Still in place

Trying to maintain it all. Some days are easier than others. Hope you are all as well as you can be.

Writers Block has been holding online readings during the pandemic. I put a poem out there last night.

Here it is.

Beggars Night, Redux

Beggars Night, Redux

(Email subject headings in order, from Ohio Democrats, on Election Day eve 2018)

This race is about Ohio, not Trump
We don’t fear the future, we shape it
Trump, Hannity, Pence, and DeWine
Mobilizing the state of Ohio to get to the polls
Trump is about to take the stage in Ohio
Tomorrow, we hold Trump accountable.
More empty name-calling from Mike DeWine and Donald Trump - Let's show them what we're made of
The strongest ticket in my lifetime

Final poll alert - last snapshot before Election Day
Join us on election night in Columbus
Last chance before Election Day

Rest in Peace, Le Grand Orange

You had to close down on opening day





The fight left you as the team you inspired as children
took their positions on the field
Your poster on their parents walls
Baseball card in back pockets
Never flipped for luck
Saw you almost hit .400 in the World Series
You could not carry your team on a broken shoulder
The Shea Stadium outfield fence took away your arm
as you made the catch, but not your bat
Never your bat
Later in your career you were called on in the seventh, eighth, ninth inning
to do one job
The crowd chanted your name, knew you’d come to the plate
You’d pinch hit a single, double, never a triple
(foot speed was never your top skill)
or the tip your hat to the crowd encore home run
When your career ended you cooked
You fed the hungry, the first responders
Anyone
You gave back to a city that embraced you as one of its own
Now, Rusty, we say goodbye, au revoir, thank you

From ten years ago

Samuel Beckett's New York City Cabdriver

he looked like someone from a black and white horror movie
but i needed the fare and stopped at that east village corner
he wore a black overcoat and had wild white hair
he did not say much
just the address he wanted to go
i tried to talk to him
about the yankees
the hot dog and yoo-hoo i had for lunch
that it was january and it's only snowed once
he may have grunted, or swore at me under his breath to shut up
but in my mirror i noticed all he did
was stare out the window
don't get me wrong
i can talk your ear off about the assholes
who sat back there
this guy was far from the worst
you say he was a writer?
did he write for the papers?
did he make a lot of money?
because he wasn't a horrible tipper

To those who give unsolicited advice on the internet

I am going to place A and will stay in place B with a view of place C
I am not going to take into account that I stay in place D with no view
Or that I go into the countryside, outside of the city limits of A to see a sheep farm
I can go to the Ohio State Sheep Center, anytime I want
And I do not want

A vineyard, sure. That’s the only farm I want to see
If I wanted to see riots from the fifth floor, I would find a room with a view of E
But I do not want to see riots, smell tear gas or witness Gendarmes beating people up
I will take into account bakeries, as food is in my wife’s wheelhouse and I will need food
to soak up all the drinking I plan on doing
Do I want to stand in a crowded room of people in the Louvre, cell phones out, taking pictures of the Mona Lisa?
Not really, but I would not mind skipping through the room Anna Karina did in Bande a Part
Catacombs, ancient skulls at night, Pere LaChaise even without Jim Morrison’s grave are right in if you knew me,
giver of unsolicited advice

I’m going to eat chocolate, croissants, baguettes, drink wine, drink coffee, be claustrophobic in crowds of tourist attractions that are being loved to death, people watch, speak awful French, be insulted and scorned by the residents
and make love to my wife
In a hotel
That has a view
Of the Eiffel Tower
And none of your projections are going to stop me

Angry so I wrote a poem

Revisionism, erasure, implied book burnings, not a fan. My Son hates ceiling fans, he has to be aware if they are on at all times. We have two in the house. There is one in our bedroom that he looks at every morning just to make sure it is not moving. The other is in the back room, where I'm typing this on a warm spring day in Columbus. When he was in the kitchen earlier he stared at the back room to make sure the ceiling fan was not moving closer to him. It's not.

There used to be one in his bedroom, but that was taken out shortly after he was born and replaced with a dimmer until that he broke as soon as he was able to move the switch.

None of this has much to do with the poem I wrote today, but it's still Autism Awareness and he's still singing at 6AM after not getting to sleep past midnight. Happy Easter.


Burn me out of your brain and see what replaces me

Erase me, revise me out of history
Ignore me, drop me, block me
Invite me nowhere, trip me in the aisle
You want to roast me
Tell me more about roasting
Avoid me, befoul me
You want to roast me
Put me in your oven
I step on pressure cookers daily
You want to roast me
You want to roast all the dudes my age
When we become shoveled ashes for you to dance upon
who will you find to roast next?
Tell me more
I will show you ovens demand fuel
Who will you roast when you reach my age
Fires are thirsty they need asses after
my old ass gets roasted
Prepare for your search, your hunt for purity
I have the means for you to forget me
It’s cheaper than you think

I should pin this post here

Another day, another police shooting of an African American male. I wrote about it a couple of years ago. Hate that it's still relevant, and will most likely continue to be.

Three parts today

First off, it's Memorial Day. I've been scanning some inherited pictures of my Great Uncle, who was killed in World War Two. Here's a picture of him (upper right) and some of his brothers from the 180th, Company A. I have no idea who they are, but I think they're in France because I suspect there is red wine in those glasses.



Second, it's our seventh wedding anniversary. Still love this brave woman who came across an ocean to live in this crazy place!



Third, I am very pleased to announce an old poem of mine called Mr. B. has been published today in Work Literary Magazine. Love when a poem finds a good home!

A bit of acceptance.

Very happy to announce that my poem "The Onramp from I-70 East to 315 North" has been published by Red Fez in their latest issue.

It's good to be playing the publishing game this year. I know one more may be coming out soon, but I err on the side of caution and let it be known when the work is actually out there. Plus, a few more are in the hopper.

There have been rejections with the acceptances, but that's how it all works.

Now, about these form poems I'm writing in a 30 poems in 30 days of April group this year.

An April Road Trip.

National Poetry Month is in full gear and I'm proceeding at my own pace. There is writing being done, in a group even! We're working on form poems, some of them very challenging and unfamiliar to me. Writing them helps, and I'm seeing some good work by others, which is inspiring.

Been sending out poems too, trying to find them homes. They will be news about them soon, but not until the thing happens.

I'll be reading in Portsmouth, Ohio on Saturday April 9th with some of my fellow poets as part of a National Poetry Month Series that Zach Hannah has assembled with the generosity of Haskins House. If you're in the area it starts at 6:30.

Sunday morning stuff

Pleased to announce my poem, To Joe Biden and Beyond, is in today's issue of The New Verse News.

The State of the Union can be inspiring.

Also a very clever person put Buster Keaton to the music of David Bowie's Modern Love.

It's trendy to slag them off now

This song is one of the several that got me through a rough patch in my life nine Novembers ago. This month symbolizes lock down to me. The leaves go, have to be picked up and raked. We're paying someone to do that for us now, which is one major difference from those days when bleak was the norm. The temperature drops then the days get shorter as I go to work in the dark and come home to sunset.

Doesn't help that death came last month and there are now constant reminders of it to our house throughout the holidays now.

So maybe the best thing tonight will be drinking down some Cava and watching the Bills/Jets game from the couch. Even the football is taking up too much time investment these days. I've only so much time, so many hours, left. It's coming to a point where I have to really start thinking hard about time allocation. Or maybe I should just go with what I'm dealt, every day, for whatever is left.

It's hard to remember the fun with all the shouting going on when I look at my screen, which I admit is another part of the problem.

I will be out for a reading tomorrow night, at Kitamu Coffee in Hilliard, featuring with the wonderful Nancy Kangas. Here's the information about it. I will have a lot of new and newer poems about death and travel. Guaranteed to be entertaining and engaging. Plus, free!

Being social is hard, but rewarding.

It's a rare weekend when we're invited out for not just one, but two, social events and have the time and ability to do it.

There was an energy in the microbrewery on Friday, where we waited for a person to show up to celebrate his birthday, and to meet him in person for the first time. We had a good conversation with another friend who was waiting as well, and met the celebrant's brother and a few other people.

Over the course of the evening we also met a local dining establishment owner and a local food blogger. I was in a good mood so I did not ask the blogger if he ever had a bad meal out, ever, and if did, did he ever write about it? But that's my issue with local food critics who hyper-focus on nothing but positives and never offer any constructive critique.

So that was growth on my part, I think.

There was also a fun dinner party in which Cards of Humanity was played. My wife and I were cleaning up on the black cards but this exchange was one I happened to read.

"Maybe she's born with it, maybe it's ___________________

White privilege."

That was the first card I read, and I nearly ended it right then and there. How can that be topped?

It was good, but tiring to get out.

Plus, the Mets were playing on the west coast in the playoffs. The games ended very late, Here's my poem about last night's game.

"An open letter to Chase Utley of the Los Angeles Dodgers; after he broke the leg of New York Mets shortstop Ruben Tejada during an illegal slide into second base in the seventh inning of a game that was played on October 11th, 2015.

Fuck you."

And that's all that needs to be said, until Monday night.

The death of Carey Lander, the keyboardist for Camera Obscura, leaves me very very sad. Lander died of sarcoma this morning at the age of 33. Sucks when such a vital, creative person is taken from us too soon. She will be greatly missed. Condolences to her family, the band, and her friends.

Inspired by Nancy Kangas

Last week I attended a poetry reading in which Nancy Kangas, one of my favorite poets, read. She also did her slide interpretations.

There was also a poem about an on ramp. She suggested other poets write about their most memorable on or off ramps in the city so it can be a series.

After one incident last week, I was moved to write this:


The On Ramp From I-70 East to 315 North

This quarter cloverleaf tips over more trucks in a weekend
than any Hot Wheels cars I flipped on plastic track
Crime tape wrapped stalled cars on shoulder at sunrise
tells the lack of mercy this on ramp possesses
Cut off by an SUV that could not decide on
going east, or wherever
My Volvo rear ended by a Susan Komen painted Mustang
as a result of cell phone indecision
The merge north would be easier if allocated by lottery
than a correct turn signal
Jacked up Fury Road ‘58 Chevy spews blue smoke
Ain’t gonna drag that road rage Mitsubishi
Post accident parts spread out like a yard sale
All colors are welcomed to the ditch
Four cylinder non-turbo acceleration ignored by a lane hog
who will not pull over or slow down to let you in
True hypocrisy revealed by the ‘Coexist’ bumper sticker
on the back of the Honda hybrid as it flees the scene
Its every driver for themselves
as another commute is endured, survived
never experienced.

Charles and Diana did not make it to 34, either

The dirt from my forearm
has stained this desktop into a work patina
Determined years of rest and sweat with
the advancement of scroll finger arthritis
An occasional twinge of notice
there has been nothing from you
on my screen for half of the hours
our battery wires touched before corrosion set in
The acid in the gorge between us damaged any
traditional thirty year pearl past hope of recovery

Your release of a guillotine curtain was the final act
that slammed down any remaining impressions
of whatever joy I kept in a picture frame
Aftershock fragments bounce over the skyline of the city you left
There’s only absence seen through the side mirror
It’s hard to steer away when my hands hurt
Cannot tell if it’s age or road rage
Sympathies never exchanged
after the deaths of relatives, friends
Now we are separated by light years

You constructed the wall you thought I played hide and seek behind
Blocked me out with the skills of the best defensemen
Of course there will not be a gift to celebrate how naive we were
Did we expect anything less from each other
after all this neglect and decay?
When the officiant’s seeing eye dog barked
in the office we all crammed into
I was not listening, always short sighted
Never smelt the fragrance of lilies
on that day we joked about blind justice

A short poem for Friday

Nixon's Lunch

A simple meal
Plate of pineapple slices
topped with a dollop of cottage cheese
A glass of whole milk
served on a silver tray
Before the day was over
resignation from office
What he had for dinner
is not known

Another boss bites the dust

1985 was a crazy year. I graduated college, got married shortly after and began work for a local radio station that was in the process of having its broadcasting license revoked.

This is the second former employer of mine who has died in the past year.

It was a strange place to work, like many of my jobs, with weird and wonderful coworkers. I've never been so scared at work before, as I tried figuring out a newscast out of the local paper and nicking the other station in town. Had no idea what I was doing. None. There was no AP teletype in the station, the owner was too frugal to pay for that. The morning guy was a hoot, a former stand up comedian he made me laugh on the air constantly, God rest his soul.

The former owner of WBUZ, Hammerin' Hank Serafin, died on Saturday, aged 89. I've been playing with this for over a year and a half, finally got motivated to finish it today.



Ten Reasons You Lost Your FCC License

In 1989 radio station WBUZ Fredonia/Dunkirk had it’s license pulled by the FCC. It was only the second license revoked since the Communications Act of 1934. The owner of the station, Hammerin’ Hank Serafin, died on May 2nd.

1) Do not rig a contest in which first prize was a trip to Niagara Falls in which you sent a major advertiser and his wife went to because you were worried people in an immoral relationship would win. Second prize was a hi-tech radio you kept in your office.

2) That time you called the agency for a secretary then asked her supervisor if they had any white girls because the one that showed would make charcoal look white.

3) That day you hacked a public phone booth to air a high school baseball game.

4) Do not keep the public from inspecting your public file during business hours. Do not harass the person who came to view your public file by mocking his hair length.

5) Do not forge the records in your public file. Even if the guy you strung along for years so you could try to sell him the station lied for you.

6) You were also a well known local slumlord. Do not call an advocate for the poor a bitch on the air. Said person was the daughter of a well known county judge. But you could not help yourself, could you?

7) Never charge sponsors for ads they did not agree to run. It also helped your bookkeeper pay her electric bills without you knowing for years.

8) Do not lie about paying your ASCAP fee. Even the polka musicians had to get paid.

9) Because you were such a cheap bastard, you left a visible storefront in town, bought a double wide and parked it next to your transmitter. Enviably located next to a pallet factory at the end of a dead end street. Painted a sign that read the temporary home of WBUZ.

10) In the last days even nature knew you were done. Days before the station went dark a bird flew into the trailer, fluttered around the station, then shat on your desk

The Bad Trevor Noah Blues

The Bad Trevor Noah Blues

Court jesters should be funny
That’s how we want them to be
Now they should never tell a joke
that is offensive to me

I saw the man who got that job
said something bad about a Jew
Not a joke that’s never been said
but it was disappointing to me and you

I saw the man who got that job
said something bad about a girl
Not a joke that’s never been said
but it made people want to hurl

If we’re going to hold our comics
to be authentic and with pure soul
We’re going to look a long long time
for a funnyman to fill that hole

Things no one told you when you became a parent. Reason 60579

After a night in which he fell asleep at 10, woke up and 2AM and did not go back to sleep until about 4:30.

No one told me having a child would be the harbinger of my own death.

A friend just suggested this poem to me. Sounds about right by the title alone.

My son, my executioner

I take you in my arms
Quiet and small and just astir
and whom my body warms

Sweet death, small son,
our instrument of immortality,
your cries and hunger document
our bodily decay.

We twenty two and twenty five,
who seemed to live forever,
observe enduring life in you
and start to die together.

-Donald Hall

The dishes greed serves

The dishes greed serves

(For Cafe Edison)

Take away a lunch counter

replace it with tables draped by 

linen napkins, framed by stemware

Take away the soul of a worker

who needs a place to eat lunch

that will not empty a wallet

Take away the jobs

of people who want to 

feed the people

Not cater to another dining trend

A concept that will pop up and close

in three months

Something to fill the bottom line

of an accounting sheet

that keeps the stomach unnourished

Takes us away from a neighborhood

that turns into a district in name only

which has no real meaning

beyond a marketer’s vita

A strategy that is empty

on a boulevard that used to be something

unique to its citizens but is now

like everywhere else