An Introduction to French Poetry: Artaud

ALL WRITING IS GARBAGE,
according to Artaud, the madman,
and the older I get, the more I agree;
Chaucer, Shakespeare, Goethe...pick one:
It's all refuse, debris,
spilling from the mind of man,
chasing God's imagination
(we'll never catch up...trust me),
leading, at best, to models of DNA,
or atoms,
houses built with the spokes and wheels
of  Tinker Toys, Lego worlds,
where descriptions don't adequately describe,
explanations fail to explain,
and dialog is as wooden
as the First Lady's face,
there staring from a pike,
the clarity of her character development
as hopeless as Modigliani eyes.
It's garbage.
PEOPLE WHO COME OUT OF NOWHERE AND TRY TO PUT INTO WORDS
ANY PART OF WHAT GOES ON IN THEIR MINDS ARE PIGS.
That offends me, but still,
THE LITERARY SCENE TODAY IS A PIGPEN.
I didn't say it, he did,
 but then,
Antonin Artaud was a madman,
and yet,
even our own sweet Emily,
with downcast eyes, whispered,
"Much madness is divinest sense."

(August 1986)

Around Kenner's Bend

Two a.m., you're down in a grain barge on the Mississippi.  Around the river's bend is New Orleans, a smiling old woman with too much make-up.  The firehose throbs as you blast rotten kernels from their cracks.  Crazy Joe is sitting in a triangle of half-light down on the low end.  He's keeping the pump clear, cramming his fist up into its guts.  You're wet to the waist and covered with bits of corn from the knees down.  The barge simmered in the summer sun for weeks; the darkness stinks.  Someone approaches making tiny figure-eights with a pale red ember, holds it to your lips.

A ladder leads to a square of stars where the air comes from.  You turn your face up to it and yell, "YO!  TURN HER OFF!"  You drop the hose, and it ascends, the nozzle scraping on the black barge bed, goes clattering up the rungs.  There's a line of men with brooms and squeegees coming up behind.  Crazy Joe is on his knees; the end is nearing.

When the last fistful of corn and cup of water has been sucked up, there's the inevitable bump and push, mad race for the stairs, hands clawing at your legs as you climb, but once out, there's the equality of naked angels standing beneath the stars and beautiful moonlight swan dives into the Mississippi.


(Arkansas Magazine, Arkansas Democrat, July 27, 1986)

The Good Neighbor

     The evergreen overrun of Balboa Park--9th Street, San Diego, senile mansions sliced into apartments--housed a crosscut of American blood: black, white, Mexican...Vietnamese.  Good neighbors were those you didn't see or hear and only met in passing for hello, the weather and a squint for the dead bird or rat in the dumpster, no doubt.

     One time, the death smell grew and with it conversation; the first rushed you along, while the second forced a stop.  Two trash days came and went, but the stench, nearly visible, remained.  We guessed cat, then dog, and searched, but failed to find one.  Then someone thought to ask about the old man who lived upstairs.  No one had seen him in weeks.  We climbed the stairs, knocked, and got no answer, so boosted a  young man up to the balcony, his feet on our shoulders.  He pulled himself up and over the ironwork, and, looking through the French doors, called down his description:  "It's him, all right!  He's slumped over in an easy chair, dark, slimy looking!  The smell's choking me; I'm coming down!"

     Tina, from number two below, telephoned.  No one knew the old man's name, knew of any relative, but the coroner came flanked by two men dressed in white, angels with hairy arms and black shoes.  They picked him up so gently, the old man fell apart, so they shoveled him into a bag and rolled him away on a cart.


(March 1986)

LC-39

Egret and blue heron
wade through reeds.
See those bubbles?
That's an alligator,
or a really big turtle.
Oh, and look!
There's a bald eagle
on the water tower
with Launch Complex 39-B
in the background.
Do you think they wonder
where the smoke and the thunder
and the fires of freedom have gone?


(Nov 2012)

Thems Po Little Minks

I heard it said some mama minks
eats they young before thems think.
Thems gets all excited, raises a stink,
and eats all they babies
(thems po little minks).

Now, I figures it logical
thems mama minks
has missed something somewheres,
missed too many winks,
maybe thems wakes up with too many kinks,
stays out too late, has too many drinks,
comes home all dizzy and ready to sink,
and eats all they babies
(thems po little minks).


(1974)

Beating Erasers

I was sent, more often than most,
to beat the erasers.
I found my niche early
and volunteered to stand alone on the playground,
where I leaned back and clapped like a seal,
watching vocabulary, simple sentences,
fractions and small equations explode into clouds of dust,
literature, science and all of history
going up in a clap.
I liked the smell of it,
the taste, and
I'm sure I ate more chalk
than I ever used at the board.



(1985)

N123JF: Flying at Night with Doc Fowler

There's nothing quite like night from a cockpit,

    "November 1-2-3 Juliet Fox, do you have information Lima?"
    "Juliet Fox, affirmative Lima."

accelerating toward an unseen point, V2, beyond stopping,

    "3 Juliet Fox, taxi into position and hold."
    "Juliet Fox, position and hold."

turbochargers screaming harmony (Lycoming TIO-541-E1C4),

    "King Air 2-4 Tango, contact Ground 1-2-1-niner.  Good day."
    "Good day."

watching needles climb and settle half a needle's width
away from red lines, and that is, manifold pressure 41 inches,
2900 RPM, right on the money, fuel and oil pressures in the green,

    "1-2-3 Juliet Fox, cleared for take-off, make right hand turn out."
    "Juliet Fox, rolling, right hand turn out."

temperatures climbing, lift, gravity, thrust and drag doing battle,

    "Little Rock tower, 4-6 Yankee Echo, downwind, runway 2-2."
    "Yankee Echo, extend downwind, follow 737 on short final, caution wake turbulence."
    "Yankee Echo, extending downwind."

then airborne, the temporary victory, gear up and locked, throttles coming back,
fuel boost off, climbing, banking right, seeing strobes at 2 O'clock,

    "1-2-3 Juliet Fox, you have traffic 2 O'clock, descending from two thousand."
    "Juliet Fox has traffic in sight."
    "Juliet Fox contact Departure 1-2-5-6-5. Good day."
    "1-2-5-6-5.  Good day, sir."

leveling off at 4,500 feet for the short hop, engaging the autopilot, watching instruments,
the perfect stars, the paltry lights of humanity, the Stygian separation,
indicated airspeed 207 knots, the music of Morse code
(Hot...Springs...V-O-R); over Benton, now,
glow of Hot Springs on the horizon,

    "Hot Springs traffic, Duke 1-2-3 Juliet Fox, ten mile final, Runway 2-3."

scattered light carved by the black lakes' void, Hamilton, Catherine,
mixture and props forward, slowing, descending;

    "Hot Springs traffic, Duke 1-2-3 Juliet Fox, five mile final, Runway 2-3."

now key the mic three times, and runway lights come on outlining a rectangular abyss,
like flying into a video game, boost pumps on, flaps at approach, gear down,
(three green), throttles coming back, slowing, descending,

    "Hot Springs traffic, Duke 1-2-3 Juliet Fox, short final, Runway 2-3."

slowing, sinking, over the threshold, throttles all the way back, sinking, sinking,
flare it out, back with the yoke, back, back, back...down and rolling out, hold the nose off,
let it down easy, touch the brakes, touch them, get on them and make that first turnoff.

    "Hot Springs traffic, Duke 1-2-3 Juliet Fox, clear of active."



(1983)