Tuesday, December 9, 2025
Midrash: (Hebrew) [from darash to search out, inquire] any exegetical exposition, interpretation, or commentary treating of the Jewish scriptures; often used in the plural, Midrashim. “My imagination is so fertile the Garden of Eden continues to flourish. And in that flourishing many an Adam and Eve have passed through.” T A Delmore
Sunday, May 25, 2025
When someone
named it the Pyrocene Period, we were already walking with fire extinguishers
and wearing plastic sunbonnets. Modest was less a description unless someone
was clothed in asbestos. The best job was firefighter because they were our truth
tellers. Arsonist was the first word that children sounded out. There was a
picture of a hooded person with a match or was that Johnny Storm? I first
encountered fire when my parents burned Christmas paper in the fireplace. Then,
when my brother, like a weak Prometheus started a fire under the sunporch.
Fireman came to school and told us to make maps to escape our homes. What did
they know? What dread, like some frightening prophecy at Fatima. Were they
piece meal the children of property owners? There were red boxes on almost
every street corner begging to be broke. But like a bad wish the fire department
would arrive, to scold or fulfill their obligation. We brought our preschool
children to the fire station. These guys will save us. As if written on the
backs of their jackets. The weather before Pyrocene had wildfires in the
western part of the state. The big fires were east or north in Canada. They had
crews that sometimes went over the pass to help or was it to keep the fire on
that side of the state. They did not call it the smoke season when it began but
that’s what summer became. Like my parents second hand smoke from Kent regulars
or dad rolling his own, I was sure I had a remnant deep in my lungs soon to be
activated in the Fumcene Period. The sky, unwanted fog, warm with a red, sun
lingered. I begged for wind, the dregs of the bag Odysseus companions released,
to clear the air. Forecasting like an oracle gone amok, could not tell, only
amuse the muses. Some religious groups were created during this time. Getting
right with fire was a worthy prayer. My upbringing of promulgation had a
sacrament around fire; a descending tongue upon the confirmed. The slap from
the bishop was truly the outward sign. Fire stolen could never be returned. The
flood was the mean standard. Noah the ark and water were an unbreakable triad.
A world destroyed by fire would have no ravens or doves returning. Who would do
forty days in a lake of fire? Gather what one can, and elevate fire ants to
assemblyman. You see the shift. I will not be around for this insane intensity
of belief, to worship fire or keep the flame burning long after the oil is
gone. Fire must be equal in mountain scorching and city blaze and the word
“blame” must be bantered about till no one cares. Survival will be the highest
calling. Fireman knew, but only just. Rampant flames have their say. I had to
let die that someone would come along with a solution. The gods of money and
untruth tilted the scale towards the planets doom. And we were trained to duck
and cover from nuclear attack.
Friday, March 12, 2021
Reading and Writing
Covid seems to diminish as Spring begins to take hold. I am seeing light at the end of the tunnel in ways that I have not imagined light. I am reading an essay every so often from Owning it All by William Kittredge, and Erosion by Terry Tempest Williams . They are of the land and speak of it eloquently from different times. Speaking of light my poetry is changing which is always fun and a challenge. After writing most of my life it is trusting in the birth of the unexpected. I write a lot about Jonah from the myth of Jonah and the Whale. The latest poem was a real surprise. My muse rouses me at night with a word or a phrase and leaves it to me to roll over or get up and write. So hear it is:
Not Looking at the
Whales Dork
The man in the public shower
Looked like a whale breeching, over
And over. He was a whale, what type
I’m not sure. Truth be told, his tattoo
From toe to neck, undulated me to believe
That Jonah’s head peeked out of a substantial
Opening
Before, the infamous Nineveh vomiting.
Staring in a shower is way wrong,
If straight on. A glance or a turn
Is permissible, but one is not to
Take in the whole body. Think
Ray Bradbury, with just one illustration.
I was like a harpoonist, clutching
A bar of Ivory soap. The man
In the public shower turned off
The continual water as I dove
Into increased spray. He followed
The tide of the drain
To the mustard colored exit.
I trust the word the muse sends me.
Sunday, February 9, 2020
Sunday, October 13, 2019
Bill T. Jones reading Ross Gay Poem
I guess he'll call me the "old man"
I guess he'll think I can lick
Every other feller's father
Well, I can!
I bet that he'll turn out to be
The spittin' image of his dad
But he'll have more common sense
Than his puddin-headed father ever had
I'll teach him to wrestle
And dive through a wave
When we go in the mornin's for our swim
His mother can teach him
The way to behave
But she won't make a sissy out o' him
Not him! Not my boy! Not Bill!
I will see that he is named after me, I will.
My boy, Bill! He'll be tall
And tough as a tree, will Bill!
Like a tree he'll grow
With his head held high
And his feet planted firm on the ground
And you won't see nobody dare to try
To boss or toss him around!
No pot-bellied, baggy-eyed bully
Will boss him around.
As long as he does what he likes!
He can sit on his tail
Or work on a rail
With a hammer, hammering spikes!
He can ferry a boat on a river
Or peddle a pack on his back
Or work up and down
The streets of a town
With a whip and a horse and a hack.
Run a cow around a corral
Or maybe bark for a carousel
Of course it takes talent to do that well.
He might be a champ of the heavyweights,
Or a feller that sells you glue,
Or President of the United States,
That'd be all right, too
His mother would like that
But he wouldn't be President if he didn't wanna be!
Not Bill!
And as tough as a tree, will Bill
Like a tree he'll grow
With his head held high
And his feet planted firm on the ground
And you won't see nobody dare to try
To boss him or toss him around!
No fat-bottomed, flabby-faced,
Pot-bellied, baggy-eyed bully
Will boss him around.
A skinny-lipped virgin with blood like water
Who'll give him a peck
And call it a kiss
And look in his eyes through a lorgnette...
My kid ain't even been born, yet!
I can see him when he's seventeen or so,
And startin' to go with a girl
I can give him lots of pointers, very sound
On the way to get 'round any girl
I can tell him
Wait a minute!
Could it be?
What the hell!
What if he is a girl?
What would I do with her?
What could I do for her?
A bum with no money!
You can have fun with a son
But you gotta be a father to a girl
She mightn't be so bad at that
A kid with ribbons in her hair!
A kind o' sweet and petite
Little tin-type of her mother!
What a pair!
Pink and white
As peaches and cream is she
My little girl
Is half again as bright
As girls are meant to be!
Dozens of boys pursue her
Many a likely lad does what he can to woo her
From her faithful dad
She has a few
Pink and white young fellers of two or three
But my little girl
Gets hungry every night and she comes home to me!
I got to make certain that she
Won't be dragged up in slums
With a lot o' bums like me
She's got to be sheltered
In a fair hand dressed
In the best that money can buy!
I never knew how to get money,
But, I'll try, I'll try! I'll try!
I'll go out and make it or steal it
Or take it or die!
Monday, January 1, 2018
Augmented Reality
Lexus steals the inner child to talk about its latest car. It is a physical relationship; the child into the adult woman is draped over the car, and a male voice brings her into the present by saying "the car is for both of us." She tells the car to ignore him. If the inner child is to be put into this commercial it is attached to a thing not a being. As we grow some of those growth edges are the inner child, not the outer child wishing and hoping and not growing up. The woman's response is a child to a toy not to engaging growth.
Winter Olympics Ad. by Comcast. Sentimental, not. The music is surely Peace Train but the lyrics are not quite the same, jumble. So I get nostalgia and lost. They can't escape a song that is bound in the Civil Rights Movement of the sixties. Mixing does not always match up.
We are shown pictures on computers and phones that are not there. The disclaimer is to small. Go back and another piece of your setup blocks the info. Hey here's and idea since you wont raise the font put the info on the top of the screen!
Adidas wants all the creative people to gather at the table of creators. It is one minute of youth, sport and music, oh and wealth! The creators are still everybody on earth. At least one of these "dem-gods" could say meet me in your neighborhood, the gritty community center, the Y! This table did not have an empty chair.
the Xfinity WIFI has a mom push a button that takes everybody of their devices, even dad, to sit and eat pizza. Just boxes and crusts on the family table. Could they not show something like the family taking a walk outside or a board game!?
