crash, burn and aliens got my email contacts

a small edit to this post. my email address has been removed from this post due to a horrendous amount of spam i'm suddenly getting ..... plus the fact no one i missed in my original emails contacted me, it seems unnecessary to have it posted.

Well, despite being lazy, overworked and having a computer melt-down, there's really no excuse for the lack of updates lately.

OK - work? The new company (International Paper) wants to reopen the contract for a variety of "bad economy" reasons. The local union was willing to at least talk and see what they want to take away and what they have to offer in return (if anything). But the union officials from headquarters in Portland refuse to discuss anything about opening the contract without major concessions from the company up front. There is one last meeting on Feb. 19th, to see if there is anything to merit further discussions. If not, the whole future of the mill COULD be in question. In light of how fast and completely they shut down our sister mill in Albany in Dec. things could be dire in the near future. Let's just say the stress has taken its toll and poetry updates haven't been on the top of the to-do list.

Another reason for no updates is my computer has been on the fritz. Then Saturday, the computer would not turn on, just power up the fans. i tinkered with it for half a day, and finally gave up and took it to the Geek Squad at Best Buy, who informed me the CPU (motherboard) was dead. The Hard Drive was not ruined and i had it installed in the new computer i ended up buying. The net result was two days of trying to get old data off the old hard drive onto the new computer, and getting essential programs up and running. Well, i was completely burnt out and did a major OOOPPPPSSSS. Somehow (not certain how exactly) i deleted all my emails and contacts off the old hard drive. The only saving grace was i had done a back up on an external Hard Drive in November, so everything was not lost, just the recent stuff. Thus, somewhere in cyber space, aliens are now laughing and delighting in piles of my lost emails!!

So, i am back - sort of. i tried to send emails to the contacts i did have. If i missed you, write to me at any address of mine you have. it should (maybe) get to me. so i can add you to my contacts.


here is another poem published in a small press magazine - this time Mushroom Dreams, published in Dec. 97. i've said it a hundred times, but if you can, please support small and local presses/artists.


NO MAGIC IN HEARTS UNABLE TO DREAM

i watch whores beneath a street lamp
cigarette smoke dancing in the twisted light
as i count loose change

there is no magic in hearts unable to dream

i converse with empty sheets
the rhetoric as imperfect
as the fantasies

2010 begins, at least with one entry

Rain, cold fog - ah, indeed ‘tis winter in Oregon!

Back on night-shift this week. A new boss that we briefly met last week takes control of the shipping department. All we really know about her is: she was in the same position in the Albany mill before it was shut-down last month and she was liked (at least by the one person who worked in her department three years ago). Lots of changes in the works, coming down from the Memphis gods who love the fact our shipping department is the most efficient in their system, but they want us to change and be like everyone else …. Whatever that entails, I guess we’ll find out between now and March, when the magic transformation is supposed to take place. I keep telling myself, no more than 6 and a half years, and I can retire ….. :-(

oh, before i forget - thanks to everyone who's left comments. i really like hearing what you are up to/think/ feel about the poems and this blog in general. And if you can, the ever constant mantra - help support small presses in your area.

Today we have a poem- from a discarded manuscript - it may have been included in a couple of versions of Humbly I Offer These Awkward Poems, but i don't recall if it was in the last incarnation, which was accepted for publication by Cedar Hills Press, but never actually made it to publication before the press folded. I hear rumors it (or at least the editor) is again active, but I’ve lost contact with him and have no real interest in re-establishing any contact. The poem is originally from 12:93.


YOU CALL ME TO VISIT

you call me to visit
glass & steel surrounded by fog
before a great lake that has only
imaginary boundaries. i beg off
citing diminished pay checks
& no spare time, captured by
the web of insecurity.

you call me to visit
a near palace in the sky
you humbly call home.
iron doors & lavender doormen
wearing impervious smiles.
the wind cuts mountains here but reflects perfectly
off mountain lakes. i beg off
citing failed western economics
& the curse of the spotted owl, imprisoned
in a cell of self doubt.

you call me to visit
irish linen & german crystal,
the reflected light of a million solar years
off an optically perfect window -
the lake where gulls dance
in a hazy breeze. i beg off
citing old age & lungs
that are less than ideal.

in my mountains, the world rots:
beetles & gypsy moths fly the same
alpine zephyrs as spotted owls.
storms sneak in from the Aleutians
& trees bow down in worship -
streams will churn black long before
they ever become crystalline again.
it is here i am chained -
each link a dream torn asunder.
it is here i am dying -
a cold rain falling in a forest no one visits.

you call me to visit.
at&t fibre optics, sterling sound,
lush & vibrant goddess voice - the wind
across pink lips. no greek isles.
no hot sweaty afrikan coastlines. just
a jazz band in the hotel lobby
& a blind singer of urban blues
across the street. i beg off
citing your beauty, my obesity,
knowing i should never stain such elegance
with the curse i have become.

A December entry

The papermill is slowly struggling to restart. The freezing weather meant lots of broken pipes and frozen pumps and other joys. Add that to the 6 weeks of downtime, and the complications were extreme. But, after two days of actually trying to run the paper machine, we began to make paper early Sunday morning.

However, our sister mill 50 miles to the North has been closed forever. I guess the powers to be decided two West Coast mills were one too many, and they have ceased operations at the Albany plant. The mill will be “parted out” to other mills in the IP system, and then the site leveled over the next 5-10 years according to the stories I’ve heard. That is indeed a major bummer.

As hinted early, the weather has been frigid. Single digits at some nights over the last week. Hardly (if at all) above freezing in the daylight hours. But, some warmer rain has come in this weekend, and it’s started to be the normal gray drizzle that’s December in Oregon.


Today’s poem is from 11:93


A ROOM IN WHICH NO GHOSTS LIVE

a room in which no ghosts live - the light
casting no shadows. it is the sound of november
i hear, the echo of ice forming. the wind
does not whisper down these halls. it moans -
like old bones waiting for summer.

the whisper that is night forming - another moan
from the cold wind that is winter formed.
i walk the dark floors as if a river
lost in the wetlands, where fog sneaks off water
& is lost in cold vallies, waiting for summer.

letters are collected, as dust, in drawers
that are never opened - perhaps there is room
for dark spirits, but none visit these passages.
i watch paper yellow, scratch epigrams
that offer no solace, waiting for summer.

in these dark rooms are forests where beasts
live & breed. i walk the worn paths
until there is nothing & i become nothing.
frost waits, perched on fence posts, as a hawk,
waiting for darkness, waiting for summer.

a poem between overtime

Had a good visit with Carrie, though I only got a day and a half off out of the week she was here. But Nance and she spent a lot of time together. was great to see and be with her again.

Work has been a mess. Loads of overtime and now the company is asking for cut-backs (pay concessions) in Sunday pay, holiday pay, and call-in times, as well as a two-tier pay system (all new employees would make significantly less than current pay scales, but the current employee pay rates would not be changed - or so we've been told.). The timing for these “requests” for the mills to “fall in line” is rather peculiar, just after they have closed 5 facilities this month. I suspect they will get what they want, as all the workers are not in any position to turn down these issues, and have the company shut down more facilities.

Today’s poem is from 9:93


FOR CARRIE -1ST DAY OF HIGH SCHOOL

little that you are

calendars. clocks. moonstorms. time passes
in the strangest ways

some as serene as the wind through dark pines
some as awkward as teen-age girls in roller blades
butt down on the sidewalk

& dreams change
from fluffy bears to dragons. all as cuddly
as you allow.

little that you are
i am as old as the wind - as broken
(pines & mountains & the smiles of women break
more than bones)
& i am as in love with your laughter
fading into the network of a real world
as the first day

little that you were -

yes, i am still around

Ah, a return of the zombie blogger ….. Yes, ZR, there is a place where I fade into these nights (& days). It’s called work. Lots of overtime lately, and more coming. 14 day/nights out of the next 16. Indeed, it’s better than being unemployed.

One day, the bosses say there will be a month to two month lay-off beginning in mid-November. The next day, they tell us, no lay-offs, and the paper machine will restart as soon as the major rebuild of the boiler system in recovery is completed. So, no one is really certain what the hell is going on, except we continue to run export orders, and continue to amass a lot of overtime for September and October. When I return to work tomorrow, I expect a whole new bag of uncertainties to be opened.

The only really big news, or only news I am giving any real value to, is Carrie is visiting from Wisconsin later this week. I will only get two days off while she is here, but we’ve only seen her once since Hurricane Katrina wiped her out of New Orleans. So, some time with the gypsy child is better than none!

here is a10:97 poem until the next (and who knows when) update :


CROW HYMN

in your back yard, crows sit upon the stone fence
eating cracked corn & pithy apples.
there are no rings upon your fingers
that called sunset fog from Dirty River,
that drew sin from my bones,
but where unable to open your heart.

winter rain in your hair -
summer dust in my fingers -
i would have offered the skies
if you asked.
the crows on the banks of Dirty River
are obnoxious & loud. farmers
& rednecks take pot shots at them.
i was certain at least one
held the incantation.

long after dark, i still scan the river banks
for the magic in fallen feathers.

cooler, at least the weather

Summer is winding down. It’s still warm, but not uncontrollably hot. In fact, we had a couple of rainy days a week or so ago. Ah, the lovely sound of rain at night!

Work continues, but not at the record pace they set this summer. The paper machine is running “only” at 90% and that is expected to last at least through the end of the year, due to the still sluggish economy. There will be a 6 week outage in November and December, when they shut-down to repair the boiler (long overdue and very expensive, but necessary.) Obviously the mill cannot run without steam, so most of the employees will be laid-off for 3 or more weeks of the outage. They will be some work for senior operators, but I don’t fall into that category. So, from the early part of Nov. (unless they have extra work for a week or so, as some rumors indicate), I will be off until at least mid- to late Dec.

During the time from now until the outage, we are running almost nothing but export rolls, and quickly running out of places to store them at our site. They are not due and cannot be shipped until the outage occurs (when the senior operators will load them into trucks.). There could be a lot of overtime between now and then, moving rolls to external storage sites. Oh, doesn’t that sound like a lot of fun? NOT!

This poem is a rather dark one from 1997 - a poem accepted by Hunger Magazine in 1999. Another of those small press magazines that need your support. i do not recall if it was ever actually published or not.



DROWNING VICTIM BELOW VIDA, OREGON

ruddy river. flood stage. kingfisher & i above the turbines at Leaburg Dam
watch the faceless body move slowly, less than elegantly,
between the logs & tree stumps.
his blue Chevrolet eventually
to be breeding grounds at the bottom
of Bear Creek, if the Army Corps of Engineers
leave it lodged in Salmon Hole.

County Sheriff rescue boat
4 miles up river, still negotiating the debrie
of the bridge washed out in last years floods.
kingfisher assures me the body will wait
in the backwash of the boomlogs. mostly
we just watch the river changing colors.

------------------

Streets Hotter than a Matchhead - according to John Sebastian

After a week of heat, real heat 105-106 on the olde Fahrenheit scale, and a mere 114 on the Hysters (forklifts) we drive at work, I am ready for fall, all the wonders of fog and rain and chilly winds.

Today’s poem is from 2:94.

Not much else going on. Work, heat and not enough sleep - so like, man, what else is new?

Take care. Support them local and small presses as much as you can. I’ll post again sometime, but as is rather obvious, there is not a lot of urgency or regularity in it these days.




FOR HOWARD NEMEROV

trees, which hold up the hem of the sky,
are being felled. & the sky too is falling.

i know trees grow old, diseased & die. but
the same seems to be true of the sky.

night is an incantation of insignificant things -
the chirp of cricket, the moan of toad.

night spills from the edge of failed dreams. &
the sparse trees can no longer hold the entire sky.

soon, crickets tell me, there will be only darkness -
the canvas full of pin holes -

scratches left by the fallen trees, only memories,
gone the way of other prophets.

the sky is now in the very lap of toads -
the tattered hem no longer beautiful.

summer is back and it's HOT

Summer is back … oooh, and it’s hot in the olde Pacific Northwest. I like warm weather, but not HOT. OK, I like cool, wet weather the most, this is certainly not in that mold.

Work continues. It seems the Springfield mill is one of the very few in the International Paper system running at over 100%. The export (Asian) market and summer crops on the west coast seem to be strong for the time being. There is still talk of lay-offs (possibly) or extended downtime in October, when the mill will be forced down due to a 6 week repair on the Boiler (steam creating machine). Every week or two, what will can (will) go on during that time changes. So it’s a guessing game, as usual.

Today’s poem is from 11:93. It’s a prose poem.


FOR RICK

do all your dreams end up being candy apple red?
America is more than the right arm of Nolan Ryan into the eight inning.
perhaps it is little more than the hills waiting to be tilled, covered by a late frost & the sound of fog clinging to an alabaster stream.
perhaps America is really simply the sound of geese in formation, just after the sky is painted charcoal.

along the avenues drugs kill more than minds.
tiffany lamps stand slightly askew in the corner of an imperfect Norman Rockwell home.
believe in god if you will.
eventually even that is reduced to a statistic.
in the end, it is a comforting statistic, as the laughter of children dreaming of dancing bears & cuddly clouds that do spectacular things in an acid sky, if for only a moment.

collectibles in your closet, no value to anyone but the money man - who must be the ultimate curse.
the glow of cheeks in an early morning snow - peddle that to the strangers in your heart.
frozen nights, and clear skies reveal the Pleiades - the whole universe never to be reduced to an equation - just a step away, just a step away.
the horned owl in silhouette across the moon: worms will tell you everything of god, if you translate the rhetoric of life accurately.

too hot for a fogman

A poem from 8:93.

Record heat for the past few days for May at least …. And I am NOT a fan of the heat. Rain, fog … that’s perfect weather in my book. Oh well. Back to night shift tomorrow.

Not much really to update. Work is continuing. The markets are good right now, it appears and the paper machine is running at full speed. It’s a mixed blessing, as it means a LOT more work, but at least it does mean work and a pay check. No complaints on that one.

Decided to post at least a little longer., though it will be erratic most likely, sort of how it’s been all along, I guess. Thanks to all who added some feedback to the previous update. Good to know someone is out there reading (and even better appreciating) the poetry. Thanks to all.



THE FATMAN STARES AT GOD

the fatman stares at god
with one angry eye
corns on his toes
& a limp that wins no races
no fans

the fatman finds rejection
an art form
wears dull masks
to match his rhetoric
perfectly visible to at least himself

the fatman watches truth
lay naked before a setting sun
protected by salted weeds that guarded more than surf
he has felt truth
but never honestly experienced it

what now?

OK, it's been a while, and i am still uncertain if i'll continue much longer with this effort. i am inclined at the moment (obviously since i am posting today) to keep it alive, even if minimally, as it's really the last link i have to my poetry being made public. i haven't written anything new since shortly after the 2001 lay-offs ... and there is nothing i can see right now that will alter that decision.

anyway, who knows if the end is near for this blog, or if this is just a SLOW phase, or a pattern where i will post now and again. it's not like i don't have material available. There are literally thousands of poems in rough draft form in my desk drawer, from over 30 years (although it's all at least 10 years old now). i really have no idea if or where this is going at the present. any thoughts?



this poem is from 7:93.



ELIJAH'S IN THE CLOSET

i tells you, Elijah's in the closet
counting skeletons. hearts of fire
burn to imperfect ashes.
frost in my touch. corn cobbs
my palace. it is insanity,
they tells me, that i be -
loon on the pond, dancing in the rain.
hurrah for heroes willing to be sacrifices.

i names the little black dog jesus christ
ankle biter with a smile,
not a bit of sense. i laughs a little
at whimsy, unwilling to partake fully.

i speaks with a lisp
tongues foreign to even me.
eternity wears a dress. no panties.
& me without a condom. ha!

lots actually happening behind the scene

For lack of updates … lots actually happening behind the scene.

Either the economy is slowly turning, or someone is crazy, but the mill is resuming full operations, after 3 months of running at 70-80%. That means, lots more work and hard driving in the shipping department. There is also a slight (not likely, but a possibility) that I will be bumped to the truck dock. While that is an easier job, straight day shift, it is also a significant reduction in pay, like 35%. Someone has taken that job, on a month trial basis …. We’ll see how that plays out. As is, it’s back to night shift starting tomorrow night.

Today’s poem is from late July 93, and it’s a montage poem.

Also, not certain where this blog is headed (again). The lack of updates make it obvious it’s not a top priority at this point. It’ll probably limp along for a while before I make a decision to keep it alive (and hopefully keep it updated on a regular basis) or let it fade off to the obscurity it appears to be in at the moment.



THE RESIDUE OF DREAMS

1
the residue of dreams shattered
wears just like a nimbus

we are heroes in our own idealism
perfect bastards worth suffering

so we strut our stuff just like the emperor
in new clothes

2
but in the alone
of our dreams
we formulate miracles
in an empty sky

carve intricate epitaphs
upon the bones
that nearly support

3
& who will be our next jesus
when they have cut down
all the trees

upon what secrets
will they nail
our vulnerabilities

4
autumn leaves
rattling in a wind
lacking incantation

we stand
monoliths
waiting for discovery
upon the plains of uncertainty

5
immortality is within our grasp
dust the immediate legacy
just like adam
who believe hell was paradise
worshiping ignorance
waiting still for canonization

the little dreams of bastards
do not amount to a hill of beans
to deranged gods

i will be the curse uttered
upon the fulfillment of damnation

not a lot to report

Today’s poem is from 9:97

Not a lot to update or report. Things at the mill remain pretty much the same - in a slow back mode due to the economy. Things are expected to pick up in March, when the fruits and vegetables in California are going to need boxes for harvest. Of course, that all depends on the demand ….

Still loads of rumors about what is going to and not going to happen with the elimination of the regular paper tester job. The job isn’t going away, just some people with idle time (HA!) on their hands, such as the back tender or 4th hand, will have to do the testing now. Rumors are just that, and no managers seem to be willing to address anything until it something actually comes to pass.

Warmer nights (but not actually warm), and lots of rain the past week.



SONG OF THE GEESE

moon echoed in her dark eyes then,
more than a riddle to be solved.

rain. her wet hair
magnified the vision.
i could feel the essence, but i
was myopic then, as perhaps i am myopic now.
no longer roses in my fingers.
these calluses less than magical.

autumn. the santa lucias
black moss & alabaster rivers -
her thin fingers etched
the answers in my pale skin:
30 years to be deciphered.

here where rains
are merely wet. geese in one way
formation. not even omens,
their songs like epistles
long ago written.
my bones have not forgotten.

plodding along

Work plods along … of course, never smoothly. The mill remains in a slow-down mode, at least through February, due to the poor economy and the sad shape of our boiler. The latest news is the papermill is officially eliminating the paper testers job sometime in the next three months … and two of them have asked to go into the shipping department. That could spell trouble for me, as I COULD be bumped out, back to the paper machine. One group says that won’t happen, another says it’s inevitable. So, who knows? Time will tell I guess. Back to night shift tonight - whoopee.  

Winter is still around, though no snows, just ice and frost most mornings. Snow seems to be just on the nearby hills, but avoiding the valley floor, which I can appreciate.

Today’s poem is from 8:97

ON POETS

each word, a stone in the pocket
of your ragged jeans.

you can beat back demons with some
(though never as far as you wished),
& barter with the old woman
at the end of the highway for dreams
with others, though she has no real need of them.
mostly she just throws them at crows
in her corn patch.

some allow privacy.
some even buy pleasures
in the right economics
but that too is temporal.

they are just agates: voices
you cannot ignore -
even if no one else seems to hear.
the world is full
of the deaf & mutilated.

agates with visions
you spend long nights trying to decipher.
stones that do not allow
you to float on the tranquil waters.

still, at dawn, as mist rises off the dark sea,
you can be found, wet socks in your
trousers, collecting more.
it is, after all, your own voice you seek.

still alive n well

finally - another poem, this one from 6:93.

Not really much going on, trying to survive the cold, wintry passages. Nothing compared to what Spokane (and my sister) has endured, but it’s been a colder, icier year than normal around here. Ice and cold aren’t my favorites, then again, come August and that heat isn’t on my wish list either. Fall and spring (cool and damp) I guess are more to my liking.

Work pretty much continues. The slow down (due to the economy) is supposed to last through at least Feb, and the last week has been really bad for production and safety at the mill, neither which bodes well for our mill in the big picture. 

Sorry for the lack of updates. Just been tired, busy, lazy and/or a combination of all three.



STUTTER FROM THE LIPS

i am the stutter from the lips of god
an unfinished curse on the backside of the wind

come when dawn is late
& frost is the language spoken
geese in broken formation
chant either threnody or ecstasy

i walk the lesser taken road to golgatha

the best laid plans of mice and men

Today’s poem is from  10:93.

Wasn’t it Robert Burns that said: “ The best laid plans of mice and men oft times go asunder?”

Well, changes - and more changes. Seems the cracks in the boiler drum are pretty bad and the chance of it failing are much greater with any prolonged shut-downs. So the great Gods in Memphis had decreed Springfield IP Mill can continue to run through February without any downtime, although we must do so at a greatly reduced speed. While this is good news, it comes with a personal price - I get a ton of overtime over the holidays as a result. So, tomorrow I begin 8 nights in a row. (There is a slim chance the last two days can go to someone else, but it’s not in stone yet.)

And on the weather front, winter - as in ice for three days, then snow - and more snow. It seems to be coming in waves - just as the crud on the streets begins to melt, it drops below freezing and another 2 inches of snow gets packed on top ….  Haven’t seen weather quite like this in 10 years or so, as best as I can recall. Oh well, I guess the local “global warming” buffs will find something other than Mother Nature being unpredictable to blame it on. A few billion years of the solar system, and man thinks he’s got it figured out in a decade or two of studies? Oh well, the soap box is getting slippery and I need to get ready for night shift …. Boogie on, ya’all.

BEYOND THE MISTING RIVER

1

beyond the misting river

(the Pacific yawns & the Columbia is absorbed)

beyond the fallen timber

(houses for a farmer in Dubuque

shelves for books never to be read)

i stand: a shadow within a shadow

- sounds that echo & distort

- sounds changing until they are no longer sounds

but emotions

the voice you understand: so easy to reject

turn the switch

the light is extinguished

darkness, comfortable as an old sweater, caresses

i stand as if the dissipating mist

(the Pacific yawns & the Columbia is absorbed)

the wind down from the Aleutians’

carries the hard rains of November upon its torn wings

& you stand Eastern - umbrellaed -

waiting for miracles.

2

the Great Lakes cry: fog gathers upon your window

& you study the quandrum with nonchalance

epistles wait to be written

but there is no theology in shadows

worth celebration

- you remain a dream not knowing the source

soon snow:

flakes darting

& alive

bundled against the freeze

you will trudge

into the next stanza

winter time is coming

Here is another poem accepted by Semi-Dwarf Review in Dec. 1998, but never got into print before the press decided to quit publishing.

Winter is arriving, no doubt about it. Cold nights and not so warm days. On night shift this week, so I guess I’ll need to bundle up before I get ready for work tonight.

Work? Ah, back from the Nov. lay-off (worked one day  this last week). There will be more down-time in Dec, though no one is certain exactly how much. At first it was going to be 8 days, then 13 …. But that last figure we were told in a safety meeting yesterday could shrink, or grow, depending on circumstances as the month progresses. There will “certainly” be down time in February, as they have to inspect the boiler-drum (part of the machinery that creates steam to run the mill) and that could be a 7-12 day thing, depending on what they find ….  So, looks like the dire forecast for 2009 isn’t changing at the moment.

THE SEER

on the edge of an occluded front

me in my faded blue jockeys

wait for the end of the world.

with my Nostradamus eyes

i have witnessed omens.

3 blackbirds in a broken apple tree

reciting the plays of Sam Beckett

with the ghost of the goddess

i forgot how to worship.

i tells you, it is a terrible thing

to understand eternity,

to have the spirits whisper of the future

when you would rather sleep

or indulge in the luxury of romance.

here, wind do more than cry Mary

down these pot-hole streets.

it moan grunge,

as it also whisper of bebop.

it be buffoons that walk these highways

& sees paradise.

i tells you, the rain to come

will wash more than soiled jeans.

if you be the offspring

of the wicked north witch,

the best you can do

is wear your rubbers.

dog attack

Nance and Cocoa were attacked by a pit bull this afternoon, owned by a group a what looks like semi-gang types - the dog has a few scrapes, Nance is upset and a bit shaken, but fine. A family from Portland were driving down the street and saw the whole thing, stopped to help her and chased the dog off, yelling at the "owner" (or someone from the house where the dog came from) - your dog just attacked this lady, and you're responsible - the guy yelled back "The fuck i am!" ..... the Lane County animal authority went to visit the house while Nance and i (and the mutt) were at the vets, but no one was home (well, no one answered the door). The Animal authority left a stern note and wanted the dog's license number .... but i am certain the dog was just visiting ..... and is long gone.

We took the dog to the emergency vet, and she has a scratch on her nose - but nothing else visible. The vet gave her some antibiotics, just in case there were any puncture wounds that she didn't find when she examined the dog .... so it's wait and see ...


todays poem was accepted (2:98) and printed (but i never got a copy) in another small press First Class. written 9:97. as usual - if you can, please help support small presses.


MY HOME TOWN

wind (NNE) hard off the river
smelling of sulfur
-manure plant has documentation
they are non polluters.
***
kid in his Air Jordan's
(open game for the less fortunate or
more powerful) fills out half an application
leaves empty the parts he can't read
believing it an invasion of his privacy.
***
3 in the morning
asphalt is stained with rain
& blood. black hooker cries
for help (or deliverance). the age of reason
dead. on-lookers
filled with far worse diseases.
***
the home town team
rallied late for a miracle finish.
heroes. champions.
but fuck the fag at the mission
handing out needles
& condoms - though the editor
didn't put it in quite those terms.

good news and the Bad News

Well, it's been an interesting week. 

One - i have been officially certified as a shipper this past week. while i am technically still part of the paper machine, i do not work on the paper machine unless there is a break-down or scheduled maintenance and shipping is not operating. And that means i get shipping rate (which is .75 more than i was getting on the paper machine as a 5th hand) - which is cool, since i am on vacation this week. 

well, that's the good news stuff ... now onto the reality grim stuff .... 

two - the IP gods decided the economy sucks enough to not only close one more paper machine (in Virginia), but to close almost all their paper machines for 8 days starting next week. Another round of 8 day closures in Dec, and most likely again February. But unlike Weyco, when they stopped machines from operating due to the economy, they did repairs on the machines, education and so the workers never got laid off. Nope, IP is hurting so bad for cash, they are laying every hourly employee (with the exception of 5 needed to operate the boiler and keep it from exploding) for 8 days, and so i not only get a vacation, i get a lay off on top of it .... trying to be a believer in the goodness and deep insight that great companies hold and this is all just their way of making certain familiar are together for the holidays - (NOT) - i get an uneasy feeling that this could be the beginning of the end of the IP colonization (or is it just expansion) of the Kraft Liner world.  let's hope i am direly wrong in that feeling ...

onto the poetry - 

6:93 is the source date of today’s poem ... 

THE COUGHING WIND

the coughing wind i hold in my pocket offers no wisdom

but i tell it secrets

we share with the grotesque.

stumble over concrete mountains in the insatiable pursuit

of a happiness that has ceased to exist.

the coughing wind i hold in my pocket knows there is no freedom

only boundaries

we stretch ever so carefully.

erect palaces of sand

upon concrete being dismantled a molecule at a time.

the coughing wind & i, like an apparition in the fog,

dance in the haze

almost real enough to believe.

passed 1st review

Shipping review was delayed a day, but went OK. I am not “certified” as a shipper yet, but should be within the next month, or so i was told. I was changed to a different crew, as my boss felt I’d learned all I needed to from the crew I was on, and the “new crew” will be the one I will be on once I am certified. So … I guess progress is being made.

Last month, the editor of NIGHTSHIFT (an anthology from Five Leaves Publishing - out of England) asked to use a poem “Fighting Foam” he discovered on this blog. I gladly agreed. As I’ve asked before, support those small presses if at all possible.

Other than that - not much happening, except winter coming and work continues, but with the world economy as fragile as it is, even that is an uncertainty for anything but the present.

Today’s poem is from 9:97


CONFRONTING THE DEMONS

1
"Eat shit & die" i told the priest
when he demanded i forgive
the sins of the best friend
who beat the crap out of me on a $2 bet.

Father Buckley screamed i would rot
in hell, but offered to forgive my sins
if i was willing to confess.

30 years later, i wonder if his ghost
is still willing to forgive?

2
"Love is all you need"
but the emptiness i felt
was filled only with pain.

Old Father Buckley can rot in his hypocrisy,
covered in satin & lace,
while a wetback froze to death on the back steps
of the old rectory.

i, at least, confronted my demons
unable to defeat them,
i lay myself in the luxury of their lusts -
satin flesh & hot tits.

reviews to be held

Today’s poem is from 8:97 .

This week (tomorrow in fact) I get my review in shipping, part of that will determine if I will remain in the department or be thrown back to the paper machine. Last night shift was a rough one, lots of mistakes on my part and a taste of export (which will continue all this week). I do not expect a terrible review - just not a glowing one i guess, but really have no idea what will be included, as no one I’ve worked with directly will be in the room. I still feel as if I don’t know enough to be qualified yet. Oh well, will let you know when I post again, probably in a week or so, how it all went.

Cold is creeping into the valley at night, along with the fog and frost. Ah, as Dylan once said “Wintertime is coming, all the trees are filled with frost ..” or something along those long.

Well, onto the poetry …. 


FOR A DIETY

i do not lay false sacrifices.

the bamboo shoots someone called
a tree: the red clay pot
fired in your own kiln -
if this was not Paradise
i would gladly have exchanged 
it as such.

two roses on your doorstep,
as dawn broke (silver to cyan)
over Gabilan hills:
my footprints in the dew.

someday you to know
such a love: greater than dreams -
where afternoon fogs are dirty
as the river itself -
it will make no difference.

you hold a rose
for each of the decades,
still uncertain of the magic.

My parting footprints in the dew ...