Something I wrote with the kids in the writing workshop this summer

We had 2 minutes to use the words wind, river, spring, flowers, passion, blue, and eyes in a poem.  Ready, Go.

The wind blinked
its blue eyes at the river. The ice
was breaking, spring
had come, with
its water laughing in streams,
with its sudden rising
of flowers. The poor snow
wept, as the sun
and the wind
mingled, like guests
at a party where the snow
was not invited.  "I have
a passion for
this time of year,"
Mother
always said.


We sure had fun.  Thanks kids. Let's do it again next summer.

Looking Out of the Train Window Makes Me Think

of campfires of swamp treks of hide and seek, of tree forts, and hidden spots under bushes where one could look out and see and not be seen, of pine smells and barn smells and the romance of homestead houses made of sod, of weeding of shovels of hoes and trowels, of the chill of evening of the way chaff sticks to the sweat on one's arms, of dusk and the mystery, the fear of the unknown that tramps and crackles in the woods, ogre, father, stranger, of feeding deer of feeding geese, of cows, of cowbells, of the goats on Boblo island and how you could buy a handful of pellets to feed them for a quarter, of a dead calf thrown on a pile of trash out behind the barn, of stepping softly on a trail paved with sawdust, or bark, of the train engineer blinded by the snowball some bad boy threw at the train as it crossed Church Street in January, that was the schoolyard legend, of being in the backseat, the radio is on, the car is blue, a train crosses forever in front of you ahead and the red lights (they look like robot eyes) blink and blink, of orchards, of cherry trees, of tent caterpillars and their little crunching mouths, of backlots, of old man bars, of can after can after can of lukewarm beer, of small town museums of general stores of penny candy of maple sugar candy in the shape of a maple leaf, of a night time high school football game, of red barns of shady highways, of unloading boxes from the truck at the back dock of the store, of crickets or grasshoppers of jam jar insect zoos, of magnifying glasses and the focused light burning sticks, of setting ants on fire, the intense miniature torches powered by the sun, of the smell of bacon, of monarch butterfly caterpillars, of milkweed plants, of the white sap of milkweeds, of the fresh smell of twisted handfuls of dry grass, of feeding grass to the horses (the quiet terror of their yellow teeth) of waiting rooms, of machinery that fails, of the fear of a bombing, of throwing a rock into a small pond, of bullfrogs, of new toads, their bodies smaller than the first joint of your thumb, of wolf spiders, of bonsai trees, how you thought you might grow one in a coffee can, of foxes, of a raccoon, of the novel Rascal and the scene where the whipporwills called over the field just after dusk, of my sister who is gone, who is gone by her own hand, of guns, of desperation, of the train, how it pulls me forward and i do not resist and do not know if resistance is something to desire.

I Remember

As a nod to recently re-reading Joe Brainard's book I Remember:

I remember sparklers, and how we wouldn't be able to wait until dark to light them.

I remember how much better it was to have sparklers in the full dark, the dazzle of twirling them in circles.

I remember not liking firecrackers.  (I still don't)

I remember stories of boys who would put a firecracker in a toad's mouth, so it hung out like the taod was smoking a cigar, and then they'd light it.

I remember how this horrified me, I liked toads so much, their absurd little hands.

I remember that I never actually saw any boys do that to toads.

I remember hearing about people that put firecrackers in a cat's butt, or a string of them tied to a cat's tail.

I remember fireworks.

I remember fireworks at Metro Beach, viewed from the bed of a pickup truck.

I remember fireworks at Shadyside Park.

I remember Fireworks at the riverside, and how the boom would echo against the skyscrapers downtown and I'd feel the explosion like a thud in my stomach.

I remember that the skyscapers downtown seemed very very tall.

I remember they were 12 whole stories.

I remember camping on the fourth, and Uncle Martin crept off into the woods and lit off an M-80 firecracker when everything was quiet, that time when everyone is half-dozing and staring into the campfire, and how we jumped.

I remember the cousin who had been in Vietnam leapt off his chair and landed on his stomach in the dirt.
I remember he was sobbing, or gasping. I remember that he told Uncle Martin he was going to shove an M-8o up Uncle Martin's ass and light it, and how would he like that?

I remember an aunt saying "Vietnam" quietly to Uncle Martin, she was trying to calm him down.

I remember lighting sparklers from a campfire.  I remember poking a stick in the fire to make the end glow, and then twirling it like a sparkler after all the sparklers were gone.

I remember potato salad with big chunks of hard-boiled egg.  I remember baked beans, how they came from a can but my mom would "doctor" them and bake them in a covered dish.

I remember campfires. And the pop of an ember, like a firecracker but much more sedate.

Inventory

We counted the books and this meant touching the books.  My hands dried out from the sponge of the covers.  Beep and then beep, the red laser eye utters its satisifaction when it registers one more book.  Only thirty thousand more to count.  Beep, and then beep, we gave the books over to the steady red eye and it liked the books, registered and tallied, book after book, one by one by one.

Midsommarfest

Every year in my neighborhood summer begins with Midsommarfest, a street fair with a Swedish name, a nod to the immigrants who made up the bulk of the neighborhood population long ago.  I always go to the fair, even though it is at the beginning anf not the "mid" summer, and I always enjoy it.  At some point, the 80's cover band "Sixteen Candles" takes the stage  (one of the stages, as there are several) and the crowd sways, and sings along.  In all that crowd I find familiar faces, and friends I'd not been looking to find.  (Hi Ianni!  Hi Dane!  Hi Jennifer!) Dusk arrives, and night comes, I remember words to silly 1980's songs that I did not know the words to in the 1980's. I find my capacity to dance, and sing along, and here's a portion of the beautiful truth: for every crowd that can turn into something harsh and violent, there is also, and again, and ever a crowd with a talent and potential for mass joy, a democracy of happiness, where the hipster girl and the prep school boy, the toddler and the granny, the insane and toothless old man can clap their hands, some of them not quite in time with the beat. Clap your hands and grin and be part of this group of people brought together by a street fair, by circumstance, by Joe's friend Melanie who totally lives, like right around the corner so we should go and check this out. Witth the summer air, with good humor, with the scent of cooked meats and cotton candy and spilled beer, with music and a crowd of like-minded revelers surrounding us, the joy continues until the rain falls, and then in the downpur for a moment increases: all this happiness and a waterfall, too. 

I want to win the Blondie tickets

Hey Y'all--I am participating in a reading/benefit to celebrate the one year anniversary of Adam Hart's online lit mag Apparatus.  It would be great to see some people I know there, or meet some that I don't.

Date: Tuesday, June 15, 2010

Time: 7:30pm - 9:30pm
Location: Winston's Internet Cafe (in Andersonville)
Street: 5001 N. Clark
City/Town: Chicago, IL

A reading/benefit to celebrate the one-year anniversary of Apparatus Magazine, a monthly online literary journal publishing poetry and short fiction from around the world. Admission is free. Donations are accepted, and raffle tickets will be available for various prizes throughout the evening. There will also be a silent auction.
A portion of all donations/raffle ticket/silent auction sales will be donated to the Gerber/Hart Library in remembrance of former contributor Rane Arroyo.

Readers for the evening include:
* Amy David
* Charlotte Hart
* Christopher Gallinari
* Cynthia Gallaher
* Daniel Godston
* Divya Rajan
* Donna Vorreyer
* Ellen Placey Wadey
* Gregg Shapiro
* Jacob Saenz
* John Paul Davis
* Laura Dixon
* Mojdeh Stoakley
* Richard Fox
* Robert McDonald

Raffle items include various prizes, including books and gift certificates.

Silent auction includes the following packages (so far):


Literary Inspiration Package:
Blank bound journal
$25 gift certificate to Women & Children First Bookstore
Autographed copy of Thom Gunn’s “Boss Cupid”
Autographed copy of Robert Pinksy’s “Jersey Rain”

Dinner, Drinks, a Show & ? Package
(limited to winners who are 21+)
$25 gift certificate to Geja’s Café
2 tickets for a Koval Distillery tour (1-hour tour of facility and tasting)
Bottle of liqueur from the Koval Distillery line
2 orchestra section tickets on August 18th to see Blondie in concert at The Venue/Horseshoe Casino
Gift bag of adult novelties from Tulip
Winston's Internet Cafe serves sandwiches, soups, pizza, teas and coffee/espresso drinks, all of which will be available for purchase during the show.

A snippet of poetry from Peter Orlovsky

I look out the window and see nobody, I go down to the street,
          look up at my window and see nobody.

So I talk to the fire hydrant, asking "Do you have bigger tears
         then I do?"

from "Frist Poem"
 
 
              Let's all chat with fire hydrants and fences and perhaps an aging automobile in his honor.