a new post even

wowzers Batman, a new post even! well, to be honest, still in a zombie fog after a long night shift, with overtime. was scheduled for more of the same after this coming week, but asked for a vacation (still to be approved). So hopefully i'll get some time to recover and add a few more posts, to reach that 100th post status soon.

Half Tones To Jubilee - accepted this poem in Dec. 1995. i assume it was printed, but can't recall for certain.



THE SINS OF AN ENTIRE GENERATION

we washed the sins of an entire generation from our souls in the dark california fog
upon the black rocks of the little sur we memorized the flight patterns of the speckled gull
it was a time for living
we were believers in dreams

we were hawks waiting for wings as we waltzed down dusty salinas valley lettuce fields
in the ever shadows of the sugar refinery we hunted for secrets that had no formula
it was a time for living
we were inventors of dreams

another gap

todays poem is from September 92. sort of on subject for the local weather lately.

not much - other than loads of overtime - going on. it'll be a bit before i get a day (or night) off at the papermill. most likely 6 days or so. thus, another gap in the posts will occur.





WAITING FOR A RETURN PHONE CALL BJS

1 i wait. mist gathers in dark valleys, as if smoke from the pyres of dreams unobtained.
2 i wait. rain whispers poetry in a language i cannot translate. i wash my face in the thick water. no magic exude.
3 i wait. somewhere you walk beneath rainbows. dance under warm skies as if an elfin dream.
4 i wait. decades amass. continents are born & die. we converse in languages that have no syllables.

post before a silence

on my one day off here, between a run of overtime, so i don't expect to be able to update again for about a week ... as i have at least 6 days awaiting me at ye olde papermill, those wonderful 12 hour shifts we have all come to love and adore... well, some people do.

today i offer more 92-95 stuff. one of my prolific periods ...



I CONVERSED WITH THE SHADOW

1
i conversed with the shadow
until it lost substance
under a trapezoid light

rats ran incognito
down the alley
to trash can cathedrals

hobo with an umbrella
nursing the nectar of inspiration
sang songs of a more beautiful america

2
upon the highway no longer travelled vagrants wait for the messengers of god
bare their souls to the angry winds of disenchantment
confess sacred sins to the woolly mullein

upon the highway no longer travelled miracles wait to be translated
the wind exhales songs i have wept in secrecy
only the dead & dying seem unwilling to hear

3
i carry loose change for hookers
as if i were judas
the morning after

i wear the rags of damnation
into the temples
of gods i have forsaken

& i offer the blood
of dreams that have failed
for an america that never existed

a montage type poem

more 92-95 stuff. a montage poem, sorta in a semi-prose mode.

a warmer day today. more like autumn than early winter, which is what yesterday was like.



SEVERAL JOURNEYS TO DIFFERENT CITIES AT VARIOUS TIMES

1
star spangled sunrise
captured a cache of sunlight in her laughter
shuffled marked cards knowing the deck had no nines
- laid the warn cards face down upon a Naugahyde table
turned the ace of hearts from the pile pile as she watched saying :you need the nine of clubs for the ten of diamonds."
- knowing there were no nines
her laughter as a ray of sunlight through windows curtain in black clouds - soggy to the touch

2
no father poet waiting in the rain to escort me to the journeys end
the wind chewed discarded manuscripts
& the soggy skies sucked on the exhaust pipes of giant factories

i stood in the shadows of a garbage bin counting pennies as the priest passed
no souls to this tuesday
he danced across puddles
i thought i could hear laughter dripping from her rosary beads
surely it was a time of miracles but i was distracted by the aroma of hookers behind the bus terminal

3
ate the cardboard pie with a plastic smile
thought of a warped samuel pepys as i attempted notes of significance in a journal that had none
fumbled through greeting post card & bubblegum trading cards in the lobby
read month old magazines with coupons clipped except the Rosicrucian were still looking for a few good men
gave the waitress smelling of southern comfort a dollar tip that was worth a whole dime

4
studied coffee stains in the upholstery
studied the sound of rain on a plastic green patio roof
- goldfinches in the rhododendrons - elegant as carl sandburg

steamed carrots fresh from a square foot garden
wild turkey mash
on a broken coffee table four books of spanish poets murdered in the civil war to free all men from such a simple thing as tyranny

blind lemon jefferson from a scratchy record

studied the liner notes smelling of tobacco certain it was everyones biography
studied the sleeping corner of the sofa with a resolved placidity
- & wondered if the great father poet that not not come to escort me worked within such disadvantages

summer poem on a cold Oct. day

Sherman - what have you done to the Wayback machine? it seems to be stuck on poems from 92-95 .... oh well, we shall explore a bit more, i suspect .... this is a summer poem, for a very chilly Oct. day .. oh well. some of the formatting got lost in "publishing mode". so instead of spaces - i inserted some "-" to mark what was uspposed to be a triple space ... doesn't change the read, just the look.

not much here, just relaxing and waiting for the overtime onslaught to begin.



THE HEAT

Sherman - what have you done to the Wayback machine? it seems to be stuck on 92-95 .... oh well, we shall explore a bit more, i suspect ....

THE HEAT

the heat - upon which sweat dances down chins - demands attention
night whispers of melted margarine & a moon that stares as the one good eye of god - upon the ignoble suffering
three in the a.m. & i piss into a toilet bowl that knows no berryman the porcelain as cool as pineapple in the fridge - but i do not caress it - rather stumble back into a torture rack of a bed - rather wrestle with sleep - it is victorious & slips out an open window - taking with it what was a faint breeze
the heat - upon which curses have no affect - demands attention

a few days off

another from 92-95.

a fews days off before another overtime marathon at the papermill. new (or potential) buyers waltzed through the facility yesterday, in the middle of a major crash ... so we poor and humble workers (and so unimportant we were not told who these people were until they left the facility) were covered in wet stock and gunk, as we tried to unplug the secondary headbox ... oh, such fun is limited to the really special, you know. no word at all as to their impressions or anything. after all, i guess, they are touring the whole Weyco containboard division, so our little piece of the pie may not be all that important enough to impresses (or not).

anyway, hope to get a couple of updates posted before more overtime and night shift arrive ....


SLUDGE IN SEWERS

1 sludge in sewers we once navigated
2 i examine discarded treasures
3 tires missing tread
4 mattress missing merely springs
5 distracted the book of ancient chinese poems goes unclaimed
6 as does the glitter of gems in a cracked mason jar
7 but i hoist the remains of an old baseball glove
imagining it belonged to rogers hornsby in his st. louis prime
8 unable to snag falling dreams i return it to the dark water
9 mosquitos sing the operas of wagner in my left ear
10 rats dance as if fred astaire between broken crates
11 & i photograph the magic of it all
with the liquid films of my heart

a real day off, before overtime strikes again

another poem from 92-95 era.

my only day off .. well, day and a half (after night shift) before hitting another long stretch of overtime at the for-sale and very management silent paper mill. guess starting next week prospective buyers will be circling the facility. The only certainty is things will be certainly different and nothing for-certain if (when) the sale (merger?) happens. No time tables have been announced but for some reason there is a sense of things are starting to happen fast. well, a sense is all at this time.

now on to the poetry ...


I SENT MY SORROW

i sent my sorrow
rain danced off your window sill

it was easy enough to ignore the annoyance

i sent my loneliness
the baying of old dogs at the moon

blurred into a forgetful aura by the magic of neon surrounding

i sent my anguish
thunder rattled your precious teacup collection

but no damage was reported & it was an easy memory to erase

i sent my rejection
tornadoes on the radar screen

nuns count rosary beads in the chapel & no one knows how to control the sources

a zombie poem for the upcoming night shift rotation

a poem from 2:94. the poem is unsolicited, unpublished. it's also sort of a grave-yard theme around here, which starts in another day (or night).

not much going on today. a new pup in our house last week, a 12 week old black-lab-mix (call it a mutt). slowly learning the daily stuff like house-training and all that jazz. a bit tiring on us elders.



I TELLS YOU, I BEEN VISITED

i tells you, i been visited by zombies, that tell no truths.
the gossip of their lies is merely beautiful rhetoric. i is a dying cow
with no religion. priests come with incense eyes
to sing horrid latin cantos.

i yawns in the face of the living. cold visions of stars. the lisp
of the wind. ha! i was not a bleeding adrienne rich
with the whole dying world at my breast, feeling compassion. i was
dirt under skies of rain, mud - cursed & pissed upon.
no jesus in my veins - just diseases i never learns to pronounce
but lives with.

i tells you, the god of death is about as perfect as they come.
zombies take my soul, scribbles cryptic codes, distributes it
among their own. shakes their heads mostly.
O, the message is not worth saving.

aberrant hymn

another poem from 92 - July to be exact, written while working at Springfield Forest Product, possibly the worst place i have ever been employed. it was less than 2 months later, i left to work at Weyco papermill .....



HYMN OF THE ABERRANT

Darkness is a state of mind:
we walk upon the dark side of the moon
listening to the whispers of Alexander Komorov
as if it were the wind through tall timber -
which it isnt

& the belief that pain is a viable guage to life
is a profanity echoed here

heretics -such as i- mumble
gazing into the mysteries of her smile
were dark waters tumble down granite mountains
& the perfect dream is offered in her touch

Darkness is an avenue:
we with limp legs & no headlights
stumbling upon the bones of gods
that have no documentation -
gods none the less

& the concept that pain is a legitimate measure of worth
is a holy decree i try not to believe

dissidents -such as i - weep
gazing into the myseries of her eyes
where dark waters tumble down granite mountains
& the perfect dream is offered in her touch

updates on the round brown world of kraft liner

another poem only published in Post Amerika. small presses deserve any support you can offer.

on a couple of days off here. still trying to learn a few basic differences between Vista and XP, though for the most part, think the new computer is working out OK.

now that the new contract is in effect (and retro-active to last March), the big concern about the mill is the potential (prfe-destined?) change in ownership. 4 possible buyers are out there at the present, and will start to make the rounds of the various mills late this month and early next month (when our little piece of paradise will be evaluated). that has tons of implications, some good - some not so good, some potentially disastrous and some potentially great. As with everything, it waits to be seen. Anyway - so much for updates on the universe.

now, back to the poetry:



FROST ON THE FOG

1
frost on the fog
i face the apparition

my heart is the breeze
broken by the obsidian rock
of that place

where the mountain stumbled
into the aqua-grey of the sea

i face the apparition
of what i was supposed to be
battered & perfect bastard

2
kelp on the black waters
broken boats moored as promises to be kept
broken boats nothing more
than scrap iron to be disassembled

there is no god i tell the mists
other than that which is truth
there is no truth the frozen fog replies
other than that which is holy

mumbling seals in the dark surf
howl with delight at our discourse
they too waiting for godot
even if they did not know

new computer blues - sorta

another poem only published in Post Amerika. again - support those small presses, if you can.

got a new PC last week ... sorta on a whim, running Vista, and let's say the transition has been less than smooth, partly because of a bone-head move on my part (transfering files from "D" drive .... don't do that ... well, the software sorta did it for me, and i didn't pay attention to some details) and some spotty documentation didn't help either... well, got the essentials running finally, and am now using the NEW PC, but still have a lot of programs and files to move in the near future.

anyway, that's the reason for no updates so far on these rare days off .... i have tomorrow off, then back to ye-olde-salt mines, inc.



IN MY SUPERMAN UNDERWEAR

1 in my superman underwear i confront the gods of disorder
2 tell them it is the dawning of the new age of reason
3 they resist & beat me with fists of kryptonite
4 i stumble out of the temple of darkness
5 & search the cupboards for my wheaties
6 certain they will bring back my courage
7 open the frayed box only to find it (as my life) is full of flakes

back into the zombie week

news flash: contract passed with 85% yes-sir votes ... wonder how many actual votes they had. not that it mattered. no idea as of now when it goes into effect, or when we'll get a new contract book. Only took them 5 years last time ....

back on night shift starting tonight .... so no updates for a bit, as i stroll into what is known here as "the zombie week" ...

another from 1992, published in Muse Of Fire in 1997, another small magazine venue. support them small presses folks. they need and deserve it, really.


FIVE DAYS WRITING A LETTER

i spent five days writing a letter

tore my soul into syllables
& offered them as scripture

five days & ten pages
before the fog & ice

shivering - examining the texture
tore my soul into syllables

& placed it all in the fires of refusal

prose poem and contract chatter

another poem only published in 1998 - Post Amerika. a prose poem. it seems i have been sharing poems from the 92-98 time period .... when i first began soliciting poems. it was also one of my most prolific periods, as well as a time when i began to define the type of voice i have used since then...

here's a hint for future tests: support small presses if at all possible.

update: visited with "Bruce" last evening and discussed (among other things) the contract proposal. Since you had to be present and sign in to get a data sheet (and i wasn't there), he let me borrow his to look over. Contract isn't all that exciting, and really not all that different, except for they now have testing for jobs in the contract (though it's been sort of in practice for a while) and start times have changed to an hour earlier, when in practice most people started their shift anyway. A few other changes in insurance and language ... but nothing earth shattering i could see at first glance. 7 year contract with no raises in two of the years (this being one of the years).... and it's just not quite long enough for me to be able to retire under this contract. So i'll have to wait and see what happens after 7 years .... and i see no reason it won't pass, though officially the votes can't be tallied until after tonight.


SONG OF THE PIONEER GHOST

forget that i have stood before the wind. forget that it was my bones that broke the earth for your pretty garden. let the radishes grow for your salads forever. & i will be there, part of the opened earth that you carelessly walk upon.

forget that i have opened doors to the mountains. the rivers will off gold & nickel. forget that my bones were used to harness the troubled waters as you dip your toes & sip the crystal was if it champagne.

forget that i have frozen upon glaciated passes. forget that i have fallen into foaming rivers that gnaw at the very root of mountains. i will be in the warm air of your electrical furnaces. i will be in the laughter of intoxicated company.

forget that i have learned the language of depression, that i have learned the songs of desperation. forget that i have learned the chatter of wildflowers & the song of the eagle, that i have spoken with the gods of the wind & stone. i will be there in your books gathering dust. i will be there in the schools, in the museums. & i will be in the eyes of the children you do not even recognize.

a poem for BJS

another poem only published in a small 'zine - this one 1998 - the 'zine - Post Amerika. the indentations are the result of my inability to format (and space) correctly in this blog ... but you get the idea, i hope. and the mantra is? Oh come on - it's support small presses if you can. (there won't be a test on the subject today, but who knows about tomorrow ...

voting on the new work contract is today and tomorrow .... it'll pass i am certain, as no one is willing to go on strike as in 2001 and suffer the possible consequences, which could be a complete mill closure. understanding my high regard of former union officials (and the union in general) it's a fair gamble i may miss attending informational sessions at the sacred hall. but to be fair, my regard for the management isn't too much higher ....



FOR BJS IN COLORADO

glacier cut valley
osprey on an occluded updraft
the sound of gold in your pocket

you are the laughter
whispered
the laughter i hear
in the aching of bones

the smell of morning glory

& alabaster rivers shouting
down the face of ancient mountains
certain to be worn away

you are the laughter
echoed
the laughter i feel
in the aching of bones

still alive n kickin

today's poem was published in June 1997 - by Studio One, another small press 'zine. again - support those small presses in any way you can. the poem is much older than '97, written in the 80's sometime, but can't recall when anymore.

some updates - just finished a lovely 11 out of 12 day/night run at the olde papermill ... burnt out and tired ... and they weren't exactly the best days - production wise. LOADS of problems, but in a couple of weeks we have a major outage, where lots of repair work is scheduled, so maybe the machine will run better (and oh joy - faster!).

and we have a contract offer. very strange that no union official will talk about it at all. it is required to go to the union hall on one of two days this week (Tuesday and Wednesday) and hear the Union Rep that negotiated the deal before we even get informational packets. i have no doubt the package will be to accepted, based on the fiasco of the last 6+ years after the last negotiations and strike of 2001. so, as of now, all we know is we have an offer .... absolutely no details. swell.

anyway - onto some old poetry ....


FOG OF DOUBT

Lazerus i whispered Lazerus it is time.
His eyes were hard, cold as stone.
His flesh was hard and smelled of death.
Lazerus i whispered Lazerus, Jesus is here.
There was no pulse.
There was no breath.
He looked impatient.
Well, is he coming around or not, he asked.
i looked at Jesus and said
It doesn't look like it.
Lazerus i whispered Lazerus.
Jesus looked at his hands.
I don't understand it he whispered
It worked last time
and he walked off into a fog of doubt.

Some rumors

a poem from Nov. 1992 - one of my more prolific periods - oh, a long time ago, i know.

a few updates - still no contract, though i hear the talks continue but obviously it is not a major priority to either side, since the meetings are not scheduled very often _ too many conflicting agendas, or so they say. some rumors say nothing will get signed until October or November, but you know how reliable rumors can be. Also, no real word on buyers for the paper-side of the Weyco world. Some rumors were floating around last week a potential (or interested party) would be named today, but it seems that was just a hoax that got taken seriously by a few employees.



I TELLS YOU, MAN

i tells you man, i hates telephones
solicitors that worm their way into your psyche,
make you feel like rat piss
rejecting the blind, disabled & maimed.
hurrah for me! cruel bastard
that relishes suffering. theirs & mine.

no need for guaranteed light bulbs in my dungeons.
no need for dancing,
club foots on my two aching legs.
i tells you man, i hates telephones
late night callers on their knees,
not even rusting in mock worship,
for my last shiny pennies.

some economics

from 1992 - i was not giving my poems titles back then, so when (if) i submitted them, or put them in manuscripts, i usually just made the first line the title, making it a bit easier on editors. This is an unsolicited poem, so it's unpublished as well, like most everything anymore.


THE ECONOMICS WERE SIMPLE ENOUGH

the economics were simple enough
America had failed
(no billboards announced it, but the graffiti artists knew it, sang the song upon derelict buildings
the hookers & bums knew it, sang the song together in the decayed city cores)
America had failed
it was in the tombstone eyes of once believers even if their hearts desperately tried to deny it

poem for going back to work

a poem written in 7:95. this poem was published by Vantage Point in April 1998. another of those small press publications that need any sort of support you can give. it's also a poem that fits the mental outlook as i head back to the paper-machine tomorrow morning, and those Oh, so lovely (NOT) heavyweight export orders that our crew seems to get all too often.


POEM

no address & the rags no one else wanted on his back
he searches garbage cans for breakfast
like a runaway dog - no license
just a snarl & growl
for early morning fog

a prose poem from 82-87 era

a poem from 1982-1987 era - unsolicited, unpublished. a prose poem.

on a few days off, after a rough night shift ... went to Wildlife Safari this morning, saw dem big cats up close. Pretty impressive creatures. Got close to Bison and Rhinos as well. Interesting place and worth rediscovering every four or five years.



LESSON OF THE GYPSY

i met four gypsies - each with a golden earring, each with a curse, on the distant highway to leads from the silver highway of the City of David to the golden highway of the City of God.

Of the four, two were blind and two were lame.

As they hobbled along, the sun was pleasant and they wailed the names of their mothers turned to whores and their gods turned to the pleasures of war and though each voice cried in imperfect harmony, the names they expelled as a vile arrangement with unknown beasts was identical to the other.

i asked them of their lament.

They knocked me down and spat upon my face and took my wallet and threw it into the dancing river that ran wonderfully along the Highway of God. They cursed me and then fell on their knees, begging for forgiveness.

i stood up, silent and strong, as a judge or assassin and demanded they be out of my life.

Without saying a word, they rose and took to the highway, tears, the delicate touch of sorrow, dripped from their eyes.

And as they vanished into the haze of holiness that rose along the edge of the golden Highway of God, i felt only envy and found myself too cursing mothers turned to whoring and gods turned to the pleasures of war.

vacation time ends ... and the happy papermill awaits

today's poem is from 1:98

still not feeling like work (which awaits tomorrow) is a great alternative to vacation - but alas ... pay-checks seem to be a rather major necessity.




CALL ME WHEN YOU ARE LONELY

you take yarn from old clothes
rework it into new blankets

call me when you are lonely
when the moon is drunk
over dark fields
& the owl is content
to sit on high posts
& sing of contentment

even though i have sworn off
all pleasures
in this place of simple survival
for you i will make exceptions