Punk Rocking at the Skeleton Club in San Diego, 1979

White boys, girls, shake their heads,
leap like tall African warriors
(Sell out to the corporate structure),
bump, push, ricochet round
like street crowds in Berlin
(Sell out and get your pay).
Each song ends, and they fall,
startled statues in a sunless garden
(Sell out to the corporate structure).
Night fails, and the band skulks off
like passing through dimension
(Find a way to get your pay).
The young call from this side:
Blood! Hate! Fear! Death!
(Find a way to get your pay).
And the old answer from the other:
Dachau! Auschwitz! Belsen's breath!
(You'll find a way to get your pay).


(Ketzer, 1979; lyrics within parenthesis by The Dinettes)

Riding the Airlines after a Major Air Disaster

Through the window it occurred to me,
among the seated expectation,
briefcase's sad reflection,
that I'd rather be a sailor
sure to ride the rabid sea
than to let this life let go of me.
I've seen too much of Sagan
dropping feathers of the soul
into the weighted citizenship
of looking-glass black holes.
I don't feel a cosmic race
out there waltzing time away,
and since what we can see
is not enough to say
one way or the other,
I think I'd rather stay,
to drink my days
like scalding tea
and smile to think
God's watching me.


(Arkansas Magazine, Arkansas Democrat, 1985)

Getting Down

In this town, slow down, let down, back down,
anyway you want down, goddamn downtown,
what's going down, clown, show down,
get down, low down, kneel down,
blow me down, hands down,
this town, mows me down,
I'm down, going down,
crazy down.



(SKJ, 1983)

George Winston

The rustle of people arriving too late;
the dark silhouette of heads, professionals
surprised by the attendance of Bohemians,
and they equally surprised as if
either could claim ownership of a man's genius
that he would be reluctant to claim himself
knowing not from whence it came,
so he let it go to flow and mutate,
repetition being the death of creation.
I mean, it did not sound like the record, but
each autumn leaf fell unique as a snowflake,
and each mind painted it oak or birch,
aspen or maple, flat or curved,
crisp or pliable, pirouetting or gliding on a breeze,
the leaf's journey from stem to ground,
the ages, and back again, if it pleases you,
or not so much the leaf or leaves at all,
but a solitary figure strolling through a wood,
stopping, gazing, listening;
childhood seasons lost
in autonomic ways, the days thereof,
that gathered and gathered up,
turned liquid and ran through the fingers,
so that Winston, a moth dancing about his head,
not satisfied with the given keys,
reaches inside the piano
to softly tap the strings:
Footsteps leaving.


(Ketzer: Winston concert in Little Rock, May 1986)

The Emergency Broadcast System: A Dollop of Dopamine

After reading Orwell’s, 1984 in 1975, I developed a fear of the Emergency Broadcasting System similar to the horror some people experience at seeing clowns or midgets:  Such trepidation may be unfounded, and yet, I get the willies.  To be clear, I don’t fear the system itself (I’m not certain there is a system; after all, there’s no border), but the test, the sound with which we are all familiar, the obnoxious, alien audible, and that pattern: EEE!  EEE!  EEE!  EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!  Since the ‘70s, upon hearing the first syllable of that twisted scream, I’ve jumped to turn off the radio or television.  Remote controls made it easier, but if in a position where I can’t reach the set or remote, I cover my ears and sing John Prine’s, Dear Abby, in double time with gusto.  I have similar although lesser consternation for repetitious announcements given in baggage claim areas at airports or subliminal messages in Hollywood movies.  I have the feeling something is up, things are not as they appear, but rather, a devious and sinister plot is upon us, a method of behavior control practiced by our government, not unlike but clearly more surreptitious than campaigns to end smoking, obesity, use of fossil fuels, and to not only accept but wax obsequious and fawning before people and practices once abhorred.  Sometimes, especially being Americans, we balk at instruction, despite all studies, lectures, counseling, PSAs, mandates, regulations and finger wagging of our own children, even if it’s for our own good.  That’s when the government steps in to provide a little nudge, and if the nudge has no effect, then it’s a push, a shove and then….well:  EEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!  I don’t know exactly how it works, when it’s used or for what specific purpose, but I have a theory.  This is not science fiction.  This is possible.  After all, the government doesn’t give away free cell phones, or give anything without ulterior motives.   I believe, at birth, our brains are implanted with a chip, about the size of a Viagra pill, and oddly, with the same shape and color, but that’s only the veneer.  It’s electronic, like a transponder, and whenever they “test” the emergency broadcasting system, give a canned airport announcement, or flash subtle patterns on a Hollywood movie screen, it activates, but just long enough to release a microscopic dollop of dopamine or whatever chemical makes us calm, happy with our lot and as content as California cows—I’ll have to check with my son on this as he studied psychology with some intent; it could be a variety of chemicals…I don’t know.  But, clearly, it’s not working as designed; indeed, it appears to be having the opposite effect, typical of government programs.  Our country is a mess; if it were an airplane, all gauges would be red-lined with stick shakers rattling our teeth, annunciators flashing, horns and bells going off, and the dreaded, “TERRAIN!  TERRAIN!  PULL UP!  PULL UP!”  But that’s only my opinion; we could be doing fine.  I’m sure some would say I need to uncover my ears and hear the siren’s call, remove the scales from my eyes and see.  I don’t know, pal.  If this is the reality I am to accept, I don’t want to hear it, and I don’t want to see it.  EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!

Skin

It has all the strength and elasticity
of a Japanese lantern.
I'm afraid it may not be able
to contain my muscles
much longer, my skin,
like a braut busting open on the grill.
I should stop working out.
Why press my luck?
My father and uncle warned of this
thirty years ago,
bleeding from a scratch,
bruising at a bump,
to say nothing of appearance.
I gave their complaints a shrug,
my IOU now come due.
Yeah, Mick, what a drag,
and Keith Richards,
unless mummified
by cigarettes and booze, knows.
I should start smoking again.
I have the booze down.
What would it matter?


(SKJ, 07/2010)

Frozen Underwear and Bottle Rockets

                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.

(Photograph of the author by Mitch "Sluggo" Easily, 1987, R.I.P., Sluggo)