always in a better mood. We stayed all day and mom bought my sister and I anything we wanted – ice cream, hot dogs, stuffed toys of Mickey and Pluto. The lines at the rides were too long, but I enjoyed just walking around. It was like being in another world… a better world than I was used to living in.
We were completely worn out at the end of the day and my mom called a cab to take us back to the motel. I had never ridden in a cab before – it made me feel important. A perfect end to the best day of my life.
Something funny, though, back at the motel. My mom made us walk all through the parking lot looking for the car. When we didn’t find it she said, “Good, your dad’s not here, we can go back to the room.”
My mom was carrying my sister, she was asleep over her shoulder so she handed me the key to open the door. I walked in and saw may dad pulling bricks of plastic-wrapped white stuff from a big trash bag, packing them into a couple of empty suitcases. I had wondered why he had brought those along.
He screamed at my mother, “I told you to stay away until I was finished!”
“Your car wasn’t there, we looked!” she said.
“It broke down again, I had to get a rental! Get the hell out of here!”
Mom took us to the diner attached to the motel. My sister slept on one half of the booth while I picked at my fries and ignored my cheeseburger.
The damage had been done. I was young, but I knew what I had seen. Now it made sense – why we made such a long trip, how we could afford it, what made my dad so jumpy.
He showed up at the diner a couple hours later and I was surprised at how quiet he was. We packed up right away and left the motel in the middle of the night in the rental car. I never found out what happened to our old car and assume it was abandoned somewhere.
You would think this adventure would change our life – I certainly hoped it would. But other than some new furniture and my parents buying better brands of booze – the kind that came in glass bottles, not plastic – everything was pretty much back to normal in a couple months. I guess my dad was just a drug mule and they don’t actually make that much money. The principal looked sad whenever I walked by. He said he was sorry about my aunt Cissie.
I had to act along, of course. I was so good at faking the illness and eventual death of a non-existent relative that I began to believe it myself. To this day, sometimes I find myself thinking about my aunt and feeling sad – until I remember.
“Yes,there are two paths you can go by, but in the long run, there’s still time to change the road you’re on.”
― Led Zeppelin
Deep Ellum, Dallas, Texas
From my old online journal The Daily Epiphany – Friday, June 18, 1999
Liner Notes
I’ve spent the last two days fighting panic and simply writing about it is too much so I’ll substitute for a real entry by typing in some highlights from the liner notes on my Ironing Board Sam CD.
Ironing Board Sam’s real name is Sammie Moore and he was born in 1939 at Rockhill, S. C. He spent a year-and-a-half in college but had to dropout when he got married….
…
In 1959, Sam moved to Memphis where he picked up his colorful “nom de disque.” Sam didn’t have the regular legs to support his electric keyboard, so he improvised and used an ironing board. He didn’t like it at first, but he was tagged Ironing Board Sam and it stuck. In fact one of the clubs where he worked gave away a free ironing board on the nights he played.
…
Sam’s first step toward becoming an “entertainer” occurred in March of 1978 when he made plans to play 500 feet over Jackson Square in a hot air balloon. Sam was going to run cables down to a PA system and an amplifier on the ground while he played up in the clouds. However, after tacking posters up all over New Orleans, the show had to be canceled because it was too windy and the balloon couldn’t be stabilized.
Sam’s next piece of self-promotion involved a 1,500 gallon tank filled with water. He devised a way to play underwater and debuted the show at the 1979 New Orleans Jazz & Heritage Festival.
“I went on the road with the tank,” said Sam. “But I found out the tank was too big to get into a lot of clubs.”
…
In 1982, Sam was back in New Orleans but he was still finding it hard to work. At that point he developed yet another novel form of self-promotion.
“People didn’t want to hear live music,” said Sam. They just wanted to play records or the jukebox, I was hurting so I decided to become, “The Human Jukebox.” I built a giant jukebox that I fit into with my keyboard and amplifier. I had slots built into it where people put money when they wanted me to play their request.”
Sam was playing on the streets in the French Quarter for several months when fate stepped in. The producers of “Real People” saw Sam and shot a feature on him that aired nationally. In the mean time though, the police arrested Sam on a noise violation which took him off the streets….
—-Jeff Hannusch, June 1995
I like the record, good, old-fashioned blues. It would be great to be able to sit down with the guy, have a chat. I bet he has some stories to tell.
And today’s flash fiction – Ded Zeppelin, by Lon Richardson
Bill Chance 