Friday, September 30, 2011

Nymphomagic Electroshock

The ice cracks and weeps
black running veins in the road
and it’s warmer, sure,
but this is the worst
time in Alaska
because

the melt-off will take
weeks, maybe
until the end of
May to clear out
from the yard and
meanwhile

October’s dogshit emerges
from the gray stink of
April meltwater and damned
if it isn’t just dirty-ugly, the
dirty ice, dirty snow
and what grass that
shows is as

brown as the
dogshit not one of these
stupid moose-humpers feels
obliged to pick up
when they walk their
dogs

and it was at this time of
year called “Breakup” (no shit) that
I was feeling every second of my
41 years walking out to
get the mail and

I looked
down
the street and
there was this
blonde child
of about
18 or so

her blonde hair
flowing over
the collar of her
puffy blue jacket like
molten life everlasting

when saw me 

seeing her she
waved and
smiled so large
her teeth 
smiled with her

and
most unnerving
of all was
the creeping
feeling

she meant it.


Throughout the 
long breakup season
I treasured her
starshine slap
letting it

sustain me though a
fitful drowse of summer
and the sad breakaway from
Alaska that happened that

Fall, when I drove
my family across Alaska
into Canada, through forest
and city and canyon and

settled for a while across
the sound from Seattle, among
some of the most hideous and
warped humanoids I ever

saw in a climate that
was too bleak to be
believed.

It was two months longer
than the longest year before the
Navy ordered us cross-
country to Virginia.

It was in Sioux Falls, South
Dakota, a frozen gray fogbound
sinus of a morning after a day of
winding around the Black Hills and

Mount Rushmore and a sunset chase on
the prairie with my wife and children by
the rest stop before the long straight
deadly dull night drive into a
cigarette-stenched hotel room

We were so glad to be out
of our smelly hotel room for a
free waffle breakfast even though
it looked as if we’d have to fit

ourselves in among a girl’s
high school basketball team on
their way to play a game in
Nebraska

a long way south but
that’s what they do here.

No, this wasn’t at all like
the last time, this time the
smile-blast was buckshot with
meaning as I

motioned her to
go on ahead of me to
the waffle iron and
up went the corners

of an otherwise
undistinguished mouth
and I stood 
caught

dazzled, as she
told me without
speaking “It’s all
right, Daddy, I’m still
waking up but for
this I love you so
very much and
so I grant you
this

“while denying the
vampiric old
slug within you
which would like 
nothing more than 
to rub its soft naked 
decay against my taut 
springtime warmth for 
the sake of affirming 
its value as something
which somehow hasn’t 
died yet, instead

“I affirm and
celebrate the
innocence you so
mistakenly mourn for
gone in everyone, 
especially older teenage 
girls like me and even
(believe it!) yourself.”

and with the
revealing light of
her smile, a wild
fresh wind
blowing, as
the Great
Bukowski
so aptly put it,
breathing life
into so many things
I didn’t know
still breathed
though now I

wonder, did I
have to go all
the way to Alaska and
South Dakota to
experience this or was
it just a matter of
being such a
cranky old Daddy in
form, appearance and
(sometimes) function that
these rare Girls
couldn’t help but
respond?

I never knew such
guileless and sweet-for
sweet’s sake Girls growing
up in South Carolina, they

were as much out for
something as I was,
circling predators competing
for the biggest chunks of meat
from one another

and I presumed that
was the way it was
everywhere

from Mobile to
New York City I saw
nothing so much as
to suggest an
alternative

so I count myself
lucky for being
where I was and
for what I have
beheld

even if I sometimes 

think that the good 
things that keep you 
going are sometimes 
the worst

enabling more
useless struggle against
a decidedly unpleasant
inevitable, still

years after that
first smile among the
rotting ice and  
thawing turds and

thousands of
miles removed from
the basketball
player standing

out amongst her
blandly chattering
teammates with a
singular flex of
Olympian
heart

I still get a
lift from these
visions and (oh
hell yes) I

live for the
possibility
of one
more

maybe from the
pretty young
nurse as I lie
abed

right before
the final
lights
out

I could die
richer than
God.

###

from Nymphomagic Electroshock
& Other Middle-Aged Complaints
 (2011, 2016)

Thursday, September 29, 2011

Oh Well, Whatever, Nine-Eleven Nevermind

I can’t help noticing a connection between the 20th anniversary of the release of Nirvana’s Nevermind on 24 September 1991 and the 10th anniversary of the cleverly named and even more ruthlessly marketed Nine-Eleven. Namely that there’s a deep, shame-faced embarrassment about these anniversaries because they...well, look, these are not happy thoughts. Worse, there’s nothing you or I can do about it except take note and maybe get a grip on what’s really got us down these days. 

Monday, September 05, 2011

The Toughest Writers Against the Toughest Holiday

There are things even the bravest and best among us will not face. 


I don’t care how tough you are.

It’s big enough to hurt you.

He had a soft spot for cats, so there’s that.
Consider Charles Bukowski. The last of the Great American poets along the lines, if not the precise subject matter, of Robinson Jeffers and James Dickey, Bukowski is probably best known today for writing the loosely autobiographical 1987 movie Barfly. Among his vast body of work—thousands of pages of poems, stories and essays—Bukowski wrote about his Depression-era childhood and his abusive father. He wrote about discovering alcohol and the city library as avenues of physical and psychic escape. By way of describing the complete experience of Life As It Is Lived, Bukowski made passing mentions of his bowel movements and how he would invariably vomit before reading his poetry before audiences.

The one subject he avoided was Christmas.

Bukowski recalled his father beating him with a razor strop in the bathroom doorway. He spoke of being chased over fences by bullies. He wrote of the rains that kept everyone indoors for days at a time in the spring.

Never once does Bukowski recall a boy’s happy anticipation built from Thanksgiving until Christmas Eve.

Amid Bukowski’s many thousands of pages you will find one of two passing complaints about the “forced jollity” of Christmas. Bukowski devoted all of one poem to an adult memory of writing with the radio on during Christmas Eve, the sound of an ambulance signifying how life’s usual tragedies didn’t stop for O Holy Night. There are a couple of other adult memories that show up in his novel Women.

Growing up poor and abused, this is just another party you
weren’t invited to.
Yet for all of Bukowski’s memories of childhood—from appetite-killing family dinners to his father’s gratuitous alpha-dog violence against him and his mother, from having the severe acne on his teenage face drilled to the poverty he saw warping the families of other children he knew in 1930s Los Angeles—never once does Bukowski recall opening presents on Christmas morning. As unflinching as Bukowski was in describing the most hateful and cringe-inducing scenes he’d endured throughout his life, he wasn’t going anywhere near those memories.

No Red Ryder BB guns for Charles Bukowski.

For that matter, no Christmas sweaters for Hemingway. His mother was stone crazy and one can imagine what A Very Hemingway Christmas with her was like. Imagine is all you can do, because among Hemingway’s thousands of pages, encompassing locales from Spain to Africa, from Italy to Cuba, I cannot recall once reading a description of a Hemingway character participating in a Christmas scene.

There are more Great American Cat People Writers than there
are those who spare any space at all for Christmas.
Of course, he might just have found the whole thing beneath him. Unmanly, even, the domain of children not old enough to drink liquor for breakfast and fish for trout. Certainly not for men who speak abruptly with their women and think often about the war.

I’m only speculating, of course. Honestly, it’s not like I expect everyone to burst out singing “Joy to the World” or anything like that.

My contention is that Christmas season involves one full month, maybe more, depending upon how Thanksgiving lines up in November. It is the major touchstone for the entire year, the penultimate celebration before New Year’s Eve and the start of New Things. You can’t sleep through it and pretend it isn’t happening. Christmas commands everyone’s attention—except America’s best writers. Even the British seemed to give up on it after Dylan Thomas’s “A Child’s Christmas in Wales.”

Of course, there are the complainers. They can be fun to read, and why not? The best of them recognize the same things we do: the syrupy-sticky-awful music running ad nauseam in the stores immediately after Halloween, the crass commercialism, etc.

There’s a lot to hate about Christmas the way it is prosecuted in these United States. The shameless buy-something-because-fourth-quarter-earnings-drive-the-economy message we get from our “news” media, for one. I’m not arguing any of that.

In regards to Bukowski and others whose childhoods are something best put behind them, I also understand how Christmas is ruined for some people. I’m just saying there’s no reason to throw Christmas out with the filthy bathwater of our pasts.

I say these things as someone who has had Christmas ruined for him at age seventeen, who wasted the seasons throughout his 20s with nothing more than a bottle of gin and a bud of weed to get him through, I can bear witness: Christmas cleans up real nice once you decide you’re tired of getting beaten up by it.

This is not surrender. This is you declaring a different level of engagement. One that requires another kind of fight from you.

There is no better answer for a bad childhood, or against the hateful sham our Mammon-worshipping culture has made of the season than to create a Christmas that is good and true. A Christmas that reflects who we are and what we aspire to do. Or should aspire to do, assuming aspiration itself isn’t as dead for you as Christmas.

If it is, that’s okay. It’s all part of the package. A gift bigger than any box, yet accessible to all who are open to receive it.
Build your own Christmas. Let the right ghosts in.

Monday, August 22, 2011

BOOKS


The Post-Apocalypse as Process

EARTH ABIDES by George R. Stewart
Paperback, 368 pp. With an Introduction by Connie Willis,
Del Rey 2006. (Originally published 1949)




Cover of original Random House 1949 edition.
Love, love, love that old pulp paperback cover art
even if it doesn't match up with the text inside,
which it most certainly doesn't here.



I've been a fan of post-apocalypse fiction since childhood so it surprised me to discover this 1949 novel at this late date. Given its age I note that many have dared call it "classic," though that tends to bring me back to the question as to why I hadn't heard of the book until now.  

Granted, George R. Stewart's Earth Abides isn't perfect, and the negative reviews on Amazon raise strong points I’ll need to address as I go along. For now I wish to invite you, Dear Reader, to bask in the amazing outside-the-box thinking that produces an End of the World scenario so unlike the one expected by a reading public barely four years removed from the radioactive fires of Hiroshima and Nagasaki. What takes down humanity is neither fire nor ice, but disease.

Tuesday, April 12, 2011

Unstuck in Time with One Fluffy Freak and a Handsome Couple of Freak Chasers

Movies I Saw Over the Weekend, 8-9 April 2011


I didn’t know we had nudie channels in our satellite TV package but there she was in the pool, big brown nipples like cartoon eyes to the sky, helped along on her backstroke by a guy with his head between her legs. I don’t know why but the bald spot on the guy’s head really upped the sleaze factor.

It turns out this scene is playing on a TV in a limousine, where a young Kevin Spacey is attempting to seduce a plain, square-jawed thing with big, fluffy, wet-finger-in-the-socket hair. Appalled, the girl demands to be let out of the car. Naturally, it’s raining, and naturally her humiliation is exacerbated by another car splashing a puddle behind her on the other side of the median. Somehow she makes it to her shitty cubicle-farm gig (are there any good ones?) where her asshole boss (is there any other kind?) snarls, “You’re late.”

Okay, I get it! It’s Working Girl. I haven’t seen Melanie Griffith in ages and I can’t say I’ve missed her. The hair blown up and away from her face in this film accentuates her masculine-shaped head. Then there’s that horrifying scene in which Griffith is dressing for some function in front of chick pal Joan Cusack. Griffith sports a black bra and a network of garters which emphasize what a vast and weirdly oblong butt she has to match her merely large and oblong head.

The limo porn scene was playing as I walked into the bedroom where my wife was watching this. We traded banter over the hideous Big ‘80s Hair on the ladies, and that’s all there is to really talk about except there’s a respectable gaggle of name (or soon to become name) actors in this movie, and that there’s an unsettling amount of T & A for a movie that’s ultimately about working-class female empowerment.

It’s not even good T & A, either. As part of the Initial Nigh-Catastrophic Put-Down necessary to such Rise of the Underdog stories Griffith walks in on her boyfriend (hey, Alec Baldwin! so young, so thin!) with some skinny thing riding on top of him. The breasts on this poor creature looked like the flaps of skin left behind after a drastic weight loss. The effect was more “eew” than “ooh” when they jiggled. Then again, at least she had a normal-shaped head.

I walked out, then for some reason came back just in time for the Horror of the Garters scene. I left again and therefore missed Sigourney Weaver playing Mean Old Woman to Melanie Griffith’s Good-Hearted Girl Just Trying to Get Ahead. I did note when I walked back in for the final scene that Griffith is wearing a much more flattering hairstyle. Apparently a large part of the moral of the story is, if you want to be taken seriously as an adult, don’t dress and style your hair like some silly peasant dance-club tramp circa 1988. Who knew?

We do love our moral-to-the-story, even from a director who never misses an opportunity to show some skin. What I wonder is, did Mike Nichols put all that nudity in at the behest of producers who figured all the bare tits and ass would gratify the poor suffering boys taking their dates to this ostensible chick flick, or did he just get off on ordering young actresses to remove their clothes?

The correct answer is, of course, who gives a fuck? The good news is you can see butt-nekkid wimmin on Fox Movie Channel. The bad news is you had to watch this tawdry ‘80s relic to see any last Saturday night.


*  *  *

On BBC America Sunday night I fast-forwarded ten years to a decade I actually miss. There were a couple of grins and groans at the outdated tech — the cell phone with the monochrome screen, the big fat CRT monitor on the desk — but I’ll take the ‘90s over the ‘80s any time, and not just because the technology and fashion are closer to what I’m used to now. The 90s were a happier, greatly less ridiculous time, especially once we got past the deep recession that haunted the first couple of years.

Therefore I found nothing so ironic as The X Files: Fight the Future, a movie about global paranoia in an age when there was absolutely nothing to be paranoid about. It was all charming make-believe back then, and lots of fun, besides.

Oh, the goosebumps when I heard Mark Snow’s synthesized whistling-past-the-graveyard theme! It’s all of four notes, but you know what’s coming. That is, you’d know if you’d watched The X Files from September 1993 until May 1998, when it was the best damn show on television. 

Unfortunately, if you hadn’t seen the show you’d have a hard time following the movie. You’d find yourself wondering why it’s so significant that a certain mismatched trio is the first thing the hero sees when he wakes up in the hospital after being shot. You wouldn’t know that the wrinkly-faced guy with the cigarette is Cancer Man, though you might guess he’s something of a nemesis. Hell, even I’d forgotten the name of the group of powerful elites who had negotiated with the aliens to hand over Earth’s human population as slaves. It’s been that long, and the point is made: the movie is too dependent on episodes of the old TV series to stand by itself.

As someone I knew at the time said, the show’s creators should have just let everything be after the movie. He was right. Lead actor David Duchovny turned diva and demanded that the TV show’s shooting location move from Vancouver to Los Angeles, starting with the sixth season. Sunny L.A. canceled the show’s spooky vibe Vancouver’s rain and gloom had so effortlessly provided. Worse, the show’s writers were either changed out, or had forgotten how to write.

While the first five years of The X Files had many notable episodes, I couldn’t describe one show of the sixth season to you. By season seven Duchovny had himself written out of the show by way of an alien abductions, as Gillian Anderson had done during her pregnancy a few years earlier. From that point on The X Files went from unmemorable to unwatchable, so I didn’t. The end came three seasons too late in 2001 with a busy, not-sure-what-happened-here finale that I did watch, but couldn’t say much about, except it was made extra-special clear that Cancer Man got killed.

Fight the Future (which doesn’t show in the opening credits, by the way, just The X Files) was everything X Files was at its peak. It was great when I saw it during the summer of 1998, and though I’d forgotten bits of the mythology, it still looked pretty good when I saw it Sunday. Gillian Anderson sure as hell looked good, anyway, and I still can’t get over how X Files’ creator Chris Carter had to fight for Anderson’s casting as Scully, as Fox studio execs thought her not pretty enough for a television lead actress.


One of these has top billing in a “sexy comedy” with Sigourney Weaver and Harrison Ford. 
The other isn’t pretty enough to play the lead in a TV show. I need a drink.

Like Griffith, you don’t see Gillian Anderson anymore. In a neat switch, it was Anderson who had to be talked away from her London home to do the second X Files movie, 2008’s I Want to Believe, while Duchovny is already begging to do a third movie. Every movie Duchovny was in following the first X Files movie bombed, and, sadly, the second X Files movie was no exception. The hell of it is, I Want to Believe wasn’t bad. If anything was to blame, it was the last three seasons of X Files that happened after Fight the Future. People forgot who Special Agents Mulder and Scully were, and why they cared.

I remember, though. Even now the melancholy of good times gone forever still lingers. One would like to think our fictional friends are still out there, still mixing in matters ectoplasmic and extraterrestrial, but it’s impossible to suspend disbelief. The horror and paranoia are just too goddamned real these days.

###

Wednesday, April 06, 2011

Deep in the Darkness That Is the Early 21st Century -- an Anthem!

I’d forgotten how much heart and courage a great song can provide in times of dark passage. Great songs have been hard to come by since Clear Channel and its corporate compatriots filled the airwaves with insipid girly pop and growly-voiced crap from soulless, whiny shits out of McMansionland. “Fader” by the Temper Trap actually makes me glad to be alive and in the fight. I honestly can’t remember the last time a song made me feel this way.

I wish the rest of their music was half as good. They’re a one-hit wonder, but—what a one!

Tuesday, March 22, 2011

had my organization not paid for me to be here I wouldn't have even considered


a life lived
city to
city in
highrise 
hotel rooms &
working
from

“an insanely comfortable
Heavenly Bed™”
king-sized
4 big fluffy
pillows a poofy
white comforter &
I don’t
even have to
make it
up

the soap
smelling so
nice & the
air conditioning
turned way
down &
me fresh-

showered &
swaddled
in a white
velour
bathrobe my
feet cozy
beneath the
comforter

half-
watching the
enormous flat-
screen with
stereo sound that
sounds like it’s
coming from
somewhere
else entirely
while

the coffee’s
brewing (they’re
charging me two
bucks for this
but it’s a
deal compared to
everything else
in the Refreshment
Bar below the
TV)

I’d like just
enough money
to live like
this with
friendly goons
in clean beige
suits using
walkie-talkies
& hard brown muscle
to keep the
riff-raff
from my
presence

the lovely bird-
like blondes
fresh-squeezed into
black tube
dresses serving
me breakfast
among the
happy babble of
fountains
downstairs

Just give me
enough
to live like
this Let me
live like
this Oh
please

no one
complaining
or asking
me anything
wanting
nothing
but my
Signature
(right here,
Sir) &
I’ll

write novels &
poetry & essays &
whatnot to
break your
mother-
lovin’
heart.

###

from Nymphomagic Electroshock
& Other Middle-Aged Complaints
 (2011, 2016)