too much much?

One million.

1, 000, 000.

Eine Million.

An impressive number compared with almost anything besides national debt and the distance to outlying galaxies. As a yute (did he say 'yute'? excuse me your honor, as a yooooth) few things were more alluring and yet ever out of reach than the status of millionaire. Except in the game of LIFE. Which, after we lost the plastic mansion, why bother playing really? To have a mess of peg kids? To sling the spinner into orbit every other go? To become a millionaire in Monopoly was harder still. We had to manipulate the rules, turn free parking into a jackpot. As a matter of fact, we had so inflated the real-estate market that the Parker Brothers allotment of varicolored bills was inadequate and we were obliged to print larger bills of our own. (Perhaps we were minor prophets considering the current mortgage mire.)

However sliced, a million is a number to be reckoned with--for its psychological and cultural significance (granted for pre-2K generations, mostly) as well as its actual numerical heft.

Why the fuss? I have reached a dubious milestone in my life. Blew by it about a month or so ago, actually. (No, would-be-glommers, I have not come into a million bucks.) Hold the drumroll. No applause, please.

By my calculations, in the last 12 years, I have ingested over 1, 000, 000 milligrams of mind-numbing pharmaceuticals. And I can't help but wonder how many lost flashes of brilliance that accounts for, how many less-than-thrilling stories in my catalog, how man never-inspired poems? Speaking of never, I will never know.

But that's Ok, right? It has to be OK. And that goes for all of us. Sure, you may not be so drug-addled as me; but you have your stuff. Stuff that impedes productivity. (Kids much?) Stuff that stultifies creativity. (Workaday onus much?) Stuff that shin-kicks, sucker-punches, and blind-sides the freedom of the mind to simply stroll the acres of live-oak and imagination. (The world is too much with us much?)

Did you ever try to count to a million as a yute? It would have taken about a week. Unless you needed food or sleep. Which most of us do. Ghandi and Edison, respectively excluded. A million miles? Go to the moon, bring me a rock to look at, then take it back. A million words? A] Your homework is to read War and Peace and Les Miserable. Or B] 1000 pictures of your choice.

Our lives are not measured in millions but let there be no doubt that there are millions of things we contend with in a lifetime. And most of us, for the most part, for most of the time will be OK. We will have to be OK. Because the alternative is bleak--all the mansions are plastic and all the money is just paper yanked from spiral-bound notebooks and printed with Magic Marker.

dam that i am

I taught myself a writing lesson today. A lonely poet without mentor will resort to such measures, I suppose. At any rate, I thought I would share it with you, Ether, unsure as I am how much or little you might care. And even if you don't, it is conceivable that through your Eminent Diaphanousness, through your sheer veneer to the Nothingworld, some one or another might find my self-tutelage useful now or someday.

It has to do with poetry so I will whisper against discovery by the elsewhere crows. Ha-haw-haw-haw. I can hear them already. Jerks.

So . . . this morning I was reading poems by Jeremy Lespi (a poet too soon gone). While engaged with one on the left side of the page, my med-induced attention deficit had my eye wandering to the right side of the page where in the middle of a different poem, I latched on to this phrase:

"I will kneel on/ some obscure gossiping Wednesday, more/
slowly one wild goose of a year from now . . ."

I did not read the rest of the poem. Did not follow the phrase's thread back to the beginning or continue to unspool it to the end. I simply hovered there. Just above those lines. And it was enough. Enough for the osmotic nature of poetry to infiltrate my mind, to move me deeply even though I was only in the shallows, only ankle-deep and yet . . . and yet absorbed through and through.

The moment, as most will, passed. I went back to the other poem on the left side and finished reading it.

More time passes. I scroll through the Amorphilacious-Antaginons (Facebook). I eat a couple of Toast Chee Crackers, wash down with Vitamin Water, check my email. At this point in my days, I know that I am usually done with being productive creativity-wise. I begin to think of lunch. Of dinner, for that matter. Will I take a nap today or bully myself into practicing my German? Denn ich bin müde aber ich will auf deutsch sprechen.

Then something peculiar happens. Today is Wednesday, I think. I should write. No, I MUST write. But why? Because it's raining. So what? Well, because I saw the word "Wednesday" a bit ago, and for reasons unqualified I felt the whole world sog my soul, the mere hint of years spent chasing things like rumor and whimsy. All that when there are prayers to pray--genuflections to be made. Other days of the week to hold back--creaking, twiggy dam that I am.

So I wrote, without rewinding or unspooling:

I will write on raining Wednesdays

The wide world notwithstanding,

Though all else speak

More truly.

Today is Wednesday.

Cold and wet.

The gray we’ve invented

To describe the salted blue

Skies.

Eyes too can be blue,

Salted and grayed,

Mine, for instance, on days

Like today. Skies

Burdened, earthen—

An invisible clay. No,

Not invisible—

Gray.

Lies.

I will write them today.

And every Wednesday after

When it rains.

Nothing spectacular. Nothing destined for the chic, slick pages of the New Yorker. Nothing much at all. Except, and here is the lesson, an obedience to the unqualified, a readiness to skip the obvious and write from the oblique, from the opposite page, from the impertinent viscera.
Sometimes, to have hovered is enough. Despite the seeming detachment of the hovering object from the entity behovered (nonce-word), there is that osmotic force, so precious in poetry, that does not require one's absolute attention, that will, given proper gravity, draw one in, suffuse one's unthinking mind, and absorb one in the shallows.

That is all, Ether. That's the lesson I taught myself today. Spread the word in many places. You are good for that, my cosmopolitan friend.

Wait . . . one more thing. I shall call my poem "Barometer." For today, at least.

one for halloween

A swatch from a story called "Ghost Writer" which is part of a connected series of stories from a collection entitled Leesville. This particular story is largely nonsense (the others are rather serious) and concerns the arousal of a ghost from a grave precipitated by the vandalism of two naughty little boys--Timmy and Tommy. Seems they were going around switching grave-site flowers--a no-no as it turns out. For their misdeed, they are cursed to never sleep well again. The man whose spirit haunts this story is Wallace Persons and he figures prominently into the the rest of the series. The language here and throughout the tale is intentionally absurd--vacillating willy-nilly from archaic to juvenile to, at times elsewhere, dead serious. Pun tolerated

. . . and next the vitriolic specter swooped like a hawk, icy rain and howling gale no matter, translucent except for seething, vermillion eyes aflame from the effrontery of the switched flower; and it found Timmy huddled weeping by the cloven dogwood and Tommy running like a coward toward the church, and it snatched them by their napes and dropped the two boys on top of each other beside his erstwhile tomb. The naughty boys held each other, crying a thousand pardons of the perturbed spirit. To paraphrase, they cried:

“Stay your wrath most mighty and least worm-desiccated ghoul of beauty and pathos. We are but sheep who have gone astray and would pledge perennial servitude wouldst thou but grant such a delicious wish and wouldst not make a delicious dish of two humble, yes naughtiest of the naughty, but reformed childes. Once eternally soporific now boundlessly honorific spirit, hear our pleas, witness our compunction, grant our lives though already so cursed ne’er to sleep well—though curse it may sound, ne’er such a blessing would it be if bestowed in the stead of tortuous devourment or worse, shudder e’en to speak it into this terrible night lest words come true by mere virtue of their utterance, a thoroughgoing ass spanking. This we beg, though justice weigh against us, with extreme faith in thy mercy howeversomuch our wretchedness dost recommend our asses to be thrashed, our ears a’boxed, our nipples tweaked now to port now to starboard—we beg.”

All this petulant palaver Timmy plead on behalf of the both and he fancied that he was winning over the ghost’s beneficent nature until Tommy, poor bubble-headed waif, added, “Can you walk through walls and stuff?”

The ghost looked wanting to speak. And might have if not for the bubble-headed one’s brash inquiry. The ghost of Wallace gave it a go against the east wall of the church and bounced a goodly distance from whence he came. The ghost looked wanting to swear. And might have had not the bubble-headed one suggested a try at the window. The ghost gave that a go and as sure as a moment before he was on the outside looking wanting to swear he was now on the inside feeling wanting to applaud himself for such a neat trick. (Seems windows and not walls are the ticket for ghost transference. Might make a mental note, those of you who take cigarette smoking lightly.)

The spirit’s spirits now jollified, he rejoined the two boys in the graveyard. He handed the not-so-special flower to the young one and told him to go fetch the special one and give it back to him—the fair and rightful owner. The young one made the re-switch as he was bade but the original deed could not be undone. Wallace Persons was awake and raging. Well, not so much raging as a bit miffed but awake—he was awake. Wallace Person’s ghost said, “You two run off to bed and sleep as well as you can. Sorry about that curse but I think it’s gonna stick whether I repent it or not. If I figure something out I’ll come back and reverse the curse. Ta-ta.” And he walked away scratching his head but before he got too far he turned and added, “For starters, quit being so naughty, though.”

The gale lessened to a stiff wind. The pounding rain softened to a reasonable shower. Once again it was simply a dark and stormy night.

this is not the poem's title, the title is below

Blood

First to grandmother’s, whose grief is refined,

Weathered, that is to say, on the other side of the family,

To eat late and hear the story of our lives—and how she “just laughed

And laughed and laughed” when so and so

Did such and such,

To occupy her room occupied by a ghost

Charmed within picture frames—silver, dusty.

To Bristol. Bristol to Roanoke.

A forgotten beauty, that is to say, lost in the mines

Of unrefined remembrances,

The quilt of late October laid

To warm the foothills. A drive worth the drive.

Hours, if given back, which would be re-spent identically.

A fast-food meeting with grandfather, whose grief

Is engrained—ravined and veined—in the skin,

Laden in eyelids. Arby’s. Freezing.

Could they turn down the air? Sorry but no.

Life’s refrain is restraint, apology, coda. With feeling.

Our little caravan stops at a church. Out we pile and stretch and moan.

If they got ‘em, uncles and step-aunts are smoking.

Children of cousins duck behind cars. Bashful—a word,

Come to think of it, only uttered on occasions

Like this. Like this:

So many hugs, I lose count. Fewer tears but still many.

Mostly smiles, faint recognitions, empathetic nods.

Songs—favorites of the pain-free man in ashes,

Traces of morphine, maybe, but certainly no trace of need—picked

And strummed as he would have done,

As he once showed me how.

A dinner of sandwiches after.

Hugs of departure. Lumped throats. The usual,

That is to say, the common way for strange

Days like this.

Turning for home, the Peaks of Otter,

Scapulas of blue earth in early evening,

Heave into the sky where the Hunter’s Moon

Exsanguinates all else.

going home

I was born in Lynchburg, Virginia. Small town then. Smallish now. Besides being my birthplace and its atrocious name, it is probably best known for its intrepid cleric--one Jerry Falwell and his more reasonable extension, Liberty University.

The year was 1975. The month was December. The day was the fourteenth of thirty-one--not quite middling.

Within a couple of years, I left Lynchburg behind for the larger town of Richmond where I spent ten years bicycling, shoplifting, collecting baseball cards, playing a variety of tags, whining, and being average at sports, above average at school, and below average at having friends--which was fine because I had a big brother and, before long, three little ones. Life, on average, was good. And, as it turns out (having witnessed and heard-tell of other lives) far, far too good for complaints.

Today, I am leaving for Lynchburg. My birthplace. For a funeral. Too easily ironic to elaborate the irony. In fact, I am troubled to find that my feelings about the trip are ones of alternating hesitation and resignation.

But why? Well . . . I suppose there's my natural aversion to dolor and its wont of sucking one into its melancholic juices, there to marinate until dour, until sour with thoughts of one's own mortality. Thoughts I've overthought already. Already having brushes near enough to taste. (In my experience, that particular taste is sweet, the moment calm, the resignation so pure as to obviate all hesitation. But this irony too is almost too blah to mention.)

What else? Well . . . there's the fact that the uncle for whom the bell tolled is the one I've interacted with the least over the years. (35 since 1975 [he calculated unnecessarily]). So there's a sense that among the nearer family members I will feel somehow unworthy of bereavement. That somehow, when I go to hug a cousin or an aunt, there will be a coolness in my touch that bespeaks my absence from their lives. On one hand, this is a bogus thought. An imaginary exclusion. But on the other hand, I believe there is something to it. Not a bad thing and certainly not a good thing but just a thing. A thing that makes you feel that way without offering excuse or implicating its agency. Just an icky, unavoidable thing.

Anything more? Not much. I'm not a fan of the shrinkray of adulthood. The redoubtable influence of time over matter. The squish of youth beneath the heels of experience. The verdant football yard now barely a swatch of brown grass.

Oh, and I hate, with a capital HATE, car trips. Anything over thirty minutes really sticks in my craw--which is saying a lot because otherwise I have no craw to speak of for all that I know. Craws are like the appendices that way. Unnoticeable until molested. In that case, craws are also like one's feeling upon going home. Not just for a funeral but for an encounter with the living. The rest of us. The flesh-wrapped skeletons, still warm from birth.

of numbers and names

So now it's getting a little ridiculous. Beans and Pickles continue to grow leaving Scooter ever diminishing in comparison. And it's not cool that I am thinking of my cacti in terms of exponents and algebra. Let the growth of Scooter be x and the growth of Beans/ Pickles be x squared and the increments of development be equal to the time elapsed between blog updates on the growth of my cacti. Or something. I'm not a mathematician. Which, Ether, is why I'm here and not elsewhere. Well, that and jocose crows. Side note: I actually scored higher on my GREs in math than I did in language. Perhaps why so many English programs turned me down. Well, that and the B- undergrad GPA. Well, those and the weakness of my writing samples. Anyway. Yeah. And speaking of weak writing samples . . . BEHOLD THIS POST. Johnny's my name, Lackluster's my pain. [See track 28 on my little ditty widget below to the right for this realization in slapdash song.]

Oh yes, let me introduce you to my hyacinth--the purple butterflies seeming to flit about the top of the frames. What's that you ask? What's her name?
First of all, it's not a she it's an it. Secondly, therefore, she doesn't have a name. It doesn't, I mean. Why on earth would I name a plant? Next thing you know I'll have it talking, telling us of the vicissitudes of purplishness, the vagaries of rain and wind.

It will say . . . fine she will say . . . fine Calliope will say, "Johnny, lacklusterest of poets, ramshacklest of bloggers, listen as I whisper soft against the vines, gingerly through the cactus quills. There is a story in the veins of my leaves. A story of love purblind and purpose lost. And the cost of pennies flicked in wells for wishes ill-conceived."

But that would just be silly.

Silly and AWESOME.

momentous

Here is a sonnet to commemorate the rescue of the Chilean miners that began last night. It is not necessarily finished. It is directly from a two hour wrestling match with my brain. So why post it now? At first, the answer was clear. I won't. No sense in it. Because not only is the poem possibly incomplete, neither is the rescue effort complete. As of this instant, only sixteen of the miners are above ground. Then I got to thinking about it. I was impressed by a sense of nowness. Something to do with immediacy and the life of a poem. If I am the least bit effective as a poet, I should be able to capture a moment in such a way as to sustain its urgency, in a self-perpetuating sense (a sort of Romantic sense). Such a poem survives the present. Mounts time and rides it into everlasting. Something like that. Something far too laden with metaphysical propositions beyond the scope or intent of this preface.

I don't presume to be achieving anything particularly momentous here. I simply became intrigued by the concept of embedding this object, my small poem, into this time-stamped medium, as an exercise in interaction--that is, an attempt to utilize simultaneity as a means to fully engage the art with its inspiration. Like the quick consumption of hot-out-of-the-oven-bread born of an out-of-the-blue craving. Or something like that. Something to do with immediacy and the life of a poem.

Fenix 2

Descent begins. Slow troll of cable, taut

Along the pulley. The indelible

Unspooling spectacle, invincible

Time counterwise on whitewash spokes and caught

Off guard. Now darkness. Stone against machine.

The mineral moisture, the tang-pricked tears.

His own hot breath—the vapor versus gears

Above, the only vital sign between

The separated lives, the low and high.

The second-hours, the minute-days—how long

Must months seem? Cannot rub the itching eye.

May never see the stars again. Or friends.

Imagine ocean shores. Listen . . . a song—

The hope of half-naked survivors ascends.

[since originally posting this, two things of note: 25 miners are presently out and I changed the "spokes" from "yellow" to "whitewash" having misremembered the color of the pulley-wheel. The frame is yellow.]