Pinky's TPLO Physical Therapy Song

She's my sweet little girl.

She's my Pinky baby Sue,

I love that little doggy,

tell you what I'm gonna do,

gonna kiss her on the snout,

gonna toss her ears about,

gonna tell her that I love her,

and there's no doubt.

Oh, Pinky baby Sue,

 little doggy rescue,

you'll never wear a ribbon,

but don't be blue.

You'll never make the cut,

you little mixed breed mutt,

but if the prize was precious, girl,

you'd kick their doggy butts.

She's my sweet little girl.

Oh, Pinky baby Sue,
I know you love me, too,
because you roll in human poo...

(Continue adding absurd words to  

the rhythm of pets and slow scratches.)

View from the Philosopher's Cot

Get up!  Get up, Xanthippe!
Off your knees, girl.
Take that crying child away,
that mewling half-cat of a creature
cradled in your arms,
that unfeathered little bird.
Why, look,
these men record my words!
Noses long to be led by this finger!
The gold I have, I leave to you:
follow Pythagoras: abstain from beans:
women should not pass gas.
That's all you really need to know.
Now, take your puking child and go.


(Poems by Poets Roundtable of Arkansas, 1986; Sou'wester, Southern Illinois Univ, Fall, 1988) 

A Walk through Notre Dame

I feel the weight of these stones,
God in this half-light.
I walk a groove smoothed by footsteps
of popes and kings,
Joan of Arc,
Bonaparte.
There is only the sound of slow feet
below hush-mumbles of foreign voice,
and yet, I hear music,
a dirge as weighty as the one
warping from Dickinson's slant of light,
the same slant that now stares
through stained glass
like laser eyes of Our Lady.
I suffer hope in candles
and the roots of candles gone.
The scent of burning wax
struggles to bless me,
bless mankind,
and all the cardinals lying
face up beneath their images,
bone below stone,
awaiting that first crack of rapture.
I climb the Colitre side of the double helix,
steps dished out by the feet of ancients,
German soldiers, and travelers like myself,
who squeezed up the stair,
black hole,
throat of time,
blind and a step behind each other,
to empty out among the stars,
above the clamor of the square,
the flesh of Paris,
sirens on St. Michel,
and newspapers fluttering
a failure at Reykjavik.
I slip my arm around a bony waisted gargoyle,
rest my head on his hard shoulder:
even these stones will awaken to cry out.


(Arkansas Magazine, Arkansas Democrat, March 8, 1987)

If Wishes were Porsches

If bankers were philanthropists
and poor men wore their chains;
if doctors took the bus to work
and lawyers made no claims;
if politicos weren't paid so much
and teachers were paid more,
perhaps this ship we're sinking in
would ground on Palaian shore.

Our corpulent mate, the corporate state,
is in the crow's nest now,
and he may see the mango tree,
but I see HERE AND NOW, BOYS.
I see HERE AND NOW.



(Poet's Corner, Arkansas Democrat, August 28, 1983; Pen Name: Ezra Katz)

East 9th Street

It's no longer there,
a street where
dark and light converged
to exchange intensities
beneath the warm grey fringe
of street lights
and greetings,
honey,
sugar,
baby,
were breathed
through full red lips,
the window halfway down,
ensuing discussions
of money and worth,
promises to delight,
or the quality of
certain brain foods,
a guaranty to kick your
mind free of its manacles,
stolen goods,
the dark alley of commerce,
street corner stock exchange,
must move from time to time.


(Arkansas Magazine, Arkansas Democrat, December 8, 1985)

Decision Trees

Loves are not to be harried
out and hung on decision trees,
romantic manifestos not withstanding.
Neither is truth limbed out there,
hanging like some vast fat apple of odds
to be twisted off and eaten by ungods,
epistemology and metaphysics
dripping down their chins,
and beauty can no more hang there
than hangs the perfect nose.
Odds on art will not play,
but, nevertheless, are played,
stretched out toward the recto side
and even off that page.
Rainbows don't, and willows won't,
but, wait, look at the stars!


(Kaleidoscope, The Sentinel-Record, January 19, 1985) 

Dead Matter

I am dwarfed by this
dead matter,
arc my eyes down a running
rainbow curving off her fingertip,
a pot of gold there, through
her hair now, quickly,
a flip,
and I continue:
Robinson is either lying about
Central America,
or he is stupid.
She shrugs, looks
over her shoulder at
a man walking, tall man,
toward the bathrooms.
There is a poem, I say,
by Alex Comfort concerning
freedom...
What? she frowns.
I like your nails, I say.
Thanks, she smiles, I cried
when I broke
this one.


(Arkansas Magazine, Arkansas Democrat, April 26, 1987)

Bums in Mexico

We argued and cursed our way down
El Bolevar de Revolucion,
jacking our necks and voices
above the snake of Mexicans,
I claiming Man's intelligence
could not be measured by man,
you taking pride in your tests, results,
playing me like Euthyphro,
when it was moments after we
were both lost, two blocks from the bolevar,
grappling for the keys,
since each thought the other
would be lost forever, far beyond, "How so?"
But you even found the club
with stairs going down
and observed in true Hemingway fashion,
the dancer's lips brushing yours, et cetera,
while I found my purse for Twyla,
took a fast black cab to the border,
and emptied my pockets on a beggar,
trying too hard to be a poet.
We did better at the Long Bar,
elbows on sticky table tops,
leaning over, "Dos mas cervezas, por favor,"
discussing women.


(Valley of the Water of Life, Roundtable Poets of Hot Springs, 1981)

By the Sea, By the Sea: A Day on Dog Beach

Waves bowl in
and starfish snap their fingers,
"Strike!"
Mussels bow their stiff necks
and barnacles hiss,
"Shhhooooo, baby, they never miss."
Seagulls sail and swoop
while pelicans strut their stuff;
Sandcrabs hurry sideways,
but clams can't get enough.
Blond-haired boys in wet suits
sit like seals on surfboards;
lovers lie on blankets
wearing dark sunglasses;
singles jerk their heads around
when each bronze body passes.
A wave withdraws and in its claws
ten tons of shells and sand:
It's better to be beaten by sea
than beatified on land.


(Arkansas Magazine, Arkansas Democrat, June 24, 1984)

Living in a Van on Shelter Island

Each breeze seeks and sets halyards slapping masts
on squat boats bound and naked on the bay.
This sound is wind chimes, bone strikes savage bone,
or skeletal soldiers born of dragon's teeth,
deathly crazed, they clatter into battle,
slice flesh again, then fall themselves like sticks.
The din comes and goes with footsteps, night blows,
but I am safe here; I cannot be touched.
My radio soothes me with amplitude modulation.
With an ear on the speaker, I listen:
Herbert W. Armstrong, doctor this or that.
It speaks to me on Shelter Island.

I smell eucalyptus when I wake, coffee at Red Sails,
cigarettes, ten hours of polyurethane at 50 psi.
Enter me, burn my lungs, make me cough and spit
proudly while cannon rounds silence the bay.
A marlin hangs head down, marking a scale,
shining blue-black in the sun, that meaningless gaze
photographed from every hunching angle.
Red runs from the gills, down the long spear,
trailing little roses to the sea: Not Captured.
It speaks to me on Shelter Island.


(Arkansas Magazine, July 29, 1984; Poems by Poets Roundtable of Arkansas, 1985)

Eric: The Modern Mariner

We were one and we were three, parlez-vous.
We set out in the azure sea, parlez-vous.
New water boldly lapped and loathed
the conquest of the false betrothed,
inky, dinky, parlez-vous.

No life there was but we, parlez-vous,
upon a darkened sea, parlez-vous.
We rigged our sail of morning light
and split in two the virgin night,
inky, dinky, parlez-vous.

We ruddered for we knew not what, parlez-vous,
but deep into the darkness cut, parlez-vous,
leaving the womb to close behind
unpon the finite, mortal mind,
inky, dinky, parlez-vous.

Although the loss we two deplored, parlez-vous,
and cried aloud, "Man overboard!" parlez-vous,
we were not to ourselves restored,
but onward, helpless, off we soared,
inky, dinky, parlez-vous.


(Valley of the Water of Life, Rountable Poets of Hot Springs, 1981)

Come Floating Gingerly Down

Come floating gingerly down,
Waltz me with a loving kiss
In a circle all around.

Silken folds of wedding gown,
Lacy layered waves of mist,
Come floating gingerly down.

And each mirror will expound,
And each angle will insist,
In a circle all around.

When the soft light has been found,
No last reason to resist,
Come floating gingerly down.

With your hair, my ceiling's crowned,
Each breath closer seals a wish,
In a circle all around.

When the morning light abounds,
Wakes us to a life long tryst,
Come floating gingerly down,
In a circle all around.



(Just Singing, The Courier-Index, December 12, 1985)

The Cymbalist and the Escaping Angels

The cymbalist sits,
silent brass plates, handle sides up,
on a stand dressed white before him.
His head moves to the first winged stirrings
of violin, viola, cello,
all taking off in pursuit of Paganini.
With the sound of hummingbird wings,
they rise, float above the conductor.
The cymbalist smiles, nods his head,
but stop, the bassoon's lamentation
draws them back to earth;
piccolos mock the Icarian attempt,
and the tuba, trumpets and tympani
sound an awful warning.
The strings go silent on a bump
plucked note of the double bass,
and the oboe breathes an end,

but then, the piano interludes,
soft at first, building a division,
while trumpets talk in the background,
leaning into each other
like disciples at a last supper.
The French horn's logic calms them,
and the last piano chord carries on a pedal,
but before it finds silence,

the conductor nods to the violins,
and up they go in a happy flush
with cellos right behind;
and up stands the cymbalist.
He leans into his music,
gently lifts the cymbals.
The conductor waves to the brass,
and off they go in chase.
The violins circle the ceiling,
but the brass stops on that height,
and looking down they offer all Faustian delights.
The cymbalist taps his foot to the counterpoint.
The violins are frantic with decision,
but "CLASH!" goes the cymbalist,
heaven opens up,
and they sail through that incision.


(Arkansas Magazine, Arkansas Democrat, February 9, 1986)

Highways

It always happens,
some kid tops a hill at a hundred and ten
with wine and life strong on his breath
just as an old man crawls onto the highway,
his bony hands atop the wheel, neck stretching
to get that extra few inches of vision,
and they meet there, old and young,
on the tree lined black carpet of America.
One neck breaks forward, one breaks aft,
and the moon stirs up a galaxy of broken glass.
Cars stop; an ambulance is called.
They are wrapped and loaded, eighteen and eighty.
The ambulance retreats slowly, quietly.
The stars are swept away.


(Voices International, Fall 1985)

Coffee and Cigarettes

Today, coffee, 
but with Eric being gone, 
no cigarettes,
 although there might be a
 butt in the trash can...I'll go see.

Boehm: Crawling to Byzantium, 1978

There's a wild man in 407,
belly like a Biafran baby's.
His flat fingertips
unknot gyred twine,
lowering the dream mitten
that disco-queens fill with stone,
and he eats, seeing and tasting bread.
He is loath to lose the skyline,
being a birdwatcher
who has yet to make a sighting.
Oh, sure, birds,
but not THE bird, you understand,
not the Golden Song Bird.
I told him, "This ain't Byzantium."
"Yeah," he said. "Where are we, anyway?"
"Denver," I said.
He lowered the mitten;
the string snapped taunt.
He turned, grey sand in his beard,
"Have YOU seen it?"
"Nope, not yet," I said.
"Have some bread," he said.


(The Sentinel-Record, 1982; Poems by Poets Roundtable of Arkansas, 1983)

"Crito, I owe a Cock to Asclepius..."

Last words are a dying art;
one can never quite tell when
it is finished these days,

what with all those stainless gods
hissing and beeping by the bed,
three-pronged tails lashed into the wall,
a bubble gum glueing of mind to matter,
body to soul: old Socrates would not approve.

No telling how many thoughts are lost
in the circle of those circuits.
Better to say our last words now,
than lose them in machines somehow.

If you will, please say I said,
"Eric, you may have my bread,"
crossed my arms, and then was dead.


(Along the River: An Anthology of Contemporary Arkansas Poetry, 1987)

The Museum of Man

I have been to the museum of man,
following green arrows
through loss of hair
and rounded craniums,
stopping to feel
the slight sweep
back from my brows
and thickening hair
on my face and chest.
When I saw modern man,
tall, sleek and hairless,
I began to move against the arrows.




(Poems by Poet's Roundtable of Arkansas, 1982)

Eric Ketzer

Thanks to my son, Eric (well, actually, my only son), now flying back to St. Louis, for creating this blog for his computer illiterate father.

Colors on Hickory Nut Mountain

Your hair, a shade lighter than
the last year's leaves you sat on,
shone like copper when you turned
your head to tell me color
existed only in the eye
(white sailboats on
a dark blue lake
through the woods
there pressing spring),
and what a thing I thought it was
that light had traveled all that way
on such an urgent flight
to find you on the mountain
and paint you black and white.


(The Sentinel-Record, August 17, 1985)

Hunting Affirmation

Here is what you hunted for,
tripping to the page,
on its knees and dying.

I bring it to you, love,
carrying it dead on my back,
the blood eyes and rack of it,

while what you must have wanted
was to see it standing still,
the affirmation of its breath
in the crystal morning's chill:

It turns an ear to look at you,
nods to the center part,
then circles all around you
in the forest of the heart.


(Arkansas Magazine, March 31, 1985)

I Love You

Too much I love you
languishes in backgrounds
like oceans and mountains
grown overly familiar
so that some near stranger
stirs you more than I
with simply rustic scenes
and images of Crystal Springs
breathing in your ear.


(Arkansas Magazine, February 6, 1983)

Little Rock

Following Marilyn Monroe’s lead, I put my underwear in the freezer, but added socks and

T-shirt.  Prior to dressing for work as a mechanic at an aircraft repair station, I donned the frozen under-things, and was cool, at least for one brief moment.  Temperatures in Little Rock and most of the south had been above 100 for two weeks, hitting 110 a few times.  I worked the night shift, which began at 4 PM and concluded at midnight. Our only relief in the hangar came from floor fans that stood as tall as a man, but in such heat, blew only hot air. On this day, with the hangar full, High Speed Haxby and I had to work on the ramp.  He drew a single engine Beechcraft Bonanza, the owner demanding more cooling from the air conditioner.  (Look, Fella, in this weather, the AC can only do so much.)  Like the aircraft I drew, a West Wind business jet, affectionately known as a “Jew Canoe” since the Israel Aircraft Corporation held the type certificate, the Bonanza sat cooking on the ramp all day.  High Speed crawled down into the fuselage to bleed the system, but soon came crawling back out, his face pale and sweating.  He stood, leaned over, grabbed his knees and puked.  We all got a laugh out of that.  My West Wind was a simple tire change, but when I attempted to jack the right main gear, the jack sank into hot asphalt; I went back in and cut plywood to augment the jack pads.  With the job finished, I opened the cabin door to retrieve the logbook and was pushed back by a horrendous smell.  Apparently, the last passengers dined on lobster, but the flight crew failed to remove the leftovers or dump the potty.   Man, did it reek.

                 Our normal after-work ritual was to pool our money and send someone for beer, the cheapest beer they could find, the desire being quantity, not quality.  But on this night, and with the beer already in coolers, we headed for the Arkansas River to cool off and go for a ride in Tom’s boat.  Consequently, around 3 AM from the darkness of the Arkansas River, a boatload of us laid siege to downtown Little Rock that began with a barrage of bottle rockets and no doubt awoke businessmen and visitors in their high hotels.  Soon a police cruiser showed up at River Front Park and made the mistake of finding us with a spotlight to which we replied with a landing light designed for a Boeing 727 that we had mounted in a cutout gallon milk jug and wired to a 24 volt aircraft battery—you couldn’t leave it on too long or the jug melted.  Our spotlight being much brighter than the cops, theirs went dead, but we heard much yelling and saw them running toward the bank.  After flashing hotels with the landing light, we chose discretion and withdrew in darkness down the Arkansas River, two of us being pulled behind the boat on inner tubes; drunk, of course, and free of life jackets.  By the time we loaded the boat and headed our separate ways, dawn was breaking.  I could tell by the sky, it was going to be another hot one.

Phan Rang

Spending too much time in Bill’s Pool Hall and not enough in class, I flunked the 8^th grade.  That failure, along with an early school-year birthday, placed me in draft status while still in high school.  The draft board informed my school that if I didn’t maintain at least a D average, I was theirs.  I graduated with a D+.  It was nip and tuck.  Two weeks after graduation, though, I received the greetings.  I took the induction notice to my father and moaned, “Gee, Dad, what do you think I should do?”  During WWII, my father was one of Darby’s original 500 Rangers, selected in Carrickfergus, North Ireland, and trained by British Commandos in Achnacarry, Scotland.  In 1942 at a place called Dieppe, the Rangers were the first American soldiers to experience combat against the Germans in Europe—the first to kill and be killed—and during every invasion that followed, they, along with paratroopers, led the way, were the head of the spear.  While on a scouting patrol, my father was wounded and captured by Rommel’s troops at Faid Pass in Tunisia on Valentine’s Day in 1943, just prior to the German rout of the American forces at Kasserine Pass.  Except for three escapes, during one of which he remained free for a month, he spent two and a half years as a prisoner of war.  He was flown from Tunisia to Italy where he and other POWs were marched through Naples while the Italians lined up to spit and throw garbage.  Eventually, he ended up in Germany and bounced from camp to camp, but spent most of his time at Stalag 2B.  He was liberated by British troops in April of 1945.

 

Dad read my draft notice and, laughing, threw up his arms and said, “Join the Air Force!  They get coffee and doughnuts every morning!”  I did.  Six months later, following basic training and tech school, I found myself in Vietnam, but in the relative security of Phan Rang Air Base.  I worked in Life Support for a fighter squadron; that is, supporting the life of the fighter jock.  Anything that touched the pilot’s body was my responsibility: helmet, oxygen mask, survival vest, parachute, G-suit, survival seat pack with life raft, &c.  I trained on the equipment’s use, as well as escape and evasion applications. Jocks flying the day’s first sorties showed up all bleary eyed at squadron headquarters around 5 AM where I met them with coffee and doughnuts, suited them up, and sent them on their way to roar into the dawn in camouflaged F-100s.  Mostly due to the equipment, the headquarters building was air conditioned.  Frequently in trouble, I was also responsible for mowing lawns around the building, a task I performed wearing a shoulder-length, blond wig—a gift from a jock.  The wig originally belonged to a blow-up doll who was the life of the party at the Officer’s Hooch until, alas, punctured beyond repair.

The job was gravy; the assignment was gravy; no war stories here.  Oh, Charlie lobbed in a few rockets from time to time just to let us know he was out there, but little damage was done, nothing of consequence that I recall.  Phan Rang was a world away from the combat Army grunts and Marines experienced out on the rice paddies or in the jungle.  In fact, we were so secure, those ground pounders came to Phan Rang for in-country R&R.  No doubt about it, we flyboys had it dicked: coffee and doughnuts every morning.  Well, except for the fighter jocks who got shot down, but that happened yet another world away.  I returned to the States physically unscathed.  The worst thing I experienced was the welcome a few college students provided when I passed through San Francisco on my way home to Arkansas.  At that time, troops were required to travel in uniform.  As the harassment increased, the mandate changed to travel in civilian clothes: My America.  After leave, I spent a year on a SAC base outside Columbus, Ohio, then back to a fighter squadron at Keflavik, Iceland, for a year, and then I was out.  I was discharged in New Jersey, having paid my dues for the natural facts, as John Lee Hooker would say.

A decade or so later and free of military obligation, I began to question the old man’s advice.  Killing time at my parent’s house one day, my Dad and I watched television; I stretched out on the sofa and he on his recliner and in charge of the remote, as always, and flipping channels.  We shot the shit, discussed politics and the war de jour.

“You know, Dad,” I said, “as a man, I feel like I missed something in life by not experiencing combat.”

“Stevie,” he replied, not looking away from the screen and still flipping channels, “you didn’t miss a thing.”   

Wood Stove

Living in Fairbanks, Alaska, it had to reach twenty below before I fired up the woodstove; the woodstove was for back-up, anyway, for power outages and to augment the boiler when it really got cold.  Besides, I could never control that sucker.  If I cranked it up much warmer than that, I’d run us out of the house.  Mostly, I burned birch.  Spruce worked, as well, but popped like crazy and the smoking sap made a mess, blackening the woodstove’s glass.  I’ve burned cottonwood, but it burns cold and leaves too much ash. Firing up the stove at thirty below or colder was tricky.  The chimney was cold soaked and cold air pushed down the stack and out into the room.  I had to start with a propane torch and let it shoot up the chimney for five or ten minutes to get a draw going; otherwise, if you just put a match to the paper and kindling and closed the door, the fire would jump to life, but smoke like crazy until it ate up all the oxygen and killed the fire, although it continued to smolder and puke smoke out into the room, setting off every smoke detector in the house, frightening my dogs and irritating my wife, so that, at thirty below (or colder), I’d have to open the front door to chase out the smoke and let in fresh air.  That being said, we did enjoy a fire.  Oh, and the dogs—Alaska, Dingo, Pinky and Gertie—really did.  They couldn’t get close enough.  They’d lie in front of the woodstove and stare into the flames with their paws crossed—I swear to God.  Who knows what they were thinking.  At those temperatures, I did a better job of controlling the heat, but it still got away from me from time to time.  Once, it was fifty-five below outside (by the thermometer; in Alaska, you don’t talk about wind-chill), and I had it ninety degrees inside.   +90F(three inch door)-55F: it was fun going from one side to the other wearing nothing more than shorts, T-shirt and flip-flops and letting the cold just kiss you all over, and then back into the sauna with the smell of red beans and rice simmering in the kitchen; but, had I locked myself out, it could have turned bad.  Even with it that hot inside—at least at eye level, where the thermometer hung—the cold outside was so extreme that it radiated through the door and created thick frost at the bottom on the inside, a frost that refused to melt.  Chimney fires claimed a few houses in Fairbanks every year, but I never had one—I kept my chimney clean—and I don’t need to knock on wood, as we moved to Florida last summer.  Yeah, Florida, where our dogs pant even while at rest, and we have a house with a fireplace—I don’t know what the hell for.

Spiders

I sprayed a fly on my screen

that looks out on the lake

and by mistake hit a hidden spider

who lived behind in there.

I felt sorry and rather mean,

looking up from time to time

to watch the spider die.

He struggled in small circles

with legs that wouldn't walk.

I thought he must be feeling

very sick and sorry for himself

as the chemical choked his life,

but leaning closer to the screen,

I saw him reeling web and building,

and, "Oh!" I thought, "It's life!"

I looked up moments later,

and he hung there, quite dead.


(Coe Review, Coe College,  Issue 16, 1986)

ZEN AND THE ART OF AIRCRAFT MECHANICS

They like it behind the panel:
Cerebral problems leading to
embarrassing physical positions
not even sex could justify,
the unreadable wiring,
those clipped and hanging
(God alone knows where they went),
future problems encountered,
sealed brains, de-ice timers, so on,
the imposing black backs of instruments
with their fat plugs, multi-wired
bridge between realities,
the dexterity of the fingers,
the agility of the arm,
the endurance of the neck and back:
They like it behind the panel.


(Coe Review, Coe College, Issue 16, 1986)

Paper Boys

It is 5 a.m.; 
most are not yet teenagers. 
They huddle in middle class garages 

beneath sixty watts worth of enlightenment 
folding papers and popping rubber bands 

to the tune of The American Dream. 

Their parents smile as they chase 
that radio, bike, or baseball glove, 
that ounce of old Columbian Gold, 
and rock, rock, rock and roll. 

They make more money than a Jat with six kids 
whose wife prepares dinner over cow dung, 
the family fortune on her nose, 
three worlds and hunger away. 

Paper boys pedal through rain grey mornings 
flinging papers like hand grenades.

(Four Quarters, La Salle Univ., 1985)