Confession Tuesday - First Class Fantasy

Another week already?  How does that happen?  I'm off to the confessional, come along.

Dear Reader:

It's been two surreal weeks since my mother passed away, one new released book review, another poetry book ordered, countless poem drafts written, one submission deadline overlooked, a free bottle of Chardonnay and a major pain in the neck since my last confession.

Last week I mentioned how my mother's death was like fake news. Yes, I was there and witnessed the final breaths, but everything since has been surreal. She did not want a funeral, was cremated per her wishes, and so it is like I just walked away from her that evening and that was it. I confess that I remain bothered by the fact that nothing has changed two weeks later. I don't think there has been a real outlet for grief and that seems like it's never going to happen and that feels totally awkward, unnatural, fake. It's like her death is fake news. Unreal.

So, I've got to do better, A submission deadline for some work I've been tinkering with came and went on November 15. I thought I still had plenty of time (which is partly because I still can't believe it is November already) until it hit me today that we've passed that already. The thing that sucks is that this is among my favorite journals and I always try to submit to it each year. Yeah, I don't have to confess that I'm not especially organized at the moment, but I'm definitely trying to get there. I will be making better use of my planner, that's for sure.

It seems the more I write, the fussier I get about my writing. So, I've been writing up a storm and I confess that you could say that I'm not too pleased with the weather.

I got a bottle of 2016 Lamoreaux Landing Chardonnay that one of the bosses brought in the other day. He had been to a wine event and came back with a number of bottles of wine and sent out an email saying they were here for the taking, one per person. When I was able to get away and check it out, there were only two remaining bottles left. One was Chardonnay and the other some red that I would never drink. I confess I am a Chardonnay person so this match was meant to be.  I haven't opened it yet, but I will when I'm relaxing over the holiday. I'll pop the cork, pour a glass, and snack on two Biscoff cookies and pretend I' heading somewhere fun - flying first class.

Evidently, I slept wrong the other night because my neck has been tormenting me daily since. I confess that it cracks and pops so loud it scares me sometimes. That can't be a good thing. I'm just saying.

Until next time, may your week ahead be better than the one that just ended.

*Note - My review of  Thrush by Heather Derr-Smith can be found here.

Eskimo Pie

I want an Eskimo Pie.

I want it cold

and hard as marble.

 

I want to peel the chocolate layer off

in two                 halves.

 

First eat the vanilla inside.

Hold the chocolate clothing;

admire its sheen.

Afterwards consume it-

 

until we are one

and the rush of dopamine flashes

inside my arcade head

sending me round and round

in a ball of worked up heat

wanting more and more.

 

Technorati Tags: poem draft

Pocket Change

Humanity spilled- tossed about,

jingled in the the pockets

like small change.

A bit here and a piece there

the sum of which is whole

but spread about

without custodial care.

The casual acceptance-

disrespected by dispersal

to quail and disintegrate

in the shadows

of rich indifference.

The Rush of Music

Wet fingers
curl under
pounding on the keys
of sticks and leaves-

the medley flows on
and on downstream
settling at last
in the depth of silence.

Day 8 - Untitled draft

Untitled

Uncorked and non-confrontational
An evening slumping gingerly
Into shades of melancholy
Befriends me and embraces
The many reasons lacking interest
In commitment to any plans tonight.

A hum of snow on TV
And nothing else in particular.
The phone may or may not have rang

Earlier. I was settled into the nights dip.
My hand has held the stem of crystal
But nothing else has required my energy.
A sip on occasion. A hint of pear and oak.
Buttery perhaps, if you say so,
I don’t recall—

There is a presence stronger than I—
Inescapable.

Even in a night of solitude
I am not without the presence of old age.
A shadowy figure that is at a distant
But not too much so
And he maintains a horizontal view
Of the future.

Regarding Your Silly Assed Expectations / a draft

Regarding Your Silly Assed Expectations / a draft

I have struggled with a second language
The way you wrestle a carry-on bag,
a laptop, a purse and Victoria Secrets shopping bag
as you depart your flight at the terminal.

My tongue manages to say things—
It’s not dependable. Not the way an open window is.
I’ve thought a lot about it. Perhaps too much
of an intellectual leaning. I’m perplexed
to the point of linier grief.

Passing through customs I suppose I can be insouciant.
It is only after the fact that I wallow in subverted dismemberment.
My head rings with the lyrics “too late baby” and I swallow a lump
hanging beneath my chin.

It is the expectation of everyone that I assimilate. I say, “Fuck that!”
Is it a crime to be only marginal in a second language
where most are only marginal in their first?

In customs I declared a bracelet left to me by my grandmother,
Two hundred twenty-nine Paso, a book of matches
with Hector Barilla on the front, my clothing, toiletries
and a cheap paperback, "Say It In English."

untitled draft

A voyage riddled with holes
Bled upon the waters;
Defused pink liquid—

Briefly marking the position
As time slowly ran though the motions
Of a trip [journey] that died a slow death [listing at sea].

* untitled 1-22-08
**revised 1-23-08

Burrr.....

mood: funky
listening to: nothing

Bitter cold air seems to have taken up residency in the Kansas City area. Even yesterday, with one of the brightest sunshine skies I've seen in a long time, the temperatures were in single digits. Today however, the sky is cloudy. The snow has a crusty sound to it when you walk on it.

This caught my eye today - Maya Angelou's poem in praise of Hillary. Funny how many articles I read out of the Guardian. The British media do a very respectable job of covering a variety of things outside of Britain, not the least of which are the arts and American Politics.

It seems totally inconceivable to me that Suzanne Pleshette was 70. Ah, but perhaps I am in denial of my own age. I was very fond of her - enjoying everything I think I ever saw of her acting. Admittedly I did not see her in any Hitchcock movies. I know she did at least one of them. An any rate, I was saddened to hear of her death. God, the Newheart show was an evening staple for me for many years.

Anyone else amused by the speech last night by Fred Thompson as he was going down the tubes in the GOP primary in South Carolina? I mean it was early in the night and I guess the old man had to get some rest from all his walking for president, so he cut out early.

Turned out a good first draft today of a poem. I'm wanting to work on it some more but trying to resist till at least tomorrow to see what kind of perspective I have after sleeping on it.

Inevitable (draft)

Inevitable (draft)

The prodigal son is just one of many
though he knows expectations run high.
There is always this red velvet carpet
that divides his thought process.

The future is some worm baited taunt,
and awkward as being caught with a cousin
at the Perkins family reunion.
It takes the swim of salmon upstream

to break a biblical cycle
that darkens the sky and
chokes off free will.
Times like these you swear
You’re an orphan.

At the botton of a fishing hole - on a chain and cender block

Last night, our local poetry society chapter celebrated Missouri's rich poetic heritage by reading from poets with Missouri connections, both living and deceased.

Then, later I put a poem in its second draft out of misery. I may steal a line from it for something else, but otherwise it is in the bottom of some Missouri fishing hole.

draft [Desolate Brand Name]

Desolate Brand Name

A deserted brand rested on the counter.
Alone, it could not move about.
There was no heart-to-heart, no clatter
Not even gossip to weight it down with guilt.

The brand became generic
Of its own accord.
A brand name, insignificant
With no one to call out to it.

The night grew into the severest ebony
It had ever know—
Failing to see beyond the room,
Beyond any hope—
It sought its own demise,
But remained helpless on the counter.

Weekend Recap...

I was excited to learn that Kim Addonizio will be coming to town in November for a reading. How cool is that?!

Meanwhile, I've been working on drafts of a new poem this weekend.

This, in addition to visiting my mother, taking my wife's computer work station apart and moving it upstairs and reassembling it and running shopping errands.

Earlier this evening I did some reading and editing as well. Oh, I'm also bemoaning to fact that the baseball season is coming to an end. [sigh]

Oh, I tried a blog exercise of randomly clicking on one of the blogs in my sidebar, then doing the same on that blog, and on and on till I went six deep. Sort of a six degrees of separation. Kind of interesting to see where it leads.

Child Soldiers [draft)

A slumping night
Wept for those pressed into duty battle
By grown men with archaic presence of mind
To plunder the natural order- peace-

It is all remedial arithmetic.
More soldiers equals more tokens in their hands.
More chips they can gamble away
With low maintenance child warriors.

No enlistment paperwork or die-cast metal tags
To string around their necks.
No toe tags for the dead.

No one knows where they come from
Or cares where they go;
No duty to notify families or messy emotions.
Just a simple war-
With child labor.

The Breakdown ofThinking (Draft)

The Breakdown of Thinking (draft)

A once pristine constellation of small gauge wired pathways,
Moved data about with intrepid speed.

This territory later would clog down and misplace
Important bits of knowledge lost in the cobwebs that stretched
Tilted in corners of the shell of an aging command central.

If older is wiser, it is also part of a strange pathos;
More is less, expanse is limited, there is always a but—
These come with a price that never seems to be negotiable.

So Many Questions (draft)

Gravity driven cracks of despair
Map the years of his face
And give character
Where otherwise none exists.

Reading him offers more questions than answers—
Like why has he so little to say
Verbal or otherwise?

If time has been kind to him
It would be subjectively debated.
Perhaps he was not meant to live this long—
Or he could be far younger than imaginable.

He seems so alone. Why is he alone? Is he really
Alone— was there ever someone in his life
That smoothed out the cracks
That ask so many questions.

An Oral History Not Withstanding (draft)

Counting stops
Momentarily—

Across the acres of indifference
To a score no one cared to keep

And narration will not reveal
A winner as such
And maybe that an event was
Ever held

Will be in doubt,
As the birth of a sparrow
Claiming nothing to its credit
Passes without notice.

Dream, Dream Go Away....

Thanks Jilly for the link to the gem If only Bush would have read a little poetry first ... ~0~

Worked on rewrites of two drafts this morning. One was a pretty rough draft. The other was in much better form. They both progressed well in my rewrites this morning.

I hate it when I am writing and I am drawn to a word I am particularly fond of, but know in this instance, a better would for the purpose at hand exists.

A few words I am particularly fond of:

• embellish
• portal
• poignant
• endowment
• precipitous
• supercilious
• conciliatory
• bane

*Note: none of these had anything to do with poems I was rewriting. They are just a few works that I am especially fond of.

~0~

Dream: Okay, I had this dream the other night ( I won't go into all the details) and I was in a parking lot at an apartment complex. My wife and I were carrying things in (I think we just moved in) and I was gathering up all these clothes in the back seat... the clean and the dirty together, like I was trying to get them all, or at least as many as I could at once. They kept falling and flopping around as I tried to gather or swoop them up in my arms and I realized there were all these sharp (kitchen type) knives among them.... but I kept right on going.

I'm sure some wise dream interpreter out there is going to tell me what this all means. What I think it means is that sometime in the near future this will find a way into a poem I write.

Reading, Writing and Disc Golf

Sunday I was able to carve out some writing time that was very productive. Worked on some drafts and was happy with what was developing.

Sunday evening I play the disc golf course close to our home. It can be quite rugged in spots as evidenced in the picture here with this post.

It's a 54 par course and I shot a 70 on it in the first time I played it. I was happy with the score given my experience (or lack thereof) and the terrain of the course. From holes 4 through 11 you are playing really rough landscape with lots of trees and few clear shots. My wife and daughter played too. I think everyone had a good time. We're going to check out some of the other local courses.

Late last night a read a few Plath poems. I guess I should say that I reread them. They were not new to me. I like to read stuff over every so often because I believe no poetry is static. A year sometimes even a couple of months ca make a big difference in how one comes to view a poem or any other artwork for that matter. I was reading most stuff that Sylvia wrote in the 1957 - 58 years. Certainly pre-Ariel material.

Our Ancestor's Curse [draft]

Our ancestry placed us in chains
Shackling our imagination to a sinister cellar
Amid the pickling jars and moonshine
Stashed for future need

It is no wonder that our thoughts are always turned inward
And we do not see well beyond the darkness of our desperation
Souls entombed in black and surrounded by things preserved

They are dead to the present
But it is believed their usefulness
Is sometime in the distant future

What are we here for anyway—
We cannot possibly see beyond our means
Past the dead cucumbers of harvest
So many summers ago

Minimalist

Overwhelming Loss

Torn from a page of grief
Overcome with tears
Words like sponges soaked
Into the margins of a life
Shackled to a story
Whose end is overlapped
With alternating
Twisted gray jabs
And flattened blunt trauma
To a child like psyche