repetition

 

In a bruised blue rotation,
In the least dramatic fashion:

She/he takes a vise-like hold

And hugs the rind or

Your capacity for inspiration

Leaving pulp stories and the

Need for at least, a waning sweetness.

In a bruised blue rotation,
Like flashing machines, she/he’ll
Bounce bearings that ricochet
Off smart and tall, wry and small or
The Kennedy’s or Pinochet’s.

In a bruised blue rotation,
She/he’ll monitor revolution
And splash us with befuddlement
Down a steady drain for feeble attempts

To make light of the heaving
Click of sunrise turnstiles.

Or rather,
In a bruised blue rotation,
They’ll take the profound and holy
And wring it like a towel
Snapped without decorum
In a locker room.

–



–

letters
 

Recently, I visited the Del Mar fair with Carol, my lively neighbor.  (I don’t want to hear it.)  But beholding giant pumpkins and waddling sows, I won a stuffed bear for her.  We drank lemonade mixed with sweet tea and I enjoyed the conversation.  Sitting on bleachers, I really opened up.  I told her a fading story about you.

 

I still remember picking you up at Aunt Cathy’s and how my reception was strained with a weird mix of sympathy, disdain and condescension.  Of course, that may have been all in my head but in fact, it was a room of nervous smiles and I remember that you had grown and that my hands shook when I held your face.  Driving home, I remember looking at you sitting there in the front seat like a big girl and how I struggled to make you laugh; at that point, I was just a vague concept as two-dimensional as a colouring book.  I cycled through radio stations, looking for a song you might like.  I remember singing cartoon theme songs.  I remember the small thrill of hearing you hum quietly with me.

About nine months after your mother left, I took you to the carnival.  It was a rusty place and had come from far away, big trucks lugging rides and booths and elephants across state lines.  But to you it was gypsy magic.  We spent twenty dollars tossing rings, dead-set on winning you something.  It was the price of a dollar toy and the taste of victory in your eyes.  You were quiet for years but that night, you sat on my shoulders and you were bigger than me.  You ate buttery popcorn and reached down to feed me, one at a time.  You ate cotton candy to comb my hair with sticky fingers.  My eyes must have shined like diamonds for depth of feeling.  Do you remember getting tired?  So, we decided to sit on one last ride.  It was a classic Ferris wheel and we carefully waited our turn.  You were scared of the people around us with their cussing and spitting and pierced skin.  I put my hands on your shoulders and we shuffled our way to the front.  Seated safely, the gears began to crank and up we rose.  You were wide-eyed and silent; I smiled in your direction.  Sine and cosine, peak and trough, we took in the view.  At ground level was all the muck and mire and it was selfish, rowdy, indifferent and lewd.  But that night on the Ferris wheel, you held my arm tightly as we soared above the city, a man and his baby daughter and the lights of a world he wanted to give her.  

Darling, there are fisherman philosophers and there are hobos on a train.  And the lack of adventure can wear at you with insidious onset.  We rumble along in search of dreams, stopping for sandwiches and the camaraderie of fellow travelers.  It’s like the simple pleasure of sharing coffee from a thermos out near the engine on a frosty night.  Or alternately, like musing about the Lord and the hereafter over a load of argent scales and gaping mouths of tuna.  Or think of me sitting on the roof of a coal caboose, singing songs through the Great Plains, lost to the tatters in my clothes.  It wouldn’t last forever but for as long as I could, I piggy-backed you as far as you’d let me. 

On the way home, you slept.  I was very much alive, watching the road, catching the skyline, squinting to see street lamps blend into dreams of fire – orange and red, gold and silver.  

—



may the rope break (goya)


—

Let’s go diving!  But first, kayaking.  And sleep.

—

Shoot, it’s thundering pretty fierce right now.  The weather here is strange.  For one, it’s humid as heck.  I’ve got t-shirts still drying in the bathroom because after runs, they’re soaked through and through.  If I told you I jumped into the pool, you wouldn’t know any different.  But the days are hot.  It’ll storm over come lunch and the evening; in turn, you’ll see steam rise from aching asphault. 

—

I experienced hypoxic hypoxia yesterday.  It’s nature’s high altitude drug.  Yeah, man.

—

name game (cato’s take)  or more

for the gipper (per will)

political forgetfulness (said the spectator) 

selective memory = politics = gross (bleah)

red pavement! (warned Driver’s Ed)

you’re a lamo leader! (shouted the editors of La Stampa)

read: engaging.

disturbing

—

I literally swam through the rain during my run this afternoon.  I’m cold but I feel like Superman.  I don’t know if people were honking to cheer me on, to call me crazy or to draw attention to mustard on my nose.  But they were honking.

—

Yes!  YES.


how bazan!

—

hope

Afterwards we sat for a while discussing different matters. The hall was busy and everyone was chatting and laughing loud. They had Al-Jazeera on (something I never managed to convince them to stop doing). Then suddenly Mr. Bremer appeared on TV reading his last speech before he left Iraq. I approached the TV to listen carefully to the speech, as I expected it to be difficult in the midst of all that noise. To my surprise everyone stopped what they were doing and started watching as attentively as I was.

The speech was impressive and you could hear the sound of a needle if one had dropped it at that time. The most sensational moment was the end of the speech when Mr. Bremer used a famous Arab emotional poem.

The poem was for a famous Arab poet who said it while leaving Baghdad.
Al-Jazeera had put an interpreter who tried to translate even the Arabic poem which Mr. Bremer was telling in a fair Arabic! 

“Let this damned interpreter shut up. We want to hear what the man is saying.” One of my colloquies shouted. The scene was very touching that the guy sitting next to me (who used to sympathize with Muqtada) said, “He’s going to make me cry!”

Then he finished his speech by saying in Arabic,”A’ash Al-Iraq, A’ash Al-Iraq, A’ash Al-Iraq”! (Long live Iraq, long live Iraq, long live Iraq).  …

From a dentist in Iraq.

Matt11:28

blinkers in the rain

 

When she laughs at my jokes, I feel like Richard Pryor.  Back in his prime time glory days.  You know, back when he spearheaded the stand-up craze, punching out wry, crude observations, both quibbling and scathing in his take on the white man.  Moustache twitching, he prowled the stage with perfect timing and sublime pitch.  As a kid, I was shocked at the things he said and while the sexual humour was lost on me – for a time – I laughed nonetheless just to be a part, to feel older, to be wiser, to roll my eyes at all the supposed nonsense of living.  But I was just a dilettante to the dilettante; any probing would have shown as much.  But that’s how I learned to cuss.  And well, groomed as a church boy, it combined to make for something unexpected, charming and risible.  So I say.

 

But I was determined to marry her.  And some nights, I swear I saw it in the stars.  So it may surprise you to hear that the core of comedy is a good helping of disgust.  At the world in general.  At man’s stupidity.  At a woman’s dirty, flirty ways.  At political rhetoric.  At mass hysteria.  At the way two-ply toilet paper breaks apart too easily.  Or Laundromat conversations in Wisconsin.  There’s a keen eye at work; when it’s real, it’s a gift.  But there’s also a bit of sadness.  We’ve heard the story of the sad clown who’s seen a whole lot and yes, nobody knows what trouble.  There’s also an angry edge.  And don’t you hate it when.  Or don’t you hate it how.  See, I have a theory on human emotion.  When it comes to our controlled interactions, it’s all clearly defined; the boundaries are brightly demarcated, the orbits chiseled into place.  But when taken raw and pure, everything moves to a hidden center – if you’re inclined, call it the human heart – where all of our feelings blur into one tightly wound ball of something I’ll call a collective shout, roar or scream. 

 

I fought through hell – I mean, traffic – this morning and the 405 was a fuming mess.  I alternately rehearsed my opening monologue and sang along to K-Earth and Elvis.  Love me tender, love me sweet.  Well, it’s good to be here surrounded by beautiful LA people.  You have made my life complete and I love you so.  Needless to say, I spent hours on the road with the windows rolled down, arm hanging out the side.  I waved at the KCAL traffic copter.  I made it to Figueroa.

 

I do badly with imitations.  But nobody told me so back when I was in school.  It was amateur night – truly – out at some small coffee shop with a battered mic stand.   And there I was, trying to wax poetic, funny, and well-short of profound on the wiggly nature of male hormonal mystery.  She was so pretty.  She was hip too.  She was truly in the mode.  She was clearly out of place – she should’ve been out surfing with a hunky boyfriend or interning for some local commission or working on med school applications or whatever.  But there she was, this pretty, preppy girl with square glasses, shaking her shoulders, giving me lots of courtesy.  She was clean – that’s the word – she was clean and bright.  I segued into reminiscences of Peewee’s Playhouse and Sim-Sim-Salabim.  Man, it was stupid.

 

Life has taken a number of turns.  I’ve got talent.  I’ve got a mind ablaze.  When everything’s clicking, I can be winsome too.  I’ve taken risks though.  And they haven’t always paid off; so, life lesson two is that we all need a little luck.  It took me forever to find parking today; I circled the lot for at least half an hour.  Twice, a bastard lurker snuck into a spot of my patient choosing.  Eventually, I ended up wedging myself between a Hyundai Excel and a beat-up redneck – no offense – Ford truck.  Great.  Remember life lesson number two.  It’s also called a lesson in timing.

 

My observation: we’re all generally pretty dumb.  But stop, we’re not bad.  Original sin and whispering Satan notwithstanding, we’re still okay, if not good.  We want to laugh but few of us ever really do. 

 

I’ve kept my nerves at bay but now they’re twitching and sparking neural energy.  Tonight is the night of my big break.  It’s my first paid performance, an audition for a slot on the marquee.  It isn’t a large club and there won’t be many cameras.  But it’s something.  My dressing room is the first toilet stall with the door locked.  That’s where I put on funny shirts – tuxedo tops, layered above a chiseled-buff cartoon body, layered on a shirt of glow-in-the-dark skeletal remains.   Beneath, I’m just a twenty push-up guy with peach fuzz on his chest.  So I say.

 

They call my name and just like that, I’m under the lights; they’re hot like I want to be.  The AM radio ads must’ve done the trick because for a small joint, some folks are left standing and watching from the bar.  The audience is a mix of sleaze and money, cheap dates and condescending outlooks.  They’re drinking drinks that are worth more than my paltry day’s wages but I know enough about a range of social circles to play the part and to stare with knowing glances.  In tonight’s line-up, I’m really just a time-filler and in the first half, my jokes are received with tepid applause.  But during the second half of my set, everything comes together.  I won’t call it an epiphany – that cheapens the idea – but something about the way cigar smoke hit the glow of neon lights makes me forget about the pressure, and to let go of disappointment.  That’s life lesson three.  Maybe it’s the lady sitting alone in the back, sipping from a sudsy mug.  She reminds me of an old coffee shop and a bundle of bombing jibes.

 

By night’s end, I’m a little buzzed from sneaking beer and I’m relieved because things went well.  Still giving no rest for the weary, the 405 is no better than when I left it at fading daylight.  She calls me on her way to the hospital; I can imagine her dressed in her scrubs and smoking a Virginia Slim like she shouldn’t.  I let her know that I’ve landed a semi-permanent gig and ask if she needs anything from the store.  I tell her about the jokes that fizzled and about the manager’s packaged proposal.  She tells me about the crotchety men with bedsores and how Charles and Susan have invited us to their home Bible study.  I say I’ll think it over but I might feel awkward.  We’ll talk dolefully about it later.  But for now, I tell her about a frozen highway and how I see a smoggy night.

 

I’m but five miles from LAX and I’m caught staring at flashing lights, marking a path into the sky – people coming and going, running away or spotting home or maybe in pursuit of a dream.  Down pass the sounds of big Boeing, roaring above.  For a flashing moment, I see this Korean family dressed in seventies clothes, taking first steps onto the carpet of a new land.  Coming in, the boy must have been thrilled at the sight outside his window as his baby brother slept.  I think of all four of them holding hands, lost wide-eyed to the garble of noise. I think of them hunting for their bags and I want to ask the man how he felt.  Still crawling, hurting for real movement, I drive by the Howard Hughes Plaza with its gaudy modern design and garish blue sign.  Do you remember that time when we stuffed ourselves on Jody Maroni hotdogs while watching the Stanley Cup?  We were just friends then.  But of course, you knew my intentions.  Did you know I came this close to holding your hand?  Would I still love you if you were fat?  Well, hey, it depends.  And she knows I’m just teasing. 

 

There’s a light drizzle leaving specks on my window.  The smells of gasoline and burnt rubber waft through the car.  Latino tunes and gangsta rap mingle mutedly over the heat of our engines.  White knuckles grip wheels in frustration.  I blur with the sight of blinkers in the rain.

The phone is warm on my ears and it drops to the floor as I stomp hard on the brakes, punching obscenities at the semi in front of me.  Heart racing and a little flustered, I tell her what just happened and that everything’s okay.  Concerned, she listens.  I try to laugh it off and make a statement about LA drivers or senior citizens that I hope is witty, if a bit mean.  She’s quiet.  Strangely, she asks me to honk again.  And again.  And one more time.  I know she has a purpose to this and so I do.  With striking solemnity, she tells me to honk a song and everything will be okay. 

 

Yet, all I have is rhythm and a note: languorous wail, piss-mad rage, lickety-split excitement, peaceful pause, the steady tick of turning, the cough of the common cold, the rise and fall of an audience, and the sigh of loss or romance. 

 

But still, I try and I’m sure it angers the drivers around me but with every honk, I hear an eerie echoed response.  And so begins a flooding cacophony of horns, a modern melody for an electro-concrete age.  And then, she’s laughing.  Of course she’s laughing and it’s like music – I mean, a drug – to me.  Through the static, she laughs with so much life and hysteria and I’m bewildered as she calls out my name because there she is, the lights of a sky-blue Corolla flashing, horn honking feverishly in the night.  Somewhere in gridlock, I can see her!  She sees me!  She’s northbound across the meridian and she’s smiling, her tiny clean silhouette waving, giggling at me and my sleeping face.  And I’m laughing because this is the most wonderful thing in the world.

—

 

24th street intersection (w. thiebaud)

—

advice

There’s a hidden romance

Called failure that’s seldom
Afforded to the likes

Of you and me.

 

The starving artist,

The waiter/screenwriter

Seek appreciation right

Now in a world where

Emily Dickinson is admired for

Years spent writing

Of flowers and dusty years’ worth

Of cutesy banality.

 

You may know her

Better than me but
Tell her a little sun

And friendship

Could’ve done wonders.

—



two young people laughing at a man (goya)

—

“…five copies of The 3 E.P.’s by the Beta Band.”

—

Why do croutons come in airtight packages? It’s just stale bread to begin with.
- George Carlin

—

punchy: final point.

—

Lately, feelin’ groovy when I run.  Winding my way through tiny streets and marshy woods, I’m getting to know this corner of the world.  Everyday humanity comes by way of strangers splashing me as they quench lawns on hot days.  It helps you laugh through the quiet pain of distance.

—

yes

—

enjoying:


high

—

hehe

!!!  Matt11:28