Dear Reader

 

There you are, dear reader, demanding that I account for both myself and my famous affair with Basil Pennington III, father of the English Haiku-Sonnet. 

Nosy little parker, aren't you? Hmph. My air of mystery is positively in tatters.

You'll have read, I'm sure, my first published volume, Cargo of the Heart (1905), a collection of some two-thousand love poems, all of them concerning my furious devotion to Bazzy (as I called him privately). Tiresomely, most people only know the opening poem, Honeymoon In Hell, which was written shortly after I had sustained a closed head injury. 

My Arrow-collared Adonis stands in fading dusk-light

your chin tipped down, lighter flaring up,

capturing my heart as your pince-nez does your nose

while on Love's nectar'd wine we sup!

Yes, well. My early efforts were heartfelt if a trifle lacking in restraint. But you want to hear about Bazzy (as I called him privately)! You may not know that Basils senior and junior were fierce tyrants, captains of industry, and both afflicted with a ferocious case of skin blemishes in their youth. Imagine their chagrin at the arrival of this perfect, square-jawed, wavy-haired, strapping example of manhood amongst them. Imagine further his utter disinterest in the family undergarment empire. 

Undergarment wizards, bitter devils dancing lugubriously on Profit's stage,

Blind behemoths blundering benightedly

Dismissive of Delight, scornful of sage

poring over ledger books, squalling, squealing and squinting short-sightedly!

I guess I told them ! For months in 1911 we closed ourselves off in a lovely seaside cottage, seeing no one but each other, except for the odd Ouija manifestation or mushroom hallucination, as one will. 

Love! Bliss! Oh Rapture!

the wet raindrop on the stalk

that grows proud and tall!

Of course, my volume of erotic haiku entitled Cherry Blossom Lobotomy was seized by the port authorities in Boston and ultimately banned as both pornographic and jejune. "Everyone's a critic," I lamented to Bazzy (as I called him privately). We were both convinced that Basils senior and junior had had a hand in that nasty bit of business, but we could never prove it, and besides, I was occupied with my hybrid petunias and Bazzy (as I called him privately) was shortly off in France fighting in some silly war. If you like, pick up a copy of my collection of war poetry entitled Ka-Boom! The New York Times reviewer wrote that the collection convinced him that there are worse things than death, but I never understood what he meant. When Bazzy (as I called him privately) was killed, I couldn't imagine anything worse than his having been run over by a Paris taxi while on leave from the Army Bureau of Statistics located behind the lines in wine country. I delve into this terrible period with the epic poem Drunk In Public, which won the Delirium Tremens Award for excellence in incomprehensible gibberish. I've always been very proud of that, though the arcane terminology eludes me somewhat. May I present you with a copy? I can have one of the staff sign it for you if you like. No? Don't be shy, dear--I insist!

Anyway, that's the Reader's Digest condensed version of my sweeping affair with Basil (or "Bazzy" as I called him privately) Pennington III. If you'd like to pry, er, read further, see if you can find a copy of Cornerstone Poems--the "Found" Poems of Constance MacFarquhar-Pennington, A Complete Compendium With Bibliography, Personal Correspondence & Rare Photographs (Crumbley J. Pepperpot and Phyllis Anne Von Vandekamp eds. Redundancy Publishers New York Montreal London Belgrade and Hong Kong 1932.  I saw a copy on the website Remaindered Oblivion not two weeks ago!  Ta now, dear. Hmm. Thank Heaven and Heloise that the little twaddlehead is gone.  For pity sake, I never even actually met Basil Pennington III, or "Bazzy" as I imagined I would have called him privately, had I had the chance. No matter. Time for wine and work! I've got a new book underway and cannot be disturbed. 

________

My rather lengthy poem (?) for Word Garden Word List--Gracefully Insane.

 

Un Recuerdo (A Memory)

 

When I was younger, one of my co-workers

was an older lady, or so she seemed to me.

She was just always there,

a woman who ate at her desk from a clear plastic container--

some sort of salad. 

She was just an ample, 

stationary emplacement 

as permanent as the pyramids.

I thought of her then as something akin

to those funky American clunker cars from the fifties

still rumbling around Havana,

something you'd smile at

but not feel had anything to do with you.

She wore a cross that rested on her bosom,

like the ones that dangle from the mirrors of Cuban taxis. 

She stopped coming to work, though, and someone said she was ill.

"Pancreatic cancer" they told me, sotto voce. 

I knew, as a northerner, that weather can change in an instant.

What I hadn't known is that I am made of weather

blood and bone and breath

breezing through me every second of every day.

I went to see her with some other women from work.

There, in the hospice, she wasn't ample anymore,

just a paper doll watching episodes on tv through a narcotic blizzard.

British adventurers were removing treasures from the tombs

in grainy archive footage

as the knot inside her belly grew and her hand grabbed at nothing. 

"Morphine hallucinations," someone whispered. 

After she died I took one of her cats, a calico I had for several years.

I still think of that day at the hospice, though

and how the clown-devil can sit silently at one's side any time,

like a taxi at the curb, bags already arranged in the trunk.

He will watch whatever you want to watch,

at that wind-down hour.

He never complains, talks over the narrator, or changes the channel,

but though we protest that we were only in the middle, 

I want to see how it ends

he will click it to black, pull into traffic, and say,

"Nada es para siempre, ni siquiera sufrimiento."

__________

for Word Garden Word List--Stephen Dunn. 

The last line says, "Nothing is forever, not even suffering." 

Music: Compay Segundo Chan Chan

I Walk Out On The Fragrant Fields Of September*

In The Barn of Morning I found a stool, but its cow was in the field,

south of the sun,

and just north of the earth.

The stool was called The Stool of Error,

Its legs named Impulse, Disaster and Wisdom,

each one held in the jaws of a laughing hyena.

I took my bonnet and breastplate

and walked out upon the fragrant fields of September,

following the shifting arrow of a weather vane

and the cowbell-call of my wandering girl.

"Halloo," I called, carrying The Stool of Error

and shaking the hyenas off.

"It's just me, with my bucket and milking hat, 

dandelion blooms in the pocket of my smock."

"Bessie," I said, beginning my work,

"In The Barn of Morning, when all is quiet and you face the east as all milkers do and must,

Do you think of your lost calves 

and the bulls who came and went?

Or are your big, kind eyes on the brightening world

and all of its clover and blue sky bigness?

Moo me a clue, girlfriend. 

Under this gingham and chain mail I am fierce lonesome

and sorely unsure."

All afternoon the sun dripped across the heavens

while hyenas chittered and hid behind a buckthorn bush.

I picked up the Stool of Error and led Bessie back

to the Barn of Evening.

She lowed softly as she settled in,

and I thought that was as good advice as any,

The Soft Moo of Stay Tuned, Chickie, 

a sort of psalm for this moon-hearted milkmaid to ponder.

___________

for Sunday Muse #127.

*with apologies to Grover Lewis ("I Walk Out On The Wounded Fields Of October")

Beauties

There is no reason for us to fight.
Here is a ticket,
exempting you from fighting.
A ticket
out of town, praise whatever gods there are.

We fight in the town.
We sell tickets beforehand.
We call each other bitches and all sorts of things.
Every woman is a god(dess.)
Don't forget to tick the box.

Whatever.
There is no reasoning with you.
God knows why God(dess) made a great honking bitch like you.
I exempt myself from all this.
Let us now praise famous men.

Men like us when we fight.
In the town, by the fountain, glittering with coins.
Fight, fight, that's the ticket
to a life filled with famous men swooning over our dumb butts.
Whatever god(desse)s there are
can't cope, they lie down in a bed made of doves
as we fight, under the imprimatur some bitch, in a box, atop a pole

That the famous men have put there, and we appease, to great applause.
_______

for Weekend Mini Challenge at Toads.

The Walnut Leaves, In Their Terror

The walnut leaves fall in groups,
In fear of
Zacky Peanut, who brooks no nonsense
And is ferocious (but fair.)

Into their bags they go,
Silent siblings to the sticks
Also lately fallen.

She who has a dog
Need never fear walnut leaves
For he is a Good Boi
And always at the ready.
_____

for Real Toads.

Rain

The sky couldn't hold it together anymore.
You think it's just always there, 
full of stars and big honking planets,
light, every kind of bird,
the freaking sun for goodness sake.

That's woman's work, babe. 

But I knew. She'd been gray for days.
Unwind, girl.
Close your eyes, shake out your hair.
Let go.

Rain.
____

 A 55 for my BFF at Verse Escape.

It's raining here today. Zacky Peanut and I are fine with it!

 

Cleansing

Occasionally, one must be cleansed.
Sure, you could wait on a bench at the train station for Jesus to return,
surrounded by clergymen offering judgement and asbestos underwear.
But Jesus,
in white shirt and tie,
running the afternoon shift at Chicken Barn,
would take you aside from your deep fryer duties and tell you--
cleansing should be a private thing,
a personal thing,
not subject to "likes" and "shares" or other public scrutiny. 

Come, get still within yourself.
Lay out the things you'll need:
the towel,
the candles,
the knout and the noise-reducing headphones. 

Concentrate on necessary rituals;
the curly fry placed upon your tongue,
the orange soda in the tiny dixie cup.
Find the kernel of eternity and meaning inside the absurd and the preposterous.
What I'm saying is, look within.

Take the cloth and the sweet-smelling detergent to the tabletops
of your personal dining room.
Prevent disgusting build-up of
lies,
conceits,
aggressions,
and wild profane outbursts.
Stop sleeping with everybody who asks.
Make today a changing day in your life.
Turn off Dr. Phil.  

In the end, there is no "end."
You'll need to repeat this, like lines in a stage play,
but lines that change with each new performance.
Buck up, Bo Peep.
Jesus stands ready with company protocols and his wonderful crooked grin.
His hair is long, he likes the extra crispy sandwich, 
a good joke, women, kindness.
Present the clean crescents of your fingernails to Him.
Approach your duties with pride.
Go home, empty your mind, forget the hectic lunch rush.
Be at peace.
Do it all again tomorrow.
__________

Between Angels and Elephants

Between angels and elephants,
sparrows atop the tent poles
and tigers on two-foot stools,

is the acrobat.
Not bird, nor magician,
she starts in sawdust,
but circuses have ladders.

Every act involves a first time
and a thousandth.
Smell the blood and popcorn;
believe it matters what you do--

the merest sparrow is one part angel;
women and tigers...two.
_____

Exactly sixty words for Mama Zen's "Words Count."

Image: "Circus Girl Smokes While Rehearsing Her Stunts", Nina Leen 1949. 

The picture made me think of the film Wings Of Desire ("Der Himmel Uber Berlin") in which two angels wander post-war Berlin. One of them falls in love with a circus trapeze artist, and wishes to become mortal so that they can be together. Because of copyright restrictions, I can't post the trailer on the blog, and so I provide a link HERE. It will open in a new window, so you don't have to leave this page in order to view it.

Long Distance

They keep paging Mr. de la Cruz to the red courtesy phone in the lobby.
He can't come downstairs.
For that matter, he can't come, not anymore, ever;
Mr. de la Cruz is dead.

I'm in a fix.
One minute, holding his smartphone in one hand,
and messing with my boob with the other,
he was handing Mrs. de la Cruz the usual pile of bullcrap.
I love you, I miss you, I'm stuck here in Detroit.

About an hour later, after taking a blue pill,
Mr. de la Cruz blew a tire.
His face got all weird and he started sounding wheezy;
then he died, right there in the hotel bed.
No more being a cheaty bastard.
No more being my business friend.
He won't sit up, gasp, start laughing, and say, "That was close!"
He can't move.
He can't open Windows.
He can't do anything, ever again.

So who the hell wants him on the freaking courtesy phone?
They keep repeating the page.
Who does he know in Detroit?
Eminem? Kid Rock? Aretha Franklin?
I think he only knows me, and Jim, the manager of the escort service.
Jim would tell me to get dressed and book it on out of here.
So I do.

On my way out, leaving Mr. de la Cruz cooling off with the sheets,
I hear the page again. Curiosity killed the cat. 
Mee-owr, I think to myself, and head for the courtesy phone in the lobby.
It's this old red dial phone. 
I stick my gum on the little stand and pick up the receiver.
"Yeah? Uh....this is Mrs. de la Cruz."

Sometimes I wonder what it would have been like
if I had married some cheaty fuck and dropped a few kids.
I would have loved him, missed him, 
been sorry he got stuck in Detroit all by himself.
I actually start welling up thinking about it.

It's Aphrodite on the other end of the line.
She's talking about love, desire, beauty and longing,
but Mr. de la Cruz is dead upstairs,
Jim will have some other date for me to meet,
and though Aph means well and seems really nice,
I'm getting antsy
and it's all Greek to me.
______

for Fireblossom Friday at Real Toads.

In honor of Martin de la Cruz, an Aztec healer; the Martin de la Cruz award is given for excellence in the field of medicinal herbs.

Nadine, The First Blind Baseball Player

Not only is she the first blind baseball player,
rare as a thylacine yawning cavernously on the early-morning dewy lawns of suburbia,

she is also the first woman. 

She is Justice and the curve-hipped Eve of the Major Leagues.
She can pitch it on in there, HERE IT IS, HIT IT.
Athena had her owl; Nadine has Oscar the white pigeon.

How does she do it? you may ask.
She can hear the baseball cutting through the air.
When the batter beats one foul down the third base line, she can smell the chalk dust come wafting with the afternoon breeze.

As Oscar circles encouragingly above her,
she kicks and flings that pea.
She can smell where each batter is,
his desire to mash her deliveries into some distant stand,
his fear of looking bad,
his inability to handle the inside fastball,
his stink in the heat of day, and of battle.

"Strike one!" 
Nadine loves the feel of the baseball in her hand,
its seams,
its potential to raise her above her dime-store life.

"Strike two!"
She can hear Oscar's wingbeats.
She can hear fat fingers digging into tubs of popcorn in the stands.
She can hear opposing fans shouting editorials,
mostly obscene.
"Strike three!"

Nadine listens for the sound of her first baseman's breathing.
They had a short affair.
His posture when flipping her the ball as she covered the base
reminded everyone of a suitor kneeling, the ball like a ring in his hand.
She had spent hours touching his face.
With his head full of love sonnets, he had slumped and been sent down,
and though he is back, things aren't the same between them.

With her baseball money, Nadine has gotten herself a little house,
with window boxes and a ledge for Oscar.
She can't see the flowers but can feel their delicacy, smell their fragrance,
so unlike a cleat or a mitt.
She is happy there.

In her famous poster, sold at most sporting goods stores,
Nadine wears designer shades and road grays,
killer lipstick and bookoo confidence.
Little girls idolize her.
HERE IT IS, HIT IT. But no one can.
______

for grapeling's Get Listed challenge. I used "house", "face", and "suburb" (suburbia).


 

Eurydice's Motorcycle

Orpheus, you dropped your lyre
like a tear from the Sun's eye
there at the portal to day.

Hades tricked you,
but the truth is, baby,
I wasn't behind you anyway.

I scavenged your lyre,
and while Cerberus watched,
turned it to my own purpose.

It's our own way out--
forgive us
forget us,
Orpheus.
_____

for flash 55 at real toads.

Girl Sphynx

She doesn't know,
and I would never let on.

Didn't I tell you?
I stopped wearing my rainbow jewelry to work.
I act so straight
that I can't even bend to sit down.

So there's this woman.
She has no idea.

She's warmer than a San Antonio tiled roof.
She smiles whenever she sees me,
but she's just nice to everybody.
She's got a husband, if I forgot to belabor the obvious.

I like to make her laugh.
She's cuter than sunflowers in June when she does.

God can she rock that orange tee shirt,
or any of those summer sweaters she's got.
She has gray eyes
and a heart shaped face.

I never let on.
I'm a riddle, a Sphynx, an aviatrix under the radar.

Yesterday she was kidding me the way she does.
She winked,
and I wavered mid-air, but
I never blushed, I swear.
_______

for Izy's Out of Standard challenge at Real Toads: lies not well enough told.

image: Cristina Scabbia 

 

Sunday On The Moon

When Easter came,
we were still on lunar mission.
The men laughed, but we women
wanted new dresses so badly we could taste it.

How to know the winter and its heavy silent snows have gone?
The mild air on our legs.
The light material on our skin.

Ashes to ashes,
as last month the Wednesday came and went.
Dust to dust,
and that we have plenty of,
but here, there is no resurrection,
just craters
and our restlessness made worse by proximity to The White Lady.

Jen began to speak more and more often of apple trees.
Our spartan quarters, the view out the window,
were all white, like blossoms in April.
When she began to laugh for no reason,
and to see snakes in the electrical,
we knew she had crossed, retrograde, into some uncharted sector.

We had only two males on the mission,
now just one.
Jen planted a root-blade in the other,
dreaming of a man-orchard instead of wasteland.
She has undone her own purpose,
and gives her scented wrists indefinitely to the soft restraints
so reminiscent of passing clouds.

Jen-bird, we call her,
Sylvia and I.
Stephens just calls her "that fucking bitch".
It is Easter Sunday on the moon,
and we haven't got even the trappings of religion--
no statue of the Blessed Virgin,
no candles,
no censer.
It is a little shocking how important those trappings become
when they are absolutely, irretrievably absent.

This mission is like hearing an endless, hollow busy signal from hell;
There is hopeless, and then there is hopeless from here.
Sylvia and I made apple blossoms from anything white we could find,
and created a coil tree to lean in a corner of the med lab.
Jen-bird, we said.
Call the snakes, call down temptation--
God knows we could use a little more of it.

Stephens hates us for comforting the murderess,
and for not letting him fuck us.
"The nuns" he calls us, sneering, frustrated.
Jen-bird is the one who would have,
but he is afraid of her now.
Our one joy is offering to turn her loose,
just to hear him call us mad.
We are, oh we are,
and we were, long before we ever saw his face.
________

for Kenia's Sunday challenge at Real Toads!

It's Complicated.

CaveMAN: "Find mastodon, kill mastodon, 
eat mastodon, fuck wife, sleep.

CaveWOMAN: "Find masto--
hey, what are those flowers called?
They'd look nice on--
is Zug allergic?
Find masto--
Fug doesn't like mastodon. Mammoth, then?
Find mammoth, kill--
wait.
Mammoth goes straight to my hips.
*sigh*
Did I pick up the furs?
Dammit, cramps!
Okay,
find mastodon...
______

a 55 for everybody's favorite primitive, the G Man!

Pantry Chef

When I was younger,
I washed lettuce heads in cold water.
I would set them on my cutting board, gently,
As if my hands hummed with lullabies.

I lifted tomatoes from their cardboard carton beds.
I lined them in a row like nursery babies,
And my starched jacket was always white and clean.

I knew romaine and bibb,
Beefsteak and cherry.
I kept my hair tied back, my nails short,
The right knife sharp and at the ready.

I didn't know, then
That lovers remember the wine, not the greens;
The sugar, not the side plate.

I wish you were here to kiss my hands
With their swollen knuckles and cut-scars.
What was I doing with my tenderness
When I had someone who wanted it?

When I was younger,
I had a paying job, a small talent,
And a driver with a dolly at the back door
Coming every day to keep my walk-in cooler stocked.

I thought that was bounty.
I thought there was no harm in staying on through another fall.
I never considered that what I made was not mine,
Or that someone else was paying for it all.
_______ 

New Girl

Hi. I'm the new girl.

Are you gonna finish that salad? 

I heard about this take-out place, and they made salads from lettuce that grew where all these deer were coming by and crapping on it, and people got, like, botulism or something. They puked and had to go in the hospital and stuff. It was gross.

So is it working?

Well, I just assumed you're dieting. Aren't you? I never diet. I can, like, OD on chocolate pie til I'm cross eyed and never gain an ounce. I'd kill myself if I was fat. I mean, that's just me. I like fat people. They're like, jolly, and don't care what they wear, and I think that's very freeing.

Is this a picture of your husband? Wow, he looks a lot younger than you! He's really handsome. Been married long?

Does he work here? Hey, it was just a question.

I love your hair. That retro look is so popular now.

So, you probably know all the ins and outs, right? If I had been here half as long as you, I'd be running the place. But they'd probably fire me for vericose veins or something. Ha! That was a joke!

Wow, you're really not that jolly, are you?

Well, of course you've got work to do! I thought I could help you. What's this junk? Oh, was that in some kind of special order or something? Oops!

Hey look, I'm sorry. Seriously. Let's be friends. I'd really like us to--

Oh, that's my phone. I have to take this. 

Sorry that took so long. I think I've got a cramp in my ass from sitting on your desk! 

Well, I better run. Oh my gosh, you have such a pretty smile! Anyhoo, don't be a stranger, Tammy. Okay, sorry, Tanya. New girl, what can I say? 

Toodles!

(walking away) What a bitch! 

_______ 

for trifecta week 30. 314 words. key word "new."

Never Send A Man To Do A Woman's Work

Look what you done, babe
with the angels,
angels in your eyes...

Look what you done, babe
with those angels,
angels in your eyes...

You make me wild, like a devil's child
but all a girl can do is try.

Down by the reeds where the cat tails grow
where the river,
the river slides through slow...

Down by the reeds, where the cat tails grow
where the river,
the river slides through slow...

When you put your sweet sweet fingers to my lips,
if you asked my name I wouldn't know.

You give me pleasure like a rumblin cat,
and pain that makes me moan
Sweetheart,
Sweetheart,
I'll do anything
just to be with you alone.

See the sky, it's gonna storm real bad
send the lightnin,
the lightnin quick and bright...

See the sky, it's gonna storm real bad
send the lightnin,
the lightnin quick and bright...

Sweet Jesus love you all day long,
But he knows nothin 'bout the night.
_______

for the blues challenge at Real Toads