Powell’s Books

The Situation of Poetry 
   - Robert Pinsky
Poetry 180 
    - Billy Collins
The Ghost Road 
     - Pat Barker
Paddy Clarke Ha Ha Ha 
     - Roddy Doyle
Moon Tiger 
     - Penelope Lively
A Personal Matter 
     - Kenzaburo Oe
Disgrace
    – J.M. Coetzee
Dispatches
    – Michael Herr
Political Philosophy
     - Martin Cohen
In Defense of Politics (2nd ed.)
    - Bernard Crick
The End of History and the Last Man
    – Francis Fukuyama

He shoots, he scores!  This independent bookstore is huge and has something for everybody.  You can find sweet deals on books out of print.  If you have little ones, hold their hands!  It’s a multi-storied (ha!) labrynth.

Walked back and forth around all corners of PSU and walker-friendly downtown.  Portland is my kind of city.  Books, breweries (of Hefeweizen fame), coffee and generally, a notably friendly atmosphere.  Ah, the hills are perfect for running.  Big city excitement and culture with small town charm.  Think of a cleaner and smaller San Francisco or Seattle (I really enjoy those cities too).

The drive down the 101 was pretty nice but I’ve got all the marks of deep vein thrombosis (DVT!) and my car was wheezing for some sleep.  It’s good to be back.  Drank enough soda and ate enough Corn Nuts to knock off 4 years of life expectancy.

Woke up at around 4 this morning.  Just antsy.  Did a lot of thinking this past week and I’m thankful to be in a place where I’m actively working toward goals.  There’s a lot I want out of life; I’m climbin’ and chuggin’ onward.

Matt11:28

15 Minutes for J.W. Blue

A setting sun bounces light dice off glass.

Solomon the Seal was popular three summers back.  The water park was his prime venue and as he juggled beach balls, balanced bowling pins on snout, and clapped his fins like an ocean spasm, he rather enjoyed the cheer.  This sea mammal was a total ham and his comedic timing was truly impeccable.  Trainer Tom was his partner and exaggerated foil.  Their hot weather routine was replete with plastic swords and perfect pratfalls.

You’ve seen plush dolls bearing his likeness.

It all started with a grand entrance.  The band would play a gentle fugue.  Nuclear families and custody dads, children with cotton candy and sticky fingers, moms with movie star shades, perms wilting under sun, they’d be surprised by the beauty of the music, strings wailing like a dirge in the middle of a gaudy, loud amusement park.  The musicians were that good.  The juxtaposition of music and environment was sheer genius, putting an expectant crowd on ignorant notice.  And just when it began to drag, out shot Solomon the Seal, barking high and hoarse, belly-flopping into a warm blue.  All 235 pounds of rubbery flesh flying down a hidden slide, masked by plastic mountains and Amazon trees.

The front row got wet and the children loved it; their mothers didnn’t and their fathers took it in stride.  Remember the era, lots of chest hair and seventies’ orange.  Hair as high as an elephant’s thigh and the heat and raining water brought everything down.  But Sollie was a charmer and soon, everyone was happy.  Jumping through hoops, joshing with Tom and the swimmers, punctuating each circus song with an animal baritone, you’d swear he was smiling under those long feely whiskers.  His eyes were like large black masher marbles, aimed dexterously by the Creator’s thumbs.

Fame!  Stations wagons - piled high with cross-country luggage and splattered bugs from twenty counties - made their way into burgeoning lots.  Solomon was a magnet for disenfranchised families looking for a few days respite from the grind of sarcastic living.  Seals are known for juggling and you expect them to swim but Solomon was a miracle mammal and joy and sardines were his reward.  His mustached Chaplin routine had everyone – even repeat visitors – in stitches.  On bowling nights, he slipped and slided his way to a strike which meant free snow cones for everyone; a spare meant licorice.  You’ll never hear a crowd cheer like that.

But if only we could’ve read his masher eyes, we might’ve known his true condition. 

The day of his escape was otherwise uneventful.  All he wanted was a beer and a bowl of peanuts.  But he didn’t read the sign: No shirt, no shoes, no service.  So, he brawled like mad.  The bikers didn’t stand a chance and I swear, I saw their bruised bellies afterward.  The leader of the pack was found dangling asleep, hanging from a freeway ad.  For those long exacting minutes, he was a seal ablaze!  Yet, when the cops arrived, it was all too much.  He was subdued and forced back home.  Now, he swims lonely and tired, ogled by the bored eyes of passing strangers.  His sighs form bubbles that float wistfully to air.

God knows, some days are sheer lunacy and not a lot makes sense.  Solomon is the exception.  When I need quiet sanity, I loosen my tie, grab a bag of salted popcorn and sit near his window.  Life has been cruel, I know.  But you can count on me, Sollie. 

He loops, hello.

———————-

Nighthawks (Hopper)

———————–

sam spade

Bubble, bubble, toil and trouble.  I wasn’t present at the creation but at some point, the hands of fate were wrung gleefully as my lifelines were plotted like tacks on maps.  Some nights, I lay silent and muggy, hoping to milk the ceiling fan for what it’s worth.  It’s a slow spin; each revolution a second, dumped flippantly down the garbage chute of living.  You wonder what might be.

Hi.  I’m napping but wait a few seconds and the phone will wake me.  I’m leaning back in an old leather chair, legs hoisted comfortably on a messy desk.  It’s getting late and the city hogs all natural light; I’m left with neon buzzing near my 3^rd story window.  A stale breeze whips and winds its way around downtown buildings, through the fresh linen scent of drying clothes, over alley piss buckets, where it mingles with hot Laundromat air.  It reaches the office full of grit, love and gritty love.  There’s the moon - her paltry, frail light masked by mighty lime fluorescents.

The phone rings.  I wake with a start like a needle pricking a thumb or fingers kissing the lip of a skillet.  Ever watch a bachelor cook eggs or grilled cheese on rye?  For the bachelor, the aesthetics of dining don’t go very far.  He’ll make food in a pan and eat right out of it, staring out the window come noon.  Life as art – spilled by Pollock in the bright, gaudy colors of a hangover.  Chance events are streaks, criss-crossing as ordained.

A groggy mess, I’ll pick up the receiver.  Sleeves rolled, tie trained two inches below the collar, everything a wrinkle.  Disheveled, sure.  Charming, you bet.

Across the street, I see a brightly lit Tom’s Diner.  I’m cold and I need to get to my LeSabre but three girls sit laughing over a pancake dinner.  Watching the uglier stir a mug of steaming drip, I see them giggle carefree.  It’s dark out; it’s light in. 

I fumble around for keys but it’s wyrd, my luck’s about to change.

  ———————–

      –  It’s a slow train comin’

Matt11:28

i was thirsty and he gave me drink

It’s flatland and over time, a red dot takes shape on a black stripe painted conspicuous through endless fields shaded golden.  Heat rises from the radiator grill of an old Chevy pickup, shimmering upward like wet billowy cellophane.  The temperature is high as if to torment as vehicle and inhabitant bake quietly, driving through rows of wilting, tanning corn stalks.  It’s the sort of heat that leaves you lethargic and angry – temper on a short fuse but no energy to act or speak on it.  Not a day for political debate or proselytizing confrontations, each man was best left to routine, the less thinking the better.

Broadcast in fourteen states, the radio screeches a sermon made to drip heavy like syrup with a southerner’s drawl.  And thus said the Lord to Jeremiah.  But it’s all just noise to a man lost in visions caught through a rearview mirror.  First, it’s his face, red and cracked with deep grooves, carved like wisdom but it’s just the elements and time.  He sees his eyes, squinting hard under the glare that bounces off the road onto his hood, burning flashing floaters under his lids.  Acres of withering crops and half-grown stalks surround him like a strange cult of merciless acolytes, coming to take his simple, weeping farmer soul.  Kicked behind him is dust.

He takes a quick glance at his left-side mirror and realizes he’s missed his turn toward home.  The feckless sky is a beautiful, menacing blue.

He’ll turn the car around and park at the side of the road.   He’ll feel the beating hands of a hard staring sun as he opens and slams the steel door.  In a sullen daze, he’ll grab a fallen stalk and run the brittle leaves through his fingers with a painful shook-shook and crack.  About a hundred yards from the road, he’ll wipe the sweat from a lined brow and sit to rest.  The engine is left running as the carburetor kicks.  His nostrils burn with dry air as he cools his hands under a fine layer of dirt.

Rain falls slantwise, plowing into powdery topsoil, spitting up muddy clods.  It falls hard, heavy and for the farmer of the acreage, sweet.  Against mother’s wishes, children spill laughing from swinging screen doors, their father standing tired in the middle of soaking fields.

——————————

 

————————

the mark of hands

You’ve tumbled from womb
Hung by a cord
Floating above
A murky mess
Of paradigms.

And so you’ll cry
All your life,
Wondering why you left it.

A tiny fist
Clenched with vigor
Shaking frustrations
At a shiny, brave world.

Or maybe it’s celebration
(Albeit confused)
Like swinging a mug
For auld lang syne.

———————–

When it comes to the NBA, does anybody even care about the Eastern Conference?  They need to do something about that.

Matt11:28

Vegas, baby.

So, I’m yet recovering from the weekend that wouldn’t end.  It was all neon and the clank and ring of slot machines.  It’s the city that robs you of sleep and pecks away at your wallet.  I’ve eaten too much, spent beyond my limit, and had a great time with close friends.  But it’s all a sleepy blur to be honest.  Don’t ask: whatever happens in Vegas stays in Vegas.  Ha!

I did, however, give the roulette wheel a few spins but lady luck was none too kind.  It gets into your head!  So, I had to sprint from the tables and watch the Senator’s get stomped on by New Jersey.

With no clocks and no way to look outside, you lose all track of time and in turn, your judgment turns to mush and then the city has you right where it wants you.  <imagine an evil M. Burns:  excellent.>  If you’re not careful, you’ll be left open to every whim and fancy.  Some left with a wallet full of dough, others left angry at cards, but I was just glad to be with friends who’ve emerged from the flaming furnace only a lil’ singed.

With enough stubble to require a mower, a stomach crammed full of lobster and prime rib, and a mouth wiped with dirty sweatsocks (or so it seemed!), we fled the city early Sunday morning and it’s a miracle we made it back in one piece.  My loyal friend, Tony was so kind as to snooze while I drove (and swerved a number of times).  Just shows how a lack of sleep impairs yer judgment.  It’s called Sleep Deprivation and it’s sweeping across the nation.  For the day, it was the Church of St. Mattress for me.

I pretty much stumbled through Monday with my best drooling zombie imitation.  And here I am. 

Good night.

—————

            
—————–

What it is

Words are a refuge

From all the madness

That bursts around you

Like the rage that builds

In a Man

Stuck in traffic

For hours and days

    Too long and how much more.

And

To be stifled

Is to sit in a box

Where everyone sees

You but you are

Tired and stopped

Giving

A

Damn

    To choke on moldy bones.

And

Freedom is like

Falling from an

Airplane knowing

That it doesn’t

Matter if your

Parachute

Is fluttering

Pillows

    To dream.

And

Life is a Big

Game show where

The wise prize is their

Mystery

    To ponder.

Or

Maybe you just twitch for a while

In a mindless dance

Because:
    It was fun.

—————————-

Damn Yankees.  But I really like “The Moose” Mussina.

—————–

Hey Bobby… so good to hear from you, man!  You engineering stud, you.  Yes, the Lakers.  Muhuhahaha.  I really like Tim Duncan; the guy plays hard, well, and always with class.  And Vinny, if you’re reading… hope to see you next time around. 

————-

Currently reading:

Ann Patchet’s Taft

of Bel Canto fame.
she’s got style!

——————

                                      Happy Tuesday!

Matt11:28

shaken not stirred

Cue the music.  You’ll hear the pluck of a banjo, mandolin and the sweet vocal strains of soprano and country baritone.  They’ll weave a bittersweet, day-ending harmony.  The sky is a canvas, smeared with beguiling shades of citrus.  In the Midwest, corn is planted in long, straight rows that mesmerize sleepy Heartland teamsters.  People park accordingly.

The cars are battered and weatherworn – reds, blues and browns, dull and faded according to mileage.  In rows, they’re parked nicely in a small gravel lot and as the sun begins its trip downward, the shadows bend and stretch graceful with orange-yellow shading.  Latecomers hear the muted sounds of music and spiritual ecstasy spilling from thick double doors.  When the roll is called up yonder, I’ll be there.

A latter day Edwards: American sinners in the hands of a friendly American god. And we’ve all managed to piss Him off.  So, his delivery is charming but the meat of it is something scary.  Rapt at attention lest they miss the words of a frowning Maker, they listen and tremble in crumpled work clothes – stained overalls and wrinkled polyester suits from the Sears catalogue.  It’s an open door and all are welcome.

The back row let’s you sit and listen without church eyes boring holes into your sweaty, heathen back.  You’ve heard it all before, in less dramatic variations of course.  But there’s a sincerity here in this sanctuary and the wildness in his eyes is actually pretty charismatic.  So, you’ll stay and listen.

You’ll drive on home come midnight because you’re tired and it’s been a long day.  Maybe you’ll think about the message.  At the least, you’ll wonder about purpose and meaning.  You’ll remember Sunday school and then you’ll think of all those renegade thoughts that make you sneer and shake your head when you sleep at night.

He’ll go home and watch the last few minutes of Johnny Carson.  He’ll hit the light switch and offer up a prayer of thanks.  He might feel a little empty or maybe the word is confused.  He’ll wonder if he shook hands too hard or if he messed up the Sinner’s invitation.  Maybe he’s too smart for all this.  They’ll have to fix the church organ; the upper chords play flat.  Perhaps it’s what he’s made for.

————–

—————

To a Mouse
by Robert Burns

Wee, sleeket, cowran, tim’rous beastie,

O, what panic’s in thy breastie!

Thou need na start awa sae hasty,

Wi’ bickering brattle!

I wad be laith to rin an’ chase thee,

Wi’ murd’ring pattle!

I’m truly sorry Man’s dominion
Has broken Nature’s social union,
An’ justifies that ill opinion,
Which makes thee startle,
At me, thy poor, earth-born companion,
An’ fellow-mortal!

I doubt na, whyles, but thou may thieve;
What then? poor beastie, thou maun live!
A daimen-icker in a thrave ‘S a sma’ request:
I’ll get a blessin wi’ the lave,
An’ never miss’t!

Thy wee-bit housie, too, in ruin!
It’s silly wa’s the win’s are strewin!
An’ naething, now, to big a new ane,
O’ foggage green!
An’ bleak December’s winds ensuin,
Baith snell an’ keen!

Thou saw the fields laid bare an’ wast,
An’ weary Winter comin fast,
An’ cozie here, beneath the blast,
Thou thought to dwell,
Till crash! the cruel coulter past
Out thro’ thy cell.

That wee-bit heap o’ leaves an’ stibble,
Has cost thee monie a weary nibble!
Now thou’s turn’d out, for a’ thy trouble,
But house or hald.
To thole the Winter’s sleety dribble,
An’ cranreuch cauld!

But Mousie, thou are no thy-lane,
In proving foresight may be vain:
The best laid schemes o’ Mice an’ Men,
Gang aft agley,
An’ lea’e us nought but grief an’ pain,
For promis’d joy!

Still, thou art blest, compar’d wi’ me!
The present only toucheth thee:
But Och! I backward cast my e’e,
On prospects drear!
An’ forward, tho’ I canna see,
I guess an’ fear!

———–

Such a happy, sad lil’ poem.  Starts off cute and moves to real reflection.  It’s poetry from tough times.  If only he could be so oblivious and small, wrapped tightly and solely in each passing moment.  But as it is, the past haunts him and the future waits darkly.

Hey, it’s Georgia!  Don’t mess.

—————

Spiezio breaks his slump!  In a big chedda way.

Matt11:28

rubbernecking or a fun story to tell

Life is simply a hard sprint

Through the traffic

Of swinging fists and

Pummeling profanity

Or pornography blatant

Like cars honking in

Gridlock.

People slam horns, whistle

And point digits

Driving slowly through

Bottlenecked boulevards where

Someone sits dying or

Weeping or

Wondering or

Sleeping ignorant

Slumped on a wheel.

That’s life.

Or is it more

Like an apple pie? 

  A slice of Americana

  And a vision in the sky:

  That sustains you

  And exhumes you

  Prophets raging and

  Telling you

  That your time was

  Wasted.

Turn up the radio and

Sing:  La-di-dah.

————————-

———————–

Time to hit the open road.  Vegas, baby!  Maybe next week for those who’ll go.  There’s an itch I need to scratch and I’ll get to it in due time.  I’ve got clothes on my back, money in the bank and good friends around me.  And God’s always so faithful.

I’m quietly thankful (after a good figurative slap upside the head).

—————————

Sweet.  Atwood’s just published another one!  Always pretty ambitious with her themes.  She’s challenging Orwell and Huxley… let me at ‘em!  <grin>  Definitely one of my favorite writers. 

—————————

Kings were out of the running early; Ducks are the next best thing.

And they’re on fire.

Kariya is The Man.

——–

From something I read during lunch:

“If we really want to learn how to forgive, perhaps we had better start with something easier than the Gestapo.” 
-C.S. Lewis

Good point. 

Matt11:28

Daisy Fay’s Green Haze

We’re nothing but beasts of burden

Like Janos’ donkey*

He thinks.

Some go up

Some go down

The world is Escher

Tumbling every which way

On stairs.

But

It’s a happy time for

This jumpy speakeasy

Where we’ll drink giggle water

And watch the dancing flappers

Laugh on laps

Like they must’ve

For Gatsby.

We’ll be old and grey

Wearing our old and green

Laurels and garlands

  Pumping our fists

  Dropping our canes

  Watching the moon

      Wane over the sunset

      Three sixty and five.

——————-

*not Janus but Janos in this case.  then again, that might work too.  hmmm.

 <smile>

Random literary memory for you:  I remember the first time I read The Great Gatsby… I was so angered by Gatsby’s willingness to take responsibility for Daisy’s reckless driving.  Poor Myrtle.

For Fitzgerald fans, This Side of Paradise is the Stuff.

——————

Well, What’s Honest

He’s honest like fresh air but she’s taken aback.

He sees life in sweeping panoramas and

The sun is always shining someplace if not here.

He’ll stand like Moses on the mountaintop Nebo

But she’ll be sad because clouds are gathering

Somewhere.

How many see the Promised Land

For him, grand visions and she is there!

For her, seeds of doubt sprout

Stuck in the middle of

Nowhere.

———–

—————-

Candy-Coated Hydrants