007 Challenge

[cherries_on_snow]

Thank you, JC.

 

[cherries_on_snow]

Twenty-one

William Arthur Gibbs
Kelly Yeomans
Hamed Nastoh
Dawn Marie Wesley
Nicola Anne Raphael
Ryan Halligan
Jamie Hubley
Jamey Rademeyer
Audrie Pott
Amanda Todd
Kenneth Weishuhn
Jadin Bell
Megun Meier
Brodie Panlock
Tyler Long
Ty Smalley
Phoebe Prince
Tyler Clementi
Rehtaeh Parsons
August Ames
Rebecca Sedwick

Tell the families
The families of the dead
That internet bullying
Is no
Big
Deal.

 

[cherries_on_snow]

Springy

Next eight days are all
Cartwheels, pens capped.
My Vida and I good
Fridaying, Scarsdale Passover,
Then hoboing Hoboken with Jen:
Morning silk slow, alarmless.

 

[cherries_on_snow]

Salt

Good neighbors dutifully
lean lobby packages
against quiet doors but this!
A giant Himalayan salt lamp,
Thirty pounds in salt alone!
Neighbors like that? Worth
A salt lamp's weight in gold.

 

[cherries_on_snow]

Goodnight kiss

Three hours later
our bones settled
well into our skins and even
leaked a little vapor
of original you, honest me,
into our narrative. Three hours
later, I brush, strip off the day
and dress for bed in light
soft somethings.

 

[JCSTREET]

I MOURN THE DEATH 0107XX

By JCSTREET © 2018

I mourn the death of plangent
metal, terra
cotta pots on plots with their slow ease
of seepage, their semi-
permeable firmness, earthy
to the touch, I mourn

the death of honest wood, we've
done wood no good in our race
to long chain polymeric plastics, they

lead only to plastique as disaffected
anarchy tears loose
the dogears of disappointment, the anointed
oilsheen of textures that
cloaked our fathers' field-fingers, their
workshop hands, the simple

implements of daily drudge yet
pleased the senses in those quiet
moments between sunbeams, I

mourn the death of wood, we've
done wood no good


POSTAMBLE (sic)

I was looking at a pint-sized terracotta jug on the kitchen windowsill today when it occurred to me, that

terracotta breathes—it lets both air and moisture circulate inward and outward and then I thought of its plastic counterparts, how terracotta flowerpots and urns have been pushed out by Walmart's long chain polymeric brittle, non-permeable clones.

Got to thinking further—remember those dishwashing things that had solid wooden shafts with about six semi-circular plastic sponges fixed to the end. You would shove this piston-like into glasses full of soapy water and feel the satisfaction of knowing it was reaching every nook and cranny—made glass-washing a breeze.

Then, one day you walked into the Navy Exchange or the Piggly Wiggly or The Great Atlantic and Pacific Tea Company and suddenly-----they were gone, to be replaced by copies with thin plastic handles.

First time you shoved one of these into a glass . . . it buckled . . and after a few uses it just cracked and broke.

Ruminated for awhile on how so many of our favourite implements (and wooden clothes pins suddenly jump to mind as well) have been abandoned in favour of replacements that simply don't work.

Plastic clothes pins are made brittle by sunlight and break unexpectedly when you're holding a couple of king-sized sheets in your teeth—Bah!

Brass and copper came to mind, and pewter and more so I wrote a short epitaph to these pleasant things that we often can only find in antique shops now—even though some are only 10, 20, 30 years old.

 

[cherries_on_snow]

JC, that was amazing.
ETA I am the only teacher in the building who uses a manual, wall mounted pencil sharpener. I adore that thing.

 

[JCSTREET]

I remember those so fondly, cherries

 

[JCSTREET]

You are the arch-mistress of 'found' poetry, taking anything that falls to hand during the quotidian round and sculpting it into meaning

 

[cherries_on_snow]

JC, I just listen. It is easy to hear poetry when in good company.

 

[JCSTREET]

hehe !

 

[JCSTREET]

JC, I just listen. It is easy to hear poetry when in good company.

YOUNG LOVE WITH INTIMATIONS OF LUBRICITY

By JCStreet © 2018

We set out at midnight
to spread the word
to cover the earth with poetry
to cover the earth like
Sherwin-Williams paint with the colour of it the
textures and tapestries that we wove

Susan was laughing and
kicking up her runners as she ran
capering with delight
her pigtails
bouncing in a rare way that I liked, we

set out at midnight
a warm night
a moonful night but
not quite full yet

glinting on the telegraph poles where we
slathered sonnets

We stuck an emended elegy on the window
of Joe’s Bar the
patrons stared dully
through the glass darkly, those who

were dyslexic
read perfectly in reverse

(we had used transparent paper)

ah yes, the dyslexics, they
read perfectly in reverse, that’s
why they were in Joe’s Bar, they

never learned to read the right way, they
couldn’t get uptown jobs, teachers
back then were lazy with dyslexics, they

just threw them out of school or
promoted them inchoately

but they learned to read STOP at the corners
along Main Street, learned
to read STOP so they
didn’t kill as many people on their drunken wends
home

they learned to read BAR
“just away down to s’eoj RAB”
they’d say to their wives and sweethearts

who didn’t wait up, we

plastered a villonelle on Vivian’s boutique it
sold lingerie . . . garter belts sexy
shimmies, camisoles and stockings,
waspies, corsets and
open girdles you

wore those to the drive-in, panties under
so guys could finger-fuck you while you
stroked them but
couldn’t quite get it in, we were
always scared that a guy might actually
get it in, after midnight

we dangled a dreary dirge
from a moonbeam
outside Daniel’s Donuts the

antidotes
to the pillaging of donut holes
by nationwide chains, at Daniels
you got the hole too

(though in a separate box)

when the moon rose higher we
hired a rickshaw
making all speed to Gary’s Garage
glomming ghastly gothic free-form
poems on the pumps

which read

REGULAR – an elbow
SUPER -- a knee
HI-TEST -- your Blackberry

that was fun

Susan jumped up in the air
clicked the heels of her US Keds together like
a circus performer, she had

already published in the Antioch Review

Susan wore an Old Navy top with that
wide cut
that shows the collar bone, no bra
they bounced and flounced, I was
quite taken with them and

grey sweatpant shorts
cut off with scissors and
nothing underneath, our

rickshaw ran us back to Main Street where we
offered an ode out loud
to Sheriff Serendipity
who smiled indulgently and said:

“Hope youse kids ain’t gettin’ up to no mischief the law should know about.”

I said no

I was 20 and had
plenty of perfectly
lawful plans for the evening

hoping Susan would concur, she was
labile that way

mood swinging from
moonstruck to fucked up but

we were drug free at least, could feast
soberly on reality

when
Dick Cheney raced past in a motorcade we knew
it had to stop at the big STOP sign
at Main and Maple, we

ran and ran and ran till we could
plaster a potent panegyric
on the fender of his big black limo

dealing lightly with the
old lawyer he peppered
down on the quail range we
wondered if he thought it was Dan Quayle he was
shootin’ at, and if

in the event
he was sneaking the guy
Wild Turkey miniatures in the ICU

Secret Service men
rushed at us from all directions, one had
a Beretta 9000S – a good sidearm, another
a Glock 31 then

a more menacing man with a
Heckler & Koch UMP sub-gun

scary weapon that but

when they read the poem they just laughed
waved us away

and the motorcade
sped on
to unknown destinations, unknown

rendezvouses

with other feckless poets who
fearing not for life and limb licked
gum-backed limericks and

slathered them on the windows

of the big black limos we

got the shakes after
thinking that
Cheney himself might have
jumped out and mowed us down

mowed us down with a Federal Arms
slug gun, we

needed a drink

We headed back to Joe’s RAB
where the inmates
were still reading
the backward poem on the window

all lined up
holding their drinks, Joe

looked at us darkly, he said

“these guys are so busy dyslexing they ain’t buyin’
rounds no more”, so we

bought a round for the house
told the story of the motorcade, how we
almost took a few rounds ourselves

all the dyslexics turned around and laughed and
drank up
and bought us a round back, Joe laughed

Joe laughed and shook his head and said “kids today . . .
what canya do?”

Back at Susan’s dorm we hugged close for a moment, I
kissed her on the forehead and
told her I loved her

“Me too,”
she said ambiguously, but I

ran home
light as a feather and
free as a bird


-30-

 

[Piscator]

YOUNG LOVE WITH INTIMATIONS OF LUBRICITY

By JCStreet © 2018

We set out at midnight
to spread the word
to cover the earth with poetry
to cover the earth like
Sherwin-Williams paint with the colour of it the
textures and tapestries that we wove

Susan was laughing and
kicking up her runners as she ran
capering with delight
her pigtails
bouncing in a rare way that I liked, we

set out at midnight
a warm night
a moonful night but
not quite full yet

glinting on the telegraph poles where we
slathered sonnets

We stuck an emended elegy on the window
of Joe’s Bar the
patrons stared dully
through the glass darkly, those who

were dyslexic
read perfectly in reverse

(we had used transparent paper)

ah yes, the dyslexics, they
read perfectly in reverse, that’s
why they were in Joe’s Bar, they

never learned to read the right way, they
couldn’t get uptown jobs, teachers
back then were lazy with dyslexics, they

just threw them out of school or
promoted them inchoately

but they learned to read STOP at the corners
along Main Street, learned
to read STOP so they
didn’t kill as many people on their drunken wends
home

they learned to read BAR
“just away down to s’eoj RAB”
they’d say to their wives and sweethearts

who didn’t wait up, we

plastered a villonelle on Vivian’s boutique it
sold lingerie . . . garter belts sexy
shimmies, camisoles and stockings,
waspies, corsets and
open girdles you

wore those to the drive-in, panties under
so guys could finger-fuck you while you
stroked them but
couldn’t quite get it in, we were
always scared that a guy might actually
get it in, after midnight

we dangled a dreary dirge
from a moonbeam
outside Daniel’s Donuts the

antidotes
to the pillaging of donut holes
by nationwide chains, at Daniels
you got the hole too

(though in a separate box)

when the moon rose higher we
hired a rickshaw
making all speed to Gary’s Garage
glomming ghastly gothic free-form
poems on the pumps

which read

REGULAR – an elbow
SUPER -- a knee
HI-TEST -- your Blackberry

that was fun

Susan jumped up in the air
clicked the heels of her US Keds together like
a circus performer, she had

already published in the Antioch Review

Susan wore an Old Navy top with that
wide cut
that shows the collar bone, no bra
they bounced and flounced, I was
quite taken with them and

grey sweatpant shorts
cut off with scissors and
nothing underneath, our

rickshaw ran us back to Main Street where we
offered an ode out loud
to Sheriff Serendipity
who smiled indulgently and said:

“Hope youse kids ain’t gettin’ up to no mischief the law should know about.”

I said no

I was 20 and had
plenty of perfectly
lawful plans for the evening

hoping Susan would concur, she was
labile that way

mood swinging from
moonstruck to fucked up but

we were drug free at least, could feast
soberly on reality

when
Dick Cheney raced past in a motorcade we knew
it had to stop at the big STOP sign
at Main and Maple, we

ran and ran and ran till we could
plaster a potent panegyric
on the fender of his big black limo

dealing lightly with the
old lawyer he peppered
down on the quail range we
wondered if he thought it was Dan Quayle he was
shootin’ at, and if

in the event
he was sneaking the guy
Wild Turkey miniatures in the ICU

Secret Service men
rushed at us from all directions, one had
a Beretta 9000S – a good sidearm, another
a Glock 31 then

a more menacing man with a
Heckler & Koch UMP sub-gun

scary weapon that but

when they read the poem they just laughed
waved us away

and the motorcade
sped on
to unknown destinations, unknown

rendezvouses

with other feckless poets who
fearing not for life and limb licked
gum-backed limericks and

slathered them on the windows

of the big black limos we

got the shakes after
thinking that
Cheney himself might have
jumped out and mowed us down

mowed us down with a Federal Arms
slug gun, we

needed a drink

We headed back to Joe’s RAB
where the inmates
were still reading
the backward poem on the window

all lined up
holding their drinks, Joe

looked at us darkly, he said

“these guys are so busy dyslexing they ain’t buyin’
rounds no more”, so we

bought a round for the house
told the story of the motorcade, how we
almost took a few rounds ourselves

all the dyslexics turned around and laughed and
drank up
and bought us a round back, Joe laughed

Joe laughed and shook his head and said “kids today . . .
what canya do?”

Back at Susan’s dorm we hugged close for a moment, I
kissed her on the forehead and
told her I loved her

“Me too,”
she said ambiguously, but I

ran home
light as a feather and
free as a bird

-30-

11 out of 10 - love to hear this as an audio

 

[JCSTREET]

I started tapping my feets when you said that

 

[cherries_on_snow]

Wonderful poems, JC.

 

[cherries_on_snow]

Seder, Salt and Sunday

Uber fail made me late for Seder,
Only my second so it was
Like the next day coffee with what was
Supposed to be a one night
Stand: clumsy intimacy
Stood on evening heels. Then, 27 pages in,
Saltwater and eggs, maybe the wine,
Eased the passage past
Self past difference past politics
In the embraced pain that teaches.
Even nurtures. Necessary pain.
Bitter herbs sweeten suffering
Passed hand to hand around a generous
Table of friends and their daughters.

 

[JCSTREET]

well-handled - too bad my Montreal friend Wayne wasn't there as driving for Uber is one of his zillion part-time jobs (and their down-town heritage apartment also has an airbnb. Wayne deftly weaves his VW Jetta through every conceivable traffic hazard at inter-dimensional speeds

 

[cherries_on_snow]

Damn.

Just... Damn.

I agree. Wow. I am enjoying. Backstroking this thread. I believe this comment was on the Katie Jones poem One of a Kind. Quite powerful.

 

[JCSTREET]

I agree. Wow. I am enjoying. Backstroking this thread. I believe this comment was on the Katie Jones poem One of a Kind. Quite powerful.

hehe

KGB

By JCStreet © 2017

We tried to get arrested because
I figured you pull a five in the Gulag you
--lose a lot of weight, you
--learn a second language, you
--get a book out of it, and
there was no terror in the Gulags by 1988, sure
it was hard time but you got
lots of fresh air

she was an art teacher from New Zealand, working
in London, she
wore a blue coat and a rakish hat with a beautiful
feather,
we walked up the Moscow River to
Parca Gorkiy and I said

Izvinitye pahzhalsta, babushka . . .
Yest oo vas chai and we sipped
the sweet tea from glasses
in silver containers

we took the train out past
the inner ring
road and the outer ring road, out to where
the cigarettes had names like Kosmos and
Tupolev 154 and
cost only pennies

back in town cigs cost a fortune
at the beriozkaya, we
walked among the snowy gloom of weeping concrete
workers’ highrises and tried to
break the 25 mile limit
and wait
and wait
and wait

for the boys not from Brazil but
from the Komitet Gosudarstvennoi Bezopastnosti
in their little Zhiguli
with the blue light
to putt putt alongside but
Alas!

our errant tails between our legs we hurried
back to some station which was not
the one we had come to, we were
hopelessly lost and unable to divine
how to buy a ticket but,
still reckless with adventure, we
boarded a long distance train that was possibly
headed for Vlad, or Kras, or worse and
my Berlitz gave
no comfort in the matter
saying only
“Gdye mozhnya paluchit skladnoye kryesla,” or
“Where can I get a deckchair.”

-30-

 

[cherries_on_snow]

Adorable.

 

[JCSTREET]

Adorable.

(blush)

 

[JCSTREET]

my 'frigerator looks
like a plague of locusts hit it
since I made my midnight creep

when

I wake up hungry I
eat every living thing

-30-

 

[cherries_on_snow]

(blush)

And the poem is good, too.

 

[JCSTREET]

line spacing poor on 'locusts'

I'll try to atone with this


I Came Upon a Stone

By JCStreet © 2-18 060117

which upon turning
with tipsy topsy mien
yielded only another, another
stone
more topsy tipsy than a
cobbler’s last until
I had unearthed a tower
quivering
in unstable equilibrium, quivering
as a stack of pregnant
compact discs and Oh!

I yearned to hear them sing, to

hear them sing, I
winced at the sweet sound and fossicked deeper

deeper and more deeply still, this
journey
to centre and beyond, tumbling
into a well of song more
deeply still, fearing

an emergence in China I reviewed
the hidden reverence of secret scripts
for the aesthetic, the

hiddenness of hiding the hidden
hidingness of hiddenness, I reviewed

and then dug on

(which evoked thoughts of dugongs
drifting silently and alone in the prop-riven waters of a
Bahamian cay . . . . but)

I digress for
as deeper still I dug I paused
as dampness
fevered my brow even as

imagination fevered more, more
to return me to my quest, the music

welling and welling still in the
deep, then deepening, then
deeper still until deeper than an ampersand


to which attaches
sentences of unknown propensity, endless
sentences of unknown, deeper

than an ampersand with its curious tail, deeper
than the fading scent of
Cabochard on a scampering girl

skipping in a hayfield with its
furled ricks, with its

furlingness, deeper

but I dug on, not to be
outsmarted by the wind

but rather to be limned, limned
in first starlight, first star, first star

I see tonight

and not for the first time but there is
seeing and seeing and though I saw still I saw
not all
but some and a little, after all

starlight does not reveal ALL
depths

all directions, it does not, so I

dug on, sometimes

this pregnant pipe of by now
unknown dimension

giggled, I was

perplexed, had I

unearthed a flip-flopped tower of babble
useful for Scrabble

or was my
quest for the ineffable

doomed
to be spoken

-30-

 

[cherries_on_snow]

Leaned against the plate glass
Of American Trash, a rich boy
With a trashed arn torn
In a fit of temper

Father fight, business,
The fish got the business
Fist through the aquarium
Then a flood. Then an exodus.
Rich boy poor until business hours.

Which is how I learned to make taxi
Fare after hours in an
Off the books casino. The boy said
Let me borrow 10 and I will
Pay 15 in ten minutes.

See, he counted on rigging.
We sidled up to roullette.
My Kansas eyes helped. We bet small
Just small next to the swagger
Couple betting 20s.

Then we caught a cab and he whispered
They have to have a winner
And the smallest payout wins.