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.

The sunny side of rejection

The past week has been a fever dream of writing. Three poems worked on, which is something that has not happened in some time. I'm not saying they're good poems, but the accomplishment is more important.

In addition, another poem I submitted for an online journal earlier this year was rejected. So yay, feeling like a writer for a moment.

Two things motivated me to write one yesterday. First, a story about some long forgotten about Buster Keaton photographs which have surfaced and will be available for viewing at this year's Damfino Convention in October.

Then this article about how the Library of Congress is trying to get silent film buffs to identify actors and other film details. Film restoration and preservation fascinates me. I know little about the process but that there are few, so few, dedicated people doing this gives me hope. The future of silent film interest, that worries me.

So I wrote this one.

Empty reels

Black and white flickers still,

more often than not in pixels

The eyes of the stars had power

Their medium delicate, flammable

thrown into dumpsters

stored in unforgiving dampness

or left to crumble by dust making furnaces

Most is lost

Seventy percent of what was silent

eight thousand nickelodeon

pleasure dome features

Even the magazines, posters, lobby cards

dedicated to them have long vanished

Three thousand survived

This history, this portrait of the entertainment

our grandparents

our great-grandparents

did to keep themselves whole

is a Murnau shadow on Netflix

A keystone cop of disorganization on youtube

Our first celluloid culture

is dying of thirst

through lack of quality streams

Through viewer indifference

Tight fisted studios greenlighting

another superhero reboot

while avoiding preservation of its investments

Maybe Marty will keep saving them

Maybe they’ll make a sequel to The Artist

But with no audience

the only interest will be the museum pieces

the eight reelers of major players

With no strength of a supporting cast

that is quickly irising out.