beyond your narrow now

Tuesday, August 21, 2012

Stuck In A Tunnel

http://photobucket.com/images/lincoln%20tunnel" target="_blank"> Lincoln Tunnel Pictures, Images and Photos

Stuck in the Tunnel

As a kid I thought going thru the Lincoln Tunnel was so mind-blowing. Quietly we’d sit in the traffic and I’d look at the tear-stained tiles; then a feeling of nostalgic longing would seep in my consciousness. I only say nostalgic now—I was so young how could I possibly be nostalgic beyond the previous day? Occasionally, there’d be that transit officer sitting in one of those woeful booths. Perhaps my sadness was associated with fear. Wouldn’t even a little pin prick cause the entire tunnel to collapse and cave in on itself? As a kid (and for a long time as an adult) I thought the tunnel was not underneath the water not in the ground—but went right thru the Hudson—that there was water on all sides of the tunnel, except the bottom. I figured either Charlton Heston—or some other macho biblical figure parted the Hudson just long enough to erect the structure. A scary thought for a child of the 1960’s. After all there was no Sly Stallone to save us all to get us to the daylight. Well, that’s not entirely true; there was Sly Stone. He saved me in the late 1960’s. I loved that he had a band with both black and white musicians. His 1^st Lp was so great—Stand/You’ve been sitting much too long/There’s a permanent crease in your right and wrong. Sly Stone, aside from every day people where he articulated how prejudice was ridiculous, demonstrated open-mindedness and progressive thinking by the very way his band was structured. It’s like one of the basic rules of writing poetry, or perhaps any kind of writing—Show, Don’t Tell. That rule applies to how one should raise kids too. You can tell them something until you’re blue in the face, but if you show them something different they’re either going to be confused, or they’re going to follow the example that the parents illustrate by their own behavior. It’s like my stone-faced, anesthetized, apocryphal father, Abraham Lincoln. You enter the tunnel into his tube of darkness. You may become stuck in this darkness--a labyrinth of theoretical emancipation. But, sooner or later you’ll emerge from being stuck in the tunnel and realize there’s light on the other side—Mitt Romney. After all, his dad metaphorically walked with Dr. King (Mitt said that for over a year that his dad marched with King). What a Dick! I mean what a Mitt, along with his close-minded, non-inclusive religion; so unlike Sly and the Family Stone.

I’m not one post the minutiae of my life on FB. Who cares when I left work, was having a bad day, running out of toilet paper, etc. Some of you know what the euphemistic term books means, which could give and immediate insight to this story. Many of you have other euphemisms. Suffice to say if you hung out in the girl’s room at Mountstock ya know what I’m talking about. Friday night I decided to bake a pie. I haven’t made a homemade by in 13 years easily, possibly longer. Buying the crust is actually making a homemade pie. You’re cheating by avoiding the most difficult part, the crust. A friend was coming over and I was gonna cook dinner. Well once or twice a year I’ll cook dinner for my mom on mother’s day or her birthday, but other than that no. Last Christmas she criticized the size of the yam pieces I cut. In any event I use the recipe in the Joy of Cooking recipe for making the crust. One should never read books or go into the girl’s room at Montclair High (oh, that word’s ironic) before cooking, especially if you’re cooking something you’re not used to. Even though I hadn’t used that recipe in years as I started mixing the ingredients it all came back to me. The dough was looking mealy like it was supposed to it was wonderful. The last ingredient is 5 tablespoons of water. I know the water should be cold, that works better. Unfortunately I read 5 cups not 5 tablespoons. When I originally premeasured the water I did think, “Wow that’s a lot of water.” And, later when I started adding the water and I was getting this stuff that was like the consistency of paper mache, I thought, “Hmmm something’s wrong.” Needless to say it was like a Lucy episode.

Thursday, September 22, 2011

I Can't Do It In 10 Minutes, Irene

This was written in response to the hurricane. It just took me a long time to post.

I can’t do it in 10 minutes. Well, I guess if I leave my shoes on. It’s this weather. You wear so many inconvenient clothes when it’s wet. Gawd, it takes me 10 minutes to unbend my umbrella. When I was young I could do it in 10 minutes. When you’re young you can fire reload, fire reload, fire reload—you can even grit your teeth then fire and reload one more time. But at my age its fire—and I’ll let you know when I’ll reload again. But, the advantage with age is that you’ll hit the bull’s eye more often. When you’re young you’re all over the place. You’re hitting there—over there. Gosh, the gun could go off in your hand. You don’t care just as long as you’re firing. You’re so selfish when you’re young. But, as you become more experienced the reloading process can take a long time. You want the whole experience to last as long as possible—eventually you’ll get your stance, wet your sights like Gary Cooper in Sergeant York—and ever so slowly place your finger on the trigger, feeling the smooth warm surface, then squeeze. Now that takes much longer than 10 minutes.

Saturday, March 26, 2011

More Prozac Please

I thought you could listen to something while you were reading.

Tuesday, March 1, 2011

THE LOOK a poem by HOWARD GARDNER

Friday, February 11, 2011

I'm Sure I'll Hear About It

I’m not exactly sure what my friend, and famous LA poet, Laurel Ann Bogen would say; but, I know that when you’d try to offer an apology before reading your poem there was a general cry of, “No editorializing.” Or, “No apologies.” Obviously, in lieu of that comment let me offer my apology, and hereby explain that the following is a rant. This, at least by my definition, means that it’s stream-of-consciousness. I belong to a group of writers in Montclair, New Jersey called The Write Group. On Saturdays we get together and write to three prompts, at 15 minutes a shot; meaning, we write for 15 minutes to each prompt. It’s a great group of people. We are all so different, though some are archetypal characters but it always makes for an enjoyable Saturday morning, especially when Denise brings her scrumptious baked goods. This prompt was: I’m sure I’ll hear about it. In my last read through I’m not sure that title fits. Maybe it should be something about love. The main thing is that I post something to my blog and not spend so much time worrying about perfection, which by its very definition is impossible.

I’m Sure I’ll Hear About It

I love that you feel
you love me
even before you know me,
that happens a lot
it’s my affable nature that often gets me in trouble.
My chameleon personality
sheds its skin quickly
takes on the personality of the environment,
it’s not that I’m not truthful
it’s that there are all sorts of truths,
there’s my truth
your truth
his truth
the collective truth
there’s To Tell the Truth
hosted by Bill Cullen
with a panel of radio stars
faded B movies actors
and the last to be introduced
was always Kitty Carlisle,
I think she had a silent S in her name
I never understood, why use a
letter that isn’t pronounced?
That isn’t subtle.
Kitty was the last one introduced
because there’s something about her name
that allows you to easily say it with a flourish,
some names are like that
like when the public address announcer
at the Fabulous Forum
would announce Jabbar’s name after he made a basket
Basket by Kareem Abdul Jabbar!
Jabbar and Carlisle have the same rhythm;
you see I bleed
from one idea
melt into another idea
and step into the next one
and when I say something out of turn,
or annoying
it wasn’t me that said it
it’s that other guy
it’s one of my several personas
I’ve developed over the years.
There’s the one that’s affable
I can always seem affable
even when I’m really not,
that’s why sometimes
after I left the principal’s office,
wherein I was supposed to be the one being reprimanded
I’d easily turn the tables,
and as I was leaving the office
I knew that whatever administrator I’d been with
wouldn’t have realized I had just insulted them
for another few minutes after I had left.
It’s just my affable and polite way.
I got that politeness from my grandparents,
they’re Bermudian, more British than the British.
It takes a minute to realize you’ve been insulted if there’s a British accent attached
or that kind of formalism behind the remarks.
Besides, you might even think it was a compliment
for a moment.
So don’t think you love me
you might have just fallen for one of my many personas
But I’m sure I’ll hear about it.

Thursday, July 15, 2010

New Cat Poem

This is my cat, Maurice’s poem. He died a few months ago after about 17 years. He was a black cat born on October 31st. I’ve shared it with a few friends. In some respects it’s the first poem I wrote in years, simply because it’s different than the other poems I’ve written in the past couple of years. I did steal the idea from Billy Collins; he wrote a poem through his dog’s voice. Why I would steal anything from that guy, someone who accused me of being a simile machine I have no idea. Poet laureate—eh, what does he know. Kidding--it was a useful comment; not for the poem we were talking about but….

Pet me, you fool

Why did you call me Maurice?
It’s an okay name
but even though you remember
your 7th grade
French dictée
your pronunciation, save tien,
is intelligible.
When others asked why you named me Maurice
you said that I told you that was my name,
I did no such thing
I didn’t talk to you for at least two weeks,
and you named me after only 2 days.
People kept leaving your condo
and your life,
what happened to that 1st girl
that you lived with?
The one that was allergic to me,
but loved me almost as much as you.
After my first 11 months
she stayed in bed a lot
got skinny
bloated up
right before she disappeared.
She smelled of chemicals,
she left one day
with a long thin tube in her arm
and never came back.
I liked her,
hoped I’d see her again.

Then there was that woman that came
every few months for five years,
once she stayed for two weeks
and on the14th she cried and screamed at you.
I thrust a claw in her leg,
she was annoying and I thought you might like that
but you cried that night,
and then again for her years later
so perhaps the claw thing was not a good idea.

Then there was the guy with dreds
he stayed for 9 months,
I liked him and his youthfulness.
You two spun a lot of music,
our condo was the happiest it had been
since that 1st girl
but maybe it was because you two
smoked a lot of pot.
I liked teasing him, pretending
I was a crazed cat.
Once I cornered him
and two friends,
he propped up his mattress
barricaded all of them
in a corner.

How about that woman
who came and sat next to you
while you endlessly played
that damn computer game?
She’d sit silently
for hours watching
until you cried,
she and I talked a lot with our eyes
about the 1st girl.
I liked her too
she smoked too much.

Then my step brother
that dog stayed with us for 5 years,
you went away for a week
someone with a key
took him.
He never came back home,
I missed him like Dorothy did the Scarecrow,
we always played
chased each other continuously
from the living room to the bedroom
until I’d get
my nail stuck in his chest
then we’d sit still,
at attention
until you gently pried us lose.
He was nice to curl next to in winter
to sit next to on the window seat,
we used to think about the passing cars together.

Now that I’m gone
to the hole in your backyard
I hope you can keep
someone in your life consistently.

I still might rework this a few times, but I like it now. Well, the title I’m not so sure about, but I’m whimsical. I’m like an annoying parent with my poems, tugging at them straightening their ties, seldom leaving them alone. I’m just hoping to find the right image for the blog site