The Dead End Street

On a street in an old mill town
there live twenty six poets
in houses made of words

The first owner of the Greek Revival -
the Formalist  – lives alone with his books;
stacked in columns, aligned in perfect rows
of equal heights – most are damaged by rain
falling through the holes in the old shake roof

but just last year
the Confessionals
had the house condemned;
now they roam the empty halls
listening to echoes and
putting out their cigarettes
in the garden fountain
while they bore each other
to stone with their only
subject

around the same time the Beats
bought the dump next door,
a fixer upper if they had a dime,
they put out the cigarettes with
the card tables and metal folding chairs
for all the angelheaded hipsters
from the cold-water flats

When walking by,
one must avert the eyes
and ears from the waving
of Ginsberg’s flacid organ
his Howling lips;
Ferlinghetti is still
constantly risking
absurdity and they
wonder why
there are no women
in this pigsty of a
tent city

             The Imagists…
what to make of this house -
a house of mirrors
with moving walls
hidden staircases;
the doors melt
in the doorjams,
the glaciers knock in
the kitchen cupboards,
a bowl of pears hold
summer in their purple hearts

The haiku poets
walk up the mountain at dawn
when the bank foreclosed

on the tenement
at the north end of the street
that casts blue shadows

At the peak they join
the heavy hearted Romantics
looking down on the ruined
earth, all of its defiled Edens
praying to imperfect gods
as the beautiful souls float by
with the blow wives
on the breeze -
they who have forsaken
the very idea of home

At the edge of a wood sits
a cottage of moss-covered stone,
last house on the left:
The House of the Moths.
Beyond the wrought iron gate
form and sound
collapse into nothing
behind locked doors

Home to suicides and rapes
slaves and concubines
housewives and freaks
unlucky immigrants
border jumpers
bug huggers
Fairy Dairy Queens
depressives and junkies,
The Man from Nantucket
singing sea chanties and
dime store hymns

These are the Outsiders,
the voices, softer than a whisper,
flutter in the darkness still
waiting for someone
to turn the key
rusting in the lock

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Split Custody

In the dark of winter nights, I walk along
the west side blocks of Broadway
where a few old mansions still stand, some of them
life insurance offices, another a pet clinic

there is a certain stretch of sidewalk
where new streetlights cast a sickly light
where the pavement buckles from
the surface roots of the Western plain trees

the effect is not entirely unpleasant;
it recalls the grand boulevards, the parks
of a European city - La Belle Époque
this alee of shadows, half lit by a false gaslight glow

I walk here often in dreamlike respite from the blight
of the big box stores, the housing tracts,
the portables of the elementary school
deposited debris from a great flood

At the end of the block our stage set ends:
the apartments elevated over an asphalt courtyard
the gas station, the abandoned used car lot
the sourgrass patches, the soda cups in the gutter

At the curb I see, tidily stacked, the overnight
things of children – the two little boys, I guess,
playing in the shadows of the apartment’s
covered entry where their mother smokes

two pairs of tattered, canvas sneakers
two worn backpacks, the zipper broken on one
a coiled comfort blanket bearing
the burrs of last summer
a soiled stuffed rabbit
a sippie cup
two tiny lunch boxes

These things, mute guardians of children
seem to protest: “Take me instead, Take me!”
The little boys give chase – one the hero, the other villain
the mother stands silently in the bone chilling air

They are waiting for the rolling in of tanks
for the Boogie Man to drop down from the trees
for the Chitty Chitty child catcher
for a piloted asteroid
an Axis of Evil air strike
for Gotham to fall
for Godzilla to rise
for Mothra to descend

When she thinks of her ex,
in the shadows she thinks–
They might as well be.

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Pysche

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Flight Through Ashdown Forest

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Harpies

This week our assignment was to write a myth or dream poem. Since I’m also writing an article on John Waters for our local paper (he’s coming to the Sonoma International Film Festival to do his one man show), I was inspired to write a poem about Harpies set in a mythical trailer park. (This lovely photo of Edith Massey provided a good image to start with.) I must give Dante credit for the last two lines – his Harpies are the most horrible.

HARPIES

The Mind Abhors What the Eyes Adore.
Consider the case of the Sisters Domingo,
Unholy Wingéd Birds of the Double Wide:
A front yard flock of pink flamingos, wading
among the cigarette butts, dry dead grass–

Imagine a string of Christmas lights
strung between the telephone pole and
a half-chopped pine spiked with nails.

You’d know the place by the smell of grease,
the stink of creosote and Salem slims,
by the torn American flag rotting under
the dank, black hollows of the juniper bushes.

You’d see the El Camino on cinder blocks,
the Tennis balls stuffed down old tube socks
for a blind bull terrier named ‘Cookie Jim’
in memory of the Sisters’ meth-head brother
who flew the coop when the rent came due.

Whenever a skittish postman happened by, or
the mute meter reader from the gas company
was doing scheduled rounds in the neighborhood,
the Sisters Domingo would shriek and shout
flap around the yard, foam about the mouth;

With their chipping coral painted talons
they could fire an empty Schlitz or a can
of spray-on cheese like a split-finger fastball.

After Jason finally saw fit to set a match
to the shake roof, a final hush descended; light as
snowflakes, the ashes of a burning trailer fell.
Mongrels, rats and Cookie Jim gathered,
drawn to the acrid stench of stolen meat;

Passersby Beware!
Clawed feet and swollen, feathered bellies,
[the Sisters Domingo] caw their lamentations
in the eerie trees.

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Underwear for the Afterlife

Another writing prompt from Dr. T: “When I was in the Underworld…”

Most women remember someone telling them – a mother, a friend, a friend’s mother – how it is always important to leave the house in underwear you wouldn’t be embarrassed to have cut off you if you were ever in an accident. Such a strange world we live in. Of course, I had to write a poem about it.

Here is UNDERWEAR FOR THE AFTERLIFE…

When I was in the Underworld
I remembered something weird
My Mother used to tell me–

“Before getting into a car, dear,
Always make sure, have a care
Your underwear is clean and decent;
You never know when you might be in an accident,
Pinned to a tree with the wheels still spinning,
Still turning with the car sideways in the ditch
Or flipped over a cliff.

You never know when an
Eligible bachelor, maybe one of those
Brave Blue-Suited Firemen or Paramedics
Might have to use the Jaws of Life
To cut you from the wreckage.

And even if your friend is dead
And spread along the highway in bits,
Limbs in the thickets and drainage ditches,
Her limp body slung over the center divider-
You never know when
They might still have to cut your clothes off YOU;

You know how hard it is,
When the blood and gravel mix in
With glass shards in your skin,
To get the clothes off to check
For further injuries.

So, my dear, have a care what you wear –

No teddies made of gummy bears
No rubber-studded negligees,
No Superhero lingerie or
Or chocolate covered bustiers
No furry thongs, no leather belts
No corsets made of weasel pelts
No babydolls, no black silk slips
No paste-on cups in the shape of lips
No super-conducting underwire
No French Maid or High School Nurse attire
No garter belts or Union suits
No bloomers made from parachutes–

Because, wouldn’t it be a shame
For some handsome ambulance driver
With a steady job, a promising future,
To find you caught so ill-prepared,
Wearing the wrong sort of underwear?”

When I was in the Underworld,
Even with my chattering teeth
And my blood as cold as ice,
I remembered her strange advice:

“You know it’s never what’s outside that counts
But the person underneath!
If you want to catch a decent man,
Dear, stick to cotton briefs.”

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A Wine Country Murder Mystery in Three Parts

For the most part, I love to read and write poetry that can be read aloud. We are reading Billy Collins’ Ballistics in my poetry class at the moment. I have listened to many recordings of Collins reading his work; he has a totally deadpan delivery, which works well with his style of writing. Collins really loves to play with words and language; I understand his humor and playfulness have hurt him in some circles, circles I will try hard to avoid.

In the spirit of playfulness, the following is a murder mystery set in the California wine country in an historically ambiguous and rustic past. The clues are in the homophones.

Enjoy!

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A Brief History of Mirrors

Every semester my poetry prof. assigns something he calls a “fascination object” poem. In the past I have chosen things like a weathervane or a Jerusalem Cricket (aka potato bug); this time I chose a mirror. I found an Encyclopedia Brittanica entry on the history of mirrors – much is borrowed from that entry, so I guess this is really a found poem as well as a fascination object poem.

Whenever life gets overwhelming, I look through NASA's photos of cosmic beings like this jellyfish nebula. It makes the laundry less daunting.

A BRIEF HISTORY OF MIRRORS

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Pixie of the Serengeti

Besides those sad tales of hardship – the ones
about covered wagons with busted wheels,
Indian wars, short grass prairies and dry wells–
most Texas stories involve beer and broken cars.

Standing two inches shy of five feet, my
grandmother Pixie wore horned-rim glasses,
kept her hair trimmed just over her ears
like it had been cut by fairies in a hurry.

Once, half-way home from Dumas about ninety miles
north of nowhere, Great Grandaddy’s beloved
lemon yellow Chevy Impala overheated,
stranding us on the iron skillet highway.

There we were: the shimmering asphalt mirages,
me and my sister (sticking to the beige vinyl),
panting cows behind barbed wire, a zillion grasshoppers,
Pixie, and a six-pack of Coors tall cans.

After an hour or so of waiting for help to arrive,
Pixie cracked a warm beer:
    Well, cain’t hurt!

The whole time I’m thinking about serial killers
(I’d read about the Town That Dreaded Sundown),
or an eighteen-wheeler with bad brakes
or maybe never getting back to the ranch at all.

Had I known what courage it had taken to
weather the dust storms, with everything dying,
and that Great Plains sun blotted out,
how it filled their mouths, covered their blankets,

I might have worried less about
a poor Impala that couldn’t run.

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Our Lady of Palabras Perdidas

Marjory the Trash Heap: "I'm orange peels, I'm coffee grounds, I'm wisdom!"

We live in a world of disposable objects. In the last few years, widely circulated images of the garbage pickers on the mountains of debris in countries like India and Brazil harken the arrival of what some scientists are now calling the “Anthropocene,” or the Age of Man.  According to a 2011 article in National Geographic, the “stratigrapher’s ” job “is to piece together Earth’s history from clues that can be coaxed out of layers of rock millions of years after the fact.” This article got me thinking…what would one call someone who specializes in interpreting layers of discarded words?

I am constantly scavenging the internet for lists of old words. One of my very favorite books is The Sailor’s Word-Book by William Henry Smyth. The SWB is available as a free a pdf download through Project Gutenberg, and promises hours of geeky entertainment. I can’t recommend it enough.

In “Our Lady of Palabras Perdidas” I imagine a kind of linguistic bag lady, rummaging among the heaps for hidden treasures like a medicine woman looking for healing herbs. She encounters a frail and aging Mnemosyne –the embodiment of memory in Greek mythology and the mother of the nine muses– like one might encounter an artifact on which history is both inscribed and interpreted (i.e., Marjory the Trash Heap).

I don’t remember where I found this list, but it’s a fun one.

Mnemosyne

Our Lady of Palabras Perdidas

Old yes! But a bobbish yet, I is.
“Vagabunda!” They shout, hands over ears.
“Conservadora!” I says to me kindred scavengers,
Who have taken to calling me, in these times:

Our Lady of Palabras Perdidas.

Their language be but sad, cag-mag
Rummagin’ in Latin shards n’ splinters.
“Nossa Senhora, where came you from?”
“Ahhhh,” and here I point North and East,
With a stick of smooth olive wood.

“When the hills were still young and stupid,
I was married over the broomstick to a quaddy lad.
Many, many years back, he died;
I’ve since grown a good-sized hump upon me back –
A hillock cloaked in gray!” I says.

“I’ve no whingle, and I’m no drumble!” Meh.
I make my way scavenging in the rubbish heaps
For las palabras perdidas – unwanted and fluey

Made Time’s poor orphan,
him but a proud Costermonger!
“But when ye rub ‘em up, make ‘em shine!”
Even such a one as meself, of deep wrine can see
Under the oily tarnish and the stain
Ye know what they says (flourish of me hands)

‘Verba Volant, scripta manent – words fly but writings remain!’
Yadda, yadda, yadda.

In one heap Me found a birdish Burdalane
The last one, poor wee lass, surviving of her kin
Cark, she were, and thought a cumberground
“But now, now dear!” I said. “Our Lady
Will make ye a shake-down of fine feathers
And new spring grass, with whittles of white petals
And draughts from the clear, running brook
Before yer queachy young bones sleepaway.”

Her laughter flowed like music, a sweet rindle
And she kept a small pebble in her mouth
Lest felth become strength – its ugesome successor.

It were by chance me found Mnemosyne

– Beloved Eldmother

And muse of old and wordly women
I pulled her up from her Earth-fast taproots
But she, forswunak and grown lanken
Began to speak but clyted.

Her voice was wantsome from moss and rust
She’d become elden, and dwined
Under a wasted of letters and her long sloom
“These young and fluttersome moffles –
What do they know of a word’s wroth?”

We drank tea and eftsoons she spake again:
“Ne’er a word ran deeper than sewers of ruined cities
Nor does history disturb a taproot or a deep-sea clam.
All language will ever be in the heaps.”

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