Balgay Hill

Balgay Hill was dark and damp
the trees stood still
they knew that they were trees
no magic forest

the bridge looked frail
as though the heavy gravestone
hung up front
weighed heavy on its mind

Mills Observatory observed
the dead who passed our car
they checked our eyes for signs
that we might stay

White Lady never crossed the bridge
she crossed the track with stealth
the stairs were stairs to no mans land
but the city lights were stars

S.Kennedy. 08/06

It must be Spring again

Here’s the desk that once served as sofa table,
a receptacle for mail, loose change, keys,
things set down first upon arriving home,

now a desk in front of a bedroom window
looking over a bayou, the same bayou
in all the poems I’ve ever written,

the one that has run the same way
for all the years I have lived here
and for many years before.

The same two trees, oak and cypress,
hug a little closer.

And if I move the screen just a little to the left
I can type while watching the big brown squirrel
sitting on a branch of that same oak

and the new green grass reaching
through leaves left over from winter,

the pink buds on dwarf azaleas
shaking their ruffles in the wind,

and what just last week seemed an eternity
now begins to feel like spring.

MA 3/2/04

the purpose of green in the bikini machine shop


The bikinis passed overhead on hangers, dripping their green dye onto the floor, tapping undecipherable code as I considered the events of the previous day. I remembered Gregor Samsa and how he couldn't stop dropping things as he crawled from exit to exit inspecting the amount of light coming into the factory.

The first of the week was always the most difficult and unaccommodating as pressers relaxed in anticipation of the coming days. It took a heavy toll on us and I fear that it will last until the day we die. Minutes are stolen quietly in such places and dropped into someone else's clock before we realize what has happened. But I know because I have deciphered the code.

The first tap of the drip green is a lie but I am not fooled. Fair bright fading kiss. Kill and kill and kill I'm riding my bicycle-bicycle home.

It was simpler when it was only once upon a time, before the nimble life or a beheading to order cracked like a nut from paradise to inferno with just this laid bare in between. This.

Fucking thing. I twirl between two fingers and roll into the palm of my hand.

But what of the noise? And the grinding? And the textured electricity that hides rage behind something called—I don't want to say…

Gregor Samsa said let us be numb and give language only shells to batter. Not cannonade or abuse or hit or stamp or punch or kick or drub or assault or pummel.

Legs walk and compass remote from my expectation. There were high windows all round and the way someone stood with their head down told us nothing. And I knew that it was always like this––that silence told us nothing even though we were led to believe otherwise and think of our paltry moments as gifts holding mystery.

Once upon a time:

A boy received a hat for his birthday, wore it to school and made lights change along the way, made other kids spell hard words, made them run faster when they played.

Once upon a time:

All I ever wanted was everything and to live between the tops of trees.

tap…tap…tap…tap…

Green is the color of my genie. I'll say it (swinging) again because (unthunder) it doesn't seem (slow motion rhino) to be getting through.

But there is work to do in the bikini machine shop and the bikinis pass overhead on hangers, dripping their green dye onto the floor. I hear the whistle-not-proper connect me to ear-transparent's wunderkind though not enough to hide the tapping uncoded second pause. A movement glib with skin and blood and the stretching of their connection. Pulled from the bone and nibbled on by impending.

It's been wonderful.

But where is the girl? She is there. Sitting two rows over by the wall. Black hair down to her shoulders, covering most of her face but not enough to stop me from wanting to reach across space to touch her.

That small piece of skin is enough for now.

And then the bell rings and the bell rang and the bell will ring and the bell would have rung and the bell should have rung and the bell could have rung and the bell is ringing.

Once upon a time.

i hope i'm not pushing what suse posted yesterday down too far or too fast. go to it now, i command you. this nonpoem of mine was written last year. that makes it old in my book but i'm trying to get rid of it so here it is.


caressed by crows

sometimes the rhythmic pulse giggles through my minds. i float mysteries through my pleasant cruise, ploy the wheel and pretend.

truth is told in shadows of the words you attempt to avoid. loosely held words fall right onto my confession. poor confession. mean confession. no words do justice to the nailed palms justice of manstupid

catacombed
spitting manic causative relic functionally despondent
rising semblance of slightly tittilated secondary germanic-type human tribe that we resemble
qualitatived measures of self inspect nets zero.

at another peer, clueless one anothers skinny breezing tightly. puzzle tempered mommys for jeezus love me too. but in the plot versus attitude wars nothing is winning. back to work, dreadfully. i try not to have little problems about me. i will deny my self. die with the rest of you. try to look past crooked founds and use words instead of the abstract bending of your spine. in the calm current pictures of separation let them be, let them be themselves. let them find illumination in mankindling.

let's consider the consequences.

let's count. something. our blessings. shock. cripples. come again. yes. i'm a player of many returns. i fight endlessly. save. save the indians. they will make their triumphant return and i will be their ancestors - in law. in peace. i can smoke with the particles of sin.

let's quantify our results. they abridge our attempts. they become one with all and forever fill your needs. or at least my fruit baskets are never eaten conveying joy and surprising juxtaposition one nation underwhelmed by leaders trip over that cliff, you lemmings. humph.

let's have many sappy returns nappily given and attired. let's crease things under foot, save a nickle, miss your prime. never fear the retarded sense, the natural worded coiffure for the ages. never mind a failure. a topsy conclusion. a bad clarification day.

never use the word "splay". i'm warning you.

and within that warning becomes the infinite. the hard crested shells of your ambitions splayed out before you and inedible. rotten for years. or what years become when they are no longer with us. what's the point?

the big God's stare is blankly staring on cattle being caressed by crows on their way to the abbatoir. don't ask me why you are bitch-slapped from here to eternity. that is why you cower in the corner with the primer for 'or'... buy a big house and will your lot to abel.

if i were to take any cake i made and baked it better... this is a promise. do not believe it. travailutionary. translate inception. score heavily on the oh sigh leaves me factor. we will slow down now, again, and look at things. dot. dot. dot.

trees rustle cattle and hang from the moon where the cup and the spoon have run away with mable. mable, it seems, had stolen the fakes, and left town with the assistant production. this did not stop the show. it still smiles smartly on the landscape forshadowing danger and rotting teeth - which die in life and thrive in their own shunt corners of planned escape later. but now, in this life, the director has decided to throw up his hands in despair for the maddening roar of serranno's piss-jesus. lest you forget, he will save you if you are easily distracted. that is a life lesson and should be taken with you to breeding parties and red sea skinny dipping. bring your reminiscenses of callow juice and fortune baked.

in the new life it's a modest emporium of clever silk laced handcuffs and wispy blow jobs. it licks tenderly on veins of superstition and drains freely through the fingers of desperation. it sips wine flavored testimonials to how you'll spend your night tomorrow if only you can reach yer wanna and have some left over for the mourning. i'd spend all night on this if i was disciplined by a round spectacled wearing crusading martinet. i'd hand in my paper in the morning and go out for coffee with bill the magical effuser. the f using son of a bitch might call me back and give me all his secrets of how to whip the willing and trip the fleecing. smack you in the face with this fishing expedition guide book. don't go back on your word to my figurative scene setting tarantula crawling. let me skip the life step into your spina bifida. don't reveal any monkeys to be. let yourself slip under the surface of this lake of jesus' pee. don't swim. revel. be happy shit. celebrate de cesspool. celebrate your disease. die of terminal laughter. don't go gently into that slaughter. or do. do unto you as you would have. you have no choice in the matter/doesn't matter anyway.

would you rather be pointless or have a 1932 map? you decide. because, after all, it's the year 2049 and you are dying of smiles. good for you. have a pleasant foreboding. don't forget the.




need.

1st whisper

fireside
where the scent of your flesh
scetched you naked

speak low
beneath this

oh!...

drenched

poetry
leaves
drip
dirty
from the top of the tree

and splash around the children
nursery rhyming.

if they're lucky they'll stay dry this year
and tear up clovers but nevermind
the voice from the school house
jangling lessons.

and then the sophisticated television
foretelling the future
in images
snappy and vile
promises pointless greed and politics.

this year the children are all getting drenched
and next year there will be a new breed of
the same old shit.

let's follow one child now
as he grows through the peaceful anatomy of lizards and fantasy
on his game boy screen.
don't be too quick to tell him
beyond the flying dragons is nothing
but a dying planet and a corporation sponsoring it.
but don't let him discover it all on his own either
or you'll never get home again.

I (the perfect start and introduction of character - denotes source and
identity of creator)
Perhaps am a pathetic fallacy
Mouthing platitudes and narcissism
Prosaic and (proof positive) inexpressive.

Then will you still read me?

Books could be written about The Key, a new 3-part serial by Donna Franceschild. Having attended a special preview at BAFTA last night, I believe it will become a classic of television drama. In her introduction the author congratulated the BBC on supporting this project. Somebody from the BBC contacted the author by phone and asked if she would like to do a young girl coming of age story. She responded by saying something to the effect of, "How about if I do a three-part series covering the social and political background and the history of the 20th century, that explains the factors leading up to the story of the girl and her situation?" The producer said, "Ok, leave it with me." (That was the author's jocular paraphrase of the conversation.) The four years consisted of one year to get the go-ahead, one year of research, one year of writing, and one year of production.

The Key is a brilliant portrayal of the effects of politics on ordinary families, and the effect that ordinary people can have on policy when they stand "the gither." That is the accompaniment, the obligado, the orchestra (and there is a beautiful score played by the BBC Concert Orchestra) but the melody is the personal journey of Jessie, one of the two granddaughters, and her sister, played by Ronni Ancona who is about to become a New Labour MP, and in the process is put under pressure to quite literally betray her own grandmother and everything she stood for. Jessie is writing a story called The Key, about her grandmother, who always wore a key as a pendant on her neck. You'll have to watch BBC2 this September to find out why.

The Key (press release - pdf)

There are two new poems by W. S. Merwin this month. I think these are wonderful. See what you think. I have never felt like linking any poems in the Atlantic Monthly until now.

To Smoke A poem by W. S. Merwin
To a Tortoiseshell Lyre A poem by W. S. Merwin

The cult of Write This has ended like the Solar Temple - mass suicide.

The Ballad of Lord Archer

Air: Lord Franklin

Lord Archer bade his whore depart
With pounds two thousand for her fare
Not knowing that the hacks were smart
They trapped Lord Archer in their snare

Before the court next day he stood
And swore his chastity for life
His mate an alibi proved good
The Judge admired his fragrant wife

Five hundred grand against the Press
You'll pay to slight his Lordship's name
The whore not fragrant so we guess
A liar and charlatan put to shame

To follow Whittington then essayed
Lord Archer to be London's mayor
But the mate his friendship ill repaid
And revoked his alibi unfair

Four years hard labour you deserve
Lord Archer now a prisoner wan
Four years in open prison serve
In stripes and shackles noble con

I Shoulda had a Sea Monkey

This afternoon about half past four or a quarter thereof
I had a moment of epiphany -
one of those eurekas when the universe makes a burp
and suddenly sense oozes through the membrane
and I knew what was missing,
the which I had been seeking through folly or desperation
for what has proven so far to be the rest of my life.

I never had a Sea Monkey.

I never saw a Sea Monkey.

I never knew personally, first hand, up close and tall, anyone who ever grew a Sea Monkey.

I never learned if they really came to life
when you added water
and if they swam
and if when you took them from the water
their tiny bodies wiggled with form and substance;
if you could squish them through your fingers
and feel the slimy life within,

and if they had a heartbeat.

I saw the advertisements in the back of treasured comics
promising to send inert and crystallized
a package of living creatures that would come to life
in a drinking glass on my kitchen table
with the addition pure and simple of ordinary water
from the tap.

It was Fantastic Four I liked the most,
collected for a while. Not the usual for a girl, I suppose,
but what is usual?
I was looking for a hero just like all the others.

I had been a Lulu Tubby fan, cutting dolls from old socks
drawing faces with colored crayons
sewing clothing to match the comic strip,
before moving right along to Archie and Veronica
and the blonde Betty who I never could tell was she his lover or his friend,
and I still can’t seem to get that right.

I try to make some sense of this
by putting things in order,
which would be easier if I had a momentous event

like the birth of Sea Monkeys

to mark the calendar, but instead I remember
this was after the honeysuckle oak tree sidewalk scene
and before the little sister came to be,

but on reflection was about the time of her father
with his baby soft skin that had no hair, he said,
because he was part Native American,
but was the fattest Indian with the whitest skin I had ever seen,
being only and most loosely familiar with Tonto from TV.

And that was long before he was shot in a barroom brawl.
Or so I heard.
And had to tell my little sister.

I think if I had used my babysitting money
to order some of those Sea Monkeys
all the other questions would be smaller to consider.

door

I often thought beginning again.
I would need at least an
easy tranquile afternoon or
a train arriving on
schedule.

A mere carnal delight
of intimate theft would do.
A fioriture pick from Wilde's
words would do fine too.

Then again, I prefer forgetfulness or
chat with the next-door carpenter who's
passion for old alleys whispered sense,
and if dogs did not bark at night,
eternity would go unnoticed.

With all my due respect for miscalculations
who saved my life all too often, I have to admit:
I have been an ideal patient.

One thing bothered me though, a tiny detail.
I could not see my pipe in the mirror.

No, no, no. I'm not absurd. It is because of this magic
of words of no particular meaning, that
this paradox of a journey would have no value
if it was reality

stratos©2003

This begins as what appears to be a ramble, but there is a poem at the end and the parts in the middle will take the reader in a convoluted way from here to there with a modicum of adhesion. If, that is, the reader can postpone impatience and take the journey slow as a Southern drawl - like a story told on a Sunday afternoon from an old porch swing, between sips of sweet iced-tea with lemon in tall, green glasses dripping the cold sweat of summer humidity.

Yes, it is that sort of ramble. Is there any other for one so entrenched in the life south of the Mason-Dixon line?

The only thing causing pause in progress is the decision of whether to start at the beginning and proceed sequentially or start in the middle and weave in the beginning or start at the end and tell how I came to be here. I will start somewhere that could be any of these, depending on your personal interpretation.

I am learning a new language. I have entered the second half of the first century of this lifetime – optimistically speaking – with the realization that one language is not enough, should never have been enough, simply does not say enough. It does not speak enough. I have come to realize there is much I have never heard because I did not have the language to hear it. So, I have begun to learn Spanish.

There are many reasons for this and many motivations. It began as a wish to describe the blue of a Mexican sky and discovering it could only be done in the language of that sky. English can talk about it, but English cannot be it. I need the language of that sky to be the sky, to speak for the sky. That was the beginning. Georgia O’Keefe once wrote, “It belongs to me. God told me if I painted it enough I could have it.” Perhaps I heard the same voice tell me if I could write it, name it, be it as it is, I can have it. But for that I need words I do not yet have.

There are more practical reasons that are merely intellectual justification. The reality is the language of the Romans, and the languages derived from that language, speak more deeply within us. I have found listening to the language, without understanding the words, reveals its own message, and it is very pleasing to the ear. As I gain tiny illuminations of understanding, the pleasure is intensified.

This has been said to make the reader aware of my recent and developing interest in the language of Spain. From there the story segues into my daily practice of reading the “poem of the day” at Poetry Daily . I only occasionally find a nugget to savor, but when I do it is quite a savor. I found one of those this week entitled Sea Washes Sand Scours Sea by Tom Vander Ven. Now, in fairness to Mr. Vander Ven, his poem is worth a read, and I do hope you will look it up and find as much to treasure as I. I have printed it out and pinned it to the bulletin board next to the computer, and I will share it with others when time permits. However, I think one poem is enough to include in this ramble, and for this I have chosen another one.

Vander Ven introduces his poem with the following quote from another poet:

No hay camino. El camino se hace al andar. – Antonio Machado

My ear heard the sounds of those words, and my mind flew in search of meaning. With the help of I found the source. I subsequently rushed out to locate a book by this poet, preferably with English translation and was very fortunate to find one copy at a local Barnes & Noble. The book title is Antonio Machado: Selected Poems, and the editor/translator is Alan Trueblood, espoused by some critics to be one of the truer translations.

I am very pleased. I have found one more reason, perhaps the more sustainable reason, for learning another language.

from Proverbs and Song-Verse

VI

Caminante, son tus huellas
el camino, y nada más;
caminante, no hay camino,
se hace camino al andar.
Al andar se hace camino,
y al volver la vista astrás
se ve la senda que nunca
se ha de volver a pisar.
Caminante, no hay camino,
sino estelas en la mar.

(translation)

VI

Wayfarer, the only way
is your footsteps, there is no other.
Wayfarer, there is no way,
you make the way as you go.
As you go, you make the way
and stopping to look behind,
you see the path that your feet
will never travel again.
Wayfarer, there is no way-
only foam trails in the sea.

- Antonio Machado

Tourettes for Professionals
Rick G Walber


Don't ask for I cannot join your ganglia.
Refrain your waxing titrations.
Ghosting limbs reserve autonomous
Echopraxia to their own desultory devices.
Off shoots articulate, emulate.
Random is regular as anti clockwork when
Grunting inaudible utterances.
Expletives to a degree
Send me into isolation.
Grace your prognosis on a deserving mind.
In complete innocence I will motor on.
Leave me be to discover myself.
Lend a head when I need clemency and
Ease my unmerited affliction.
Defect; your deluded farce.
Ebb with time alone to
Loosen its grip.
Arithmomania is my security blanket,
Today counts as any other.
Onlookers grimace as I, yet they
Urge their premonitory swear box
Right under my nose in
Expectant chorea, don't insult me or
Tic me off for I am not yet consummate.
Till that day arrives
Each day I swear brings no remission.



© Rick G Walber, 6/06/2003