Today, my Manna told me stories of the stars. How we, at the Hub, sent our Envoys far far afield, long ago in the Folding Times. How one of them came to a world of blue and green and white. Many lived there, but still there was much room, and bounty for all. Fleeces of white beauty floated in their skies. There were depths of flowing waters, yes! If you can believe. Creatures many and varied. Years divided by the weathers, and blessed by a life-giving sun. The one who stopped there saw these things. I said to my Manna “Why treat me as a child? These are fairytales to make us think there is a Heaven, no?” My Manna smiles and hugs me, tousles my hair. After all, I will turn 1,562 tomorrow.
Monthly Archives: July 2018
Blackstars
Through a half inch chink in my prison of warm rubble, I stare. Gluttonous for the light. I screamed, at first. Now, breath is shallow and rationed. In thirty minutes, I will manage a gooselike honk. I am held motionless and squeezed in painful pincers of crazy two-by-fours, in steel and glass. I squat. I smell of myself. Never been so familiar with my own kneecaps. One arm, my best one, captive by a deadly weight. The clockwork beams coming through my spyhole show me flesh, so purple. I thirst. Three nights I count, and I am fading. These nights have been clear, and I see a star selection. For a while, the burning smell permeated all. Now, it is my own effluent and decay. I babble to myself ….the sad joke is on you now, brother. You proud atheist. If there was a Pride Parade for such, you would have been the flag bearer. You feel like praying now, don’t you? But you don’t know to whom.
All of this day, this bright dreamlike day, I see stars too. They are before me, black spiders pulsing. Please.
Open to the World
Gael, over at https://muellermusings.com/ has given us all the poetry that is needed in describing a visit to Antarctica.
There is no edge, no door, no wall. It is open. It is the end of the world. The filmy horizon is the only link to other continents. You are free to leave.
The entrance, however, is anything but open. Just getting to the entrance requires a bit of stamina and a lot of patience. You need to know the rules.
Rule#1. This is NOT your home.
Antarctica is home to whales, seals, penguins, birds, ice, snow and rock. It is inhospitable. The weather, at its best, can kill a human. This rule is not open to debate.
Rule#2. Be prepared.
Crossing the Drake Passage is an E-ticket. Our crossing was rather uneventful but seasickness was rampant. It is exhilarating and frightful. It is a major adrenaline rush. Let it happen. Know it is happening. Soak up the exterior feelings. Those are the ones you will remember.
And…
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Crazy crazy
I was combing the cat’s hair
he smiled
but the hair began to come off in clumps
soon all there was was skin
and his eye fell out
I had a lemonade stand
on a deserted dusty desert road
a camel rider came by
dismounted and gave me a cactus
I gave him lemonade
and the camel too
once I had the cactus more customers came
but they all brought cactus
at night, I was driving a bumper car
in a closed courtyard
buildings all ’round
my electric pole was connected
to the thunderclouds
I couldn’t get out
so I waited for the lightning
in a waiting room
for military service
we were all shaved
the guy next to me
had very bad jitters
and I had sudden pain in the groin
he pulled out a syringe
looked me in the eye
I nodded yes
and then there was a bad smell
a thing with insect eyes
stood at a lectern
while I was chained to the tree in front of him
the eyes were judging
as it looked at its book then back to me
I hoped for its disapproval
’cause I did not want to go where it was going
under the sea I moved, with gills
fat smiling lips
and lidless eyes
I thought myself King of the coral reef
until a fella with eight arms
begged to differ.
Haraview Burgers
Going on 50 years ago, I first began driving highway 11 north into Ontario’s Muskoka country. I and a group of friends were weekend campers in a park north of Severn Bridge. Just south of our campground, a burger place had opened. I never did stop there because it was so close to our destination and because of the sometimes difficult task of getting back onto the highway again. Haraview Burgers it was called, and I do remember a small sign in their parking lot that said something like “Best burgers around. Recommended by Kingsmill of the Toronto Star”.
In all of those camping trips, and the subsequent 40 years of driving past it on the way to North Bay with my wife, I noticed a few things: It seemed to have been operational for only a short time, maybe a year or two. After that, there was a CLOSED sign on the door. At first I thought that they were only going to open in the summer months, but that never happened.
Curiously, the place seems to have been reasonably well maintained over the years. The signs are still up, but I have seen no evidence of occupancy. The single exception to this is a curl of smoke I saw coming from its chimney one winter day. The photos I have presented here were taken about two weeks ago. I actually stopped there to take a look around. No one was about, and I did not knock on their door. I have never been able to glean any information about the place, even from the great God of Google, or from social media.
It now has a fresh paint job, but still has the persona of a burger place. I really do wonder how many people have actually pulled into that driveway in fifty years. My imagination says that perhaps an old hermit lives there who gets amusement out of peering through his curtains at the disappointed tourists that come and go from his property. Or, it could be a front for some kind of nefarious business, haha.
Next trip, I may just summon the nerve to investigate a little further. I will keep you posted.
Hooligan Heaven
June bug down your jersey
(Never jumped so high)
A one-eyed cat
A broken bat
A stolen piece of pie
A snake it was, a garter
That made you run so fast
You tortured things
You pulled off wings
Your parents were aghast
A paper cup of doggie-doo
You put on someone’s porch
Soaked in gas
(You silly ass)
And lit it like a torch.
When they rushed to stamp it out
You hid behind a tree
Then watched them curse and jump about.
You giggled with such glee.
One time, your little brother
(An accomplice, without fail)
Cooked a rat
Then grabbed a cat
And swung it by its tail
The kitty cat survived this test
And landed on its feet.
Your brother, under house arrest,
Still thought ’twas “pretty neat”.
Incorrigible hooligans
You broke your mommy’s glasses.
When Dad found out
He gave a shout
And tanned your little asses.
Small things amuse small minds
The funny fridge made too much ice.
Overflowed all inside.
I dumped the cubes into the sink, filled it up.
Hosed the hot water and watched them melt.
A studied simple pleasure.
A novice at laundry, instructed by Wife.
You do this and this, don’t forget the lint.
Slide out the screen, wet the fingertips.
So smoothly and cleanly does it bunch into your hand.
Looking like grey candy floss.
Soon, I’ll have enough for a sweater.
Pleasing memory. Dad got me a gyroscope.
The small kind that fits within your hand.
Wind a string around the axle, pull hard.
It will balance on a piece of thread.
Simple wonder and amazement.
Worked in a cigarette factory.
You lifted as many packs as possible, at once.
Stacked them on a cart as they came down the belt.
We had competitions.
You succeeded, or they were on the floor,
Shutting down the line.
We laughed. I loved it.
Now, I sit at home.
Combing the cats, one by one.
They see me sit, they form a line.
Hogging the time, they are in nirvana.
I am amazed at the hair coming off.
It clogs and accumulates upon the comb.
With each repetition, there is more.
Why are they not bald, like me?
They purr, and they lick.
Therapy for me.
A free and easy exchange of dopamine,
For both sides.
Soon, I will have enough for a sweater.
The LSD cats
I would like to acknowledge a blogger over at https://smsaves.wordpress.com/ for pointing out some inaccuracies in the original draft of this story. I remember seeing these cat portraits many years ago and, at that time, I had the perception that they were done under the influence of LSD. They have indeed been represented as such in a number of different accounts.
The true story is of a man named Louis Wain who was a commercial illustrator in England. He was born in 1860, and gained popularity mainly through the many and varied portraits of cats that he did. Later in life, he developed a mental illness, and was thought to be schizophrenic. As he continued pursuing his art, his paintings became progressively more bizarre and complex. For reasons I cannot pin down, the gradual metamorphosis of these paintings began to disturb me. In my mind, they represented a descent into insanity.
Now, I am not so sure.
Was this man simply trying to render the pure spirit, essence, and wholeness of What was before him, seen through an altered consciousness?
I think on this quite a bit now because, as i age, my own consciousness is changing. Dreams are more strange, and so is waking life. Perceived reality is at times different, as if I am existing one or two dimensions removed. Certain things fade while others come to the fore, as if through a kind of winnowing. I feel I am being shown things.
Others find it harder to relate to me, and I to them. Just so you know, I have had my head examined, both physically and metaphorically, and they have found nothing. And yes, at times, I have seen a therapist.
If this the beginnings of senility, then it holds a certain clarity of mind on things that were once thought to be unimportant or unfathomable, and a letting go of things not sanguine to the new Now.
You may put this down to the midnight musings of an aging man. One who is trying to do his own paintings of a certain landscape, and one who has felt he is on a pathway, at the end of which lies something we all yearn to see.
A Poet Who Died In The Gutter
Give a listen to this cautionary tale from Frank Solanki, who writes at
https://franksolanki.com
I’m a son who betrayed his father for a piece of land
I’m a brother who cheated his siblings with a rogue hand
I’m a friend to all those men who are useful and rich
While the real friendships I had lie in a lonely ditch
I’m a husband who was never there to wipe her tears
I’m a father who abandoned his daughter for several years
Finally, I’m all alone with the open skies and the birds who flutter
I’m a poet, hear my final song, who died in the gutter
Barricades
I dreamt this morn’ of fences
They’d been put up while I slept
But the fog obscured my senses
And I stumbled ’til I wept
The urge was strong for going on
So I got up and I leapt
O’er barb-ed wire, until the dawn
Its promises had kept
The fog had burnt away from there
The barricades were clear
The wind was passing through my hair
And freedom was so near
“Awake me not”, I prayed to One.
(The Spirit in me now)
“I’m almost there, I’m nearly done”
Then lost the will, somehow.
This thing within my soul has made
The devil grin with glee
He’s scripted well this whole charade
To gloat his victory
Awakened was a new resolve
That I’d not lose the fight
The clock, its circle would revolve
And I’d join the dream next night
Aremyfeetofftheground 