BEST JOB EVER? MIKE’S BOTTLEHOUSE
NORTH MAIN STREET KEWANEE, ILLINOIS, 1969-1981
Was my father’s liquor store
Other side of the tracks. Your mother
Told you, yes? But you went there
Anyway. I know. I probably
Carded you.
Two-to-close shift. I’d stock the beer
Coolers: Blue and Miller, a little
Bud—was that sort of place.
Dust the half pints, Kessler’s
And Seagram’s. Think about
The Muscatel and the MD 20/20,
And then decide to read.
Read a lot. Was mostly quiet
But for a few pints, occasional
Beer quarts at quitting time,
Till after dark. Hem and Fitzgerald,
Gertrude, the Beats.
But then after sundown, and after
The 8:10 Amtrak from Chicago,
It all would change. Austen,
Dickens and the Brontes—big city
Weeknights. Fridays, it would darken:
Algren, Burroughs, and will you take
This gun for a pint of Johnny Walker
And a quart of milk? Usually, Yes.
There was a crate down
Under the register, store
Went down, all unclaimed.
Was the only unarmed employee—
Well, there was a bigass screwdriver
Under the counter, but I never even
Brandished it. My colleagues, my
Father and Little Phil carried 38’s
In shoulder holsters,
Both looking a little warm, a bit
Odd in the summer heat. Old Ben,
Who’d come up from BrmghmAlbma
In the twenties we never did know
About. Was a .22, but he was so
Fast, nobody—customers,
Staff, lifters, ever saw it coming out
As he smiled. And they put it back.
I still believe it was ankle,
But I preferred his approach:
“Dude, you don’t really want
To be putting that
In your pocket.
Here, let’s have a taste;
We can talk.”
—Kevin Jones, Elk Grove
_____________________
OUT OF THE ASHES
—Ann Wehrman, Sacramento
empty green plaid beanbag
ashtray, heavy lead crystal
ashtray, swipe them down
with Kleenex, soap and water on crystal
careful to clean around the rims
dried tobacco smells
yellow slimy sludge
remains, clings to my fingers
smell no soap and water can disperse
replace the ashtray
on her right hand, within reach
by his place setting
by silver, crockery, pork chops
and the baby’s cup
grey dragon trails of smoke rise
out of the ashes
each Lucky, each Camel
burns down to the end
replaced immediately
sucked dry
_____________________
AT SERRA CROSS PARK, IN MEMORIAM
—Ann Wehrman
dark hillside, unfamiliar
Andrew’s tires crushed
he pulled over
we walked further
night overcast
cool spring fog thick
Ventura coast
walked away
from the memorial
peered over the ridge
other side of the hill
stones, trees, foliage
steep decline
far down, looking out
over Ventura Avenue
West Prospect
lights twinkled far below
where she lived at the end
where I stayed with her
small cottage
window open
so I could breathe
she smoked through the nights
played NPR low, I could still hear
from my bedroll
on her pocket living room floor
place no longer mattered
she had seen too much
had forgotten how
to exhale
pride lacing fury and pain
tighter than a steel bodice
Andrew and I
looked over the hillside
golden lights on her street
he opened the canister
released her dust
that her soul might find
peace denied in life
rise out of the ashes
_____________________
A FEW WORDS
—Caschwa, Sacramento
A distinguished professor
At the lectern, stink bomb
Is the lesson of the day
You know the ones,
Those truly vile, offensive
Terms of total disrespect
Fired like hollow point bullets
Meant to totally destroy
The target on impact
Putting dear, kind, gentle
Readers of poetry on the
Defensive, constantly
Thrown in the middle of
Bear cubs play fighting
Thick skin, sharp claws
Favorable arguments
Flow from the tongues
Of total strangers:
Freedom of speech, style
Syntax, context, new wave
Reality, get used to it
Fireballs make good pictures
While images of wounded victims
…You know the ones
FINAL EVALUATION
—Nancy Haskett, Modesto
Throughout my thirty-seven years of teaching,
various administrators have routinely observed,
judged,
required objectives,
looked for active participation,
standards and goals written on the board—
tangible
verifiable results
which proved I was doing my job.
Throughout those same
bell-regimented months and semesters
I have played that game,
thanked them for their accolades,
pretending it was all about
delivery of content,
test scores,
but knowing it was really about inspiring creativity,
boosting confidence
and teaching values that cannot be tested
with multiple choice questions.
And in the dozens of yearbooks
that will be boxed and stored in the dormers of my house
are signatures,
personal notes
and thank you letters from hundreds of past students—
notes never shown to any principal
yet I consider them,
above all else,
to be my
genuine
final
evaluation.
_____________________
RUSS' BEST JOB EVER
—Michael Cluff, Corona
Working as a living
mannequin for a men's
haberdashery in Haverhill:
allowed to indulge,
wallows in his fashion fetish;
argyle sweater vests
and gartered socks
solid wool ties
elbow-patched sports coats
and imprisoning penny loafers,
never-lit burgundy pipe,
he became the college professor
his aphasia and allodoxaphobia
compelled him not
to be
openly
in public.
On-line life
was his savior—
standing still
and looking dead
in front of men's eyes
kept him employed
until several decades
had turned maudlin
and defied.
___________________
LADY LUCK I (Into Ashes)
—Michael Cluff
On the day
of sealing
the job down
finally:
the crotch
of the suit pants
get stained with
cream.
You mismatch
your shoes:
put on a tennis
to the left
and wingtip
on the other.
Your belt breaks into
two from over-stress
and cheapness
after you have gone long
past the three-quarters point
to the interview.
Then the car breaks down
in the exact center
of a deep and odiferous puddle
of gutter water and puece-purple rust oil from
an ill-serviced tumbledown semi
and you slip badly.
When you reach the receptionist's desk
you realize you dumped her
at the fourth-rate mall
on that debacle triple date
last September
and her memory
like her girth
is now an elephant's
and this thought has
slipped out of your mouth
right into her wrinkled ear.
Luck comes and goes
for you like blackouts
which usually occur
sometime
right at this point
of your diminishing day—
even if you are lucky
or even eventually not.
______________________
Alabaster
berries
cause
devilfish
extreme
fomenting,
guarded
hopes
in
July
keeping
lobsters
moving
nearer
olives,
producing
queasy
reactions
scuttling
towards
underevolved
victims
wanting
xeon
yardmarkers'
zeniths.
—Michael Cluff
______________________
Today's LittleNip:
A good poem causes one to pause and think…exactly the qualities that make texting while driving illegal.
—Caschwa
______________________
—Medusa, with thanks to today's contributors and a reminder that the new issue of convergence is online at www.convergence-journal.com/fall13
