murder
November 3, 2013
This is a review of my book, ‘murder’. I did not write it though I will confess that I had something to do with its existence. (Unfortunately I cannot discover who wrote this wonderful review.)
The book is available as a free download at feedbooks.
Review: murder by David Halliday
David Halliday’s murder is one of those great little books I’d never have discovered except for the internet. It was originally published in 1978 by the now defunct Coach House Press, then again as an ebook by Wonderbeams before they closed up shop at the end of 2001, and now David Halliday has released murder into the public domain.
Murder is a series of poems telling the story of a murder and subsequent trial and lynching. Yeah, I said poems. Don’t flinch and imagine this is a book in Iambic pentameter packed with e’ens and whences and e’res.
David Halliday is not that kind of a poet.
Halliday doesn’t mince words, he uses them with the precision of scalpels. He’s tough and honest and a little cheeky and raw in places. He writes the essence of the world in all its delicate ugly humanity.
Every word is deftly placed, sometimes down to its physical location on the page, to evoke the story Halliday is telling. Each poem is a finely wrought link in the chain—the killer stalking his victim, the police report and investigation, even the victim’s identification of her killer (“No one heard. No one listens to the dead.”) through the culmination of the trial and a mob stringing up the innocent man accused. (“a french girl pointed to the flag pole the mob unraveled him and hung him from the top where he waved in the wind to the crowd”)
The meat of the book is devoted to the trial; there are sketches of the jury, the media circus, the attorneys and the judge. (“Hammocks of flesh swinging below his waist skin melts sliding down his bone stocking overflowing in his shoes.”) Witnesses give testimony in their own poem-scenes and some of the most compelling moments are when Halliday turns to the spectators, the people for whom the trial is a kind of post-Roman Colosseum where justice justifies blood lust. There is the old woman who thinks, “these problems we all go on about are just a social disease,” and the cub reporter whose buxom neighbor masturbates him while he sleeps, the flasher wrapped in his flag, the murder groupie in her black satin jacket. These people are all redolent with their own sins and the carnal and carnival atmosphere of execution reinforces the Christ-like image of the wrongly accused man on trial. (“x flower child root bound barb’d wire head band”)
The rule of law in Halliday’s world is decaying. The plaster of his courthouse is crumbling and the paint is peeling. There are cockroaches and flies and bats in these hallowed halls, and while justice is miscarried to appease the appetites of the crowd, a cat is “laughing like a gatling gun.”
As I read murder, I keep returning to the idea of violence as entertainment in modern life. The killer sees his victim in the terms of a film. “I thought you were my leading lady,” he says. The witnesses watch the attack and later entertain the spectators with their evidence. There are reporters throughout; they are outside the courthouse with their cameras, inside reporting on the trial, they are there for the lynching.
In the end it is just a tiny injustice in the world. A single woman raped and murdered while a crowd watches, a single innocent man hanged from a flagpole. A single killer goes free. The people drift away, the spectacle is over. The TV cameras are packed up; there’s no more blood to be had in this place. If there is redemption, too, in Halliday’s narrative, it is in this: in a world where horror has become a commodity packaged to amuse, there is still innocence and hope. “two kids were flying a kite tugging at the moon with the wind.”
I wonder, if the innocent man wrongly hanged is Halliday’s Christ, what sin is his blood intended to wash from our souls?
A note for readers: The physical form of the words on the page is important to Halliday’s work. I had to set the font to the smallest size to get the full effect of the layout when reading the .epub on my Nook. I had no problems with the .pdf on my computer screen. (All versions seem to have an extraneous page 8: “Click to edit this text.”)
about to scream, fainted instead.
July 5, 2013
THE WIDOW SAT DOWN BESIDE HER
Mrs. Murphy, often called the Widow, propped up in her walker. Her arms like wires. Leaned against the counter in the cosmetic section of the drug store looking into the mirror that was looking back. She played with her hair. Remembering those cool April evenings, when in front of her vanity she drew a brush through her thick long brown hair. And the mice scurried across the floor. And looked up her night dress.
Without turning her head away, she spoke. Like she was Alanis Morissette.
“I used to be a great beauty.”
Deborah Hall, the cosmetician stood on the other side of the counter. Like a secretary waiting on the corner. For her boss, a married man, to pick her up. Cleaning the glass counter top with a dry cloth and no sense of humor.
Deborah hadn’t heard Mrs. Murphy. She’d been thinking of last weekend. It was already Tuesday and she was still thinking about Frank. About how funny he’d reacted when she told him that he should make use of a good deodorant. Right after his eyes had rolled up in his head beads of sweat rolling down his forehead onto Deborah’s chest and that terrible lonely sigh slipping out of his lungs when he had reached his orgasm. Or what passed. He hadn’t phoned back. And it was Tuesday.
Deborah Hall looked at the Widow. Patiently. She’d heard the old lady’s story so many times. It was tiresome. How all the young men of her village had fought each other for the privilege of her… company. How she had met them in the parlor. Did anyone have a parlor anymore? She met them with the doors open. So that her mother could hear everything happening. As if anything happened. How the last one standing had proposed to her. Not standing. But kneeling. A sentimental cliché. But still romantic. And tragic in a kind of pathetic way.
Mrs. Murphy had fallen for someone else. Was that possible? A fellow she’d met while she’d been with Harry looking for his new car. Did she actually fall? Harry was another suitor. More interested in big automobiles. He never called them cars. Mrs. Murphy’s mother did not approve of Harry. He had grease under his fingernails. Why wouldn’t he? He was a mechanic. Owned his own service station. Wore his uniform as proudly as any sailor. Maybe her mother was right. He smoked. Held his cigarette in his teeth. Too tight. Like the Germans. There was a bad lot in the big city. Where temptation lay in small hotel rooms with the windows open on hot sticky August evenings. Mrs. Murphy told Deborah how someone across the way had watched them making love. Her and Harry. From another building. Where they made fans. On his lunch break. And Harry wasn’t the one she’d fallen for. That was Earl. He was an accountant. In his father’s business. And the fellow was standing in the window boldly holding his male thing in his hand while Harry did what he was proud of. And Earl was bound to inherit the business. And a comfortable living. And with the right woman, an ambitious woman, maybe expand into real estate. Mrs. Murphy believed in property. It’s the only thing that they’re not making any more of. Unless we travel the stars. And then all bets were off. And Mrs. Murphy stopped. To take a breath.
For a brief moment Deborah considered confiding in Mrs. Murphy. Should she phone Frank back? Or just chalk it up as one more guy? Who couldn’t appreciate a good thing. But then dismissed the idea. Talking to Mrs. Murphy. How could you trust anyone who had so much stuff dangling from her? And we’re not talking about jewelry. From the chin, the neck, under the arms. And we don’t want to imagine anything else. Being old is so hideous.
“Dear,” the Widow said. Attempting to get Deborah’s attention. From her own selfish thoughts. Maybe laying with her lover. Under a tree. Where’s it’s shady. Deborah smiled. Mrs. Murphy had succeeded.
Then all the young men were gone. Mrs. Murphy continued. This time as she had on previous occasions. Gone. Young men sucked up in the war. Lost in foreign mud. With her image in their hearts. Like a thorn in our Saviors flesh.
That’s what it is. She’s Pathetic. Deborah believed when she stood in her smart little outfit in the drugstore. But in those moments late in the evening when Deborah was alone. She wondered. As she cleansed her face with care. Whether she would feel that way when she was Mrs. Murphy’s age. And how fast that time might come. And would she have any memories of her own. To soothe a lonely soul.
Mrs. Murphy leaned over the counter and whispered to the cosmetician.
“There are only two things that smell like fish,” she said. “And one of them is fish.”
“Mrs. Murphy!” Deborah cried and stepped away. The widow often talked like this in Deborah’s ear. When there was no one about. If only the old lady would speak loud enough for others to hear, she would have a witness. And proof enough to have her removed from the store.
Deborah turned on the old woman and spoke lowly as if in confidence.
“How can you talk to me like this? Such intimacies should not be shared amongst strangers. And we are certainly not friends.”
The old woman giggled and returned to her previous conversation.
“Oh, yes,” the Widow said standing more erect to get a look at her bosom in the mirror. “I had all the young men eating out of my…” She smiled at Deborah and added. “Lap.”
“Mrs. Murphy, you mustn’t…”
The widow stepped back over to the counter and took Deborah’s hands in hers. Took them swiftly. Like a thief. Ready to run off.
“All my life I’ve been holding back but not now. It’s so liberating being my age. You can say anything and be forgiven.”
“But I…”
“Don’t you have gentlemen friends,” the widow asked, “who, in the heights of passion, whisper lovely obscenities in your ear?”
At that moment a mouse ran down the middle of the aisle. Deborah Hall unable to scream, pointed at the small furry animal. Mrs. Murphy turned and seeing the animal, brought her foot down heavily on the floor. The tiny creature disappeared under the Widow’s shoe. A moment later a pool of blood crawled out. Deborah Hall, about to scream, fainted instead.
I haven’t gotten my head around that one yet.
June 22, 2013
A small episode from my novel SNOW. You can download it or have a look. Its free. A bargain at twice the price.
SNOW is part of a series of novels involving an aging police officer in the suburbs of Toronto. In this novel weather plays a key role in the novel. In the previous novels The Hole and H&R (HER) a bottomless well and a asteroid play key roles. There are a couple of short books that have evolved from this. One is about serial killer. But I haven’t gotten my head around that one yet.
…………………….
25. Brothers and Partners
“Did you notice the Chrysler following us?” Michael said as he laid his clothes carefully out in the dresser drawer.
David was playing with the television. He slammed the top of the set with the palm of his hand. “Cable is out! Must be this fucking storm.What Chrysler?”
“The one that was sitting on our ass all the way here.”
“Who would be following us? And what was all that Irish accent stuff in that bar? I felt ridiculous talking like a Mic. And Sean. What kind of name is that?”
“It’s all I could think of at the time,” Michael responded, continuing to lay his clothes in precise rows. “Why’d you call me Michael? The idea was that we wouldn’t use our real names, brother.”
“Well, you could have told me that before we walked into that dump.” David kept pushing the buttons on the remote. “If we have a plan, tell me the fucking plan. And that bar! Zig Zag? What kind of fucking name is that? And the smug look on that bartender’s face. I’d like to wrap his grin around my fist.” David threw the remote against the wall. It smashed into pieces.
Michael turned and looked at the pieces of the remote on the floor. He grinned.
“Fuck!” David roared. “Are we going to be locked up in here all evening with nothing to do? I hate being bored. I don’t know why we couldn’t have stayed downtown where there’s a little action. Out here in the sticks! God! We should have brought that girl back from the Zig Zag. She looked like she was up for a party.”
“She’s old enough to be our mom,” Michael responded.
David got up from in front of the television and walked over to the window. He parted the Venetian blinds and stared out into the snow at the car parked across the street.
“And this weather! I thought we left this shit behind in Russia. Your Chrysler is sitting across the street.”
“What’s he doing?”
David pressed closer to the window. “Nothing. Maybe I should go out and ask him what he wants.”
Michael picked up several pairs of dark blue socks and placed them like napkins in the top drawer. “What if it’s a cop?”
“Why would it be a cop?”
“Why would it be anyone else?” Michael responded. “Right now the cops have nothing on us. Let the fuckers stay out there all night and freeze their balls off.”
“I don’t care if it is the cops, I don’t like to be watched. Never liked it. This is the New World.”
“Stay focused, brother. We’ve got other fish to fry. We’ll check out the other motels on the airport strip. This Lombardo guy has got to be hiding somewhere.”
“You think he’ll be signed in under his own name, Michael?”
“No. But what else can we do? Let’s check around and see if there are any games. Guys like Lombardo are addicted to gambling. Someone must have seen him.”
David looked back from the window. “What are we gong to do about Mazudo?”
“I told you not to play with that cocksucker,” Michael responded.
David returned to the other bed and opened his bag, dumping his clothes into a drawer. “Shit! I had some good dope here. How was I supposed to know that Mazudo was holding a flush?”
Michael shook his head. “Because it was his game, brother.”
“You think he was cheating?”
Michael glanced at his brother’s clothes piled in his dresser drawer. “Look at the mess you’ve made. Why can’t you pack your things away neatly like any normal human being?”
“I had some good dope in here,” David said rummaging through his bag. He laughed. “Here it is.” He took out a lunch bag of dope and papers and started rolling a joint. “So now we have to find this Lombardo prick to pay off our debt to Mazudo. I’m getting tired of doing other people’s laundry.”
“Your debt,” Michael corrected David.
“There is an easier solution to all of this.” David lit up a joint. “Let’s just whack Mazudo. The guy is a slime ball.”
Michael closed the drawer to his dresser. “That’s plan B, brother.” Michael looked at the joint in David’s fingers. “Let me have some of that.”
I’ve always needed a gimmick
April 25, 2013
I’ve always needed a gimmick to write non-fiction. So to write something vaguely autobiographical I created this idea of a calendar. A girlie calendar. Which you used to see hanging in almost every service station, most work places, etc. The calendar then became an ebook. It is called appropriately Calendar Girls. And you can download it for free. A bargain at twice the price. (old joke)
February
I can’t remember what she looked like. Her image has completely dissolved into the past. But not the strange irony of our meeting. I was hanging out in Yorkville during the early 1970s. Yorkville was a kind of Greenwich Village in Toronto. There were a lot of hippies, wannabees, and suburban longhairs. I was one of the latter. There were traffic jams every Saturday night from the people in cars who wanted to look at us. I was in a particularly depressed mood that Saturday. This pretty girl, a red head, sat down next to me and we talked. I was hoping to jump her bones so I told her that no one remembered anyone else. That we were all anonymous nobodies. (What a pick-up line.) I told her that she would forget me in a week. We went our separate ways. Several years later I was at a party in a town hundreds of miles from Toronto. Full of wine and myself. I started to put the moves on one particular young woman. She told me a story. She had just returned from Vancouver. While there she had been at a party when a young woman, a red head, had tried to pick her up. Her name was February. They went back to the woman’s hotel room and had sex. Afterwards February told her a story about a young man. A young man she had met in Yorkville years earlier. Who had told her that she would forget all about him within a week. It had been years and she hadn’t been able to get that young man out of her head. I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. I was that young man. And now years later I can’t get that incident out of my memories. I don’t know what it means. I don’t know if it means anything. But the story has this sense of being… odd.
some wheezed. some used cigarettes
April 13, 2013
murder. the iconic word for an act so heinous. Always it is Shakespearean. When I wrote the book I included the poems called elements. This one is about air. They are whimsical.
…………………………………………………………………………….
elements (1)
someone sucked
the air in held it
and then pushed it out.
each spectator took his turn.
some pinched his nostrils
some honked
some wheezed
some used cigarettes
to fill the air.
everyone was moderately pleased
that they’d been given the chance to breathe
until a pungent sound
a rose
from the corner
of the courtroom
where a little old man
had let his diet play a tune.
The Death of Lou Grant
April 9, 2013
The Death of Lou Grant has done very well for itself. Originally it was part of a much larger piece of work. But I got bored of that expedition. And settled for this short run.
I have created books that I felt sure could never be made into movies. The characters, scenes, themes were surreal bordering on animation. I felt that so much of American literature (as opposed to the Latin American writers) was 2 dimensional. It had become a genre driven fiction. And it bored me.
I still enjoy reading The Death of Lou Grant. Perhaps you will too.
…………………
A Drink After Work Hours At The Brass Rail
It’s all so brief. Life. A mere glimpse. I was going to say a wet fart but that would have been tasteless. You think moths have a short life. God, we must seem like moths to the sun. And you can’t appreciate how brief until you are at the end. A long weekend would seem an eternity. Does that make any sense? What I’m trying to say is that I feel like I might have missed it. I was out there in left field waiting for that sky ball when the guy had laid down a bunt. Jesus, I’m hungry. You get like that at the end. Hunger, appetite, that’s what makes us human. When I think of the last moments of Marilyn Monroe, I get a raging… I can’t help myself.
You’re probably wondering why I’m meeting people in bars all the time. Well, at the Corporation, that was pretty much our mode of operation. We met in bars to interview for jobs. To hire, to fire. To go over ideas. To marshal our thoughts. To brain storm. God, any excuse to have a drink.
This particular bar was the Brass Rail. Tacky. Cheap beer. Women who’d open their legs for you. After they finished their cigarette. And one more beer. Bad lighting. Sometimes you’d get up in the morning and look across the bed at someone who looked like your own mother. That’s what I heard. Not that it ever happened to me. Once. It happened once. She was someone’s mother. But not recently. Most of the patrons were guys. Poor bastards on their lunch break. Hoping for something to happen. Hoping more that it wouldn’t. Just leave me alone with my beer. Who wanted to face something new. Sometimes there were strippers in the bar. Afternoons the strippers mostly sat at tables and drank like everyone else. If you were lucky they might put their hand in your lap. That’s what I heard. There was a kitchen. The food wasn’t too bad. Ted and I were having burgers and fries. The place was known for its fries.
TED: I heard some stories, Lou… (giggling) …anecdotes… you don’ t have to tell me, Lou. I really mean that, Lou. It is certainly not something I have to know. Everyone should have…
LOU: Get to the point, Ted.
TED: Are you seeing a shrink?
LOU: I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that, Ted.
TED: So how’s your golf game, Lou?
LAUGH TRACK
LOU: I don’t play golf, Ted.
TED: What a coincidence, Lou. Neither do I. Not since the Celebrity Tournament when I hit Maury Reese with my ball. It wasn’t my fault. (God, these burgers are good.) The guy takes a size 9 hat. I mean he’s got a real melon on those shoulders. How could you help but hit it.
LOU: Didn’t Maury die?
LAUGH TRACK
TED: Complications, Lou. Doc said that his heart was ready to burst at any moment. He could have taken a spell while driving home in his car, or taking the elevator, or just…
LOU: You gave Maury sugar, Ted.
TED: He was unconscious. (You shouldn’t talk with your mouth full, Lou.) How was I supposed to know that he was allergic to sugar?
LOU: It was a sugar cube, Ted. He choked!
LAUGH TRACK
TED: So, Lou, are you as looney as they say?
LOU: You don’t want to know, Ted.
TED: I want to know, Lou. Honest.
Lou looks around to make sure that no one can hear him. He leans toward Ted and whispers.
LOU: I hear voices in my head, Ted.
TED: Well, that’s not so bad. We all hear voices from time to time. I heard voices the other day in the grocery store. Something about my car being parked in a handicap zone. Everyone heard it. You can’t believe those people. Making a mountain out of a… There was no one using the space, Lou. Besides. How can you be sure those people are handicapped? A sticker on your windshield doesn’t mean you’re handicapped. I could make one up myself. Not that I did. Would.
LAUGH TRACK
LOU: It’s the booze talking, Ted. I hear voices when I’ve been drinking too much. They are voices that I don’t want to hear. Voices of someone called Harry.
TED: A relative of yours?
LOU: No.
TED: Is it Harry the security guard. Nice fellow. Did you know that he has this amazing collection…
LOU: I hear the voice all the time. Sometimes when I’m having dinner I can hear the salad talking.
TED: You never eat salad, Lou.
LAUGH TRACK
LOU: I hear his voice when I’m driving to work in the morning.
TED: I like to listen to tapes on my way to work. I’m learning French. Parlez-vous francais. You should try it sometimes, Lou. They say that your mind is still working, even when you’re asleep. Sometimes I like to wake up in the middle of the night. To find out what I’m thinking.
LAUGH TRACK
LOU: This is scaring me, Ted.
TED: (giggles) I told myself the funniest joke the other night.
LOU: With murder in our hearts, the only sane man is the porter at the gate.
TED: You drink scotch, Lou.
LOU: Do you own a gun, Ted?
TED: A gun!
LOU: You must have a gun. Considering how…
TED: Ah, Lou. I’ve got to get going. I just remembered a date I had with…
LOU: Ted, sit down!
TED: I’m sorry, Lou. I’m just not good at this. This kind of talk. You should talk to Murray. I’ve got to go.
LOU: Get back here, Ted!
LAUGH TRACK
TED: Please, Lou.
LOU: Listen to me, Ted. The wife wants me to seek out professional help. I don’t need a psychiatrist to tell me that hearing a voice in my head isn’t normal. It’s a trick. I’m supposed to be having a fantasy. If you’re pretending to be someone, that someone shouldn’t be having psychiatric problems. That should be the litmus test for reality. This is my test, Ted.
TED: I was never good at tests… Who are you pretending to be, Lou? Is it one of those… role playing fantasies.
LOU: One. If you’re feeling pain than you’re real. Two. Lou Grant is feeling pain. Three. I’m feeling pain as Lou Grant. Therefore I am Lou Grant.
TED: Well now that that is settled, I’ll be off.
LAUGH TRACK
LOU: Ted!
TED: Lou?
LAUGH TRACK
LOU: I have cold sweats. In the morning my pillow case is soaking wet. One night I cried out Mary’s name.
TED: Mary’s name? Why would you do that, Lou?
LOU: The wife was pretty upset by that. Once I interviewed a fellow in prison who claimed that he had painted several masterpieces. When I asked him where he kept them, he smiled and pointed to his head. Everything is in the head, Ted. Why am I hearing these voices, having this dream? I am not alone.
TED: I never dream, Lou. I get too excited.
LOU: Millions of people are dreaming their lives away. Fantasies. Dreaming about winning a million dollars. Dreaming about becoming famous. Dreaming about getting that girl. Dreaming as much as they can, trying to find some reason for staying alive. Ted…
TED: Yes, Lou.
LOU: I don’t want to die, Ted.
TED: (giggling) Oh, is that all it is? You can’t die, Lou. Unless they cancel the show of course.
My Hair Is On Fire
April 1, 2013
I don’t read
March 25, 2013
I don’t read. Fiction. Haven’t for decades. When I was in my teens I read everything I could find. In my 20s and 30s, I read a lot of genre fiction, science fiction and detective novels. When I was at college I read an assortment of books. Lot of South American writers who I loved, and some American Literature which I did not.
Joyce Carol Oates, a small bird of a woman, taught at our school. I regret not having taken a course with her. Friends told me she was interesting. Rumors about her at the school were not flattering. One was that she was paranoid. Never sat near the window in her office. (Snipers) Once a pizza was sent to her as a gift from one of her students. She sent it down to the science labs to be tested for poison.
I read Them. It was very well received by critics and readers. I hated it. My impression: she doesn’t have the faintest clue. She lived the 60s in her office.
I’m reading the NY Times Book Review. An introduction of some younger writers. I realized that my time has passed. Actually my time never existed. Outside of Kurt Vonnegut, there is not an American author since Hemingway I’d want to be associated with.
Then Terry died
March 24, 2013
I was almost a beat poet. Liked the whole idea of sitting around and listening to the chatter of voices. the patter of spoons in coffee cups. the bongos. and the almost endless and vaguely mystical poetry that filled the air. like sweat in a locker room. but then Terry died. Though I wouldn’t find out for twenty years. And rising up to read I realized that I was afraid of heights. And immediately began falling.
The poem here is from a book called The Baltimore Catechism. The book is free but if you hurry you can get it for half price.
…………………………
DIARY OF A WHITE VIRGIN
through the cracks in th
e wall i can hear the small talk rambling
on in the hall;
shelley looked so frightful
when her bronze boy lover left.
he left slamming the front door
but the house was mute and deaf.
i was smoking a cigarette
that put me on a wing – torn curtains drool upon the
streetlight shadows
an old oak drooping bent
over a hollow like’\
an old man begging for care and
then forgetting
why he’s there.
i tried to sketch your portrait
but you stole my rock.
a roman circus passes my way
eight days after friday;
candlelight
unknown voices
soar to flame
so i go dreaming down the street
smoking
drinking
sucking.
the grass is smoke
upon the factory’s heat.
all the walls flee
you’re not impressed by their rout.
breeze caresses the flame.
rubber careemed off the street
black shivering beds
sighing with the roll and scortch
magic dawn flushes,
the fury of the night stalls.
laces of my boots cry
that its someone to pray to.
toothless sun laughing at me.
walls are closing floor rising up.
i want to go up and touch your face.
dust drained from his skull.
the caution signs r blind
perfume swallows the air.
silence bleeds.
TIMBRE yells the vet
before he mends the old hookers
falling crotch. lovers separate
& crawl into marble rabbit holes.
i saw the hardwood melt
down upon your face.
against a bus stop he leans
with his guns in his eyes.
kissed a girl who didn’t want to be touched
manufacture some hate
aren’t you getting kinda stout?
don’t you realize yr a self
conceited egg tonight i met
jesus with a bottle of zing in his hand.
a lonely elephant asked me today
if
i was as mirror of discontent.
we should all wear pink
and be forced to carry around portable sinks.
drenching darkness empress
coca cola clown
onion blood baby
blow me. let me follow it down your throat.
i have sat inside my room
placed my fingers inside your wounds
touch’d things smoother than moonlight,
seen you hide from the cruel dancers.
a spider weaves suicide across the moon
t hide the memory of a king
who hung himself one afternoon
one sticky afternoon in the seaweed
beneath big blackman’s beach.
spring lingers on
sleeping under the snow.
moses kissd all the virgins with rain,
gave them passports,
put them on the cattle train.
one must please the customer.
DANCE LITTLE LADY
DANCE UNTIL YOUR FEET ARE THE FLOOR
DANCE UNTIL YOU CAN’T DANCE ANYMORE
DANCE LITTLE LADY
DANCE FOR US ALL
THERE’S NO TIME TO BE LEFT AT EASE
DANCE LITTLE LADY WOULD YOU PLEASE
my bride stood before me in yellow
she was scrawny
naked
& sour. a tinge of resentment on her breath.
get outta here
i mean would you please leave the room
i wonna think about the love you gave me
but i don’t want to think about you.
joann
i can hear my daddy’s poetry
building stand naked
& faceless
sounds of groaning uncles
& their voices.
i met a child in the back of the back room.
she came wearing a badge.
i lifted her latch
burnt her on my minute steak.
i announced i was running for god
& everybody gathered around to ask why.
don’t get too close
i couldn’t handle an overdose.
close your eyes. you’ll never go blind.
watch the seagulls fly in their cage
broken beer bottles in the grass awaiting a victim.
lonely romeo trapped in her canyon
a wooden waste basket full of crawling hands
a crowd of a thousand breathing
a skinned woman
desks and silver spoons choking
her visions of you have kept her
up through the night.
she weeps like a tyrant.
through the cracks in the wall. i
can hear the rambling on
of small talk in the hall.
look at michael trying to apolo
gize with his jokes and his cur
ls and his gift of pea
rls and his lost wor
lds. antiques will replace old ladies.
my grudges she warms like white coals.
– i’m losing the beat.
what about the year of 56
when men breathed fire
and men threw sticks.
I love(d) T.S. Eliot. And then I found out that he was an American. It threw me. I had loved reading him because his work seemed to reflect that world we were told was out there. “Alienation” was the great buzz word of the 60s. Sartre, Camus, but especially Eliot reflected that cool antiseptic analysis of the human condition. Now I wonder. Were these big issues that we saw merely the individual pickles of these artists. Were they just unhappy?
The Manhatten Project was one of the first poems I wrote that was directed at the times. I was trying to write about important issues. This time I had picked on God.
…………………………………………………….
THE MANHATTEN PROJECT
god is not dead
he was merely blown up beyond all proportions/made light of
dropped into a glass of water
where he burst into a million tiny bubbles
with the hope
that he would bring fast fast fast pain relief
from historic indigestion
and ise eno esc ape
noe sca pe
nof ork int her oad.
the ad-men sit in a trance at SAM’S
ironing out their problems
business is slow
a spider is spinning his fine web of suicide across their eyes
the janitor is sweeping around their feet
lifting the left leg when necessary
lifting the right leg when necessary
the dust continues to collect
piling up history
he files it away in green plastic bags
that bleed internally
…
god had tired blood
he was the multiple million eyed monster (incl. cable)
with multiple million cataracts
surrounded by crow’s feet
that slipped up on him at night – sorrow stalking sleep – ambush
god became irregular
short of the holy breath
tired of sticking his nose in other peoples affairs
pensioned off
lost forever
swapped for ‘dialectical materialism’.
in the back of SAM’S the pinball machines is rigged
the ball leaping and shuddering like an orphan from pin to pin
in perfect retrospective patterns
“A thousand times i have recalled it
and a thousand times it remains the same,” smiles richard
richard bought out sam
but is now haunted by SAM’S habits
like the prisoner of a holograph
ica nse eno esc ape
ica nge tno ans wer
the exi tsi gns pum pou tth eir neo nes cap e
RES IGN RES IGN RES IGN RES IGN RES IGN RES I
…
our psyches have been burglarised
atomised
small bugs have been planted in the mob
small boys with their fresh pink bottoms torment the frenzied thought
love became the INFORME(D)R HEART
- who will pay the ransom ?
the barbarians are at the gate
you can hear the crowd noises .
the barbarians have been inside the gate for some time,
their standards well in hand
tapping their toes , “who are the hypocrits coming back ?
must be the lawyers dressed in black.”
SAM’S place is hopping
some sassy gals are dancing up a storm , dancing to a tune
“NO HIDING PLACE”
richard rubs his head that is beginning to swell like the
entrails of a puppet
the rest of us sit , and order , and wait
— hoping to outlive the funeral rites
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