Poetry,
Man Eater
I am a prisoner in the jungle of regret,
a place of bold ferns
and slick tongues that flick
toward the blood's heat. Here
I beheld the man who ate his children.
Behind the sound of water,
in an oasis of gardenias,
he is caged.
I paid ten dollars.
He looked like me.
He was thought to have taken on wisdom
with his crime. I had prepared weighty riddles:
how do spores differ from seeds and why
am I shaped like the letter Y?
A roar escaped him
like a yawn. So, I said, what about
the children? He dropped to all fours
and regarded me
through the ribcage of bars.
They begged me to, he said.
Their little eyes cried for it.
I ate the first bleat from the womb,
then the fevers, the night terrors,
the cruelty of friends, homesickness,
inappropriate loves - kept it all down
and licked my lips.
Within this jungle I have let myself
be bound by flowered ropes that would crumble
in my hands, and blinded by wings
that flutter sunset reds and golds
across my senses.
I breathe in their fragile colors
and ask, politely, if the cage
is big enough for two.
Essays,
Dirty Whites
Debbie: the most popular girl in my high school class, the one whom everyone admired and to whom things seemed to come easily - athletic ability, decent grades, natural charm. Acceptance by Debbie clothed a girl in confidence by awarding her the coveted title of "cute." While wearing Debbie-like shoes and clothing meant conformity, identities could vary within the popular crowd. A girl could be "really cute" or "adorable;" she could have "personality" or "great personality."
Social status began at the bottom of a girl's closet. At the very least she owned a pair of leather penny loafers and a pair of black and white Spalding saddles. But did her shoes look like Debbie's? Any candidate hooked on the lure of popularity had better take notice of the most popular girl's feet.
Penny loafers were low-heeled, slip-in shoes with a slot for a penny on top of the flaps. Loafer wear was easy to master because only polish and not-so-shiny pennies were necessary. The popularity contest was tied more to the subtlety of saddle attire. Saddles first appeared in the 1920s as a gym shoe for tennis, field hockey, fencing and badminton. They were an oxford shoe with an overlaying saddle for support to the instep. Reddish/pink Firestone-rubber soles, bold, sporty stitching, and the slight sassy shape of the saddle distinguished Spalding saddles from other brands.
Spalding saddles did not count, however, unless you wore them with the exact patina of dusty gray across the white. Up-to-standard dirty whites were evidence you had "personality." Much like boys' cars, whose mufflers were tuned from underneath to just the right rusty roar, the whites of girls' saddles had to have just the right scuffed look.
Because of the scarcity of black pigment during World War II, my mother's generation wore brown and white oxfords instead of black and white. But the stomping ground of dirty whites was not new. My mother's generation had professional service at their disposal - shoe shop clerks who dirtied up their new saddles for them. One generation later, the service disappeared, and we had to dirty them ourselves.
My freshman year in high school was a catastrophe. I had missed the news everyone else seemed to have heard: a high school girl must distinguish herself from junior high schoolers. Horror of horrors, I did not own the required pair of loafers, and my saddles were all wrong. Their brand, not Spalding, and color, tan on beige, screamed failure and weird to everyone, or so I believed. As if shoe-laced and knotted, I spent my entire year embarrassed and tongue-tied. The wrong brand of girl can have a lonely life.
Spaldings were expensive at $6.95, so I begged, babysat, and made sure I owned a pair by Labor Day of my sophomore year. Before I could untie my tongue, though, and enter the popularity contest, there was dirty work to be done.
As no one shared their secret methods, I experimented, like a chemist, until I hit the requisite shade of dirt. Every Sunday night I polished and buffed my shoes until they looked like new: the black with black paste, the white and the laces with liquid white applied with a sponge wand. Then I wet a kitchen sponge, wrung it out and blotted lightly over the white parts of the saddles until I got the proper effect. Voilà.
All this clamoring for recognition and acceptance made sense to fourteen-year-olds, especially to those, me in particular, aspiring to popularity. To my understanding, perfected dirty whites would make me eligible to participate fully. The high school experience required friends and fun. Who wouldn't want to be popular? Perhaps my ambitions were natural for me because I had been, sometimes to an obnoxious degree, an active, talkative, and highly social child.
In those days it was customary to stroll the halls before and after school, as well as between classes. Cruising offered the opportunity to put one's personality and flirty pose on parade. The right smile won party invitations. Once we turned sixteen and had our drivers' licenses, popularity promised opportunities to date and have boyfriends.
If alternative goals and opportunities other than popularity were available for girls at my school during the late 50s and early 60s, none won my attention. In schools such as ours, where future college enrollment was assumed, girls with good grades earned respect. But a girl admired for being smart was not popular for being smart. A girl who wanted to run for class office only ran for secretary rather than president or treasurer, and she had to be popular.
Like academics, athletic achievement was important. Everyone, boys and girls, swam a mile to graduate. We had gym class every day, and we were encouraged to participate in team sports. But only boys became stars. Popular girls were their cheerleaders. There were no fans, neither other students nor parents, cheering the girls' teams. When boys needed the girls' gym for special practices, we canceled our activity and went home.
I prized competitive sports and strived for good grades, but I also wanted the recognition that popularity promised. Later I would learn the perils of that pursuit.
It was my participation in team sports that gained Debbie's attention. She and I played competitive field hockey, basketball, and badminton. As the team with the meanest birdies alias shuttlecocks, Debbie and I won a school-wide championship.
Debbie began inviting me over for Friday overnights. She had a roomy home that welcomed the customary sleep-over and parents willing to drive her and her friends into the town of Clayton for Saturday shopping excursions. Saturdays required loafers, bobby socks, and Bermuda shorts. In cold weather a girl also needed a navy, navy only, blazer.
Debbie was fun and funny and smart, and I enjoyed her friendship. Besides, she taught me things I needed to know. I learned a couple dozen or so essential expressions, like "first base," "second base," and "third base," which replaced the old fashioned and encompassing term "petting." What our parents did was embarrassing. New language made sex a discovery all our own. I learned that clothing could have secret meanings. "Only homosexuals wear yellow and green on Thursdays" and "Wearing your sweater backwards is a neat way to dress at girls-only parties." She made sure I knew that a girl should never be seen in public without a date on a weekend night. If there was a movie to see, she attended a matinee in Clayton with her girlfriends.
Acceptance by Debbie meant invitations to girls' overnight slumber parties. Such events served as safe places for a little mischief. My favorite was reading naughty magazines such as True Romance or Modern Romance. We dropped an aspirin into our Coca Colas to get "drunk." The effect was gleeful silliness, produced not by the concoction, but by feelings of derring-do. We did not explore smoking inside a girl's home. Outdoor settings, a slanted section of roof atop a girl's house or the leafy branches of a climbed willow tree, provided better opportunities to graduate beyond gagging and to develop style.
I became a content teenager, happy with my crowd of friends. I accepted boys' privileges as the normal and natural way of the world. Then, one spring, I encountered unexpected discontent.
I had signed up for the two tryouts available to girls. If I did not succeed during the cheerleader competition, decided by student vote, I planned to attend tryouts a week later for the majorette corps, decided by a faculty committee. At the time there were no rules against my plan. However, the day before tryouts began, the principal called me into his office. He told me, "You're a very selfish girl. Your selfishness has forced me to rule that girls choose only one of the tryouts."
I had missed the unarticulated expectation that girls' achievements were supposed to look effortless. Even though girls had no alternatives other than popularity to gain recognition, they were not supposed to want or to strive for recognition. I complied with the principal's decision, but I did not have to adopt passiveness as a female virtue. I had sculpted myself into the form of a popular girl, and if I had to start over, I decided, I would do it again.
Mr. Principal had not reformed me, but he had changed me. A small interior nudge had begun to push me away from conformity and toward independence. The change was as mystifying as my earlier passion for popularity. On reflection, I imagine a shift had begun in all of us. As we became drivers, the former order shifted. With drivers' licenses came dating and boyfriends and status as upper classmen. Natural development began to loosen the ties that had knitted us into our tight group of friends. There was a turning toward closer friendships and away from the importance of a central figure such as Debbie.
Naturally my path differed from the others. I attribute the change to my mother's words of caution and advice rather than to the principal. After losing respect for school authority, I gave her remarks greater weight than usual. She told me that the nerds and the shy whom I thought unpopular, lost and dull could be stars in the making. Talents and virtues lay hidden and undeveloped behind immaturity, extraordinary smarts, and pimples.
She made me curious when she advised me to look beyond the popular crowd. "Try to imagine, Susan. Look around." she said, "Who might surprise you some day with their success?" I had equated popularity with lifelong happiness. I considered that she might be right, that popularity offered no guarantees of bright futures.
It felt risky at the time, but I began to expand my circle of friends to include the brown-shoe brand of kids and found enjoyment in the breadth of personalities. Mobility, thanks to the right shoes, turned out to be a relief from conformity. I'd discovered an independent streak, and it suited me. Confidence that I could do the choosing - when, who, how much - felt right. I had expected abandonment, but I gained friends. Non-conformity became my liberator. I'd defied our school principal and learned that I didn't need cheerleading squad or majorette corps to enjoy my fellow students and make good friends. In the end, I'd learned that growing up meant questioning rules and expectations against personal standards and that accepting risk came with the task.
Despite my evolving social outlook, I remained as devoted to the dirty white look as I did to friendliness toward my classmates. Having discovered and mastered the scuff technique on my own, I treasured my Sunday night shoe polishing. It represented my determination and skill for keen observation. Perhaps, too, the ritual served as a kind of self-polish - a buffing to my own shade of independence.
Fiction,
The Name Tag
At ten in the morning two soccer moms swathed in high-fashion running clothes parked a black SUV in front of the village's favorite coffee shop. From what they could see, it looked crowded with retirees and stay-at-home moms jockeying for booths. Before they got out, Christie, the driver, said, "Jane, quick, grab that corner booth! I don't want every Tom, Dick and Mary overhearing our conversation. I'll get the coffee."
Jane replied, "OK, plain black for me," and hustled inside. Elbowing an old geezer wearing a Bear's cap, she flung her trainer-trained body into the booth as fast as a sparrow chasing a piece of bread. She spread out her purse and jacket to claim their territory, removed her designer sunglasses, and then squinted to see if she knew anyone. She didn't. Taking off her ball cap, she finger-combed her short, black, curly hair, and snuggled in. Minutes later, Christie appeared with two large coffees.
Jane said, "Wow! Look at the size of those. Good thing our kidneys can't talk; they'd really be pissed." They giggled at the pun as Christie sat across from her. After looking at their cell phones for any life or death messages, they nestled in for an industrial-sized women's talk. The corner booth was perfect for the hushed conversation that would be pregnant with gossip if heard by the wrong people.
Christie hardly had a sip of her coffee when Jane asked, "How're things going? I take it from our conversation last night, not well."
"Right," she sighed out loud. "I didn't think I was that obvious. I'm crabby with the kids, and I'm hardly talking to Jim. The kids aren't the problem. They're good, actually; doing well in school and love their sports. Seem happy to me. But Jim, he's another story."
Jane looked out the window for a second, glanced at her watch, then her coffee cup. She knew the question she was about to ask could wind up with her picking at scabs on scars of her own life better left alone. She took a deep breath, let out a sigh, and asked, "Want to talk about it?"
Christie placed her hands in front of her tailored face as if in prayer and paused long enough to suggest a reluctance to open her soul to Jane. Her twirling a strand of her long, blond hair gave away her nervousness. With tears gathering in the corners of her emerald green eyes, she started. "I have to sort some things out, and I need your help. Unfortunately that means I have to ask you some personal questions you might not want to answer. Please forgive me. I'm impinging upon our friendship, but I'm desperate for advice. Jane, if you're uncomfortable with my prodding, please tell me to shut up. I'll understand."
"What are friends for?"
"Jane, a long time ago, you all but said your Jake had an affair, and that you had dealt with it. You didn't go into details, and I'm not asking you to now. But here's my problem. To be blunt, I'm convinced Jim is having an affair. What should I do?"
"Are you sure? How do you know?"
Christie said, "Two weeks ago, Jim left on a Friday morning for a golf outing with his buddies. He's done this before, and I've encouraged him. He loves the game so much, and I hate it. I'm more than happy to see him enjoy himself with his friends. He works hard, and he deserves some time off once in a while away from the kids and me. Maybe I'm wrong - but I'm off the point. Anyway, this time he didn't take his golf clubs with him. These are new clubs - I gave them to him for his birthday. He loves them so much he almost sleeps with them. Then, on Sunday afternoon, one of his buddies, who was supposed to drive with him to the outing called to change the golf date to the following weekend. I asked him why he hadn't asked Jim personally."
Jane placed her hands around her cup and looked into the coffee.
Christie's voice rose. "He blurted out, 'Whoops,' stammered and stuttered, and said he would call back. Hello. Wake up, a little bird whispered in my ear. When Jim got home Sunday night, I said nothing. He said he was tired. Claimed he had played thirty-six holes for three days straight and wanted to go to bed early. I wanted to believe he was sending me a little message. God, I'm boring you to death."
"No, you're not. Go on."
"Well, anyway, when we got into bed, I snuggled close, gave him a suggestive kiss, and nadda. No response - unless you call turning over, falling fast asleep and snoring, a response. Unusual for him. Very unusual. Jim is always ready, willing, and able, as he likes to brag - which, I confess is true. But not that night, and I am sorry to say, very little since that time. I'm embarrassed to get into this part. Anyway, up until this time we've had a good sex life - at least as far as I'm concerned. Now - maybe I've reached the wrong conclusion about him having an affair, but I don't think so. That's why I want your advice. Should I confront him? Call a lawyer? Or what?"
Jane was right. Old scars would be opened. Let's hope they're healed enough for me to get through this conversation, she thought. She bit her lip, picked at her week-old nail polish, and began, "Well, I don't know how to answer your question. But - you're right, my Jake had an affair or, more properly put, affairs. You're a good friend of mine, and I'd like to help you deal with the hurt I know you're feeling. But I'm not sure my experience will be any great help.
"I knew what I was getting into when I married him. He and I were like storybook figures in college. Hollywood couldn't have written a better script. We attended a big west coast university. He was the stud quarterback. Tall, dark and handsome. And, can you believe it, I was a homecoming queen. Made for each other as the script goes. We dated a year before we got married, his senior year and my junior. Before we dated he had every girl west of the Mississippi falling all over themselves to crawl into bed with him - and I think he did his damnedest to accommodate every one of them. Now I'm boring you."
"No - no."
"Well, after we got engaged, I thought I'd taken care of his ardor and his wandering eye, at least for a while. But the temptation was too great. I first heard rumors about some of his off-the-field activities from a number of sources. Unfounded, I thought. I chose to believe that they were only jealous girls who wanted to break us up so that they could get a shot at him. Wrong. I caught him in a car behind my sorority house with one of my cherished sorority sisters, the two of them going at it like a couple of rabbits.
"I had a choice my mother advised me. She told me that more than likely his conduct would never change. 'Once a womanizer, always a womanizer,' she said. She urged me to make my choice before we got married, and if I chose to go ahead, I shouldn't complain if he went astray because I'd made my bed, and I'd have to lie in it. I was so much in love with him, I thought. I also believed I could change him if I was with him every day, every night. Ever hear that before? I forgave him, and we got married.
"All was well, I think, until I was pregnant with our first child. I had no concrete evidence of his philandering. But I had a woman's intuition that he was carrying someone's ashes, as they say. During the pregnancy I noticed how friendly he and a shapely neighbor had become. Nothing specific. Just my intuition. She and her husband moved before the baby was born, and I chose to dismiss any suspicions and to tuck them away - for good, I prayed. Are you sure I'm not boring you with all this detail?"
Christie shook her head.
Jane took a sip of her coffee before proceeding. "Damn! Coffee's cold."
"Mine, too. I'll get some more."
"No, don't. If you leave, those two guys hanging around the door are vultures waiting for us to leave. If I'm here alone, they're sure to move in. Anyway all this background is important for you to know before I suggest what you could do. The point is, I want you to know I made a conscious choice a long time ago to stay with him. A choice I bet you haven't had the opportunity to make. Right?"
Christie answered, "Right. I don't know if I'd have been as brave as you. Is that the right word?"
Jane shook her head in disgust, "No, 'stupid' is the right word. Anyway, for the next few years I thought our relationship was in good shape. We had a good love life, too. At least for me - and I don't think he had much to complain about, either. I had had my tubes tied with the last baby, so when he was, as you say, ready, willing and able, so was I - and to brag a bit, I showed him a thing or two - I thought so anyway at the time.
"Then about a year ago, I overheard him at a cocktail party talking to a golfing buddy about a little trick he'd discovered to get himself out of the house and do whatever. He bragged, 'Jane hasn't a clue. Not even a suspicion. You ought to try it yourself.' They both had a big laugh and lowered their conversation to a point where I couldn't pick up on what they were saying. Whatever it was, their laughter turned their faces beet red.
"I couldn't hear the details of the scheme, but I soon found out. I noticed he was attending more than his usual number of evening receptions, conventions, or whatever. I didn't pay much attention to this behavior at first because he's in sales and marketing, and going to these functions comes with the territory. After a while, though, I smelled a rat. He'd come home at night, most of the time after I was in bed, and hang his coat over the back of my make-up vanity chair. This was unusual for him as he is meticulous about his appearance. Especially his clothes. His usual habit was always, I say always, to hang his suit up in his closet as soon as he got in the house. And, as I just said, his conduct changed, and I wondered why. Then it occurred to me.
"Duh. The name tag. I couldn't miss it. Clear proof that he had been to some shindig the night before. No questions to be asked by the little woman, he must have reasoned. And he had been right - until he aroused my instincts.
"There was no practical way that I could catch him. I thought of calling the function where he was supposed to be to see if he was there, but I chose not to. I could be wrong and hurt his reputation, his job. Then one night while he supposedly attended a function of some kind, I sat in front of the bedroom TV and waited for him. He got home around midnight."
"Did you smell perfume or anything?"
"Nope. Nary a sniff out of the ordinary. However, the important thing was that he pranced around the bedroom with his coat on - apparently so I could see his name tag. He was babbling about how important the sales meeting was for him and his biggest customers. How important. I'll tell you how important. His name tag was on upside down. UPSIDE DOWN. No salesman would ever commit such a mistake. Nor would any of his fellow salesmen ever let such a thing happen to him. I had him dead to rights, at least in my mind."
"What did you do? Confront him?"
"No. I didn't think that a direct attack would work, and, by the way, I don't know whether it will with your husband, either. Anyway, after some thought, I took another tack. His birthday was the following week. For a present I gave him name tags with his name pre-printed on them. When he opened the gift, I said nothing. After he looked at them with a big question mark written all over his face, I handed him two more sets of pre-printed tags. Both had my name on them. One set had my first name and my married name; the second had my first name and my maiden name."
"I took his tags out of his hand and held them up in front of me. I said, 'Jake, I guess I could simplify your life if I found a new source of name tags for all your functions.' I held up a finger on each hand to denote quotes for the word 'functions'."
"Then I stuck a tag on each of my boobs and said, 'You have to choose which tag I'm going to some of my 'functions'; again the two fingers. Those planned and to be planned.'"
"What did he say? Didn't he just about die?"
"No. Remember. Jake is a salesman. Really cool. He reached over and took his tags from me and tore them up. Then he tore up the name tags with my maiden name on them. He didn't say one thing and hasn't since."
"Has he stopped?" The question was interrupted by Jane's cell phone. She answered it and hung up, clearly in shock.
"What's the matter, Jane? You're white as a ghost."
"That was the police. Jake's been in an automobile accident. They said he's badly hurt. I've got to go to the hospital. Please come with me?"
"Of course. I'll drive."
They got to the hospital in ten minutes and were ushered into the emergency waiting room. It was packed with screaming children. It looked like the hospital was having a sale on the repair of skinned knees. Jane stood in line at the main desk for two minutes then barged ahead and screamed at the woman behind the desk, "My husband's been in an accident! Where do I go?"
The sleepy-eyed woman took her eyes off of the computer and said, "You the lady whose husband was in that wreck? Just a minute." She picked up a phone, spoke to someone and said, "Down the hall to the waiting room on the right, you hear. Somebody there will help you."
Jane turned to Christie and screamed, "Let's go!"
They found the room easily enough, but no one was there. Jane became hysterical and started to cry in gulps. Christie went out into the hall, grabbed the first person who looked like they belonged to the hospital and pleaded for help. She was lucky. She had found a doctor who got on her cell phone and ordered someone to attend to Jane pronto. Within minutes, a faceless woman dressed in green hospital garb came into the room and asked for Jane.
"Please sit down. Your husband is in surgery. Everything possible is being done to help him." Jane opened her mouth, and the woman held up her hand. "I don't know any details about the accident, how it happened or whatever. You'll have to get that information from the police." She then turned on her heel and said, as she left the room, "Please stay where you are. We'll get back to you as soon as we know something more."
Christie said, "Jesus, what a snot."
The room became crowded. And noisy. And it exuded a hospital scent marbled with stale coffee and empty fast food containers. Time crawled around the clock tacked on the wall. After an eternity, a man dressed in a green surgical outfit entered the room and asked, "Is there a Mrs. Williams here?" Jane sprung out of her chair and, with a crack in her voice, answered him.
"I'm Doctor Martin," he whispered, "I need to talk to you. Would you please come with me?" Christie followed, and the three of them entered a small room off of the emergency room. The doctor started, "I'm afraid I have tragic news. We lost your husband. As much as we tried, we couldn't save him. He was unconscious when he got here, and he never regained consciousness. He had multiple injuries, the most serious being to his brain. They were too severe for us to do anything."
Before his words were finished, Jane collapsed into his arms. Christie and he helped her back to the waiting room and sat her in a corner away from the crowd. Christie put her arms around her and held her while she sobbed uncontrollably.
The doctor turned to Christie. "Give her some time to get over her initial shock and grief. Sit here for as long as it takes; I don't want her to leave. When she's stopped crying and is able to talk, please tell someone at the front desk I need to see her. There is something we need her to do." Christie nodded.
Ten minutes later Jane stopped crying and sat silently in the wake of her grief. Christie knew she had some degree of composure when Jane took out a mirror from her purse and looked at herself. "Christ, I look awful. Look at my eyes. They're like a raccoon's with the way my mascara has run." She put away the mirror and fell silent again.
Shortly, she perked up and said, "Christie, I'm sorry; I didn't answer your question as to what you should do. Can we talk later?"
"No. There's no reason to. You've already answered it."
"I did? How?"
"You've shown me that when you love someone, you try to work through the problem and move on with your life. I can't thank you enough for your help. But please don't think any more about me. The doctor wants to see you. Come with me."
She helped Jane stand, and they walked arm in arm down to the desk. The same woman was there, talking to a hospital buddy from what Christie could hear. Christie stood for a minute and then said, "I'm sorry to interrupt, but it's important that Mrs. Williams talk to Doc - oh, God, what was his name?"
The woman said, "Yeah. I know. I'll page him."
Doctor Martin arrived and said something to Jane that Christie couldn't hear. He looked uncomfortable, but Christie couldn't determine whether it was as a result of what he was telling Jane or because he was short and had to strain his neck to talk to her. Suddenly, without saying a word to Christie, Jane followed the doctor down the hall.
They entered a room, cold and dimly lit. A body covered with a rubber sheet lay on a table. It had intense light shining on it. A shroud to protect the dead from the living, Jane thought. "Mrs. Williams, we are so sorry to have to ask you to do this, but we need you to identify the deceased. Are you up to it?"
Jane gasped. "Yes, I guess so - but please hold on to me, will you?"
"Of course," someone dressed in a long white coat replied.
The sheet was lifted. Her knees sagged. She stared with horror - sadness - at the quarterback; at her husband; at the father of her children; and when she saw the name on the name tag hanging from his big toe, at the man she loved.
Poetry,
Futile
Flattened onto dumb pavement
in concrete-cracked
asphalt-patched
trash-strewn alley.
No one to hear the whispered blame-pain
trickling from the fading soul.
"See, see...what you/they/I finally did to me."
Unreal real drama like a final episode of The Perils of Pauline.
Now flashback to bright-eyed
explosive bundle of self-joy
popping the cork
right out of the genie's bottle.
Memories lurch forward from
the bubbly child of 1, 2, 3...
then stagger backward from
the wrecked adult of 43, 42, 41...
The mathematician wants continuity between the end-points of a life.
A line...a curve...a graph...something...anything.
Perhaps an exotic formula will reveal
the inflection point that launched
the arc of chaos.
The honed mind rejects the banality of randomness
in a futile quest for closure.
Poetry,
A Lost Tale
I walked beside the moon on silver mist
And gazed at the starry heavens above
I was blown by the winds to where winds end
And reluctantly had to come back again
I swam in the heated streams of delight
And journeyed on soft loving rays of dreams
I laid on the soft warm sand and wondered
If the coyote really gave birth to the sun
I followed my fantasy in the still of the day
When the mountains were speckled with gold
It brought warmth to the strings of my heart
And played an enchanting aria of olden times
And even if I don't remember the song
Made up of silver smiles and cherry laughter
I know that someday some poet will write
About the beautiful tale and I will remember
Essays,
Work Ethics
In the 90's the company I worked for, Hand-Held Products, Inc., now part of Honeywell, developed and marketed a barcode-based system which tracked the activities of security, maintenance and safety personnel. The system consisted of a hand-held scanner known as the Micro-Wand and the company's proprietary software.
Using the Wand, a maintenance employee, safety engineer or security officer scanned a barcode label affixed to the equipment or location to be inspected. The Wand automatically recorded in its memory the date, time, location, specific unit of equipment and the employee's ID. After the inspection tour was completed, the Wand's data was up-loaded to a PC, the data transfer and the PC both under the control of our software.
Depending on the task involved, the Wand could also prompt the employee, via its screen, to enter readings such as temperature, RPM, and pressure on the Wand's keyboard. Any anomalies such as air leaks or excess vibration could easily be recorded by scanning an appropriate incident barcode from a pocket-sized, laminated incident card. These incidents became part of the inspection transaction for a particular location or piece of equipment. Reports could then be generated highlighting action initiated by the employee or problems requiring remedial action.
Because our system helped our customers' managers prove they were in compliance with maintenance and safety regulations, their insurance companies loved it. But for the troops it could be a different story. For some employees the scanners were a source of pride, proving how responsible they were. For others, they constituted a threat.
While the Wand told no lies, it could be silenced in ways that were a never-ending challenge for our repair techs. Returned equipment clearly was dropped from upper floors, drowned in toilets, run over by security vehicles, even microwaved along with morning bagels. The latter form of sabotage was particularly puzzling - the scanners showed no signs of exterior abuse, yet many of the internal components were fried.
One instance of malignant neglect started with a distress call from the safety manager of a large GM plant that was field testing our product. This was a 5 million sq. ft. power transmission facility, a mile long from front to back. Most of the production equipment consisted of enormous metal cutting and stamping machines, operating at high speeds and high temperatures. Essential to their continuous and efficient operation were specially formulated cutting oils that were continually circulated to cool and lubricate the cutting tools and the parts being produced.
When we arrived the safety manager took us to the plant floor. "Can you see the mist?" he asked. "Can you smell it? Are your eyes burning yet?" Workers were going home early with respiratory problems, burning eyes, and so on. And he knew why: the huge fans above the production machines were not filtering the evaporating cutting oil as they should. He also knew who was responsible: the third shift maintenance workers tasked with periodically changing the filters on the fans were not doing their jobs.
We asked, "Why?"
"Because they're sleeping. And they're sleeping because their seniority allows them to 'work' third shift, and, in turn, that allows them to sleep. Nobody's watching them. That's why they volunteer for third shift." He went on, irritation rising. "Your scanner should tell me if the job is getting done, right? Does it show who's doing his job and who isn't? Does it generate compliance reports?"
"Yup," we replied, "all of the above."
"Well then, the party's over!" he exclaimed; not the first time we heard that expression.
We didn't sell our system to that plant. Guess why? "Union objections," we were told.
I suppose it was fortunate, in a way, that this plant didn't purchase our system. With the attitude of these maintenance workers and the apparent lack of effective supervision, our Wands would have been sabotaged in ways that would eclipse any previous damage.
This was not the last time I encountered sleeping on the job. On more than one occasion as I assisted a new customer in setting up barcode labels throughout a plant, I encountered in remote corners mattresses on the floor, often occupied with a slumbering worker - mid-shift. Obviously, nobody was watching these guys, either. In a union environment, seniority can breed abuse of responsible behavior.
Where are the supervisors? Where is OSHA? If the daily shift workers are complaining, why doesn't management respond? Unless such practices can be accurately documented, how can malpractice be proven? This was no doubt what this safety manager was attempting to accomplish with our system.
The safety manager's frustration, as well as the sabotage of our Wands, reveals the dark side of work place ethics. Especially in some large facilities the inmates are allowed to run the asylum. There is a lot of blame to go around: inattentive management, over-worked, or intimidated supervisors, union power, lazy employees, and years of entrenched behavior patterns. Unacceptable work ethics have been redefined and tolerated to the point that they become the norm.
This is not a universal indictment, but unethical behavior does exist. Because of the Wand, I had a ring-side seat to such behavior. Because our system was designed to demonstrate compliance with standards and regulations, it reflected on the person responsible to do the work - for good or for bad. An employee taking short cuts or derelict in his duties will resent the intrusion; especially if the Wand is not only looking over his shoulder but is actually seeing if he does his job properly.
"Whoops, it slipped out of my hand while I was walking across the cat walk!" Stuff happens.
I can imagine subsequent discussions between management and one of the security/safety supervisors. "Charlie, I just approved repair orders for three more of those damn wands. What the hell is going on down there?"
"I gotta tell you, boss, the guys tell me these things just don't hold up in our environment. They try to keep them in the holsters and all, but during the tours, for some reason they can conk out at any time"
"Well, I'll bring it up in the next department meeting. Maybe we're barking up the wrong tree here" - and the party goes on!
By the way, the Micro-Wand is no longer manufactured.
Poetry,
Escape
Saturday
is eight-cartoon day
at the Vogue
with a serial thriller
and a newsreel
and the full double feature of course
- and "It's COOL inside!" says a large hanging banner.
"Take a sweater, you'll catch a cold"
she shouts at my vanishing back
as I race out the door of the cramped apartment
to charge down five flights of stairs
and emerge into the front courtyard
- free at last! -
just in time to be mortified
by a disembodied torso
floating through the air
over my head and
plopping softly at my feet
as a "Here it is!" wafts from
the closing window high above.
At the Vogue
I am funneled into
the crowded children's section
and surrounded by noisy kids
of all shapes and sizes
- twisting and twitching and talking incessantly -
and then when I try an escape
into the half-empty adults section
I am caught in the flashlight's glare
- like an escaping prisoner -
and marched back into the kid-chaos
by the humungous fat lady in the white uniform
- ominously known as "the matron" -
waving her flashlight like a Billy club.
But my noise awareness fades as I am
drowned in the loud music of the chase
and mesmerized by familiar cartoon characters
splashing violence liberally across the screen
- pop splat whack smash boom -
but always miraculously surviving,
when all too soon my attention
is moved into the fantastic
adventures of Flash Gordon
propelling me into distant worlds
where strange peoples seek
the extinction of the human race
until at the very brink of disaster
- it's "Continued next week."
Now "The News-of-the-World!" splashes across the screen and
as the tide of incomprehension washes over me
it's time to wade ashore
and escape to the comfort
of the candy stand.
And then, finally, comes my main course,
and I will feast on those
two full-length feature films
that draw me into their reality
- danger adventure romance wisdom -
whizzing by as heroes triumph
and villains are vanquished
and heroines cry beautifully,
all filling my expanding world
of more than life-sized images
and ideas and experiences
- my accidental tutors -
delivering Hollywood lessons that I inhale deeply
into the foundation I am forming
for my American dream.
Slowly I continue to accumulate
the fuel that will propel me
towards the escape velocity I will need
to reach my own outer space
and explore my own universe.
Poetry,
Ode to Monday's Child
Monday's child is fair of face
You were Monday's child
So what was fair?
Your hair, like silken thread
your smile
your eyes, your chin
your tiny ears
Fair, like fairy
ephemeral
fair, not false
a cut flower
Dew glimmering in the sunlight
a passing firefly
a summer breeze.
You had a way of marking
disappointments -
arms folded across your chest, lips pursed
a bulwark against injustice.
You were fragile, but a mighty warrior,
you didn't fool me with that act of defiance
when pain was too great to bear
You curled your lip, your eyes asked, why?
Disappointment, a frequent visitor
You were not like the other children
You knew no fears
only barriers to your desires.
One day
we watched the kitten
scamper up the tree
while the mutt in hot pursuit
could only bark jumping up
and down on the ground below
pounding with desire. I laughed
at the all too familiar scene
but you
you hugged the mutt
to comfort him.
Nature designed you
one chromosome above the rest
I used to quarrel with that random choice
until I heard you sob
at the end of Peter Pan
when Tinker Bell died.
Poetry,
Rising Out of the Earth
I remember rising out of the earth
full of lust and color
playing with the stars
learning apple blossoms
tasting mint, parsley and thyme
The wind brought rain
the scent of lilacs traveled
throughout the land
I was carried to the robin's rest
and heard music from the seas.
We were all newly made then
before the sun gave measure
to every living thing. We lost ourselves
in rows of corn playing catch me if you can,
unaware, without care, we ate the sun -
With little warning our green world
turned golden
I threw my arms around the flaming maple
and carved my name.
Poetry,
Till Death Do They Part
Slain soldiers are lastly ideas and bones
Bound to the damp and bloody soil by words
Finite creations born of loving procreant urges
Becoming ephemeral bits of written history
Soldiers are the outcome of cravings
Flowing upon vaporous rivulets of needs
They are the reflection of unfulfilled desires
Forced by those who lead us to useless war
Soldiers forever travel lonely pathways
But rarely find a loving mercy in a
Foreign land of cold dark injustice
Where the loss of innocence is found
They were chosen for the task of dying
In wars born and bred by unworthy others
Who strived only for glory gold and ribbons
They were the sacrifices of featherless hawks
Soldiers sworn by sightless orders of Generals
Condemning them to countless wanderings
Increasing their craving for bits of sanity
In numb lands where they could not elude reality
They are pale now in a frozen unawareness
Finally having departed from worldly insanity
They were oblivious of the moist black shroud
That now covers them with the coldness of eternity
Their dreams of warm and happy tomorrows
Were blurred forever by a lethal unforgiving mortality
Their future children and grandchildren all died
In one hot roadside blast of ungodly proportions
Their constant wishful dreams for simpler times
Are now forever lost amid the ebony shadows
Of foreign lands and damming ideological breaths
Dimming forever their faded relief in tomorrow
Numbness from happy remembrances
Of faded joyful childhood rhymes
Have all vanished into a dark cold abyss
They no longer perceive any memories
Loved ones are lulled to biting tears
Hearing the lonely taps of trumpets
Dark shrouds of an acidic sadness
Bursts into a cold open bitterness
Flags covering hapless wooden boxes
Filled with sorrowful untold mysteries
Of those who once lived and laughed
But now travel the lonely path to eternity
The remainders of once hardy soldiers
Turn slowly northward then southward
Flowing ever toward the deep earthly abyss
They are never to see the light of day again
Eyes filled with a bitter icy ache
Openly stare with shadowy tears
Flowing freely down parched cheeks
As they watch death pass silently by
Angry winds gush frantically over
The cold freshly dug graves
Where brave warriors mutely lay
While mothers' plaintively mourn
Dark mythical dreams harboring
Sad thoughts of lost tomorrows cause
Tears to swiftly rise in helpless minds
Spreading dampness to red tired eyes
The wives openly weep salty tears
As bugle taps and twenty-one gun salutes
Strive bravely to muffle the ugly lie
Covering unnecessary and unjust wars
Poetry,
Adieu, My Love
Quivering words unspoken
Lingering hands touching
Smoldering love dying silently
I am slowly parting
From the lonely shadows
Stars flicker in overcast hearts
Roads faintly lighted
Endless unknown faces
Stirring in the afterglow
Melancholy footsteps
Pass silently by
Embracing sad magic
In a doorway
Memories of kisses sweet
Slowly ebbing away
Hurrying wheels
A boulevard harsh
Depot lights gleaming
Unfamiliar faces
Amid waiting crowds
Steel wheels shuffling
The iron path slithers
Into the afterglow
City fades into stillness
The gasping engine
Hurdles into the night
Roads in vagueness mounting
Oh, amorphous illusion
Does her lovely soul
Understand my parting
My pale longings
Pasted upon cheerless
Lips of blue misery
Originally published in Vox Poetica, 2009
Poetry,
Beginnings
Some say that life begins with conception,
Others say at quickening, still others claim
Life begins at birth. Sophisticates claim
That life begins at 40!
Yet we, the tribal elders, having gone through
Conception, quickening, birth and, yes, 40,
Know that life really begins at dawn
Poetry,
1954 Revisited by a Former Cafeteria Waitress
Following the style of T.S. Elliot's "The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock"
Let us go back, then, where the sky
Can spread its pillowed plumage out to dry
A hundred different ways after a rainstorm;
Let us go by way of curving mountain scene,
And stop at Richie's for gasoline:
That lone retreat where the desert begins
And the jukebox competes with a bowling machine;
A place we came to play and practice argument,
Most serious in bent,
While quaffing quarts of Coors at 3.2 per cent;
Oh, to hear again the tunes we
Played repeatedly by Clooney!
On the Post, civilians and the military
Would come and go in the commissary.
The purple-bearded hills that lounge upon the desert floor,
The stubble-faced hills that hump their backs against the clouds,
Shifted position under cover of darkness,
And rose to their elbows in the dawn:
They blocked with their shoulders a yellow ring of fire
That slowly climbed over their peaks of brawn,
And, shrugging in the wake of its shimmering escape,
Resumed their daytime posture with a yawn.
And indeed there was a time,
As the bearded hills that lounge on the horizon
Were siphoning secrets from the desert floor,
When I would meet the faces in the cafeteria line
By handing out salads on a plate,
Or slicing lemon pies for coffee break;
And I would learn the jargon and the codes
Of life on a post with the military:
There were MPs, RAs, and PX;
NCOs, Motor Pool, and Beer X;
Security, in uniforms of grey,
Stood guard at the Gate night and day.
On the Post, civilians were invited
To dances at the Service Club on Fridays.
And indeed there was a time
To worry if the wind would blow the fog
Of chemicals or germs out of the testing site
And over desert grasses to the area called Dog:
We who worked in Dog were given masks
Which we hung in the kitchen on the wall,
As safeguards when they were testing gas;
And a time came when the breeze did change -
The motor pool arrived with vans for us to clamber in,
And gave us instructions to vacate the place;
My heart beat time to the siren's din
As we roared past Fox in a race to beat the wind.
. . .
Oh, I would count the days in Dugway, count them all -
Would long to quit my waitressing vocation
And get on with my real life's education;
I wished to fly into that grand uncertain
Element awaiting me behind time's murky curtain.
I watched the people leaving, watched them all -
Their time at Dugway was a temporary phase,
Either they were discharged or they tired of the place;
New people arrived when the others were gone,
But when would I move on
To find my great adventure and my place?
A chance I didn't take was to escape with the baker,
Who wore a little moustache and made delicious pies;
I stayed on while those around me said goodbye.
Was there something like regret
Behind their smiles as they left?
I wondered as I wiped the counter tops and sighed
While the jukebox played the very
Latest hits by Rosemary.
. . .
And in the afternoon, the desert dust fluttered
Through the brush at Quonset huts in Dog,
On trailer homes in Fox, and past
Rectangle offices in Easy;
It filtered under sunglasses
And sat on people's lashes,
Powdering their shoes and hair and brows.
It came in the cafeteria on road construction men
With wind-whipped faces reddened by the sun -
Their eyes and forehead whiter, protected by their visors;
And when upon the dust a sudden rush of raindrops fell,
I liked the way it smelled.
And it did seem worth it, after all,
When my working day was over, to be free
To gambol out at Richie's for a while;
To sit among the tables and the beer and listen
To the song about a woman who had lots to learn:
Her throaty voice would vibrate with the question,
"Won't you tell me what I've got to learn?"
And she would croon with a certain warm inflection,
"Teach me - tonight."
And when we danced among the tables and the beer
To the words, "Graduation's almost here, my love,"
In my imagination, beer was love.
And it did seem worth it, after all,
At times it seemed worth while,
To be framed by the mountains and the cafeteria walls,
In a transient position with such momentary things
As short-lived friendships and fleeting flings -
It is impossible to say just why!
But as if strobe lights were throwing patterns in the sky
And the desert floor was a stage;
And the set decorations had places that gleamed:
Beer-bottle caps in the bottom of a stream,
Or foxtail grasses, silvery green,
Waving in the wind where the lizards dream.
. . .
In the spring of '55, I, too, would go;
Would travel many miles on a Greyhound bus
To a city of millions where my plans could unfold,
Learning to become what I wanted to be.
But other kinds of mountains would soon surround me:
My studies in art would give way to a family,
And time, like the vans that roared past Fox,
Would carry me, careening, with sirens screaming,
Through scrambled eggs and PTA and dirty socks.
There are weeds - there weeds among the roses -
My knees won't let me stoop to certain poses.
Computing machines have replaced my working tools;
I shall wear blue jeans and go back to school.
I have heard Rosemary's entire repertory.
Rock musicians do not sing to me.
Outside the cafeteria the dust
Is tapping softly on the windows;
He and I are at a table sipping coffee
When he reads his poem to me.
The tumbled words are a sudden rush of rain
In the hush of the afternoon;
Each one glistens as it hesitates and falls
To be lost among the cups and spoons.
Visual Arts,
On and Around the High Seas
Mediterranean Midnight
Spanish Still Life
Egyptian Still Life
Poetry,
Novel Writing II
Pre-requisite Novel Writing I
Lauren sits alone
Legs outstretched
And then curled
Firm and attractive.
Her safari story
Reads spare.
No Gregory Peck
Or Susan Hayward
And it's missing
What's her name
The green-eyed brunette.
Terry writes
Mystery and greed.
Rob a bank, double cross
Fuck this and that.
Exclamation marks; and
Like me
Lusting after the safari lady.
Now sleeveless.
That strong vein spiraling
Her thin musculature.
Hours of lifting.
A few minutes around your neck
For inspiration
Not too much to ask.
Linda's story
Strongly written,
Good moments.
Powerful sentences
Flowing chronologically
Tying the threads cleanly.
"Nicely done."
We tell her
Looking elsewhere.
Beauty wins out.
Mitch with
Buccaneer dreams.
Retired.
A pejorative noun.
Words failing
Plots scrambled
Like Uncle Jr.
Nice effort
"We'd like to read more."
We say
Smiling politely,
Checking our watches.
David in charge
Never knows
Who's going to sit
For the two and one-half hours.
Good writing
Parallels life
And story logic
Trumps cleverness,
He teaches.
But doesn't tell Lauren
To re-take Novel Writing I
Because after class
Coffee together
Would be bitter.
Fiction,
Eddie and Olive Oyl
"Hey, Mac, it's me, Eddie. I'm on my cell phone. Too early for dinner, so I'm sittin' here at Starbucks workin' on a triple espresso. I don't know what I expect it to do for me. If I was the ordinary guy I always say I am, I'd be in a bar with a bottle of Jack Daniels. But I'm here with this triple espresso, which is about the limit of what I can handle in a case like this. I've had troubles before, but now I'm in with both feet."
"Whadda you talkin' about, Eddie?"
"Here's what. The best thing in my life is Iris. You know that. I've loved that woman from the minute I seen her, and been pretty much devoted to her ever since. And I know she feels exactly that way about me. Fact is, the one thing I want is to make Iris happy. Why else would I work till I'm half dead, except to set her up with our elegant condo in that rehab by Wrigley Field, which gives her a leg up on her relatives in Jefferson Park?"
"What are you leadin' up to, Eddie?
"What I'm leadin' up to, Maxie boy, may be more than you can take - may be more than I can take."
"What's happened?"
"It's a woman, name of Olive Oyl."
"I was hopin' maybe you wised up after your last imbroglio. Who is this Olive Oyl?"
"Don't get antsy, Mac. You'll find out. This thing I got goin' is not like anything that happened before - at least, not in certain ways. It's, like, problematic, you know? So, I'm hopin' if we talk, maybe it won't be so problematic."
"So, talk."
"So, this Olive Oyl I'm tellin' you about is a very slender doll who works at our place and is, I would say, in her early twenties. She wears these tight skirts that show off what she ain't got and these sweaters that show off what little she has got. She has long brown hair, and she comes to work one day with it all twisted into a knot at the back of her head. That's when we first called her Olive Oyl because she looks exactly like Popeye's girlfriend in the funny papers. If that's all there was to her, I guess I'd be somewhere else besides here at Starbuck's, lookin' at this espresso and kickin' myself in the pants.
"The thing about this Olive Oyl is that she oozes what you might call womanly appeal. She looks right at you with this smile that says there is somethin' squalid on her mind. She flirts and teases and is so good with this magnetism of hers that she becomes the most popular woman in our shop - among the men, that is. I am sorry to say that I am not the last among her admirers."
"Maybe you oughta write to Dear Abby. Ever think of that?"
"That'll be the day. Anyway, why am I so goofy over this woman? And the one before her, whoever she was, and the one before that? Women are the cause of a lot of agony in my life, and what I'm beginnin' to think is that my agony over women started with my old lady when I am about four years old. At the moment in time of which I speak, my dad is sittin' at the kitchen table in our bungalow on north Damen, readin' the Herald Examiner. My mom is doin' the dishes. I'm in the dining room playin' with blocks...Jesus!"
"What's wrong, Eddie, what is it?"
"Excuse me, Mac, but the yoyos in this place are makin' me a little nervous. Why do you people have to listen in on other people's private conversations? Will you please go back to drinkin' your coffee? I'm discussin' personal matters with my buddy."
"Eddie? What...?"
"I don't know, Mac. So-called human bein's can be so insensitive. Anyway, I heard my dad tell my mom he was readin' in the paper about how, in Sweden, parents go naked in front of their kids. Seems this is the modern thing to do back then. At the time, my parents wanted to think of themselves as modern. Not long after this the bedroom and the bathroom doors were left open, and I was seein' surprising sights. They are sayin' things like, 'Eddie, darling, you can see that Daddy and Mommy are different.' And they encourage me, sayin', 'If you have any questions, just speak up.' After three days of this, it happened there was one thing I am curious about, and I say, 'Mummy, show me where your pee-pee comes out.' Right away I could tell I was askin' the wrong question. 'I don't think you need to see that,' she says, usherin' me out of her room and closin' the door."
"Your parents were kooky."
"They thought they was doin' the right thing. Anyway, it turned out that this is one part of modern life my old lady was not able to embrace. What I got out of it was curiosity, and this curiosity is what is making me so interested in women like Olive Oyl."
"All right, Eddie, so what's goin' on between you two?"
"That's what I'm comin' to. So, this Olive Oyl was workin' in the plant about six months and is always a fun kid. You know, flirtin' with me if I say somethin' to her - nothin' serious, really. Well, one day she comes up to me and asks would I give her a ride home that night. In a moment of self-delusion I say, 'Yes,' tellin' myself she'd be fun to kid around with. She says she lives in this place in Lakeview, which is not far out of the way."
"Rocks got more sense than you," said Mac. "Seriously, you need help."
"That's why I got you, Mac. Anyway, things were quiet for the rest of the day, and at five o'clock we got in the car and headed north. So, we were about halfway there, and there was a lot of the usual banter back and forth, and she kind of got me goin'. Then she says how would I like to come up to her place? And I say what does she mean by that, and she says that she doesn't know but she thought I might just want to. I was definitely interested, and she could see that."
"Eddie, Eddie, Eddie."
"Then she named a price - one that I knew from experience wasn't bad. This was a little surprising, but I say okay, and I ask where's a good place to park in that neighborhood, which is not so good. So we parked behind her building and went up the back stairs and entered through the kitchen, which was pretty much of a dump. I was surprised to see that her old lady was home. But it was soon clear that the old lady was in on the game and was not about to make any trouble. So I relaxed and followed Olive Oyl into the other room and shut the door."
"Jeez, Eddie..."
"When we came out a little later and started through the kitchen to the back door, the old lady was sittin' at this beat-up table with a cup of coffee, and she asks would I like a cup. This old gal is about my age and not half-bad lookin' - a slightly filled-out version of Olive Oyl. So I say yeah, I could drink a cup, and I sat down, and we all three began to talk. So what we get around to, finally, was that the old gal is in the same business as Olive Oyl, and she is also putting out for a decent price. The first thing I knew, I was goin' with her to the other room."
"No! Oh, my God!"
"Between the two of them, they got the biggest part of my pay, which is what me and Iris use for day-to-day expenses. Olive Oyl alone was more than I could really afford. This was a situation that was not going to be easy to explain when I got home. So after I leave, I stop at the bank and get a couple of hundred so Iris won't notice. Then I ...Ah, crap!"
"Eddie, what..."
"Hold on a minute, Mac. They're dumpin' trash in a garbage truck out front. Compactor is roarin' so loud I can't hear myself talk...Okay, they've quit. So here I am, like so many times before. I oughta be sippin' this coffee and thinkin' about how contented I am with Iris. After all, she was a Playboy Bunny."
"Yeah, Eddie, and in them days, if you got a Bunny, you knew you got the real thing. Right?"
"Righty-o. But now I'm stuck on this new combo, which is a different type of deal altogether. Who coulda ever predicted this Olive Oyl situation, even once in a lifetime? Too good to pass up. I know in my gut I'll risk everything I got with Iris just to let this play itself out. These two broads in Lakeview are gonna bleed me until I'm all at once disgusted with myself and can't stand 'em anymore. I don't want 'em now, but...Will you people stop gawkin'? I told you, this is personal. A cell phone is a wonderful thing, Mac, but it turns a lot of weird people into regular eavesdroppers."
"Weird people. Right, Eddie."
"So, what is it about women besides Iris? Why is it that I always seem to need 'em so much more before I get 'em than I do after I got 'em? I know I shouldn't blame it on my mother, but it is her fault. Once, when Iris found out about one of my flings, I told her about that episode with my mom, and she says it is likely the root of my problem. She seen a case like mine on TV; a 'newrosis' is there because I been hidin' the truth from myself, and I oughta be able to shake it now that I know about it. I got respect for what Iris says, but this is not so easy as you'd think, as I keep findin' out when situations like Olive Oyl turn up."
"So, where'd you leave it with her?"
"It is no more than a week before this broad is after me to drive her home again, sayin' her mother thought I was a real regular guy; and I know I will drive her, even though it's for sure things won't be the same as they were the first time...What the hell!"
"Eddie! What's goin'on?"
"Jesus, Mac, this broad in a $200 hat was sittin' here with her three kids. She just got up and threw coffee all over me and yells that I am a piece of garbage. She was pointin' at the guys heavin' trash in that truck out front, musta been listenin' to me the whole time. Then she hustles them kids outta here like I am a piranha or somethin'."
"Do you mean 'pariah'?"
"Whatever."
"Why do you mention the hat?"
"Don't expect that from a woman in a $200 hat: I'm garbage?"
"Well?"
"Whadda you mean, 'Well?' Jesus, I never thought I'd hear that outta you. You know, I'd of figured Olive Oyl to hit the scrap heap someday, but not me. I'm a regular guy. For sure, though, when I think, how many times has Iris taken me back already...?"
"Yeah, how many is it, Eddie?"
"I'm outta here, Mac. I hope dinner's still warm."
About
Front Porch Review is a quarterly online literary magazine. It is the creation of Glen Phillips of Park Ridge, IL, who toiled in the vineyards of educational and IT publishing as editor, writer, product designer, subject matter expert, business manager, and other menial roles not worth mentioning. After forty years of such effort, he decided that the best he could do for the common good was to build an electronic front porch displaying the significant artistic work of our older generation, men and women coming late to the creativity game but still with something of value to express.
A front porch ─ typically a formal, mannered appendage can also be concrete steps, wooden planks, iron railings, cardboard boxes, even a wool rug at the entrance of a Bedouin's tent. Whatever its form, a front porch is where we, young and old, congregate; where we assemble, gather, mingle, congeal, where we get together. And once there we speculate, pontificate, prevaricate, and expostulate; occasionally we speak words of universal truth.
A front porch is not a kitchen table. A kitchen table is for family matters, a front porch is for societal issues, those concerns which transcend time and space, about which we all have opinions but rarely a viable solution. Through short fiction, poetry, essays, and photography, these opinions describe the world from the vantage point of acquired knowledge and experience, assets not yet earned by younger creators. The message, not stylistics, dominates.
Envision its contributors sitting on a porch of your own device, each offering a manuscript or photo intended to intrigue, beguile, fascinate. Sit beside them, attend to their words and pictures, and discover shards of wisdom.
And in the words of my attorney: All future rights to material published in Front Porch Review are retained by the individual authors and photographers.
Glen Phillips
Publisher
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We publish thoughtful, provocative fiction, poetry, essays and visual arts.
∙ Submissions are accepted year-round.
∙ If accepted, submissions may appear in any issue.
. Biographical information will be requested for accepted submissions.
∙ If your submission was previously published, please cite a reference.
∙ Simultaneous submissions should be accompanied by a statement stating so.
∙ If your work is accepted elsewhere prior to our evaluation, please notify us.
∙ No erotica or works which rely on explicit language or gratuitous violence.
∙ All work must be original and in English.
∙ Fiction and essays can be up to 5000 words.
∙ No novel excerpts
. No memoirs
∙ No genre fiction; e.g., horror, science fiction, mysteries
. Fiction should deal with critical, universal aspects of human nature.
∙ Essays should treat a contemporary topic and express a reasoned opinion.
∙ Poems should have strong images and concise, evocative language.
∙ Photos which elicit the comment, "How interesting!" are desired.
∙ Submit photography as .jpg files; do not send .tif or .bmp files.
. Accepted photos may be cropped or reduced to fit the available space.
∙ Prose and poetry may be accompanied by one or more relevant photos.
∙ Mac users, please be sure that your files are readable by Windows 7.
∙ This magazine does not currently pay upon publication.
Accepted material will be edited. If changes are deemed significant, the contributor will be notified and given an opportunity to accept the changes or request that the piece be withdrawn from publication.
Send submissions to glenhphillips@att.net. Send 1 prose piece, 1-5 poems, or 1-4 photos at a time. For prose or poetry, type or paste your submission into the body of the e-mail message. We will not open any unsolicited print attachments. Photos, however, should be sent as attachments. Include your name and e-mail address.
Please expect to wait up to one month for a reply. Occasionally, with e-mail, there are technical difficulties. We cannot be responsible for delay or loss of submissions. To check on the status of your submission after one month has passed, please send a message to glenhphillips@att.net
By submitting your work to Front Porch Review, you grant us the right to archive your work online for an indefinite period of time. You retain all other rights. Once the issue featuring your work has been published, you are free to republish your work as you wish, online and/or in print. You are also welcome to create a link to Front Porch Review (http://www.frontporchrvw.com/) from your personal Website.
Donate
As they are free, online versions of Front Porch Review do not cover production costs. Excellent issues are the result of generous reader support. If you are interested in contributing a donation, please send your check payable to:
Glen Phillips
837 Parkwood
Park Ridge, IL 60068
Thank you, thank you for any amount.
Contact
I want this magazine to be appropriate for the intended audience. Therefore, I hope you, the reader, will react to the published material. I hope you will send your reactions, questions, concerns, or suggestions for improvement to me at glenhphillips@att.net. By doing so you will help the various contributors improve their skills, and you will help me publish the magazine my audience wants.
If this is your first experience with this magazine, and you want to be notified when the next issue is available, e-mail me at glenhphillips@att.net.
Glen Phillips
Publisher