That perplexing moment when a deciduous tree
cannot decide what to do next...
—Photo by Carl Bernard Schwartz
—Carl Bernard Schwartz, Sacramento
A few decades ago
I attended grammar school
and was taught and tested
on the serial comma rule.
Don’t think about it, just
obey the rules.
It was not until this century
when I tested for a state job
that I learned they now imposed
a different serial comma rule.
Too bad it wasn’t in the
curriculum to teach us how to
deal with absolutes becoming
obsolete.
No more planet Pluto, either.
Anyone remember adverbs?
Today they just get pecked
and devoured like the best
fruit at the top of the tree,
leaving us with an avalanche
of ordinary adjectives to
modify verbs.
Kids study careful so they can
breathe deep and sing loud.
Those whose families paid
their fair share of taxes for this
“education” should join in a class
action lawsuit to receive just
compensation for being forced
to buy damaged goods.
I want my money back!
____________________
Thanks, Carl, and thanks to today's other contributors, including Mitz Sackman (who is just getting over a 5-month writing "drought"), and Paul Lojeski, a SnakePal from 'way back in New York who lived in Santa Cruz from '69-'73 (some of the go-go years!) and who misses it sorely. Read about that in his poem which will appear in 02 (The Ophidian) later this spring: deadline for you to send yours in is March 1. See the b-board for details.
The reading at The Book Collector last night was spectacular; be sure to stop in and pick up a copy of Rachel Leibrock's broadside and Pat Hickerson's chapbook, as well as to take advantage of TBC's month-long 25%-off sale. And the list of near-future readings in this area is long and rich (check that out on the b-board, besides), including Patrick Ball at a benefit at The Palms in Winters this Sunday. About him, Katy Brown reports: I can’t stress enough how wonderful Patrick Ball is!! This is an opportunity for poets to hear one of the last of the old-time bards in action. He is a world-class harpist and a fabulous story-teller. He weaves stories, poems and conversation in with his playing for the most mesmerizing entertainment you can imagine. He is truly amazing.
____________________
URBAN SOLACE XXIII
That Day Again
—Mitz Sackman, Murphys
He dreaded this day
It rolled around every year
The day that he was supposed to
Be able to read her mind
Give her what she most wanted
Make her feel loved
Make her feel valued
Give her bragging rights
Be that Romance guy
That he is not in real life
But he has to make the effort
Pay his dues to the
Gods of merchandising love
___________________
and I heard wild music
—paul lojeski, port jefferson, ny
In nights
beyond
local
situations,
bright in hope
and trying,
one more
song
flying
on broad
wings,
flying
on broad
wings.
we
were
rockin
it then,
rockin,
rockin
it then.
_____________________
A BAND IS PLAYING
—Paul Lojeski
It is the song trying to be
Remembered Kunitz sang
Of to the best of his recollection.
Fewer and fewer hear the music
Now winter’s come stomping
Down its unsympathetic road.
They say nothing’s changed
By man’s hand but I swear
That cold’s the coldest cold ever.
Hear the hammers thunder
On our mountains of disbelief,
Hear the drumbeats getting louder.
____________________
THE LAST SUPPER
—Paul Lojeski
That ass-shaking
cold night I went
over and she was
sitting by the light
wearing sunglasses
and an eye-patch
over the perfectly
all right right eye,
the sight of two
too much, I guess,
and she frowned
when I entered late
again, taking a hit
on that tiny joint.
I sat at the table
with the dinner
she’d made, now
forlorn and singing
its own blues
of neglect and waste
and I tried a joke
or two but she wasn’t
having any, sliding
down her dark road
with the monster
she'd made of clay,
her mouth a curse
as I made a run
for the door.
_____________________
suffering
—paul lojeski
that most
hungry
and loyal
dog's
blood
red teeth
at your
throat,
the nightmare
in the mirror
you
can’t stop
petting.
_____________________
Today's LittleNip:
THIS MAD LIMBO
—Paul Lojeski
It feels like a space
between two worlds,
one on either side
of my mind. In this
indescribable middle
I wait, trying to see.
____________________
—Medusa
Crying Spider
—Painting by Odilon Redon
