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

 

     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.

 

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.

  

Eyes to See Ears to Hear

I called out all the criers from Sydney BC.

Loaded them on the Victoria Clipper

Placing them next to trees due for removal.

Voices up and down to plead.

A human boulevard

Along a cutting swath.

They are going to cut down a large number of trees in Bellevue Wa. to make room for power lines. The street 148th has a wonderful tree-filled boulevard even with the increase of car traffic  it makes one pause. The poem above is my imagined protest

Bill T. Jones reading Ross Gay Poem

This morning I listened to Bill T Jones read a wonderful poem by Ross Gay: https://vimeo.com/343521470. It reminded me of a book I am reading Something Wonderful about Rogers and Hammerstein. It is the Soliloquy from the play Carousal that seemed to bump and flow  with the Ross Gay poem. Billy who sings this piece is a proud papa to be. Here are the lyrics:

I wonder what he'll think of me
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!

Bill, my boy 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.

I don't give a hang what he does
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.

He can haul a scow along a canal
Run a cow around a corral
Or maybe bark for a carousel
Of course it takes talent to do that well.

Aha-ha-ha-ha!
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!

My boy, Bill! He'll be tall
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.

And I'm hanged if he'll marry his boss' daughter
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...

Hey, why am I talkin' on like this?
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!

My little girl
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 get ready before she comes!
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!     

Truly a different generation but the same energy!

Here is Gordon MacRae  singing it.

https://youtu.be/uq0UAdvGdII?list=RDuq0UAdvGdII

Augmented Reality

     A new year begins but I am stuck on some Ads. that will trickle into 2018. The idea of taking something out of context or just plan lie is not new, Just look in the White House. Put it in an Ad. that goes by so fast or the "truth" is printed so tiny it is impossible to read. I got Tivo to escape Ads. now I see that they are a tool, a deceiving tool that most don't see what they are up to. Oh don't forget the truck they are showing you does not have the outer Antenna. You might not buy it but you'll see it on the lot fully exposed.

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!?

I went to the Edmond's Art Festival last night and found a woman Cheryl Brown cherylbrownstudio.com who know how to create a crow! I am glad I ran across her.

Philocetetes, and why he is important to us.

                                   Philocetetes, and why he is important to us.

     Philocetetes reached inside of me and held on tight. After reading Susan Sutclifes version of his story, Black ships Before Troy, I wanted to know why this Greek character had a hold on me. This is no minor role player yet he is put off on and island because he was bitten on the toe by the dragon/serpent he slew. This caused him to scream constantly, and have a wound that smelled and oozed. The black ship he was on put him off on Limnos to continue on to Troy.

    I was struck that Philocetetes was left on the island for ten years. I began to imagine: what would a wounded part of me hidden for a number of years look and feel like? I might not have been ready to deal with it at the time it occurred so I suffered it away or a better way of putting it for me is I kept eating to keep it at bay. Maybe it was so traumatic all I could do was to bury it. At some point I must face that wound, heal that part of me. That part of me I call the child of awe. From an early age I was not given the light to shine but shamed and abused wounds I could not comprehend but felt. In my case it was an ulcer at age nine.

      This immense war with Troy is not going well for the Greeks. The Greeks talk to their soothsayer that tells them to bring Philocetetes back from Lemnos. I am sure this is not what the kings had in mind to turn the tide of battle. They send two of their best warriors to fetch him: Diomedes (Divine Cunning) and Odysseus (Trouble Maker) It takes much strength, and yes deception and time to face our wounds. When the two men face Philocetetes, he does not recognize them. They raise their arms to show no harm will be done. Two strong men humbled. It is a survival skill to push a wound away but left in the dark it is hard to recognize yourself.

     Philocetetes carries the bow of Hercules, a gift. Now this gift rests in a place we would not usually go to for the sake of winning a battle or in my case to get up in front of my family to speak my truth about our parents, and to read poetry at gatherings about my parents. What the wounded part of ourselves brings forth heals us.

     They bring Philocetetes back with them. But note how they handle him. There is tenderness even with defeat on the horizon. He is bathed and his wound tended to. This is the hero’s journey. We need to think of our wounded ness as a royal blessing. The gift: the bow and arrow and poison tipped. This is Philocetetes gift and he has to use it his own way; some of the soldiers do not want this poison. There will always be a part of us that will be skeptical of our wounded ness, hold those feelings very gently. There are parts of me that struggle with how I should teach or read a poem surrounded in wounded ness but it is mine and I must claim it, and claiming is a comfort and a process.

     Even with ten years of shooting birds on Limnos the shot to take out Paris glances his hand, not the shot of great bowman. The poison becomes more the necessity for this glancing strike. It also lets the story go on as Paris dies a painful death.

     Philocetetes has done his job but it is like he fell off the beach, we don’t know if he is ever totally healed or continues to have this wound. In many stories about healing you will run across this, the character does his job and exits. Philocetetes received much to come and turn the tide of war but I put my imagination into him, what would he do next? I would continue to monitor the wound. It is much deeper than the oozing. I would go to the soothsayer and ask about the circumstances that brought him to such a place. Any counselor worth there salt knows, like I said earlier, that this healing takes time. How we use that time to get healthy, to get to a place of healing. My Goodness! A gift lost then found- what else might this important work produce? Philocetetes needed the poison, at some point I feel that he will not need the poison or the bow to do his healing work. Phielo means to love. Ctetos means something that can be gained. I know I have more then one gift wrapped in my wounded ness.

     Look to these old stories and myths for healing they are there as well as many islands to explore.

No go Ballard Bridge

This has been a month of losses for me. The Ballard Bridge would have been great but being in residence and a full time job, that would have been tough. Three other poems I put out for publication were rejected and into this mix the death of my sister Mary. After having coffee with my brother this morning I revised this poem:

Her name is Louisiana

A rambling girl. A bigger

Purchase never visited by me.

She had many a spat

Tit for tat- Katrina

A recent cat fight.

Mass exit makes for mass entrance

Big chiefs lead parades.

Streets pour with water

Occasional sofa and love seat

Blister alleyways. She’s pretty

My Louisiana- that ninth ward

Should have been exhumed earlier

Or been more honest in presentation.

I see my Louisiana on TV, its super

Dome like a Tierra, tossed.

But she comes back dressed and sweaty

For the next event- that’s my girl. 

     I have sent my resume in for a chance at being the poet laureate for the Fremont Bridge later this year. I have son great ideas and I wanted to share the first poem that I have written about the Fremont Bridge:

Angles in Orange & Blue

If I crossed the Fremont Bridge

As never before-

Towers diagonally

Like Petit holding

Eyes below, I would

Write the view of corvids

That call this angle common.

Moses burning bush

Would have competition.

I have removed my sandals

Long ago, pressed my soles

To steel mesh and heard

My fascia cry: I am home!  

O Antiphons Outside Advent

O Antiphons outside Advent

They stole the sign-

Arbeit Macht Frei

(work sets you free).

Where is the O Antiphon

To chorus through such misery?

A root of Jessie to break soil

And entangle such theft.

Are Wiseman afoot  making

Way to the scene?

Will it show up in someone’s

Basement to shameful to see

Sunlight outside

Its original mooring?

Will it be returned

No questions, to the gate?

Will it show up as a selfie on Facebook?

A rite of passage that needs no reminding.

O come O come Emanuel and ransom captive….

When I wrote the above poem I wondered how I would connect the stolen sign at Auschwitz with Christian preparation music in Advent. I see the sign as remembrance and ask:  How can someone steal it? It has been stolen before. I thought about the root of Jessie coming to the aid of the Jews. Wise men awake and always on the move, not necessarily for the baby Jesus but alive to retrieve the sign over a death camp. And finally: O come O come Emanuel and ransom captives not yet born some dead three quarters of a century.

The selfies Jewish kids take at  death camps bothers me but maybe it makes them feel alive. I see the three kings as avengers first not just worshipers.

ESPOUSED

I have been called to this place to espouse. To espouse what exactly? Those falsehoods that abound in advertising. Just recently I read that we don't need advertising and I wonder if that is the result of the permeation of many falsehoods. That what we see in bold print is not true and we are too tired to read the fine print. Big is good and small is bad. That is what advertising on TV begets. On radio the small print is the fast voice like a grease eraser over ink. Why am I called to espouse on this? I don't see myself as a prophet of truth. If the medium is the message then that straight path John the Baptist speaks of are now massive switch backs that lead to nowhere. TIVO helps to rush through ads. and if I stop to read the fine print it is covered by some timeline on the TIVO. The ads. that make me most angry are about drugs, they work off of the fear and pain of the viewer. I see a scale that weighs the emotion and risk of belonging. The good life of breathing better MAYBE or performing sexually MAYBE. Pharmaceuticals see it as a good risk for the patient. Wheres the doctor in all this? The ad. will make me seem smart to go to my doctor with this information. There are full page ads. in the paper for cellphones and buying shoes to watch on TV. Yet the paper can only have one local editorial and one national. I have said to many people just follow the money. These companies want us to pay to be healthy, pay to be connected. Just this week Anhausier  Busch  bought a local brewery There are no choices. Follow that stream of beer back to it source. We can complain to Congress but they are so far away. We have Facebook that keeps churning stories but do they go anywhere? No. I am the kid in the crowd in the Emperor's New Cloths. He is naked but nobody notices. He had good ad. men and power. But he is still naked.
The soap box on the street corner lasted longer than the pony express. I got educated away from the box and onto the fast moving horse. Now we get instant messaging and junk in our mail box. no taking pliers to the TV to change the station There were no gigs in the Magnovox. Truth telling does not make it right. Being caught in a lie does not me you are wrong you just got caught. Do I want the drug that might help or risk the consequences? Unsure? They can mail you a sample.

This last week I awoke to a story about a charter school in Utah. I don't know a lot about such schools but I voted for it in the state I live in. Believing that more diverse education is a good thing.This school in Utah wants to teach about business using the fable Ant and the Grasshopper. I knew the fable well from a book I own. I was shocked. the version I have is not a fable of business ethics but on how not treat your neighbor. The first stanza of the fable leads one to believe that singing (arts) lead to hunger and hurt. The second stanza of the fable is the grasshopper who is humble and knows the value of a vow. He is also honest and vulnerable. A good question for the eager to learn students might be:what does it mean to be a neighbor? The third stanza of the fable we meet the ant. There is no mincing of words she hears the grasshopper and repeats his tale back to him. He sang for his supper and will now reap that benefit by starving. An ant does not lend and is not sympathetic/empathetic, but is shaming. Fourth Stanza. there is a sense of relief from the ant that the grasshopper is done in by his own gift, his volition. Winter is a dead season and now he will pay. On might want to read the story Frederick by Leo Lionni to see the gift of the artist in a fable, especially in winter. there is also the story of the Good Samaritan. And there is a parable that Jesus tells about the kingdom of heaven, that in his brilliance is the opposite! what children need are stories, it sustains and moves us forward. The Ant and the Grasshopper is a cautionary fable not a business model. Beware what one might unleash in the wrong arena.

Truth/Lie

I wont deny that i watch enough television to rush through the commercials on my TIVO. But the amount of times that I see advertisements that boldly claim truths and in small print deny or lie. To make matters worse the small print is not held long enough on the small screen to read the "fine print." I have become so used to it ie hypnotized by this speed to move on to the show I'm watching that I should be numb. But I have this quirk that makes me have to decide (we all have this and can use it if you are not asleep) and complain that this advertising especially for seniors (count me as one) is scary. The boldness to even announce the bad results for drugs that might kill someone or make the cure worse than the disease makes me think that another step has been taken in blinding people because: I've got this and I want a pill to stop it. Or the banks that tell you good news but the word Restrictions is in the fine print. We sign papers to buy a home (if we can nowadays) or a car. And that Caveat to read those details. We can't even start on the small screen. So ask questions just because they say they will be helpful and we should trust them is not enough. Go to you bank talk one on one, the same with your doctor. Television is good for many things but not to impart truths to those who need them most.

Doppelganger

I was reminded that I have not written here for quite awhile. So a quick update. I got divorced and moved to Seattle and some healing. My latest book Tell them that you saw me but you didn't see me saw is being published by Moon Pie Press at the end of the month. Two pieces below about my Doppelganger Two Flags.


Back When

Two flags woke up next to the evangelical church. Above him the sign read: Praise God in all situations! He remembers laughing at that sign earlier, thinking, there are lots of things god might do, like the prophet Elisah showing his backside and God was a whirlwind. Dusting off his blue jeans making it look like a ritual and not wakeup on the street. Two Flags tried to reconstruct the night before; he had been drinking, not alone, thank you, but they were strangers. The bar was on a strip in downtown Portland, next to Chinatown. He had family here for a long time. He could recollect the interim of belches from Mount St. Helens, as he and his girl walked the Grotto. The elevator to the saints and the rosary laid out by someone in the sky. Those roses a relief in their smells from sinners that wander the park.


Dr. Two Flags
When Two Flags that grasshoppers were going to swarm east of the mountains, he took out his Hopewell pipe (shaped like a bear) and puffed Borkin Riff and blessed the six ways. Grasshoppers have a cycle and they know how to party thought Two Flags. He’d been among them, even took a shovel and pounded the ground missing as many as he could, and saying “sorry brother” if he hit a few.
The garage he lived in, in Lake City had a yearly infestation of caterpillars lining one sided like a velvet yellow rug. The trees to the south had nests holding leaves and branches in a funny death. Taking his broom he’d sweep the a swath he could reach and stop knowing this is not a renters job. Getting up early and walking outside with coffee he could look at what he didn’t own. His place in Yakima was his domicile, sweat lodge, bar, love shack. His friend JC was keeping an eye on it while Two Flags worked to get enough money to pay utilities. He would borrow the electricity and put his hose on another’s faucet when necessary. That seemed like always.
He lived in a two car garage; two very tiny cars. But he liked two! Plumed for a shower and toilet. All the furniture was the owners except a TV with rabbit ears. It was not cable ready but he would grab his crotch and shout: “I’m cable ready!” His work at Children’s Hospital was moving trash and staying out of the way and pretending to understand his Philippine super. His bus was like a golden pass and he has more scrubs than a surgeon.

Doppelganger

I was reminded that I have not written here for quite awhile. So a quick update. I got divorced and moved to Seattle and some healing. My latest book Tell them that you saw me but you didn't see me saw is being published by Moon Pie Press at the end of the month. Two pieces below about my Doppelganger Two Flags.

Cynthia & Nick's Wedding

My daughter got married October 3rd. Here is a slide show.

href="http://smilebox.com/play/4d546b314e7a45334e6a68384d7a51784d5463304e544d3d0d0a&sb=1

Taos New Mexico last year

In cleaning up my work area I ran across this piece.


When uncle Napoleon stopped eating peas on a knife with honey, he appeared in a village on the way to Taos. I should say I met him again for the first time. He knew the stories and that was enough for me. He used a willow switch to point out history on his covered porch wall. His back broken he moved using his swivel chair as pigeons flew around the enclosure. A walking stick appears, 'I make them' he says. He gave us homemade maps and hi-lited them with pink marker. He repeated a phrase: 'this road is not that long, you are not lost, stay on it.' God had spoken that to me years ago on a bridge; 'stay the course.' This new uncle Napoleon sang a Penetenta song in Spanish. I closed my eyes to listen, when he was done he said: 'you can wakeup.' A trickster sense of humor. When we left he said' come back again and bring your son and pretty daughter. We never told him we had children. His name was: Napoleon Garcia.