Seasons Greetings from Ferguson

The star spangled banner hung upside-down;

now, without an indictment, right-side up, oddly,

tear gas rockets trailing sparks above the red glare of

SEASONS GREETINGS

strung across the street, people below running, yelling,

testing the cops, tipping cars, setting buildings ablaze,

all so sweet in their Guy Fawkes masks,

little hoodies, Timberland boots, Earth muffins all,

Anarchists, Socialists…God love ‘em.

Ah, America!  I hear you singing!

But what is this?  It’s nothing, a lullaby.

Is that all you’ve got?

Listen to another fine fascist:

“Damn you, sing: Goddamn!”

Hear 1919 for a voice from the belly.

Cable news, not beer halls?

I-Phones instead of brick bats?

YouTube clips in lieu of bombs?

Come on, it’s candy-ass, nothing.

What must our undocumented immigrants think,

Or those sleepers with expired visas?

Give them hope: charge the barricades!

Grab some money; it’s the final solution:

become anathema to yourself, but first,

turn the streets into sheets of fire.

Oh, you’ll need flames far hotter than these to melt hearts.

SK 11/24/2014

Going MAD

If it does come down to marking minutes,
our masses huddled in cinder block basements,
or blankets in pink porcelain bathtubs,
awaiting that first tinge of vibration
while Air Force One climbs over the Atlantic,
those wide-eyed advisors spitting scenarios
at the president, and he, hands on knees,
nodding this way for civilization,
and that way for a democracy
of bathtubs and basements
where last minutes drip their seconds
back down the ages, a fox terrier whines,
baby plays with a white soap dish,
and a tiny crystalline elephant
falls from its stand on
the knick-knack shelf,
and when it does come down to marking minutes
with no more time to play, pet the dog,
hug your family, and throw the watch away.


(Arkansas Magazine, Arkansas Democrat, January 13, 1985)

When the Ashes Settled

She was reading Plath
like a Pomeranian
barking at the trashman.
It was new to her, you see,
but when she reached, "Ach, du,"
the words grew like stalactites
on her lip.  "Excuse me," I said,
flicking them off.
I should have known better;
she was rising from the ashes,
twisting her wings, looking for air.
So I told her to fly:
it was a proposal, that's all.
When the ashes settled,
she was painted above the horizon,
and, brushing myself off,
I yelled after her,
"Thanks, Love!  Keep your head out of ovens!"


(Hot Springs News, 1982; Poems by Poets Roundtable of Arkansas, 1983)

The Jagalchi Fish Market

It's as if the Sea of Japan threw up
its entire bounty on the wharf
of the Jagalchi Fish Market,
the largest in Korea, in the world,
from what I've seen,
stall after stall,
alley after alley,
street after street
of fish,
long and shaped like spears fish,
those discus flounders,
mackerel, tuna, red fish, blue fish,
a pile of octopodes draped over cardboard boxes,
tentacles, suckers up, as long as my legs,
a woman, sitting on a bucket, opening oysters,
trays of them on the half-shell, ready to eat,
while another cooks tempura,
another offers sashimi,
while crabs push for space in tanks,
blow fish swim, and below them in shallow basins,
spiny urchins, clams, mussels, spitting anemones,
or something, sea cucumbers,
all smelling like the sea,
as fresh as a breaking wave.

We walked for hours,
looking, photographing, eating.

Three days later in Seoul,
our sneakers began to stink
like the seafood section at Winn-Dixie, Kroger's,
Safeway, Publix, Fred Myers, Piggly Wiggly...


SK/August 2014

Riding the Subway in Seoul

Each toenail a different color,
painted perfectly, some with sparkle,
her feet stand awkwardly on cork platforms,
rocking at stops: Seolleung, Yeoksam, Gangnam.
If those aren't hose, her legs are made of milk.
Except in crossing, the thighs will never meet;
they disappear behind a pleated skirt, beige and short,
into which she's tucked a crisp, white blouse
(there are insufficient adjectives for this),
the waist at best, twenty inches...nineteen?
Up the blouse's buttons, she stares into a phone;
Samsung, of course, as black and shiny as her hair.
Her other hand holds a subway strap, and...uh, oh.
Our eyes meet,
hers without a K-pop smile.


August 2014

Biker's Balls

For all those literary bikers,
airbrush artists, Rimbaud trikers,
who hop their hogs cross rolling hills
and drop them to save daffodils,
who have such scars across the belly,
on which they rest Wordsworth and Shelly,
and O that nose, that broken nose,
to suck in sent of yellow rose, it blows,

because some match the biker's yen
to have their art tattooed on them.
Jackson Pollock splashed his paint,
and Pablo painted cubes,
but once no bitch except their own
had spiders on her boobs.

Still, those fucking Harvard masters,
those gay prancing pre-meds,
those prissy Princeton pussies,
and M.I.T. shitheads,
could not but hold a pubic hair
of one dear biker's balls:
Their fathers cannot buy into
the highway's hallowed halls.


(1987, updated 2013)

The Straw Man

“Oh, bullshit.  This would be just one more example, a result of his dithering—he’s the original Mr. Dithers—but in this case, he got exactly what he wanted.”

“No, he tried to get a status of forces agreement, but the Iraqis wouldn’t give it to us, so what could he do?”

“He tried to get one?  This administration, that’s all about diplomacy, couldn’t get a status of forces agreement?  He didn’t want one, and that’s why we didn’t get one.”

“No, no, that’s a talking point from the Right.  You don’t know that.”

“Hell, I work on cars, and I could have got one.”

“And just how would you have done that, Mr. Goodwrench?”

“I’ll tell you how.  I would have called in the Secretary of State, the ambassador, the defense chiefs, and told them, ‘I want you people to stop playing around with that clown Maliki and get me a goddamn agreement. I want you to tell that son-of-a-bitch that the President of the United States wants an agreement, and, by God, he will have one.  We want thirty thousand troops to remain in Iraq for twenty years, and they will not be subject to any law but that of the United States. That might, just might be enough time for them to shake off the Middle Ages.  If not, by then the Kurds will be an invincible bulwark. We'll see to it.  You tell that son-of-a-bitch if he doesn’t immediately approve a status of forces agreement, we will not leave him with the billion dollars’ worth of military hardware as promised, but will pull out of his fucked up country, not leave one goddamn bullet, and that he can expect his government to survive no longer than a year, and we will not come back in to save his ass.  You tell him, he can fill our embassy with pig shit for all I care, because we will not be there risking the lives of our diplomatic staff without an agreement.  Better yet, you tell him I will give all that military hardware to the Kurds, because they are the only people in that country worth a fuck, and we will set up a no-fly zone around the Kurdish region, and he had better not test it.  We did not invest trillions of dollars and five thousand Americans in that shit hole just to sit back and watch Maliki fuck it all up.  Now, get out of here, get over there, and get me a goddamn agreement, and don’t come back until you have one. And Hillary, for Christ’s sake, quit flitting around the world playing patty-cake.  Get something accomplished, will you? And stop telling me what Bill thinks. Defense hasn't trusted our party since he ran from Somalia and let that Ranger blood dry in the dirt without an answer, and then he was so frightened he sat with his mouth open during the genocide in Rwanda. He has the blood of a million on his hands, and that will never dry.’  I got off track, but that, my friend, is diplomacy.” 

"God, you sound like W's Cheney on steroids."

"Hey, it's Pax Americana, baby.  It's that or darkness."

"With bandy-legged Picts bounding over Hadrian's Wall?"

"Absolutely."

"Ah, man..."

"To them, I'm just a run-of-the-mill infidel deserving death, but your side is truly abhorrent.  How would you like to see your gay friend's head on a pike with a cock hanging from his mouth, the pretty faces of your Hollywood royalty disfigured by acid, toothless because their perfect, gleaming teeth have been cut out and made into necklaces?  That's coming."

"Not if we leave them alone."

"Especially if we leave them alone."

"Not if we stop backing the Zionists."

"You would stop supporting Israel?"

"They've caused us nothing but trouble since Truman blessed them in 1948."

"Wow."

"Absolutely."

"Okay.  Let's say that doesn't stop them.  Would you convert?"

"Better a living Muslim than a dead atheist.  I mean, of course, I would lie about it, go through the motions and hope for change."

"Now, that is the audacity of hope."

"Perhaps, but how about you, my Christian brother?"

"Well, while I was raised a Christian, I'm a horrible example.  Still, I would give an adamant, 'Hell no!' and say I'd go down swinging, but I don't suppose you can really know how you'd react when faced with decapitation."

"So to speak."

"Funny.  You want another beer?"

"Sure."

"A beer for my godless friend!  What would you do if they decided to test your faith, gave you a knife, and ordered you to cut off a child's head?"

"The child's head or mine?  I'm going to need that beer."

Sunrise on a Partly Cloudy Day in Pink and Blue with Jesus Christ Standing between the Israelites and Palestinians

Sun rays fanned above the clouds
like the crown of Christ rising.



SKJ--8/1/14

Eastern Indigo

Not quite comfortable but having grown familiar with the blue racer that lives in bushes on the west side of the house as well as the green striped and much longer grass snake that prefers the front and east side, my wife and I were shocked to see, after being alerted by serious barking from Gertie, a new arrival  that would make three of those other snakes. Indeed, looking through the safety of the lanai screen, we guessed its length to be in excess of five feet and closer to six with girth to match my forearm.  At first, we imagined it must be a water moccasin, but the wife, who is now most reluctant to return to weeding and trimming our many flowering bushes, a task that requires wading into that greenery, conducted an Internet search and concluded the monster to be an Eastern indigo snake (Drymarchon couperi, i.e., "Lord of the Forest"), sometimes called a blue bull snake, that, according to the article, is the longest snake native to the U.S., growing to nine feet, dines on other snakes, including rattlesnakes (a plus there), and has been known to "kill its prey by wildly beating it against nearby objects."  Now, Gertie is fearless and weighs in at 42 pounds, but even so, she had better be careful--sound advice, too, for the blue racer and grass snake. The Eastern indigo is listed as a threatened species, nonvenomous, and not prone to bite if picked up, so I doubt I'll go after it with a shovel, but rather hope it eats whatever rats, toads and lizards it wants and then moves on. I am reminded of a rather bad poem I wrote as a young man, but can't recall whether or not I was talking about snakes.

He a winding motion makes,
routine of Eden's garden breaks,
strong men's breath he often takes.

He reposes wound in coil,
the self-same color of the soil,
then, "Pow!" some chick blows his head off.    

Angst Redux

A floor fan vibrating in the window,
pulling in the downtown night,
the quiet of two a.m.,
thin ghost of existence,
shadow in a dark room,
the streetlight always with you,
two illuminating life.
If you could see yourselves, you'd sigh,
but are far too blind for that,
so you gaze at each other;
it at your awaiting, and you
its stoic singularity:
your thoughts, its light,
both too late at night,
too late and lost in time,
but it burned your shadow on the wall,
didn't it?
Don't fret: I'm not mocking.
We're together in this,
twisting rhymes for streetlights
singing songs for floor fans,
lighting cigarette off cigarette
to keep the torch burning,
that reverence for life,
when there is nothing
but a naked heart beat,
the streetlight, the night, and
a floor fan vibrating in the window.
No, please, continue:
your anguish bathes the world.


(SK, May 1986) 

Out of Context 24

During the fall and winter of ’76, I studied Shelly and Keats, Wordsworth and Blake, Shakespeare and Chaucer, Henry James and W.D. Howells, Mark Twain (yet again) and Hamlin Garland, while working part time--over the years in Denver, I worked as a janitor, hot roofer, construction laborer, painter, extruder operator in a plastics factory, and cook to supplement the G.I. Bill--and Dad studied boats for sale.  We ended up with a picklefork (not a Butts Aerowing, but a copy by Krier) I named "Jumpin Jack Flash" and one of Marshall Grant’s “Ring of Fire” runabouts we renamed “Why Me."  It was a good, fast runabout and we raced B and C Konigs on it.  Although I didn’t like runabouts, I raced it a few times, once on Lake Catherine in Hot Springs, I think 1977 after the Diamondhead races went kaput. 

We set up our pit a couple days before the race and had plenty of time to test.  I came back from a  run in “Why Me” with the B Konig, and Vernon got on me, started whipping me on the butt with a start rope: “Stevie Jr!  Boy!  What were you doin’?  You need to get your butt in the back of that boat!  All the way back!”  I told him it felt pretty good where I was riding, but he said, “I want to see your ass against the transom next time!  That boat’ll take it!  Hell, they ran a D on that boat!”  So I got back in for another run with Vernon whipping me on the butt as I climbed in.  After rounding the first turn buoys, I headed into the back straight, squeezed the throttle closed, grabbed the sliding stacks, scooted my butt back until it hit the tank or transom or both, and hunkered down. 

I’m telling you, that little “Why Me” boat just started cookin’.  We were going fast, ripping down the back stretch.  About the time I decided Vernon and Dad were right, things took a turn for the worse, and all I saw was sky.  The boat was pointing to high noon, or at least 11, and doing that brief dancing-on-the-stacks routine that I witnessed from the banks a few times, and while some drivers, like Butch, were adept at recovering from that situation, I, apparently, was not.  After coming down hard on the left side, “Why Me” went one way, and I went the other.  The impact on the boat caused such a concussion or flexing that it blew wood from the opposite side of the hull, while I felt like my ribs were being pummeled by a gorilla. 

Back on the bank, I gave Dad and Vernon the silent treatment when they told of a gust of wind they saw rippling across the back straight.  I felt like I had a chest full of broken ribs; even taking shallow breaths hurt, so I went off to get X-Rayed, although Vernon and Dad suggested, and rightly so, there was nothing doctors could do about cracked or bruised ribs.  You just had to man-up and deal with it.  As it turned out, I didn’t even have cracked ribs, only bruised.  What a wimp.  But I got back on the horse and raced “Why Me” a couple days later after we put a quick, wooden patch on the side, which accounts for the wavy look in the photograph.  I did not put my butt against the transom, and I did not finish in the money.

 About getting back on the horse, a few decades later in 2004, after being without one for several years, I bought a motorcycle, a new Honda VTX-1300-C, not a Harley but a nice, fast bike.  I once had her up to 110 mph coming down from the hills on the Steese Highway near Fairbanks, and she had more to give.  Well, I had about 3,000 miles on it and was out riding some 25 miles north of Fairbanks on the Elliott Highway, a paved but potholed road, when a dished out, unpaved patch snuck up on me while doing about fifty.  It’s a beautiful ride: the road rises to follow ridgelines with views of spruce and white birch filled valleys down below, and, on good days, Denali way in the distance as clear as a postcard.  Riding in Alaska is a bit different.  The roads are much narrower, the woods aren’t cut way back from the shoulders—where they are cut back, willows quickly grow to fill the void—and pot holes and frost heaves are common, as are moose and other critters. So, if you’re smart, you ride with eyes scanning like radar. Still, with shadows falling across the road, riding in and out of sunlight, it’s difficult to spot road damage.

Unfortunately, the exit end of the gravel patch had a substantial asphalt lip.  The front wheel cocked against that pavement, and the Honda and I went arse over tea kettle. Fortunately, I was wearing a padded jacket, knuckle gloves, a full cover helmet, and, as it was chilly, insulated jeans with Long Johns underneath.  Still seeing stars swirling and gasping for breath, I got up and started patting myself down, feeling for bones, and was happy to find myself intact, but beginning to hurt.  I went to retrieve one boot that had dispatched down the road.  Dumb as it sounds, my greatest concern at that point was bear.  Holy crap, I’m out in the middle of nowhere, I’m hurt, there’s no way I can pick up this bike, and there are bear out here who want to slap me around and eat me.   

But before a bear came, a pick-up truck stopped—I got lucky: you could go for miles and miles without seeing another vehicle.  He helped me get the Honda on its wheels and off the road.  When I asked for a ride to town, he said, “Oh, I wouldn’t leave the bike out here.  It’ll be gone when you get back.  Can’t you ride it?”  The shifter and foot brake levers were bent, so we straightened them with a huge pair of channel-lock pliers he had.  Then I tried starting it, and, being a Honda, it started.  So with mirrors broken off, tail lights dangling by their wires, and a big dent on one side of the gas tank along with other minor damage, I rode the 25 miles back to Fairbanks.  I was hurting but okay until I got near Fairbanks and into traffic, where, without mirrors, I had to crank my neck and back around to look for cars. 

When I pulled into the garage Vicki came out and was horrified at my condition, jacked and helmet all scratched and scuffed up, jeans torn, and me quite pale.  My right leg was beginning to swell from the contusion when I suggested she might want to drive me to the hospital.  They discovered I had six cracked ribs, a partially collapsed lung, fluid on the lungs, a chipped bone in my foot, and various contusions later rendering my right hip black with bruises.  I spent three days in the hospital and walked on crutches to physical therapy for a couple weeks. In fact, as I write this, my hip is starting to hurt: must be getting ready to rain.

(From "Inanimate Objects and other Family Members"--June 2014)  

 

Blankets

Of life, I have enjoyed most blankets,
the layered quilts of winter,
summer with a top sheet blowing,
the midnight searchings of spring and fall,
and all the nights of life there dreaming,
they covered, protected me while I was gone,
off to a world I can't recall,
off to a soft reality of actions
where sins disappeared with the opening of eyes
and death truly had no dominion.


(SK/1982, or thereabouts)

Dancing and Aircraft Maintenance

I love to feel the mind dance,
jitterbug with a problem,
anticipate me.
Sometimes,
with my hand
withdrawing from a problem,
and before the fingers
have time to touch the temple,
I see the solution
as clear as any postcard.
At other times,
it waltzes me to my desk
to plod step by step
through a sickening scientific method.


SK/1983

Sour Grapes in Doggerel

A ream of cotton bond, unbound,
blown about the landfill's rotting ground,
and there, at least, by seagulls read,
at night, some sheets, a rodent's bed
for dreams in stream of consciousness.

The author (dead), O had he known
his characters through smoke have flown
beyond chain link and into hands
of his most erstwhile fellow man
who saw profound abstraction.

In morning sun, though sheets were lost,
some badly stained, some wet from frost,
our vagrant bent and gathered those
to denouement, as kismet chose,
bemused without contrition.

He knew the shelves were fully stocked
with movie stars the bookstores hawked,
and talking heads, politicos,
both left and right, the lengthy nose,
blowing social mediation.

As he hoped, indeed suspected,
the manuscript, oft rejected,
required just a tweak or two,
a liberal bent, and off it flew,
from shame to sanctimony.

He cleanly typed it on a stick,
and from the shelter, emailed it
to Pearson, Reuters, Random House,
where each one nibbled like a mouse,
but choked on publication.

Rejection stuck not in his craw;
he sent the work on to McGraw,
and there, at last, the angels sang,
as silver in his pockets rang,
fame and fortune pealing.

The Pulitzer, he bowed and took
but with few words, as his voice shook,
though talk shows, well, he shunned them all--
They clearly lacked the wherewithal
to distinguish art from garbage.


(01/28/2014)

Out of Context 22

According to author and Ranger historian, Robert Black, Bren gun fire came so close, it shattered wooden paddles in the hands of Rangers as they made amphibious landings from Loch Lochy.  Sometimes fire came too close, as when Ranger Donald Torbett failed to keep his tail down in the boat and got shot through the buttocks (his nickname thereafter was “Butt”).  In addition to amphibious landings, the training included climbing, rappelling, speed marching, hand-to-hand combat, night fighting, use of German weapons, toggle bridge and rope sliding across the River Arkaig, the latter exercise called, “The Death Slide”, and indeed one Ranger drowned in the attempt. The Rangers were housed in ten man tents, lived in the mud, dined on mutton and cold fish, and if they wanted a bath, they were invited to bathe in the icy river.  The American upstarts not only survived, they excelled, exceeded expectations, and were awarded the Commando “Green Beret” on graduation, which is where that history began.



From "Spean Bridge"--Citrus County Chronicle,12/29/2013  

Email to a Snowbird

                                                                                                              

Thomas,

I imagine I should inform you of a certain matter sooner rather than later; although, it now comes somewhat late.  But not long after you and Elizabeth departed for parts north, a rather substantial sink hole developed in your backyard—well, mostly in your backyard, with a bit on my side and some, I believe, in the Green Zone.  George Smith of the Lakes Grounds Committee came by soon after it happened to take a look.  George believes the sink hole developed due to, perhaps, overly aggressive lopping of kudzu and skunk vine.  The leaves, he believes, serve to disperse the rain, and with the leaves gone, the rain, especially the extremely hard rains we had in late May and June, drilled right down into the earth and fostered the sinkhole.  With all the rain, the hole quickly filled with water, and the water level has remained constant and overtime gained clarity on par with Weeki Wachee. George and I approached the Lakes HOA, and while they plan to do nothing about the hole, they did stock it with rainbow trout.  Unfortunately, trout, like yours truly, require cool water, and they quickly died, but our HOA, always striving to please, restocked the sinkhole, or, I suppose, the pond, with largemouth bass, and those fish are thriving! I’ve caught many, and it’s quite a joy to take fresh fish directly to my charcoal grill.  As to the sinkhole’s dimensions, it’s longer than your pool by a half and wider by two.  No doubt, you’ll want to use it for swimming, but I’m compelled to warn you that in addition to the fish, a small alligator (some four feet in length), and two Burmese pythons of much greater length have taken up residence at what I suggest we call, as it’s mostly on your property, “Meier’s Pond.”  Those creatures were not stocked courtesy of the HOA, but arrived sua sponte, in the manner of U.S. Army Rangers.  One python punched a hole in your pool screen, and sometimes swims in the pool and lounges on the lanai (information best kept from Elizabeth; your pool man said before her return, he would repair the screen and wrap the lower portion with chicken wire). You’re probably concerned about me fishing in the pond with such creatures about, but no worries, as I’ve bought a small fishing boat—just a dingy with paddles—that I leave in the water on my side of the pond, naturally, where I’ve built a dock, and feel free to use either whenever you like.  Even so, I am most vigilant walking to and from the dingy, especially from it with a stringer of fish as that gator has a nose for fish and once chased me twice around my house before I managed to build up a substantial lead and escape into the garage. You’re probably thinking, “Why didn’t you just throw him a fish?”  To which I say, “To Hell with him!  Let him catch his own damn fish!”  (We certainly don’t want to attract a pack of eleemosynary gators.)  Oh, and I was wondering, how do you feel about catfish?  I’ve forgotten whether or not you like them, but regardless, would you mind if I contact Fish & Wildlife and request they stock the pond with flathead cats?  (I love catfish!)  I spoke with Joey about the python, and he said not to kill one until he gets back, as it’s a good eating snake, excellent for BBQ, tastes somewhat like a cross between chicken and farm raised salmon that I know you like, so I figure once you and Joey get back, we’ll have a Burmese Python BBQ.  Anyway, Thomas, that’s the long and short of it. While having a sinkhole in your back yard is not optimal in regard to resale value, it grows on you, or it did on me, in any event.  Oh, I forgot to mention, LJ said it would really look nice with flowering bushes planted along the shore; while I agree, that’s your call, of course. On the other hand, if the bushes get too tall, you won’t be able to see the egrets and blue heron.  Life is full of choices, I suppose. Hope all is well up North.

Best,

Steve

P.S.

I write this from jail as I was caught fishing in “our” pond without a Florida Fishing License. What a travesty of justice!  But, regardless, I will be out in a few days and free to inspect your and Joey’s property, although both were fine the last time I looked, except for the sinkhole.            

Stepping in Shite

Nothing quite provides
possibilities for synesthesia
like stepping in shit.
Even the president, king for a day,
knows that feeling, sees the image,
the squish, slide and smell,
muttering, "Damn that dog,"
as he, trailing poo,
walks back from the Rose Garden
and hands his shoes to a Marine to clean.
Oh, it's no worse than holding
umbrellas for heads of state,
or having retirements reduced;
the poor Corps (no, not yet a corpse, sir,
but heading in that direction, thank you),
with their staggering, blood soaked brethren,
Army, Navy, Air Force, victors all,
bucking up, awaiting the next call,
while the president departs, strutting in socks,
"Hail to the Chief" bleating.


(01/01/2014)