Photo by Frank Dixon Graham, Sacramento
AFTER DRIVING ALL NIGHT ACROSS WEST TEXAS
—James Lee Jobe, Davis
(for SKD*, who asked me: What Did I Learn In Texas)
Dear Susan:
Just after sunrise on an April morning in '99,
I pulled into a Mom & Pop cafe in Fort Stockton, Texas.
It was an old white frame house with the patio closed in,
converted into an old time greasy spoon diner.
Five Good Ol' Boys, the youngest was at least 65,
sat at a wobbly table inside, halfway between the kitchen
and restrooms. Texans plan locations for convenience.
I walked in, beat, map in hand, and they all five looked up
at once and said in unison, "You can't get there from here!"
They pronounced "can't" as "caint."
It had been years since I'd been in Texas,
and those were the first words anyone spoke to me.
"I won't get there if I listen to likes of y'all," I answered,
which identified me as a fellow Texan.
One Ol' Boy nodded at an empty chair,
and I had breakfast with these five old men who didn't work
anymore, but had breakfast at 6 a.m. anyway.
That's when they were used to eating.
I had to tell my story, of course,
I was a Texan who lived in Davis, California,
a poet, on my way to Holy Austin for a poetry festival,
to East Texas to visit family, and before any of that,
I was on my way to Kerrville, to the Guadalupe River,
which I considered to be my spiritual home.
The Good Ol' Boys were silent at first, and I worried
they were thinking poorly of me for being a poet,
but I had forgotten a Texan's true nature.
They didn't give a crap about 'what I am.'
They were just regarding my adventure for a moment,
soon they wouldn't shut up.
"Hell, if it was me I'd go to San Antone."
"Good Night Nurse! San Antone ain't on the road to Austin."
"I know that, I just like San Antone, that's all.
And it is on the same road as Kerrville!"
"You can take the old two-laners from Kerrville to Austin.
Takes you by the Pedernales."
"Young fella likes Kerrville, that's all. I like San Antone..."
"Well, so go somewhere and like something else!
You ain't no help at all."
He pronounced "help" as "hep."
"You old buzzard."
Listening to them, I wanted it all,
the Live Oaks growing gnarled along the Nueces,
the Guadalupe, the Brazos,
the blacktop roads that lay on the rolling hills
like an old worn ribbon on a lumpy bed, the armadillos,
the deep fried chicken and biscuits with gravy,
the huge pickup trucks with lumber racks or rollbars,
rifle racks and grille guards.
I wanted that feeling of wide-open possibilities,
like you could do anything that you could dream,
go into business, start a revolution, or fall in love,
with no limitations beyond your own imagination.
That's what Texas is, that's how it feels to be Texan,
that endlessness is what Texas is, what it always has been.
What I learned in Texas, Susan,
was that it is up to me to keep eternity in my life,
I can live it as bold as I please.
I spent an hour there, and they were still joking and bickering when I left,
about everything; the John Connolly administration, the Astros,
Guadalupe Bass (only found in Texas), Austin versus San Antonio,
East Texas versus West Texas, and so on.
I wondered how many other strangers had stumbled into that greasy spoon
after driving bleary-eyed and caffeine-fueled all night
across West Texas just to get through it,
and that being the first place to eat you see after sunrise.
I climbed back into the van, full of overcooked eggs and rancid coffee,
no sleep at all, and just a little bit of Texas to hold in my heart.
Love, Jim
*Susan Kelly-DeWitt
__________________
—James Lee Jobe, Davis
(for SKD*, who asked me: What Did I Learn In Texas)
Dear Susan:
Just after sunrise on an April morning in '99,
I pulled into a Mom & Pop cafe in Fort Stockton, Texas.
It was an old white frame house with the patio closed in,
converted into an old time greasy spoon diner.
Five Good Ol' Boys, the youngest was at least 65,
sat at a wobbly table inside, halfway between the kitchen
and restrooms. Texans plan locations for convenience.
I walked in, beat, map in hand, and they all five looked up
at once and said in unison, "You can't get there from here!"
They pronounced "can't" as "caint."
It had been years since I'd been in Texas,
and those were the first words anyone spoke to me.
"I won't get there if I listen to likes of y'all," I answered,
which identified me as a fellow Texan.
One Ol' Boy nodded at an empty chair,
and I had breakfast with these five old men who didn't work
anymore, but had breakfast at 6 a.m. anyway.
That's when they were used to eating.
I had to tell my story, of course,
I was a Texan who lived in Davis, California,
a poet, on my way to Holy Austin for a poetry festival,
to East Texas to visit family, and before any of that,
I was on my way to Kerrville, to the Guadalupe River,
which I considered to be my spiritual home.
The Good Ol' Boys were silent at first, and I worried
they were thinking poorly of me for being a poet,
but I had forgotten a Texan's true nature.
They didn't give a crap about 'what I am.'
They were just regarding my adventure for a moment,
soon they wouldn't shut up.
"Hell, if it was me I'd go to San Antone."
"Good Night Nurse! San Antone ain't on the road to Austin."
"I know that, I just like San Antone, that's all.
And it is on the same road as Kerrville!"
"You can take the old two-laners from Kerrville to Austin.
Takes you by the Pedernales."
"Young fella likes Kerrville, that's all. I like San Antone..."
"Well, so go somewhere and like something else!
You ain't no help at all."
He pronounced "help" as "hep."
"You old buzzard."
Listening to them, I wanted it all,
the Live Oaks growing gnarled along the Nueces,
the Guadalupe, the Brazos,
the blacktop roads that lay on the rolling hills
like an old worn ribbon on a lumpy bed, the armadillos,
the deep fried chicken and biscuits with gravy,
the huge pickup trucks with lumber racks or rollbars,
rifle racks and grille guards.
I wanted that feeling of wide-open possibilities,
like you could do anything that you could dream,
go into business, start a revolution, or fall in love,
with no limitations beyond your own imagination.
That's what Texas is, that's how it feels to be Texan,
that endlessness is what Texas is, what it always has been.
What I learned in Texas, Susan,
was that it is up to me to keep eternity in my life,
I can live it as bold as I please.
I spent an hour there, and they were still joking and bickering when I left,
about everything; the John Connolly administration, the Astros,
Guadalupe Bass (only found in Texas), Austin versus San Antonio,
East Texas versus West Texas, and so on.
I wondered how many other strangers had stumbled into that greasy spoon
after driving bleary-eyed and caffeine-fueled all night
across West Texas just to get through it,
and that being the first place to eat you see after sunrise.
I climbed back into the van, full of overcooked eggs and rancid coffee,
no sleep at all, and just a little bit of Texas to hold in my heart.
Love, Jim
*Susan Kelly-DeWitt
__________________
Thanks to today's poets, James Lee Jobe, Taylor Graham, and Patricia Wellingham-Jones for today's poems in response to our Seed of the Week: On the Road, and to Frank Graham for the photo. Send in your "road" poems (and/or photos and art!); no deadline for SOWs. And Today's LittleNip is from Russell Edson, Wonky Prose Poet Extraordinaire who James Lee and I share a love of...
__________________
RACING DOWN THE HIGHWAY
—Patricia Wellingham-Jones, Tehama
When you race down the highway
and the wind scrambles your hair
and the howl of the engine
is overtaken
by your own laughter
the joy of escape
fills the balloon of your body
Untethered
you rev the motor
and howl with glee
__________________
TRY TO DICTATE A POEM TO A DEAF MAN
when you're speeding
in the northbound lane
35 miles from the nearest rest stop
and the words pour
a relentless stream
from your brain
Try to get him
to catch those words
spilling a glittery cascade
Try to explain
to a man scrawling shorthand
where a line ends
a comma falls
Try to keep the whole
of the poem in your head
while his fingers fumble
on the page
and he asks you to repeat
a phrase
a line
a stanza
Try not to run up the back
of the oil tanker just ahead
or slide sideways
into a line of cars
when you snap
that snarl of impatience
And just try
not to scream in rage
at the inept willingness
of those hands
that caress you
as he grabs at the images
shimmering in your mind
your hands locked
on the steering wheel
going 70.
—Patricia Wellingham-Jones
(originally published in Rattlesnake Review)
___________________
10 HOURS ON THE ROAD
—Taylor Graham, Placerville
Edison Hwy off-ramp TRUCK STOP red-
light warning SPEED
LIMIT 45 oncoming headlights kit
fox brakelights RR XING—what
was that?
Kit Fox:
tiny low-slung topline/
extra-alien
pricked ears/sharpened nose for
slipping under, hunger-
dash between
wheels & out the other
side safe
for now beyond
the 2-lane under stars—a driver
in every highbeam-blinded
vehicle speeding
thru the dark w/ so brief a
glimpse of some
thing in the headlights already
gone.
__________________
ADDRESSING THE HOBO CONVENTION
—Taylor Graham
No lectern, no ice water
in crystal tumblers.
But they’ve come from everywhere
by foot and rail. You set down
your bindle against a stump,
you’re used to rowdy crowds.
Plenty of space here
for your voice to travel.
“Will work for pennies,” pleads
a ragged sign left leaning.
For any hopeful cause you’ll walk
long into the dark,
as a bonfire flickers, flares,
exults. You’re quite at home
here. Hobos are all for peace
and brotherhood, a good day’s
work; gaps between
fences; a free fringe
of woods, a hand up
to the caboose.
__________________
Today's LittleNip:
THE LONELY TRAVELER
—Russell Edson
He's a lonely traveleer, and finds companion in the road; a chance meeting, seeing as how they were both going the same way.
...Only, the road had already arrived at its end; like a long snake, its eyes closed in the distance, asleep...
__________________
—Medusa
SnakeWatch: What's New from Rattlesnake Press:
Rattlesnake Review: The latest issue (#20) is currently available at The Book Collector, or send me two bux and I'll mail you one. The last of contributors' copies has gone into the mail. Deadline for RR21 is February 15: send 3-5 poems, smallish art pieces and/or photos (no bio, no cover letter, no simultaneous submissions or previously-published poems) to kathykieth@hotmail.com or P.O. Box 762, Pollock Pines, CA 95726. E-mail attachments are preferred, but be sure to include all contact info, including snail address. Meanwhile, the snakes of Medusa are always hungry!
Coming in January: Other than the ever-restless Medusa, the Snake will be snoozing during January; no releases or readings. But our October road trips inspired a new Rattlesnake publication, WTF, to be edited by frank andrick. This 30-page, chapbook-style (free) quarterly will primarily showcase the talents of readers at Poetry Unplugged at Luna’s Café, but anyone over 18 is welcome to submit. Deadline is Jan. 15 for a Feb. 19 premiere at Luna’s. Submission guidelines are the same as for the Snake, but please send three poems (each one page or less in length), photos, smallish art or prose pieces (500 words or less) to fandrickfabpub@hotmail.com (attachments preferred) or, if you’re snailing, to P.O. Box 762, Pollock Pines, CA 95726. And be forewarned: this publication will be for adults only! so you must be over 18 years of age to submit.
Also available now (free): littlesnake broadside #46: Snake Secrets: Getting Your Poetry Published in Rattlesnake Press (and lots of other places, besides!): A compendium of ideas for brushing up on your submissions process so as to make editors everywhere more happy, thereby increasing the likelihood of getting your poetry published. Pick up a copy at TBC or write to me and I'll send you one. Free!
Coming February 11: A new rattlechap from Sacramento's Poet Laureate, Julia Connor (Oar); a littlesnake broadside from Josh Fernandez (In The End, It’s A Worthless Machine); and the premiere of our new Rattlesnake Reprints, featuring The Dimensions of the Morning by D.R. Wagner, which was first published by Black Rabbit Press in 1969. That’s February 11 at The Book Collector, 1008 24th St., Sacramento, 7:30 PM. Refreshments and a read-around will follow; bring your own poems or somebody else’s.
Medusa's Weekly Menu:
(Contributors are welcome to cook up something for any and all of these!)
Monday: Weekly NorCal poetry calendar
Tuesday: Seed of the Week: Tuesday is Medusa's day to post poetry triggers such as quotes, forms, photos, memories, jokes—whatever might tickle somebody's muse. Pick up the gauntlet and send in your poetic results; and don't be shy about sending in your own triggers, too! All poems will be posted and a few of them will go into Medusa's Corner of each Rattlesnake Review. Send your work to kathykieth@hotmail.com or P.O. Box 762, Pollock Pines, CA 95726. No deadline for SOWs; respond today, tomorrow, or whenever the muse arrives. (Print 'em out, maybe, save 'em for a dry spell?) When you send us work, though, just let us know which "seed" it was that inspired you.
Wednesday (sometimes): HandyStuff Quickies: Resources for the poet, including whatever helps ease the pain of writing and/or publishing: favorite journals to read and/or submit to; books, etc., about writing; organizational tools—you know—HandyStuff! Tell us about your favorite tools.
Thursday: B.L.'s Drive-Bys: Micro-reviews by our irreverent Reviewer-in-Residence, B.L. Kennedy. Send books, CDs, DVDs, etc. to him for possible review (either as a Drive-By or in future issues of Rattlesnake Review) at P.O. Box 160664, Sacramento, CA 95816.
Friday: NorCal weekend poetry calendar
Daily (except Sunday): LittleNips: SnakeFood for the Poetic Soul: Daily munchables for poetic thought, including short paragraphs, quotes, wonky words, silliness, little-known poetry/poet facts, and other inspiration—yet another way to feed our ravenous poetic souls.
And poetry! Every day, poetry from writers near and far and in-between! The Snakes of Medusa are always hungry.......!
_________________
Medusa encourages poets of all ilk and ages to send their POETRY, PHOTOS and ART, as well as announcements of Northern California poetry events, to kathykieth@hotmail.com (or snail ‘em to P.O. Box 762, Pollock Pines, CA 95726) for posting on this daily Snake blog. Rights remain with the poets. Previously-published poems are okay for Medusa’s Kitchen, as long as you own the rights. (Please cite publication.) Medusa cannot vouch for the moral fiber of other publications, contests, etc. that she lists, however, so submit to them at your own risk. For more info about the Snake Empire, including guidelines for submitting to or obtaining our publications, click on the link to the right of this column: Rattlesnake Press (rattlesnakepress.com). And be sure to sign up for Snakebytes, our monthly e-newsletter that will keep you up-to-date on all our ophidian chicanery.
