Paradox, and awry we go . . . . again. BBC, 2009.

Don't get me wrong. Emun Elliot can glare at a computer screen with the best of them. Dark and brooding, self-enamored and closed. Alas and alack, another good concept miscast and misplayed in oh so many ways. I can suspend belief as well as most, but as a threshold, not throughout. The supposed reaction to photos downloading from space depicting events 18 hours out is ? I'm still searching for a word in the English language that won't cause my blog to be taken offline.

The English government and scientific community give us 3 police officers. Cookie cutter and bowing obsequiously to key market segments. That's the entire reaction; almost. The 3, plus Emun, are watched live, and nonstop, by intelligence? cabal? shadowy unnamed men and women on monitors.

Each episode consists of these 4 cast members running around, in-fighting, bitching and, as a sideline, trying to stop whatever misfortune is portrayed in the photos. A bureaucratic reaction to the marvelous. Probably another stillborn attempt at sci-fi.

What will be the result of these new series? Beyond the ratings, of course. Beyond putting the brakes on any new innovative series?

I give Paradox 4 stars out of 10. Ho ho ho.

Stargate Universe, Defying Gravity

2009 has not been kind to sci-fi. It's been the year of the great forgetting. Writers, producers, directors - cumulatively discarding the very essence of sci-fi's attraction. Gone are wonder, amazement, awe. We've been given in their place soapy dilutions; story arcs that forget to tell a story; characters that are neither introspective nor dynamic, merely boring. Who in his right mind would send these casts of mediocrity off planet, let alone into what should have been our great adventures?

Placing 'Stargate' before 'Universe' does a great disservice to a very good body of work. Nearly everything in the 'Stargate' canon has been discarded. A good idea gone bad in its telling. A tedious use of stones to return to earth merely for bad episodes of daytime television. Can we find a single character onboard this variously dated ship with whom we'd actually want to share a beer or dinner? A series cluttered with whining, needling and berating wannabes.

Great anticipation, awful letdown. That sums 'Defying Gravity', ABC / CTV 2009. Interminable stretches of pre-ship relationship failures, career bumps, drinking bouts and gyms. Enormous chunks of filler material with hardly any payback for our patience. 13 episodes to reach the first stop: Venus. Our reward? I'm still waiting.

I've recently watched Star Trek: Enterprise again. Most of the 4 seasons, anyway. Whatever its failings may be, the writers understood forward motion. They understood movement, both in time and space. They understood that a series needs flow, anticipation, satisfaction. They threw ideas at their audience with abandon. But more on Enterprise, as well as Voyager and Babylon 5 later.

Ratings for these two clunkers: 3 stars out of 10. It is the Holiday Season, after all.

chasing the trance

old ladies, swaying, clapping
moving to that strange unseemly rhythm
blue hair, silken, unnatural hair
praying in the dimmery of the day
done chasing lost souls, are they
?

sit down where the old men hunker
polished pews, flickered candles
as they watch their women
chase the trance, watch their
tongues call jesus

holy, holy, what a fine diversion
keeps me satisfied, keeps me warm
ain't no devil knocking, knocking
at this homely, cherished door
listen, won't you, to salvation
may keep you kneeling
on the floor

old ladies, swaying, praying
up to the dawn
selling penance, oh ain't it pretty
i hear forgiveness in the wind
yes, if i had my way, that hot wind
would kiss these lips, and
i'd burn this old place down

feeling the call

looking at pictures, watching them fade
as black into gray, white is no clearer
when days are gone long
yes, momma used to jitterbug
in skirts with no pleats, her
shoes gone to goodwill, sunday morn
photos of picnics, iced tea and stained lace
yes, watching them fade

i can rock by the mirror, as after
noon slides, tap my toes in the
summer blown dust, watching them fade
gone autumn, gone cold, wintry silver
takes hold of my hair, but i rock
by the mirror, and see only sun
flying by

may be movies are twirling, and
flickering at night, choppy voices from
places forgot, was i ever so gentle
did i smile when you sang, was i shorter
or taller, as slender as air, or am i
dreaming the long shallow dream

this house calls a reckoning, for
paying the tab, for hours we've borrowed
one, at a time; there's an end to a debt
says a tale i once heard, there's a time
when you'll follow, was i ever enough
but i'm gone in my roaming, as i rock
in this chair

feeling the call

davey and me

well, davey and me, we've
been cryin' in our soup
sittin' on our old brown stools
oh, i was laughin' in the twilight
saddin' in the sun
all roun' yesterday

come fiddle with me, sally
music makes a ghost
twangin' strings n poundin' keys
ain't a drummer in the city
got a thing up on this lad
oh, but davey and me, we're
sad to see

jelly beans n brown marshmallows
crispy from the fire, then
take me tootin' to the funeral
long black limos full of doors
or i could crash a weddin'
in my tux, a pretty sight
yes, i'm handsome as the devil
on clean sheets

oh, davey and me, we've been
cryin' in our soup

life, no. 1

sittin' with that old man, causing bout the day
laughin' at the lies we've told
that is a joyous juice he makes,
swirlin' brown and smoky, snakey
with a sting

i got two brown feet, tired from
runnin', good for just the two-step
and a lazy eye for nights gone dark
may be you've seen me, chasin' flies
out in the garden, lightnin' in the
air

yes, lawdy, i'm out sittin' with the old
man, but we've no hymns down in
our chests, we've no blessin's, no
i dance the blues, up in my window
where the yellow sun has bent some
shade

oh, i'm ghostin' with my momma, as
her rocker keeps its time, hear her
cryin' when the moon's fell by, hear
her stories, little sadness, raisin cookies
make me smile

ain't life dandy, hard as funerals
soft as wakes and irish tunes
lads gone off to find their war
ain't life simple, but hard as kisses
and gettin' old

Canadian Idol, Season 6, Result night top 24

Finally, we've emerged from the mire of bad, worse and horrendous to find our Top 24. And their opening performances left everything to be desired. I twitched, squirmed and nearly despaired as I watched one melt-down after another. Of all the seasons of American, Australian and Canadian Idol, this was the worst beginning by a landslide.

But a miracle has occurred, or what passes for a miracle in our times: the results show for these same Top 24. It was the single most enjoyable segment of Idol that's hit the air. Individually: misguided; collectively: brilliant. Whitfield & Strong's hoary oldie 'I Heard it Through the Grapevine' was both graceful and full of the blues, but with a voice of this generation.

John Fogerty's 'Have You Ever Seen the Rain' started the episode, and was a showcase for four contestants who sounded as though they'd been together for years. And, unfortunately, the last Idol appearance for Shaun Francisco.

It looks to be a very up and down season. All we can do is hope that somewhere along the way this group will get some good advice and listen. Left alone, who knows.

But we'll be watching, won't we fans? Til next week.

scattered, in the wind

i've gone down from heaven
made some wings of salt
can't you smell the ashes scattered ?
just like honey in the wind

you've been walking for the sundown
old black hymnal singing choir
asking jesus for a favor
momma's child gone worn and frail

you liked your dresses blue in flowers
soft from drying on the line
old hot sun done made you crinkled
ain't that just the way of things
?

i've gone down from heaven
tired of angels, goodness bare
sure could use some fancy whiskey
paper label from tennessee

i'd trade his throne for barefoot dancing
for pain, sweet jasmine all the night
you'd sit for hours, stare at that mirror
i never knew you, no not at all

memories have lost their hold
lost their bitter taste
soon that man i was
will go a'scattered in the wind

the float

he was an immoderate man, choking d-flats into
his steel horn, riffing down ill-tempered a-sharp
sugary crusty donut shaped violations

he throned those iron steps scratched out
from his bedroom window, splayed his toes
shook his arms to free the juice

listening down, waiting out the breathing that
stole a few half-chordal splutters, squint-eyed
o-ing his lips to mimic back a few

maybe he'd coda out some butchy-boy noise
blonde hair glisses, frat-bunny do-wah do-wahs
crossin-the-bridge makin-time atonals

his leg found some dancing, shaking a wrong
old beat stutter stutter what'd-i-ever-do-to-you
and everybody knows boys don't cry

boys don't get sweet inspiration, make sweet
choices, make supper with sushi make-believe
and he splayed his toes cross the edge iron

steps, swimming in the moonlight, gripping
shimmying, chasing dizzies, gutting out
and making kisses on his horn, steel smooches

making him a good boy, an honorable boy
a make-me-proud boy, and he gripped the
iron one last time, then did the float

i have a window

i have a window, made of old stuff, grayed out in the sun, where
i can make my spying, safe and full-up with the warm of day,
and it never shadows my careful eye, never leaves me open

to the hardness lying by, it is a window special to my taste,
obedient to my ways, i am become here precious

i have a savory flavor, and i may cause with you, bring you
arias from the world away, pander you with scotches, rums
and scents, leave you pleasured, should i gift you with

lollipops and whispers

come sit with me, i am rare as those hothouse secrets,
i was an old man yester day, drunk up with churchy
hymning, drunk up with frittery oratory, but i have a window,

where i can tango in the dark, wear some fancy glimmers,
bring my little frivols to the play, i have watched you making
kisses, and i'll favor you my bruises, imagine you with blushes

we'll forget the sun betakes us both unkindly, if only you will
sit with me

jimmy

gentle jimmy
died tonight
8:04 pm is nearly dark
not black in mourning
soft with gray, rich in shades
but i'll go walking
heel to toe
careful where the streets
bend unlit
i'll jump across the alleyways
hiding jimmy's dreams
all full up with fear
i may be but
trust is trust, all wrapped
in care, i think i do
love smoky liquor
brown or gold, caught
by moonlight
then we'll speak bout gentle jimmy
or dance the digger's two-step
on the 19th avenue

dying's got a speak
all of its own
though it comes and goes
now forgot, now remembered
they say all life's got ebbs
got tides and turnings
or is it just my sweet
hot whiskey
that sleeps in this old bed
sweet faithful lover

gentle jimmy
died tonight
done in from chasing angels
if i can merit, can understand
the streetly choir
weren't he but a child, or
am i wandered
am i seeing past the glass
and through the mirror
8:04 pm is not nearly
dark enough
for dying

the hot house flower

leg crossed over knee, with fine display of
tan socks, loose and overwashed socks, j c penney
season 1974, no doubt recovered, no doubt
discarded, or are they beige
?

he may be seeking treasures, in his bold
blue pant, belted closely, firmly held, may be
on the chase, pale arms sheltered in a triumph
of the clorox corporation

as he sits, long fingers tap tap tapping
some times paused, in a delicate rhythm
profane with jazz hip spasm, uncrosses to an act
with startled calf, and smiles

and you whisper, bent incautious, breathless toward
my ear, that you desire him, watch and devour
him, he carries baubles, ragged pages, hair flown
furious, this instant man

but i can't see him, though i strain, though i
could reach across and touch his shadow, hear
some sibilance from his lips, and know they
have a fullness made to blush

and you whisper, mouth unforming, watch
his slowly nodding chin, that you desire him
would caress him, he of the j c penney
season 1974

i'm indecisive, there is a haughty and entirely
demanding, conundrum, where does line go sharp
between the tan and the weighty beige, where
does my fashion sense begin
?

but faced with such fine drama, can i turn away
miss even a mini-episode from your unexpected
gift? here as we sit, and sip our marvels, soy unfatted
doubled, preciously caffeinated

yes, his legs are crossed, eyes star-tossed
or so you say, bent incautious, crassly salivating
and if he wears boxers, paisley manufactures
from the house of sears
?

will you still want him, hot house flower
he may be
?

Have you become 'Idolized' ?

Does American Idol throw a switch in our otherwise useful, sometimes perspicacious, minds? Has there been some managed and robotic response programmed into the judgment area of our brains? Ponder these probing questions as you sip your double fat free soy lattes, chai teas, sake pomegranate fruities.

As your probing inquirer into all things pop or frivolous, I, of course, will dissect the inanities of our dissolute culture. And occasionally remark upon its joys. That said, before proceeding load your browser with a YouTube gem, Anthony Callea's amazing 'The Prayer'. Runner-up in Australian Idol's 2004 season, Mr. Callea gave a performance unmatched as yet on America's own rocker-heavy edition.

Then take a gander over to watch a performance by Lee Mead, winner of BBC's Any Dream Will Do spin on Idol. His performance with Josh Groban is a showcase for a working actor with voice training.

Lastly, I offer the apparently quirky Carl Risely from Australian Idol's 2007 season. Trumpeter, jazz determinist, heart-throb extraordinaire - watch and listen.

Of course, more to follow . . .

American TV - what ARE you thinking?

Interesting gradually morphs into mediocre. And then, oof, slides into the Big Yawn. So goes CBS with its aging concept crime shows: Numb3rs, Criminal Minds, CSI-Miami.

We've never minded the formulaic. It's a comforting and comfortable approach deeply imbedded in pop culture. Its origins are far from humble - the Greeks made ample use of stock characters and situations - and found from China to merriest England. But we can trivialize even the trivial - and that's no mean feat. There's no mystery why fare like Dumb and Dumber is so popular.

However, CBS has managed to siphon even minor entertainment value from the absolute morass of its programming. Is there any show more dour and humorless than Criminal Minds? Or has another show so outlived its original, and now worn, concept than Numb3rs? Miami's incarnation of CSI has always gone for flesh over suspense, fashion over intelligence, and is now dumbed down to nonsensical flash.

But more, avid fans, later . . .

Vaudeville, Ethel Merman and the revival of the 'Big Note'

There's a visceral response to the big, long note - perhaps held precariously - that seeks its outlet beyond the confines of a theater. It can overshadow a raw, unkempt performance. It can erase the ouch of off-key, badly timed phrasing. It is the KO at the end of a mismatch, but the KO of an expected one-sided loser.

Unfortunately, it's caused good singers to be swept away in an emotional outpour to the mediocre. 15 seconds out of 90. Just enough to go on, get the votes, survive. So step aside intelligent, thoughtful arrangement. Give a yawn to the sophisticated or unrecognized. This is American Idol.

To be continued . . .

lost

i'm gone lost
mercy
and i'm gone out of dreams
ain't i
?

yes, i say i been travelin
far off places, cause
you love your bits
of sweet romance

lovin butterflies, darker
flowers, glowin in the shade
so i kiss you full of mysteries
don't i
?

breathless, you sit and listen
and for you i'll shape some words
round, fullsome, and cut away
the bitter

but i'm gone out of dreams
been flowed over, lyin in the sun
near drowned, neath the weight
of butterflies

and taste my tears

i am

i am the healing man
oh lordy, full of comfort
i am

and you have fallen
out of grace, and lie there
hungry, but

were you ever just an angel
and i am never blinded
in the dark

i am the comfort man
oh lordy, full of healing
i am

sitting in your window
drinking full of scent
hardly

do you think to weave
and bind me, sorcel me
with magicks

i am the dancing man
oh lordy, jealous in the hours
i am

so call out, call out
if you have some voice, some
power

for your healing man
oh lordy, leave me with my dreaming
i am

if

churchy boys, wauling down on 7th street
tappy with some hymnals, and jumping
with their fever, oh lordy, if my old gray
pants, if

but i don't listen to the whispering of the son
no sugah, don't make absolution, shining at
the greyhound stop, smiling to the cadillacs
clicking nickels, in my old gray pants, if

young sammy ran with the hard cap fellas
while his momma rocked, jumped up to a polka
and sang along in black and white, to her
emerson deluxe, crocheted for salvation, yes

if my old gray pants can keep their magic
you know that pennies find their way, but
dimes are silver, last forever, small and tidy
and my pocket's wide, and deep, only

i haven't told you, cause i keep my secrets
they took my place, at the greyhound stop
where the cadillacs they roam, proud and
sleeker than you know, sniffing for my scent

jesus find me, lost away on 33rd, wiping
chevies, and keep me young, just til these
old gray pants, they lose their charms, if

bees and honey

honey, i'm sweet as melted butter
see the slippers on my bedroom floor
tossed, crisscrossed, cause i like my toes
all bare

brown from swimming in the old maid pond
rustling with the willows, fancying
summer kisses, or was i howling
to the moon

gone ragged memory tales, jimmy-jagged
made up tales, telling stories like my
daddy, passing through the windows
dark in night

ain't girls that pretty, slinky made of
twists and slopes, razzled in the hallway
mirror, spinning like a top, just to make me
sing

but words, all come and go, whispry
and know that i'm a liar, given to
confabulations, a hunter with my soft
feet, i am a caution

or says the honey to the bee

Primeval, ITV, Season 2, with notes on Stargate

Finally, we're just days away from the first episode of season 2. Considering the broad disappointment of the current television season in general, this is much more than just a good thing. Saturday, January 12th at 7pm is the day and time to clear your obligations, pre-order your favorite delicacies and cheer, bravo, ole or huzzah.

Nearly every series that I'd even modestly anticipated has let me down. But now that I have your dubious attention I must mention the still-in-production Stargate SG1 Ark of Truth and its following Continuum. Some of you may know about, or have even seen, the leaked and unfinished version of Ark. It's been available for some little time via torrent. It will wrap up the Ori storyline (thank goodness).

For now, faithful, and perhaps avid, fans - that's all she wrote!

noel, no. 3

eddie done the slips, fell with the slides
rocking with the shiver, all blinded in his winter
white

gone, check it off, some list grown short
and slashed, wrack it slowly, pencil finally
finely

edge him into goodwill, dodgy wear-washed
cast-me's, as we laugh against the dollar rack
badly

and try to guess the potions, anxious oily lotions
cremes from overstock, warehoused somewhere by
walgreens

is my eddy, foiled again, skipping breaths once,
twice, cloudy in the afternoon, and he wonders if
he's kissed

alley hopping, hoody thugs slamming hip-hop
miming dead end arias, eying salty eddy under
dread

is our life, was and going to be, our life, over and
again, bouncing on the hedges, tiptoed to the ledges
down

tie it, down, and tightly tie it, for the run, for the
streetly frolicks, and if we lose, or throw it, blow
it

i'm wise, glowing in the disco ball, endless wise
me, making dance, shaking to the ghostey years
forever

the long but not drawn noel, no. 2

i'm gone long, drawn out like sheepdog running
just a lopsided and bluesy boy, maybe shouts
when the night gets long, do i

got still some hopscotch, do i, and make scratch
jenny, or she is suzy, surely a bit of laughing
lady, ready for her romp

sling this new day, quilty all of older stuffs
cause when she wears old jasmine oils
blinds me sure enough, do i

if you're thinking, lazy long and old man thoughts
you will be hankered there, sure for hours
grumpy and tapping feet

i got some flying in me, do i, and blow over
all that ocean, leap the slips of water, just to
blink sweet sally's way

prayerful fella, wink there to the sun's down
and we can heist your uncle's dimes, scoop
those heavy nickels to a tune

jabber fella, i'm long here by your aunty's chair
long for that warm and gentle chair, do i, where
it's dark and knows best

i feel the marvel, do i

mystery song, no. 3

dark talking fellas, do they make their whisper
corner standing fellas, slying and looking
ready to be a thief, and watch their brown eyes
turn blue

sing-song blues, humping and thumping
foot tapping stuff, just made for fools, for heart
hunting strangers making their time
out of time

jesse, come back from your travel, cause the
clouds are gone hard, thick with some heavy
wails

i find them fearsome, these jabber and stomping
men, snapping and cracking, riff-raffing down my
alleys

what is this life i lead, ordered like some sergeant's
bark, but it gives me no sleep, shoving fierce into the
night

lord, he watches and he listens, counts the quick
little whiskeys, as i brown my toes with the falling
sun

tell me quick, about this life, have i gone astray
have i done wrong, lord, and some times you love
me

cause i can see the end

a thief

night, splattering red across my windows, and we're
tired, this night and me, waiting, wearied down
by sour whiskey, twisty and dancing in tosses,
by turns

deceitful lover, is my night, false hour by hour
stealing minutes, and i feel it stalking, lurking
prowling, hoping to creep into my bed, but i
have no room there

i sing some small romances, don't i, while i am
living this life, surprised some times, by your
little nothings, forgotten in my shallow corner
darkly worn

and i don't know you, or did i ever know you,
i have my weakness for the thief who takes
my baubles, then slips away to leave them
every where

i fall bound, wrapped into my old thin bed
ragged pillows, blanketed by my father's
whispers, tied with memories, tied from
losing you

A few selections from days gone by

susie

susie sells her socks, but only after church, down by
charlie’s gate, and only to the catholic boys, cause they
have dimes and pennies, pockets full, and blushes on

their cheeks, and when the moon has slipped away, the
doors have darked and shut to strangers, she skips across
the pastor’s lawn, makes her prayers, sly with promise

sly with woman twists, sings her happy patter, and hides
her favorite monies, down in the deacon’s garden, scented
with old granny’s lilacs, scented with some magicks that

her daddy tossed aside, and susie weaves some charms
that would leave her momma danced in pride, wickeds
up the night time airs with fabulous concoctions. oh, yes

our susie, our heart’s delight

- - - - - -

waiting

he sat behind a mirror, drinking bourbon sweet and sassy
waiting for the sun to rise, waiting for the dawn to warm his
toes, laying riffs up on the window sill, in that same ol’ same ol’

and he dreamed, and he tasted old and salty wounds, and he
sang, chasing katydids, waking up the sugar apple trees, and he
laughed, cause days are short and sleeping’s lost its way

so he rocked, with his daddy’s slow and easy, wrapped in
d.ellington’s aharmony in g, waiting for his lies to lose their
joyful ways, and the sun to rise, and the bourbon turn to scotch

- - - - - - -

lost in queens

i watched his finger tap a samba beat, listening to vivaldi,
but he whispered e.merman jollies from a corner la-z-boy

and still, the sun will set as he darks the air with shades
and little torments, and still, he breathes his minor key
complaints, warbly rodondos, caprices in a sutra style

why am i lost in queens, besotted by some sweet fandango,
causing gently with my old-man and sillied by the sun

why do i fill him up with my 7-penny stories, buy vanilla
frapaccinos for this malted debonair, in his store front
parlor, in his lounge left discarded by a disco dancing swell

he’s drawn with such casual dissidence, a jangly composition
and relishes my lies with a hunger raw and sharpened for a feast

or have we simply been misplaced, and chance would have us
make our waltz, make us giddy with our heady and flamboyant
spins, a doo-wop boy and a barber with a sunday night despair

give me my salty whiskey, if i’m to while away the day, so i can
sing some janis joplin, and listen to vivaldi, and finally go my way

an extended haiku in a-minor, riddle

hearts
muscular organs
solitary
they move yet
their murmurs give us
pause

you're alone
but
do you know

i can take
everything

From the ongoing Songs of Childhood

mystery and hot chocolate

shared rooms, narrow beds and unquiet places
night wise sounds that easily torment
raw breaths, loosely opened windows bring
cold

when alien, exotic noise ratchets on those
uncomforting walls, brickey and dusty
odd uneven row upon row, crumbled
sometimes

frank walks on stone floors, jimmy on
wood, both on the look, the watch, making
their summons, driving in dreams for
the out

billy's caught in the old song, sharp, or
minored, he can't change the key, escape
the octave of his birth, a casual after
thought

old houses tire easily, afraid of people
watching for despair, keen eye, laughing
with their money, carefully woven
clothes

but they have a duty, when children
find them home, want some refuge
have a purpose against idle passers
winds

parents can be fickle, forgetting in their
ways, leave joy outside the garden gates
or follow roads that wind and torment
away

wally keeps some vigilance, dark-eyed
dances on the roof til dawn, makes small
mumbles to the bees, the wasps, old black
flies

so turn the days, so wait the children
where they lay, where they mark their hours
well within that mystery where you leave
hot chocolate

and forget

A tidbit from songs of childhood

the boy at the door

an orphan is an orphan, though he smiles
very properly, turning his mouth, twisting
his lips, a mimic of strangers who stare

as he worries of tears, of rips and worn
creases, hiding a spot where his supper
had flown

he has flight in his fancy, sitting by doors
reading of birthdays, of candles, surprise
of gifts everlasting

of waking at Christmas, ice falling through
air, but Santa's for children with parents and
cakes

with chimneys that beckon old men without
care, and he knows there are rules, for boys
in the night

lessons to learn, if a lad hopes to leave
to wander, to search for the reason he sits
at the door

sammy

are you sleeping, silly sammy, here by highway 95, lying
on the daisies, warm beneath the august sun, are you dreaming,
little fella, miles from all the city's ash, getting comforts

where you may, but i never took you for a country lad, never
knew you found some pleasures far from boylston by the bay,
or has your daddy sent you roaming, off to chase your troubles

far away, have you finished with your poker, poured your
whiskey in the fields, taken solace where the toughs may
let you hide, but are you sleeping softly, sammy, and i can not

see the rising of your pride, or hear your wildsome mutters,
what are these curious bruises, why do they steal the laughter
from your lips, so perhaps i'll keep you company, here on 95

but just until you wake, and we'll go jolly into town, one more time

the story

all this story, word by word, breathed out
started in, punctuated in hands gone shaking
commas derelict, periods haphazardly strewn
minor jitterbugs of sics, et als, loopy tries for
misdirection

illustrated with no. 2's, henna, ungainly pastiche
of upper caps, italicized with fervor, all this story
paragraph by paragraph, set adrift in life raft
fashion, hopes set afloat but not for posterity
yet

what a life, this tale would like to tell, like to
ripen with belief, what a voyage has gone
unnoticed, as you doze amid your pens, holy
oils, tibetan inks, as you bounce your little
mutters

what defines the real, a lopsided word, heavy
toward the end, or settles on the shoulder, raucous
as a parrot, sharp beaked, clawed for furious
action, come to steal the mealy tidbits of your
day

are you sliding, crippled, mesmerized, into
the awful hours, the screaming minutes, into
seconds lost into the night, are you fasting
out of hunger for affection, making pages, making
life

this life, this story, nothing more than vanilla
than frothy latte, cinnamon sticks standing in
recycled cups, tapped with enya, comforted by
roly buddhas, this tale won't bring you fame
today

watch my hands and i will sorcel the airs
i will weave the elements, draw on the fire
dowse for waters where we sit, for this is our
mystery, and we're at the edge, whistling into
the abyss

no. 3, from songs for women who would be wayward

tonight

blues fisted, old steel guitar, so he stomps his feet
and calls, hello honey, buckle up cause you will be my baby
tonight

he makes a wicked laugh, strumming, humming
and southern caterwauling gives him thirsty plans
tonight

but he likes his hair red, watches girls grow older
shake their skirts, tip toe by him slowly, and give him
scents

gin is for the spirituals, whiskey for the funerals
churchy hymns go best with black rum, coca-cola
sweet

and he knows that life ain't straight, like lines up on
the wall, takes his opportunities deep with a shuffle
1,2,3,4

ladies from the city, husky voice and full of secrets
like his feet brown, with country sun, honey raw but
smooth

no, he takes life twisty, peppery with magicks
rides your window like a cowboy, sly where you make
shadows

any one can count the days, and he knows that there
is no moral to this tale, no leaky rainbow, melting on the
blacktop

he smiles, rich with his lazy tongue, crafty gambler
gives you dice to make a play, spin 'em, roll 'em
tonight

rules

there are rules for an orphan, written by machine
taped or tacked, hammered and nailed, here there
by windows and doors, gentle reminders
strong aversions, principles for living with some use
some purpose, to clear the doubt that might be
clouding

for an orphan may have an expectation, as he
waits up in the window, watching cars, counting
passers by, searching faces for some kindness
for some willingness to share their beds
perhaps a name, he searches in the eyes of
strangers

he may be wracked by jealousies, as golden
folk give nod and smile but leave him smit
choosing lads far younger, leaner in their needs
choosing lads with bluer eyes, a keener nose
who smile without his anger or his tear
his regret

an orphan is an orphan, though he finally makes
the man, carried by his little torments, unsure
of roads that lead into the world, stumbled
by perplexity, bowed by wonder and out to
seek the rules far from his door, holding his
heart's small murmur

the book

a book can lay confusion, across the bed, as you
wait for trees to blossom, watching wally walk away
that prince of roamers, sensing summer's wariness
ready to search for duty, for use and purpose
where he'll soon forget

but you've lost yourself, bits and shambles
weakened as the days come forced upon you
it's a bitter thing, to know spring as you do
thrown upon the breaking grasses, greener
than you remember

a book will carry portents, shade the morning
with foreign clouds, let the snows of winter linger
far beyond their days, might offer grace when
the airs are heavy, give you a song for your
vigilance, stony in the window as he slides
through evening fog

the word

she won't say the word, and reads that tattered book
turns the pages, yellowed-brown, worn by other
fingers, worried by other eyes, a strange and curious
tale of children, somewhere far and wondrous, besieged
by danger, that she knows full well

or does she know the word, unheard here where
she hides, unformed by gentler mouths, unfierce
mouths, as pages turn, where oaths are made
she knows untold that children slaying dragons
have gone into the west

and she'll always be alone

from the songs of childhood, #7

the orphan

an orphan is an orphan, even while
the trees go bare, even while
the curious peek, they peer
quizzing and probing, seeking
problems to be cured

his window is for keeping
hard at bay, prowlers making rounds
hauling wonder on the back, pockets
full of temptations rare, bedeviled
beads and trinkets

an orphan never sees the ocean, or
ponders with the crows, never plays
at karaoke, but learns the small lessons
tricky and twisty lessons, that may lie
unbidden at his door

an orphan may excel at haiku, perhaps
dante, read the caterwauls of sartre
if kind strangers toss them overworn
up and over, sliding through, the cautious
gates of orphandom

he may cross a field of bending corn
making ramble, glide into the ins and outs
of weary, if the walls are high and know
their duty, if the sun is giving, this
furtive ward, properly tagged

an orphan is an orphan, after papers
have been signed, stamped and folded
filed away from memory, in a room
where lives are ordered, sealed
with wax, and hope

he may sing, when gulls go far astray
when dreams seek sun, he may sing
he may

the long forget

blues, and when we want to dance, we dance
lost that small, that little bragging love somewhere
behind, a few steps back, a 2-step to the side
i wave my hand, make music while i'm hanging
next to you, think about the day slipped slow
think about my silly promises

i can quick steal words out of the air, even
from the sky, from dangly tunes, lopsided lyrics
leave my inspiration ragged, and from the inside
i know, catch me failing you, plunk my wood
guitar, loose some murmurs, the time to be
knocking on the end

i start the long forget