All of the People Hate Poetry
Oh, Calm Pirate!
I free quiet, lurid dreams:
the acrid taste of your fingers
dry and tight, hands perfumed of tobacco and salt
the oiled air you breathe (in MY lungs!);
the metallic tang of fish and water
a million mops saturated in dim light,
valiant, hearty men at your command, steering away from land,
pulling the ship’s bow, your barrel chest, against waves.
Restless, now, but shy in a rose-walled box, you push from inside me
(a whisper at my ears, a pressure against my ribs)
you are rolled into new flesh,
hunkered in my shadow,
a subconscious persuasion.
the taste of your life lingers.
pale, dirty curls
soft eyes filmed over with fear
filmed over with anger.
years of white sun turned to ink under the pressure of your resentment, the pressure of
my bleeding pen, guided by firm hand, poured onto paper.
Your secrets hidden in attics,
earthen basements,
unknown dwellings out of sight
dusted with sealed mouths and averted eyes
A life carpeted in misgivings, a blanket of regret,
wrings my paper dry and rewrites itself,
over and over, purer, simpler.
Sea Captain,
You Were.
Otto And Eric
A few times, their mother left them in a land city and went out to sea without them. This was only when they were still young, and couldn’t be trusted to go to a water port that the pirates or other unsavory characters (probably the Mettes or the Slag, considering the time) governed. Places like that weren’t safe for children.
So mother would have to leave them with a land port woman wherever they were visiting. These ladies seemed made of children, didn’t seem to mind a couple more, and always needed money. So their mother would negotiate a few dollars, and swear up and down that she would come back, and then threaten the life of the woman were the boys to not be ok upon her return. This was the only part of the discussion to which they paid attention.
After seeing her out to sea, usually a tearful and dramatic event, they they had friends for a few weeks, ones that were more or less their own age. And land children were exciting, different different than boat children. Despite (what the boys considered) their confinement, they seemed freer.
During the day, they ran through the city and were excited to show off their friends and the tricks and corners of the town. Always there was a butcher who would scowl at them until they begged enough, and then he would toss them fat slabs of dried pork. The farmers were never friendly, but every local boy in every city knew how to crawl under a fence to steal potatoes or radishes or carrots. They knew every nook and cranny of every street and stone building, like magic tricks. They seemed sure of everything.
Tuesday 2
“Holy shit. That’s never happened.” And then he chuckled. It was half sigh, words formed on accident before thought had been put into them. His face was silver and blue in the shadow and streetlight. It was probably his most genuine moment with her, and the one she always came back to when she needed him.
What had he told her to say? She was a teacher. Say she was a teacher and they were for her students.
The black man behind the counter was short with a nice face. His head was shorn, just like Jon’s. She tried to picture him with his hair grown out. It would be like an afro, right? Would it make him look taller? Or is that the black guy equivalent of a comb over, but for shortness and not baldness?
He had five cell phones in five boxes next to his black keyboard on the glass counter, and he was pecking at that keyboard that was at least 10 years old while he glared intently into the boxy monitor. She wondered if he was actually a fast typist but the computers were just very slow. On cue, he shook his head and looked at her.
“Sorry, these things are so slow. Especially today. I think it’s worse when it rains.” He shrugged and hit another key. She relaxed.
“That’s ok. These are for my students. They don’t all have their own phones and some of them need extra help in the evening and so I like to give them an option to get in touch with me. I’m in no hurry.” She gave her very best patient, sweet smile, the one with genuine eyes that showed affection and interest.
“Mhm. Ok here we go,” he said, his face relaxing. “You can insert your card and hit the green button.”
She completed the transaction with Jon’s card and the nice man placed the boxes into a plastic bag with T-Mobile on the side and she walked out of the store with her heart in her throat.
Later, she would recall sunlight peeking through the clouds and dimpling the puddles, the smell of wet earth mingling with coffee from the shop next door, and she would wonder why she had just gone home to Jon the way he had instructed. She could have walked in the opposite direction and saved herself so much trouble.
“That guy only had one arm.” She raised her eyebrows, hoping someone else was up for this discussion. Jon and Tony didn’t hear her over the music, but Lisa did and she nodded and laughed.
“Yes, Charlie, YES HE DID.” She laughed so hard that she went silent. “He could still sling some mean chili! Oh my God Charlie you freak out over the weirdest shit.” Charlie laughed also.
What she had meant to say, to ask, was why do you think this man only has one arm? She wanted to talk about how he might have come to be the one-armed chili man with her friends, Jon and Tony and Lisa. She hadn’t had time to ask the man himself, or she would have.
She never ate the chili. The clumpy meat looked like the end of his arm. You could see it poking out of his sleeve, the pinched, purple flesh at the end of his forearm. He wasn’t born that way. That was a nasty car accident, or a fight with some animal, or someone ignoring OSHA in a factory.
Electric green vines grew up the brick walls of the walk to their apartment. There were ten steps for each level. She counted 20 steps, including the platform at the second level. Their door was unlocked, which she found interesting, considering how wound up Jon suddenly seemed about security. A cursory inspection of the potted plant next to the door confirmed that the spare key was still in its hiding spot.
Spring Break Book Break
It’s a snowy spring break day here, with a cold wind and intermittent sunlight that isn’t doing any kind of job warming things up. The house was full of kids this morning, all of ours and Sarnia too. The girls were on a futon mattress on the living room floor and on the couch. I had to make two pans of scrambles eggs along with raisin toast and blueberry muffins to make everyone happy.
I just dropped the littles off with Christina and the older girls at the movies and Eddie is visiting with Adam, and so I snuck off to the used book store that is across the street from our old place in Clawson for a little alone time. Honestly, I was surprised to see the open sign lit up. Back in the day we always assumed it MUST be on the verge of failing. If Barnes & Noble couldn’t hack it, how did this dark little shop lined with dusty paperback (mostly romance) novels stay in business??
Not only is it open, but it has changed owners and ‘rebranded’ and is now called The Grey Wolfe Scriptorium. They accept credit cards (that was always a hurdle before) and there was music playing, and the whole vibe was friendly and open and youthful. Call me sentimental, but I almost started crying. To smell a good book store was FABULOUS.
They host all kinds of writing and reading events, book signings, writing contests and the like. I had assumed that this great little place was just going to disappear like so many CD shops and video stores. Instead, it has evolved into something more modern but just as wonderful and filled with hidden treasure.
They even still had my trade-in card, in the same old wooden drawer. But they put me ‘in the system’ so no one has to dig through the old notecards when Rosie and I bring in a batch of books we no longer want, and they honored the trade-in discount price. And they gave me a punch card where I can work my way up to a free paperback.
I’m making this place a regular stop now, just to stay a part of the community and to support the biz. Maybe I will even try one of their hosted writing nights.
