T.C.’s Place

A normal viaduct in most respects, this concrete structure nonetheless harbors secrets; gives sanctuary to demons and angels alike. Since it resides on the outskirts of our town (a fact represented by the dearth of graffiti adorning its facades), it presents opportunity for motorists or other travelers needing respite from a storm. One evening in late May, I found out that storms rage out of control in places where few choose to look, even on the brightest lit days.

T.C.’s viaduct, as I now choose to call it, is technically designated as 11M265, Milepost 126. It almost sounds like the service number of some dog-faced washout from the war in Viet Nam. Perhaps the engineers who named it had a gift for irony or possessed a little precognitive power. More likely, the reference is mine and mine alone. I tend to think in terms of long past events that mean little to others.

It is not totally kismet that I stop here. Little Skunk Creek runs directly underneath the viaduct, and the sloping dirt road leading to its banks are usually passable under most conditions. The willow bushes have grown taller than a man and offer camouflage from all but the most stalwart intruder, a handy place to relieve myself when the distance between The Pump House and my house exceeds my bladder’s ability to store waste products. There is something sinfully delightful about pissing in a stream that I know runs directly into the city water plant. Most likely, I’m quite properly classified as a small-time urban terrorist. No matter, they could never prove it. My DNA will combine with that of every deer, raccoon, frog, water moccasin and sasquatch that ever anointed the stream. I doubt the CIA’s abilities in this respect, although I’ll get the bill for cleanup nonetheless.

I saw the little man quite by accident. He had chosen MY spot to answer the call of nature. There is something fascinating about the psychology of two men standing at adjoining urinals. It is nearly impossible for either to avoid making eye contact with the other. Such was the case, today.

“Mind if I join you, my back teeth are floatin’!” I’m nothing if not polite.

He looked up at me, then back down. “Free country… or haven’t you heard?”

It was obvious to the most casual observer that he held no regard for me whatsoever, so no more conversation ensued. Since he was there first, he completed his task and sat down against the abutment, staring at me through eyes of sad experience. His weathered green field jacket carried the grime of the road and he didn’t sweat, although it was almost ninety degrees. Instantly, I was fascinated by him and wanted to know more.

“Excuse me for intruding, but it’s hot, and I have a couple of beers in the truck, would you care for one?”

“Mister, I’ll drink every beer you got, but you make any move which suggests to me that you’re a homo, and I’ll field-strip you before you can holler, we understand each other?”

I held my hands up in front of me, palm outward, and walked back to the truck for the twelve-pack of Budweiser I had purchased for the weekend. We sat in the shade for hours; he shared stories of the road and I mostly nodded my head and listened politely. He was very likeable, and I couldn’t help but wonder what made him so different. Given his attire, my thoughts inevitably turned to the Viet Nam War. Instinctively I suspected he was a veteran, as am I, so I decided to find out.

“HMM-163, 1st MAR DIV, I-Corps, Khe Sahn, 1968.” The look he gave me, I’ll take to my grave. Then, he tossed his empty bottle onto the sand, reaching for another.

“Yea… somethin’ like that…” was all he said.

“Sorry… I didn’t mean to pry. I have a brother who is MIA”.

He stood, picked up his backpack, and raised his bottle to me. After giving me a grin that I recognized from my boyhood, he replied, “No you don’t.” Then, he slogged across the stream and disappeared into the woods on the other side.

Memorial Day will not ever be the same again…not for me. All the tributes and cemetery visits in the world couldn't replace the feelings generated inside me that day. I’ve not laid eyes on Thomas Edward Church since, but it’s not important. My brother's doing whatever it is that he's meant to do, and now I know that all those times when I feel his presence, I'm not crazy.

November Creosote

Goddamn fog. Wally sat placidly at a table, surveying what little he could see out the plate glass window, his mood dour as the weather, the air inside the restaurant heavy as the pea soup outside. Arms folded at his chest, legs crossed, he calmly brought the Marlboro to his lips. Sweet, heavy, nicotine-laden smoke entered his lungs as he watched the crimson tip flare and rush toward his fingers. Wally held his breath to allow the poison quicker entry into his bloodstream and exhaled slowly as he crushed the now-tiny remains of his cigarette into the ashtray. He’d quit someday. Goddamn fog.

It was not unusual for Wally to feel pissy. In fact, lately his moods were becoming more and more somber and he couldn't pinpoint the reasons why. No catastrophic events had occurred, but an all-encompassing sense of ennui had overtaken him, and apparently nothing could be done.

Wally drained his fourth (fifth?) cup of bad Denny's coffee and realized he had absolutely no idea what he wanted or expected from life, not a single clue. He knew only what he didn't want. Neither did he particularly care what happened to the world. No identifiable desire to wish anyone harm sullied his heart, but the void was filled with an ambivalence born of non-achievement, or so he supposed. The clock ticked inside his head, reminding him that he was no longer the energetic youth who could change destiny merely by wishing it so, then making it happen. That unidentifiable spark was gone, and it was beginning to look like the departure might be permanent.

Where had it gone, this nebulous flicker? It was assuredly there when he chased derricks for Halliburton. The oilpatch was full of Wallys, indefinable young men seduced by the lure of adventure and big paychecks, men who possessed brawn and brains enough to walk the razor's edge between safety and fool-hardiness. Most of the rig hands in the Overthrust Belt were willing to fuck, fight, or go for their gun, and only afterward worry about the consequences. A toolpusher on a Cardinal rig sitting somewhere between Baroil and Rock Springs once told him there was virtually no difference between life and death, except life was more expensive. Wally would never forget this was the same man shot to death in the card room of the Glory Hole Bar in Casper, when he had accused the wrong man of taking some of his chips... so much for high finance.

Was it all just one big orgasmic thrust that had passed, just as he was learning how to really negotiate it? Isn't that the way of things, though? Wally wondered how other folks just stayed at a job for thirty or forty years. Had it been just a quick roll in the hay for them, too?

The answer would have to wait. Wally glanced up at the Seth Thomas on the wall and realized that time had gotten away from him. Quickly, he gathered his newspaper, piled four quarters neatly on top of the check, and walked out of the coffee shop. It was a four-minute walk to the mission, and if he didn't hurry, he'd miss the opening scene of Columbo.

Bob Church ©

Things of Consequence Large and Small

Thirty winters of neglect left him as rusty as the abandoned metal automobile shells currently occupying the outer reaches of the large hillock behind his shack. A quick glance out the kitchen window revealed the cancerous advances of corrosion upon their surfaces. Although the thick translucent plastic he’d duct-taped to the window’s exterior to serve as insulation against the cold tended to obscure his view, Thurmond Ledbetter learned to accept the distortions as the necessary result of economy and failing eyesight. Besides, the cars served as rabbit burrows and impediments to hillside erosion, so he figured they served a purpose, even if the county regarded them as an eyesore. He made mental note to remove them just as soon as he received notification that the county was now paying his property taxes… and he smiled broadly, his teeth resembling an octave of piano keys, with a-sharp and b-flat right in the middle.

His new string had arrived yesterday along with John Barnes and his mail sack. John hadn’t cared to step inside, he was a little strapped for time given the fact that his car would never have made the trip up Thurmond’s hill and he was forced to walk. Still, Thurman figured, it would have been neighborly of him to set a spell, but it would have been rude to insist, so he accepted the small parcel with a nod and a smile and shut the front door, although he did watch the diminutive postman walk back down the hill, stepping around and over the mud puddles that formed in the road ruts due to last night’s deluge. This particular part of Kentucky got lots of rain and with the county’s current attitude toward neglect of the less-used gravel roads, it was a small miracle that the route still existed at all, not that Thurmond gave a shit either way; past cousin Purdy’s semi-annual pilgrimage from Elizabethtown and Nellie Freeman’s occasional bouts with Satan and his demon rum, he got very few visitors. And he considered that to be okay, too, even if his songs did have to wait awhile before reaching the ears of anyone except Spottie’s.

Now that he had the sixth string back on his guitar, maybe he’d be able to spot the key change that was screwing up the refrain in his new song and properly figure out if he needed to capo that D-flat diminished to make the lament resound in proper fashion without giving the impression that someone had just castrated Spottie without the benefit of anesthesia. Quietly, he flipped open the aged case that held his glasses and with all the precision his long fingers could muster grasped the thin wire frames and lovingly placed them behind his ears, flicking the tops of his earlobes down to allow their passage. Once in place, he tapped the nosepiece to ensure that they didn’t slip off his face and picked up the copy of his song that he’d labored to write down. Thurmond didn’t really read music, although he understood what to play if he saw the chords written down, so he’d taken the time to write ‘a-flat’ and ‘C-minor-diminished’ and whatever notes were called for atop the words. Most musicians would have laughed at him if they’d ever seen his ‘music’, but Thurmond filed their derision in the long mental list he’d already compiled for anyone who didn’t like what he did, his list of people who could go straight to hell, never once stopping to pass ‘Go’.

With patience derived from years spent in practice of lethargy, Thurmond worked the new string into its assigned position alongside the others, carefully and meticulously tightening the tuners on his guitar’s neck with a strum on the appropriate string. After satisfying himself that his instrument was properly tuned, he stopped to once again familiarize himself with the song:

Loser’s Blues

Ain’t nothin’ in the world for me,

I don’t fit in, as you can see,

I couldn’t even steal

some piece of mind…

I’ve got glass cuts ‘round my mouth

from something layin’ ‘round my house,

I’m a lightheaded loser

burned out from all that booze.

(refrain)

So please don’t bury me

down in that cold, dark ground

while hairy spiders check me out,

they’re crawlin’ all around…

I don’t care what they said,

I just may not be dead,

appearances can be deceivin’,

liquored up from Shayna’s news.

Ol’ Black Jack’s my only friend,

the only one I don’t offend,

he don’t talk back or

leave me for another’s arms.

He won’t walk out on me,

and as you can plainly see,

ain’t much left to imagination

or, for that matter— charm.

So please don’t bury me

down in that cold, dark ground

while hairy spiders check me out,

they’re crawlin’ all around…

I don’t care what they said,

I just may not be dead,

appearances can be deceivin’,

liquored up from Shayna’s news.

Now there ain’t a day goes by,

I don’t get by just gettin’ high,

Eatin’ tater chips and

Sleepin’ in my clothes.

While it certainly may be true

I’d take a bullet just for you,

It also could be argued

You also took a few for me.

So please don’t throw my clothes

out on that cold, wet ground,

you know I love you just as much

as we pass the bottle 'round…

I don’t care what they said

Shayna’s love just isn't dead,

Appearances can be deceivin’,

When you sing the Loser’s Blues.

There’d be no supper tonight. Song followed song like summer follows spring as Thurmond Ledbetter did the only thing he really enjoyed doing, oblivious to time and space, ignorant of all things outside his shack and blessedly so. Spottie didn’t care one way or the other.

Bob Church©4/27/07

It'll Never Stop...

Have you noticed that you’re starting to get telemarketing calls on your cell phone now? I am now convinced that telemarketers are no longer paid by the number of sales they achieve from their efforts, but by the amount of time they can keep a prospective customer on the line. In fact, I don’t think they’re really representing specific companies at all, I think they’re all shills for the phone company—the longer they can keep you on the line, the more the phone company charges you.

I got a call last night that went something like this:

“Hello?”

“Hey, how are you tonight? This is Larry, down at Merle’s Hardware, and I see that you recently bought some merchandise from us. I’m calling to follow up and make sure that you’re satisfied with your purchases. Would you mind answering a few questions for me, it’ll help us determine customer satisfaction levels and ultimately keep our prices low. Plus, as your reward for helping us out, we’ll be sending you a nice gift.”

“I’ve never stepped foot in a Merle’s Hardware store.”

“I see here that you used your MasterCard for your purchase. Could you please confirm your number and expiration date for me so I can make sure that it’s really you? I wouldn’t want to inconvenience the wrong Bob Church.”

“I don’t have a MasterCard, and even if I did I’d sooner allow you to strap me down and pull all my teeth out with a pair of Channel Lock pliers without the benefit of anesthetic before I gave you the number.”

“Wait… oh, I’m sorry, I was looking at the wrong line on my monitor, I’ll need your Visa card number.”

(After a short pause to recompose myself) “I’m not giving you my Visa card number.”

“It wouldn’t have been an American Express card, would it?”

“Perhaps I didn’t make myself clear… there isn’t a Merle’s Hardware store within a hundred miles of my house, and I certainly wouldn’t drive that far to buy hardware.”

“Well, Mr. Church—do you mind if I call you ‘Mr. Church’, I assure you I respect you and your time— let me ask you this, if there were a Merle’s Hardware store close to you, what credit card would you be using for your purchases and what is its number, including the four number identifier code on the back?”

“Please don’t force me to be rude, I don’t want to descend to your level, but I’m not giving you any credit card numbers.”

“Uh-huh… I understand totally, many people feel that way until they know that tonight only, I am authorized to offer you $5,000 worth of building materials for only $500 if you’re willing to put it on a nationally accepted credit card such as MasterCard, Visa, American Express, Discover or major department store. That’s a tremendous bargain, Bob, one that you’d kick yourself for tomorrow if you fail to act tonight.”

“I’m going to dress up like a drunken doctor in a Superman costume with a burrito stuffed into the crotch of his tights and give you a proctology exam.”

“Let’s assume for a minute that there was a Merle’s Hardware store close by, what card would you be using?”

“I fully intend to hunt you down and kill you.”

“From our conversation, I’m guessing MasterCard, am I correct?”

“I’m going to rape you, your wife, your kids and set your house on fire.”

“Say, that’s swell, Mr. Church, I understand, but you can’t claim the fabulous prize I’m about to offer you without a credit ca—”

CLICK

Canis Juris

The large dog sat quietly, watching. His posture mirrored the state of semi-awareness he showed the world, his weight primarily resting on his butt, with long front legs extended so that he could move quickly if necessary. Were he able to don a black robe, he might be mistaken for a judge overseeing a trial. Of course, he’d have needed considerable attention to his unkempt appearance, but his eyes reflected his equanimity and demeanor of fairness. After all, he had no interest in the proceedings past the overall concerns common to his species, those special loyalty traits bred into him that made him man’s best friend in the first place.

His head tilted slightly when one man struck the other with the stick, in recognition of the thud and muted groan, but the arena lacked any immediacy of threat and his human was not present, so it clearly was none of his business. A quick scan of the area revealed no other dogs coming to the human’s rescue, so, in keeping with his judicial bearing he minded his own business and merely watched as the victim lay bleeding in the street. Besides, the other human already left the scene.

Now, no stimuli other than the far-off city sounds transpired within his sight. His human had commanded him to sit and stay, so that’s exactly what he’d do. Hopefully, he’d be back soon and they could go find his bowl. Watching didn’t create the appetite of more physical activity, but it was long past sundown and he was, nevertheless, a little hungry. Still, it was easier to merely wait. If his human didn’t show up by morning, he’d go find some food, but for now, he was content to lick his balls and wait for something else to happen. Court stood in recess.

Psychic Brown-Out

I had a very strange dream last night. I dreamed that I was married and living on a farm and my wife and I were so happy that we could barely keep from smiling even in the face of tragedy. And it was a good thing, too, because during our evening walk, my wife was attacked and mauled by a savage pack of wolves. (Yes, I realize that it's a little far-fetched, but it was a dream... work with me here, will you?) As I held her close to me and her life poured out onto the earth, I’ll never forget her last words, “Darling, I shall wait for you in Heaven”.

Well… time passes slowly when you’ve experienced such a loss, but a few months later I met a wonderful young girl about half my age and we were married. The years flew like days and one day I made the unwise choice of trying to harvest my wheat crop while gorked on tequila. I slipped off the back of my combine and got caught in the thresher… it wasn’t pretty, but as my life ebbed, I looked up into the eyes of my faithful wife and told her, “Honey, I’ll be waiting for you in Heaven”.

As it turned out, I wouldn’t have too long to wait. Actually, it was something less than a minute since this was a dream and occurring very rapidly inside my head, but that’s beside the point and adds nothing to the story. Be that as it may, she, too, succumbed to a terrible accident. As she mucked the stalls, she was butted by a cow and fell face first into a large pile of manure, the stench of which invaded her nostrils and suffocated her.

There we were in Heaven, both my wives and I. Needless to say, I had some explaining to do, but eventually my first wife forgave me and accepted my second wife, but it wasn’t the sort of relationship I’d hoped for. After a period of time (it’s pretty tough to measure time in heaven, every day is pretty much like the last) I worked up the courage to ask them for a threesome.

Well… suffice to say that apparently God is less than accepting of shenanigans up in Heaven, because I’d no more than voiced my request than I found myself instantaneously transported into an ugly, muggy, humid, hot landscape filled with grotesque people getting stuck by hot pokers and taunted by hideous, impish beasts. I think I was in Hell, although I admit that I could have been inside a nightclub in downtown Miami.

I guess the moral of the story might be ‘Watch what you wish for’— either that or, 'Watch what you eat right before you go to bed... you might want to avoid the three-alarm-chili'. Morals are hard to interpret at four A.M... when you're hung over.

My friends now figure that my life is so utterly meaningless that I would care that rubber bands last longer if only I’ll keep them in the refrigerator (presumably right next to the half-eaten container of blueberry yogurt I can’t manage to force down), Winston Churchill was born in a ladies’ room during a dance, and Leonardo DaVinci invented the scissors.

Actually, I’m not sure what this says about them (or me), but the very fact that I’m reporting it is troubling. We live in a world where pissed-off ‘martyrs’ blow up innocent shoppers and whacked-out foreign exchange students emulating sad, miscreant killers take their blood lust to our campuses, yet I feel compelled to inform you that in the last 4,000 years, not a single new animal has been domesticated.

Now, while I occasionally pick up a scissors and I vaguely recall reading about a rather droll confrontation Winston Churchill once had with Lady Astor, but beyond these two instances, I rarely give either a solitary thought. But just now, I Googled both key words just to see what would show up. I can only assume that the activity temporarily forestalls thinking about the events unfolding in Baghdad and Blacksburg, and the dull, nagging, seemingly never-ending pain associated with both.

I don't know if any answers to the problems exist, but if they do, apparently no one has the balls or the influence necessary to implement them.

So, I’ll tell you that scissors are often confused with shears and that Winston Churchill once, when reminded by Lady Astor that he was drunk, purportedly quipped “I may be drunk, Madam, but in the morning I will be sober and you will still be ugly.”

If you’re looking for answers or rationale for the world, I fear you’ve come to the wrong place. I haven't made any decisions, as yet, about the rubber bands.

Just a little blues

I don’t think white people get ‘soul’, but if we did, I think I’d be experiencing it right now. I’m listening to Albert King hit his blues licks and I feel like most of my skeletal structure just melted and I want to play handsies and stare deeply into the eyes of a woman who is also feeling the music. Occasionally, I hear the lament of his harmonica and an off-chord fret on his guitar, and I wonder if it’s intentional. Somehow, blues shouldn’t be perfect; it should be like us… flawed and hungry, depraved and searching for understanding, with a thread of divinity not quite lost amid a discordant melody. It’s like being high without the drugs, it’s your head bobbing with closed eyes, hoping your partner is feeling it, too, and can respond with a squeeze. It’s a taxi hauling you around the city with the meter off and an unlimited supply of gas and leather upholstery that makes you sweat in rhythm to the chords, and it blends you until you no longer care if you laugh or cry or just sit and stare, your smile trying to dance out. It’s careless anarchy… it’s disorganized chaos without the urgency, and it's just too good and you hope it never stops.

Bubba's Top Ten List For The New Reality

In the past week, I have learned much I never knew. In the spirit of disclosure, I have decided to share my new education, and do my penance for once being a proponent of the Constitution.

1. While I have long recognized John Elway as Jesus I was unaware that Don Imus (obscure as he is) is actually God. Yes, with two words most people would have never heard but for the efforts of the National Association of Black Journalists and their beautifully packaged and orchestrated campaign, Don Imus forever changed the entire lives of the women of the Rutgers basketball team. Now, this is power and this is Almighty!!! To me, it is deliciously divine (just not in the religious sense).

2. Being raised in the bosom of Catholicism, I am woefully out of touch with what Reverends now preach: "It is human to err, but it is divine to blame." I say bravo... and I blame all of those Reverends whose pulpit is the camera and photo opportunity; with a special shout-out to the preacher now speaking on behalf of the Rutgers women who has pointed out that an insult can be forgiven but an injury must be compensated.

3. Words, contrary to the old 'sticks and stones' rhyme, can cause great injury, and thus are the proper weapon of choice for WAR (and all this time I thought it was planes, tanks, bombs, etc). Forget the loss of those arms and legs, or those brain injuries, or the blindness... it is the hurt feelings that truly damage our lives. (Of course I have long thought that Al Queda and Bin Laden would surrender if we would only play rap music over loud-speakers 24/7 and broadcast rap videos each and every night in the skies over Baghdad...talk about brutality).

4. As it turns out, "free speech" is not a constitutional issue, it is an advertising issue. Those courageous corporations who decided to pull their sponsorships clearly had only our best interests in mind. They realize we can no longer think for ourselves, and, as good citizens, have recognized their responsibility to make our choices for us. I say Bravo! I am just lazy enough to do no thinking of my own.

5. I am now similarly dissuaded from my incorrect opinion that giant media corporations are ruled by the bottom line. Turns out they are ruled by their "employees" (who now, not only get a pay check, but dictate corporate policy) and by those professional malcontents who can rally their troops most effectively.

6. It is no longer a requirement to be possessed of fact or good information before speaking. We can jettison the American "work ethic" that has gotten us so far, and replace it with the new creed, irresponsibility. It's about time, don't you think? It's so much more fun just to sit back and let some group determine absolutely everything for us. It's what we're entitled to, don't you know?

7. Similarly, we no longer have to take a joke but now have to ascribe perfect seriousness and weight to even the most mundane moment. I am certain the police who patrol our dangerous streets will be much happier to be sent to apprehend comedian criminals than pursue traditionally violent criminals. (Although I do worry that they might get their feelings hurt and suffer life-changing injury.)

8. We no longer have to make any entertainment choice, or resort to that old-fashioned methodology and change the channel, all we have to do is scream "I am offended" to the right party. In keeping with such change, I have now put Al and Jessie, and the NABJ on my speed dial. I suggest you do the same.

9. I am thrilled to recognize the return of the "double-standard" and "reverse discrimination." (How did we ever do without them for so long?)

10. Most importantly, I am happy to be indoctrinated with the new politically-correct manifesto that 'shock jocks' may not shock us and that equal-opportunity offenders can now enjoy no opportunity whatsoever. It is clear to me that we will all be much better off if we burn the books, shut down free speech, turn off our brains and make certain that we are all united by fighting the wrong fight. We will no longer need to know or suffer any difference between reality and perception. I admit it-- I'm worried, folks. I never thought I would find myself standing up for a man who was rude, crude, and truly mean-spirited. But I find myself unwilling to turn a blind eye as he is punished by the powers-that-be, because I am certain this is only the beginning of the end for those of us who do not mind our mouths as they might dictate.

As my own personal protest, I pledge to all of you to attempt to become as completely offensive as humanly possible. I am certain you all realize by now how incredibly easy this will be for me.

Left Bank Purveyor of Bargains

I have no stars to sell tonight,
my wares tend to lack their sparkle.
No streaming comets, either,
although, should you be inclined,
I might offer a lingering trail—
just for your amusement.

Perhaps a lilting dirge or two?
The requiem laments still sing—
though certainly not fresh nor sweet.
I assure you the terms are negotiable
and cheap at twice the price,
sold ‘as is’, of course.

Wait—I just thought of a sweet deal
on a fireworks display I took in trade,
shot by a news crew on the roof of a Baghdad hotel—
vintage 2002 complete with sound;
a real beauty, a one-owner cream puff
that you can drive away tonight.

I have no stars to sell tonight,
the clouds abound on every front,
but should you want to make the trip,
rumor has that Bushco brilliance
still releases stellar brightness—
at selected times along the Beltway.


Bob Church©4/12/07

Sunday Morning Musings

I'm at peace this morning, or at least I'm experiencing a lull in the battle currently being waged inside my head, the non-stop hatred I possess for the executive branch of our government. I'm listening to a little soft jazz, the '60s genre genius of John Coltrane that I found while surfing blogs in quest of something a little different. Check it out while you're reading: C&L’s Late Nite Music Club with John Coltrane

As I listen, I'm reminded of other times. Coltrane's genius transports me through his multi-dimensional nattering, syncopated rhythms, his absolute 'thinking outside the box' representation of complex themes. In the background I feel the Manhattan taxi lurch forward, change lanes, then come to a complete stop before starting all over again. Meanwhile, I smell the curry lingering from the driver's lunch and the unmistakable acrid invasion of odor from the front seat, the sharp jabbing ambience of his armpits. But as I roll down the window, I'm coddled with the unintended symphony of beeping taxi horns and the occasional warning of a trash truck backing up, all layered on top of the drone produced by traffic's internal combustion engines. It's city sound... it's vox populi.

It changes, migrates-- even morphs-- and at times, you might suspect that one or more of the players listens to only his own muse; but it is genius, the tension it builds is released in a feeling of true peace which must be what some religious people apparently sometimes get.

Muse-Tryst In Elysian Field

(**Tribute to Gerard Manley Hopkins)

I look upon the raven hill,
With alders standing stark and still,
Beneath, betwixt my altered will,
Sweet reverence notwithstanding.

There stood for me a buttressed swale,
Inviting me to climb its trail,
Around, among the fall detail,
Glib reference remanding.

It’s there I heard her call to me,
From back, behind an alder tree,
With naught but skylarks there to see,
Still deference demanding.

“Manley Hopkins, I presume?”
Called she, from manses deep with gloom,
Her voice a misplaced autumn bloom,
From high, atop a landing.

How could she dare to mistake me
For one of voice so pure and free
That mention of his name with mine
Might risk the gods’ displeasure?

“I fear that you would chance defame
By uttering so profound a name
That any man would proudly claim,
When taken at his leisure.”

The nymph appeared and stood before
My disbelieving eyes, now sore
So bright became her earthly glow,
Indeed, she was a treasure.

“Are you not he whom all can see,
Who lives in chastened harmony,
With boundless touch of land and sea,
And hint of mist for measure?”

With lowered head and furrowed brow,
I dared a smile’d escape me now;
Humbled, I could not help but bow,
And shake my head, “No, tis not I.
He wrote of Spenser and of Keats,
Mermaids wrought of nature’s sweets,
Sonnets writ in measured beats,
Interchanging eclipse with splendor;

Crossing lines, his words imbue
Cleric virtues in attitude
Reserved for laity to choose,
Certainly not Society of Jesus.”

Plum-purple west with spikes of light,
Speared open gashes, crimson-white,
And doggedly she denied the night
Opportunity to seize us.

She spoke of water-lily flakes,
Clustering on beryl lakes,
Reminding me what nature takes,
When last she opts to leave us.

“Gerard left his touch on you,
With gusts of scented wind that blew,
And antique Latin chants he knew,
He touched your quivering face.

Embrace his words as they were taught,
As they pass your lips you’ll fear them not,
Revere them as you know you ought,
And they’ll lend to you their grace.”

To know dusk-depths of ponderous sea,
Or with miles of solid green, to be
One-tenth as profound as he
Is worthy as undertaken.

Something Pretty

‘Something pretty’ she said to me,
her voice serene if a bit pitchy,
as though my gift might be selected
from reserves of barren ugliness,
lest I be reminded that her sensibilities
should be regarded—
rather than my own.

In her defense, I must admit,
I do possess such ill-conceived proclivities,
as wretched though such reminders find me,
as foul they leave my sense of value,
as bracing is her unintended slap.

My now-red psyche wraps itself
in altered garments,
cloaked in virtue of warm breezes and soft subtlety,
passion’s own heart subdued by suggestion,
dunked in nobility’s mild quench-tank,
soothed in oil and balm and reason’s lotion.

And I wait.

Does she know?
Could she possibly ever understand
the conflict I create within
the barriers confining my head from my heart?
Which do I choose?
Can it be done at all?

So I wait.


Bob Church©2/22/07

‘Tis Marshly Voravé

‘Tis Marshly Voravé

Muskrim and pelgrave, we dwimble…
Farthing bare for soot so afoot,
Flash sodden! Crash noggin!
Twit! Twit! Twit!

Paramour and belgrade, we gimble…
Nonce put earthling rare agog,
Cinch plodden! Brash scoggin!
Nit! Nit! Nit!

Plethora rare and bodkin’s sweet hare,
Ambience miffed only to pout,
Gregory loggin’, Marbury doggin’!
Phit! Phat! Phut!

Pixelations and Gas Stations

This morning on CBS Sunday Morning, their news staff chronicled the story of Chuck Close, a disabled portrait artist who is enjoying a return to prominence; not by overcoming his disability, but by reacting to it and learning to function despite the limitations imposed upon him by a blood clot on his spine.

However, my interest stemmed not so much from his triumph but from the manner in which he learned to adapt and to change his work. Once, his portraits were so lifelike that often they were mistaken for photographs, albeit that the canvas stood ten feet tall and eight feet wide. Now, his technique has changed. He scans portraits with his computer and breaks them down into tiny cubes of pixelated color and light. Then, he adapts the colors of the squares.

"The building blocks for my paintings are not symbolic," he told Sunday Morning anchor Charles Osgood. "They don't stand for anything. It's a little bit like an architect — picking up a brick. You stack up the bricks one way, you get a cathedral. You stack the bricks up another way, and you get a gas station, you know."

The results are spectacular and vivid. The emphasis on each square determines the effect in totality, producing a work that can still be recognized as an identifiable portrait, but enhanced to produce the artist's interpretation.

As I watched and listened, I realized that in many ways, my writing mirrors his technique, or at least I hope it does. Perhaps I shall never gain his excellence of interpretation, but I suspect that my selection of material and writing style differ from his only in this aspect. Chuck Close was a fine portrait painter before his style evolved--therein lies the difference. Even so, for me there is victory. After all these years, I finally understand that I am not demented, psychotic or crazy.

I merely interpret the data from a different spectrum of light. My pixel squares may just reflect a unique translation of the colors-- maybe I just build gas stations in the shape of cathedrals.

Her Last Mardi Gras

Party streamers. Luciana LaBalenciaga surveyed the balcony meticulously before proceeding, taking great care not to step on any of the colorful beads and paper shards that only recently had been blasted onto revelers who’d poured out of the apartment for a prime position at the rail. Not that she really feared twisting an ankle; it was more a matter of respect for the spirit of the past and the dignity of the dead, even if the departed amounted only to a few beer bottles and strips of crepe. After all, Mardi Gras, with all its pomp and ceremony, floats and New Orleans marching bands, served only as a masquerade for people’s hidden agenda, drinking and obscenity. Women who’d never dream of revealing their breasts in a public setting would, for the price of a few strands of worthless beads and an equitable amount of exotic alcoholic beverage, stand on the balcony and, to the exhortation of the multitudes, bare their feminine finery for all the world to behold—and hoot. How many of the same people would find themselves on their knees tomorrow waiting for the priest to smear chrism in the form of a cross on their foreheads, reminding them of their sinful ways and asking them to search their conscience, to rededicate themselves to the banishment of iniquity from their lives?

No matter… it wouldn’t be her. Not tomorrow, not ever again. This balcony would be her last. The dark, cool dampness of the late March night weaved its charms through the fine loose hairs at her temples, tickling her cheeks and whisking her to a simpler time when the breezes foretold only a storm of the natural variety, the spring rains that threatened daddy’s pirogue and made a walk through the bayou a muddy mess. Thoughts of mama standing at the screen door in her simple housedress and apron pushed their way past all the others, demanding that she concentrate, insisting that she listen. Luciana… you come on in now, chil’, de supper ready an’ you ain’t washed yo’ hans. A girl ‘most fo’teen years ol don’ need to be tole more’n once. You hear me, Luciana, don’t dawdle now, come on in.

“I’m comin’, Mama,” she whispered, “I’m comin’.” With few regrets and malice toward no one, Luciana LaBalenciaga quickly scaled the ornamental wrought iron and stepped off the balcony. Somewhere in the sixty feet between balcony and destiny she took her last breath of New Orleans honeydew and joined mama and daddy in the ageless memory of days gone by.

Bob Church© 3/9/07

Just another restful night... no big deal, really

Last night, I dreamed I’d been abandoned in the Komodo dragon habitat of the Reptile House at the San Diego Zoo. I recalled watching an Animal Planet travelogue featuring the vile, disgusting creatures and I seemed to remember that their bite is nearly always fatal to humans because of the abundance of harmful bacteria in their saliva. Several of the lizards had begun to stalk me, using their well-documented ‘scurry about the area like you’re totally nuts’ group-hunting maneuver, hissing and growling and generally making total asses out of themselves.

That’s when Larry King jumped over the railing with his cameraman. My first reaction was amazement at the agility of the seventy-seven-year old, but my awe quickly dissipated and turned to disgust as he put his arm around me and asked me if I’d like to see the genitalia of an elderly Jew. When the cameraman had completed his “In 5…4…3…2…1…” countdown, Larry stuck the microphone in my face and asked me, “So tell America, Bubba, how does it feel to be identified as the only person on the planet who thinks Ray Combs was Family Feud’s best host?”

I’d go on, but frankly, the rest of the dream gets a little strange, given the fact that I couldn't pick Ray Combs out of a one-man lineup.

A Thought In Passing

Is there anything more intimidating than a blank canvas? This morning I clicked my mouse on the blue “W” icon located on my lower task strip and my computer flashed for a second as it interpreted my command and faithfully brought up a page with some funny-looking symbols on top and the vast majority of the page bathed in pure white. There, at the upper left margin, blinked my inexorable enemy, the cursor. At a speed slightly slower than my own heart, I could hear it beckon; I sensed it mocking me. Well, come on, you claim to be a writer… prove it.

Suddenly, the thoughts stopped. Now, what was that great idea I had in the middle of the night that offered a credible solution for my unfinished story about BillyB that sits mired in oblivion? I really need to recognize that my recall has been recalled, that I can no longer make a mental note to store information and hope to re-create it on a whim. My number one source for story ideas, my unconscious, has either burned out or rusted shut.

It’s probably not much of a loss, actually. Judging from the response rate here on my blog, no one will notice, and that’s okay, too. I guess I’m just tired.

Sayonara, Reader-San, it’s been real.

The Sordid Story of Jim and Charlotte

There once was a varlet named Jameson Sneed,
who married a harlot named Charlotte McCreed.
Now, Jameson loved her and pledged her his life,
if she would stop hooking and become his sweet wife.

Their days were so blissful, so filled with desire,
she teased him and squeezed him and set him on fire!
So accomplished was she, in matters of love,
in any position, below or above,
that days passed like minutes, and months flew like days,
while Jim and his Charlotte searched for new ways!

They swung from the rafters, they leaned against walls,
they made love in closets, in tubs and in halls,
they found time for passion at least once per hour,
not stopping to bathe, or even to shower.

But fate intervened , so cruel and so fickle,
when Jim tried to touch her, to sooth or to tickle,
she rudely rebuked him with every advance
and left poor Jim trying to get in her pants.
What once had been torrid with Charlotte adoring,
now led Jim's princess to go back to whoring .

Time passed too quickly as love had flown by,
and poor Charlotte longed for their neighbor named Sly.
Sly was a scoundrel, so dashing and bold,
but Charlotte desired his body to hold,
she imagined him holding her, that gaze in his eyes,
which promised of future liasons and rides.

"Oh, please, my sweet darling, please tell me duly,
what happened to love that you swore to me truly?
You've taken expressions of love I've made nice,
and shunned my advances, you've turned cold as ice!
If I am to lose you to another man's touch,"
Jim asked her conritely, "don't you owe me that much?"

Charlotte's gaze softened as she looked at his face,
she knew she must hurry out, run from this place,
before guilt consumed her and forced her to stay,
she must take her leave of him, she must run away.
Tears streamed from her eyes as she quick turned her back,
"Dear Jim, it's not fair, but there's something you lack."

"Oh, I see," he said, as he sat on the chair,
"my methods are lacking, I just can't compare,
I'm sure that you must have had a great chuckle,
when first you encountered what was under my buckle,
but I don't recall mirth as you laid there wiggling,
when you cried out to God, you certainly weren't giggling!"

"Don't make me spell it out, Jameson dear,
you really tried hard and you got me so near,
but when we were ending the passionate race,
why couldn't you slow down,come in second place?
It's not fun any more, I just can't seem to make it,
when time after time I'm forced to just fake it !"

All the blood now drained out of poor Jameson's face,
his smile was now gone and a scowl took it's place.
He tried to be calm as he looked at his wife,
but he reached in the drawer and he still grabbed that knife.

Calmly he hid it behind his own back,
at the opportune moment he'd grab her and hack!
Char seemed to sense that the end may be near,
his face was contorted with an ungodly sneer,
so she made her decision, poured two jiggers of scotch,
one hand held the shot glass, the other his crotch.

Cooing and whispering, "Please, Jim, don't be bitter,
you know how you make my heart go aflitter,
I can't stand to see you unhappy like this,
so please drop that weapon and give me a kiss."

Her feminine wiles showed the sorrow she felt,
and Jameson's heart was starting to melt,
'What am I doing?', he thought to himself,
and he set the knife down on the top kitchen shelf,
"Oh, you're my enchantress, my goddess, my slut,"
he said as he reached 'round her and squeezed her sweet butt.

"How could I have doubted you, my sweet humble child,
you know I adore you, you just drive me wild!
I promise from now on, whenever we screw,
my undivided attention will focus on you!"

"How much do you love me?" was Charlotte's next word,
and Jameson scarcely believed what he heard,
but calmly he held her and looked in her eyes,
he hoped she beheld his utter surprise.

"How could you ask me that, again must I prove,
that all of my being waits for your next move?
I've put up with your dalliance, oh, I know the score,
I've looked past your attitude, you want more and more,
I've shown you respect at all times, that I heeded,
when you asked me, I gave you the space that you needed."

Charlotte's face now just stared at the floor,
"Jim, it's not your fault, I just need much more.
You're a good man, a kind man, a man among men,
I love when we're doing it, again and again,
but something is missing inside my damned soul,
that doesn't get filled when you fill up my hole."

"Well, that about says it, I guess," Jim surmised,
"I must be delusional, but I'm still surprised,
I should have known, or at very least suspected,
that your needs went unquenched, unfulfilled, undetected.
But don't worry, Charlotte, I should have done more,
I should have known better than to marry a whore."

"Remember that Porsche I promised you in bed,
you can let your pimp-daddy go buy it, instead.
Next time you're laying there, with some guy hopped on,
remember my name's Jameson, and I'm not your John."

"I'll try not to think of the things that you've said,
I may even miss you when they find you dead,
in some sleezy motel infested with lice,
remember that next time when you set the price."

Charlotte just stood there as Jim started walking,
she knew that she'd blown it, and no amount of talking
could change what had happened to them on this day,
as his love had faltered, and then passed away.

She took a deep breath and choked back a tear,
she felt so alone then, so ravaged by fear,
flight was not possible, and she felt the panic
set into her being and she became frantic.
Char heard the knob turn as he shut the door,
and once again took back her life as a whore.


Bob Church©Dec. 9, 1998

It's a miracle!

I feel pretty good this morning, at least comparatively speaking. Lately, I’ve been groggy and morose when I wake up, so I went looking for answers. I hadn’t changed my diet and my work and personal life were pretty much the same as always, so I decided to look deeper. The solution was actually very simple. I awoke this morning feeling relatively more vigorous and comparatively fresher after making the decision to cry myself to sleep at an earlier hour.

Give it a try… I promise your mornings will suck a little less.