~c.
Pps: In hindsight I realize this isn’t actually a poem..but I hope it’ll do. PS, I love you..
I.. I think I, –no, that’s no good. Sh**! it’s August already, WTH! (what the heck). Things catch up so fast. It was only yesterday, it seems, we were married in the park, and went merrily on our honeymoon up the coast to see the sea, and the seals therein; and the sea lions, too (aren’t they the same? and puppy love vs. old, mature dog love, aren’t they also, oh, –well!) I recall the salty dampness of that place for rescued sea mammals – damaged from nets – to re-hab, with the indoor giant aquarium and echoes of their shrill barks! from behind the plexi-glass barriers, expecting you to toss a fish..conveniently available from the proprietors, for a couple of bucks. It was nice wasn’t it? And now long gone. The real estate market and other hostile factors seem to kill, always! what good people start that doesn’t make much money for the state, and the county; in whichever of those you happen to be. (Oy.) Then we got the Pinto and went to San Francisco, Las Vegas, and many trips up to the Ranch, SIGH! and we still had our little half acre on the Boulevard in Big Bear City..got there when no one else wanted it because of all the ‘A’ heads and drunk locals and their schemes and misdeeds; and a hard way to go with paying the rent. But we did it somehow (later we figured out it was God who did it). And it was fun! (sigh) living off the fat of the land; collecting junk, re-selling it, and living good. We got two great Greek friends (Mike and Steve), and a good church..because we were the only ones in it, and the preacher (Reverend Glen plus a few others). Then we got Elizabeth. Elizabeth was born after we were born again; and again; and gave up..sin! Thank you Jesus. Elizabeth was delivered by Dr. Bloch and said, “A gu!” (her first words) and then they let us go and we went to John’s in Indio and she saw the sunset in the desert and then in the morning – or maybe at night – we went home to Big Bear City and she saw the highway around the lake covered in snow and grayness on our way to church in Fawnskin, where, with witnesses, she was dedicated to the service of the Lord; and next, to Grandma’s, where she took in the marvelous view of a sun sinking in the ocean, at Oceanside, where so many other wonderful memories are stored, like buying new shoes at the mall, Thanks, Mom! and..and now she moved, to New York, New York..from Big Bear City, with her boyfriend, to New York City! land of liberals; and cows that can’t fart (because of liberals). And I think, “I think I love you!” Happy Anniversary, Darling! Well, it got David Cassidy a hit..didn’t it?? (Happy Birthday, too) Love, –guess who! Ps: Not passionate enough? wait! I’ll try harder!!
Strange. Life is, there is loneliness. Like I think back to when I wrote you a poem from the beach..about the beach. From Mom’s house. Summer sunshine, –babes in bikini’s – I left that out I think – and submarines..breaking through frozen seas up at ICE STATION ZEBRA (Patrick McGoohan). It was the last poem I sent you; but you weren’t there to receive it. Or were you? I never heard back with your critique. In any case it was the first time in thirty years, in the the thirty years war with the county (of San Bernardino) we fought singlehandedly, that I didn’t see your thoughtful reply about my poem; we were brothers in arms with the impossible dream of surviving..GOVERNMENT! (in the modern sense). Where are you, Steve? I know where you are, we all know because we have the faith of our Lord Jesus Christ, who will never leave us nor forsake us. And he never left you, did he? And I still have your cat; because you told John we get ‘Eli’ when you are no longer there for him. And so John arranged for all of that, and Elizabeth went and got him and brought him over to our house. He sleeps with us and we wake up and feed him and he lays there beside me on the couch while I write stuff..thinking of you, our friendship of thirty+years, living on the mountain, going out together and getting wood to stay warm in the winter; and making aRT things together. You always gave me stuff I was going to need when I made my performances on video tape, and helped with the camera work; and tools to use, like a TEAC 4 track reel-to-reel tape deck and I still have a couple oversize reels with the recordings of my songs that maybe I never played back but I’ll need to get another deck for that, because I gave your deck to a tweeker who jumped off the roof high above the parking over Snow Summit and that’s how he ended up..because of sex and drugs and rock ‘n’ roll. Strange..how that went (I have the hope God worked it out for him). I recall you mentioned about being a ‘roadie’ with friends who had a band and you helped move a HAMMOND B-3 up narrow stairs to a place they were playing that night..a gig! And how heavy that was. Your cat’s sitting here. I take special care of him because he is your cat, the cat you kept in the autumn of your years. He sat with you and you watched TV together. You’d had a head-on collision and weren’t doing well; and you drove over and I made us pupusa’s and we had ice cream with date topping marinated in Hungarian Tokaji, which is a dessert wine, very rare! and you brought up the subject: Would I take your cat and keep him as my own in the event something happens? (We all know what that means.) I said sure. And you said, “He’s a good cat.” I knew that. Every time I went to see you he came over and sat with me on your nauga-hyde couch, –all those poor nauga’s, SIGH! and I petted him and we talked and things happened..until that day they stopped happening. It was a Saturday morning and I was home from Oceanside taking care of Mom and the phone rang..it was John with the bad news. It was time to come get the cat. He’s a good guy because he’s all white except for the black tail. We’re special buddies now. You had my assurance he would be well cared for. And i’ve kept that promise. And the reason all this comes back is I got a phone call from the guy who bought your house..a house so full of memories: Of you cooking, pictures on the walls, the cold bathroom; and the month or two we lived with you, –when the county kicked us out! You were always there, Steve. So I got the call after church, and the phone face said ‘Phillip’ and I know more than one, so I didn’t know right away who. But then he mentioned the stove, and then I started to get it, it was the guy with your house who gave me the pictures from your wall, and an envelope with some of your old bills I haven’t looked at, yet..your cat’s laying here, shedding hair when I pet him. So I drove over to Big Bear City up the street, Blue Water Drive, from the Circle-K, where we all got gas, and met him where he was getting firewood that had been offered, from people with a house he had visited to pick up donations for DOVES. DOVES, you know, is a thrift store located in the old hardware store we lived next to on the boulevard when we first moved to Big Bear some 34 years ago and started our art store, and multi-use business – catch-as-catch-can! – and that was where we met you, Steve, the only guy in town who was curious to come see who the people were who came out of nowhere and hung up the loudly flashing ART sign there on the Strip! main drag. That, who came, was you; and there we were..us. And we gave you the TV set. And you gave us coffee. From Hawaii. There’s so much more. That’s all for now.
~c.
It’s not like in the good old days you know when poetry was quite the honorable profession, being a public nuisance and all, –clicking away on a manual typewriter, “Klack! klack..Klackety-klack!” making a noise in the hall. 468 Fell Street #9. Nowadays, making a poem would require doing THAT in the street; and, with so much noise out THERE, fabricating a good lyric..or even a bad one! couldn’t raise an eyebrow. To be relevant, anyway, it would have to be some kind of performance art-thing; as, these days, nobody needs MY sensitive and oblique perceptions about spiritual stuff, in generous, poetic constructs of rolling verbiage that address those matters concerning the eternal, space-beyond-space idea..get all THAT handled. And what a waste anyway; why, of course! some free-market/opportunist-slob will likely appear, grab the typewriter from my lap and use it in a better way, for a cudgel! battering-ram banging me over the cranium with it and knock me senseless to take my change..brain cells if that’s all the capital EYE got, but pretty hard to steal THEM; Travelers’ Checks? So who ever said poetry was fun? (or easy). So I’ve been cogitating, working out a gimmick for a new poem concept, a plan! and it probably stinks, but let me run it by you anyway. I have this old white cat who is an inheritance from our old friend, Steve, who used to read my olde stuff; and REALLY think about it. And he’s white – White Like Me – about as white a sheet, sheet of typing-paper (8 1/2 x 11). Well he won’t roll up in the typewriter that good; but maybe I can write a poem on him. I can make a stencil that looks like big, messy typewriter-letter strikes and spray-paint a poetic statement on the side of him. Can that work? Oh! just when the inspiration’s hot, the dog wants out. Well, there’s no helping it, when they gotta go, they gotta go. Will you please excuse me? be WRITE back, mm. Okay I’m back. It’s Fourth of July weekend and I needed to raise the flag in dawn’s early light! so now that’s handled..it’s all about the First Amendment, anyway, for what THAT’s worth. And I’ve been thinking about what to write on the cat, and THAT will have to be pretty short since a cat, or, a kitty, if you will, typically has very little patience for poetry (imagine THAT). We used to have this orange cat with nice tiger stripes and on one of his two sides, like it’s a billboard, it plainly read, “I O U”. That was HIS poem; until one time the coyotes made a quick poem of their own out of him that the neighbors probably heard being recited. And that’s one poem that likely earned a well deserved universal rejection from poetry critics for its decidedly user-unfriendly quality. But I digressed. The poem on the cat will have to be good and it will have to be short. That’s clear. And as every poetry lover knows, there’s no money in it for the poet; unless a contest is announced with entry fees and promises of a wide readership for the lucky winner! published on a kitty. THEN we can make some money. But that still doesn’t provide the opportunity for MY poetic input..and that can’t stand. So how about this? a diverse, renewable, multiple-culture, dual-use cat combining poetry AND performance art. All in one location! Only a hep-cat, kitty-kat, beatnik type of guy – such as myself – could come up with this..while the cat was napping, I mix up some plaster of paris and slap a dollop of it on his tail, stick a fresh-cut lock of my beard whiskers in it, it sets up solid before he can wake up from hunger, and..Voila! A TAIL OF TWO KITTIES, waving proud like a flag in the back, there. To honor freedom! artistic freedom..for artists!! Hey, Steve, you like? Ee-eh!
~c.
Ps: Poets are comets..Comments??
Advice for living in the city: Look both ways before crossing. Avoid pet shops and ‘pet’ causes. Be cautious around producers. “Don’t drink, don’t smoke” (Gramma said). Careful where you eat. Know the difference between REACT and RESPOND and when in each case. Recognize an opportunity vs. a scam (trust your gut). Pray! meditate on The WORD. Share the love of God in Christ. “The last shall be first and the first shall be last.” Amen.
~c.
PS: Have fun!
I miss my friends, my family. The laughter, the joy, the sharing..things of this world. They are the same. All will fade into glory. Jesus has the keys to the kingdom. A-men.
The cat has no cream..our skinny white cat! is wasting away. To-day! the trucks that used to bring the cream have no gasoline. They want us all on bicycles! so they take away the trucks, to make clean the air! But how does that help? and bicycles cannot bring the cream for too many cats. We shall have not so many cars, soon, and soon, we shall have no cats! Our poor skinny cat, has lost all his fat, he still has hair and that’s that! that’s all, his hair..the colour of cream. Maybe mamma mouse will share her milk..weeth heem, name is Kracker, Kracker the white cat. ~Folksongs, from Transylvania, USA
~c.
The dog, –the dog is an emotional wreck, I tease her by paying too much attention to the cat! Then she brings me her toys, one by one, to make me look at her. So I look at my phone. That doesn’t bother her as much. But the cat, the cat! the dog’s an emotional wreck, she’s a wreck, the dog is. And the cat? The cat’s a cat. And that’s that.
~c.
Ps: The stores are out of dog-food.
“Thump!” Canoe onna freeway, “Thump-a-thump!” ashes, paper-cup’s; traffic-jam typewriters, –All fall down! strewn about, ‘n’ all around, black! ROYAL speed-bumps, blossoming white flags of surrender, flapping, snappily, at half-mast, poems..half-written, –typed! corrections, pencilled in, falling off cars’ million roofs driven by POETS drivel! driving past Culver City, without a poet’s-license, westbound for Santa Mont-i-ca, the beach, –Drive on! drive on! Oh..I see a tree! my poet-canoe’s being paddled up Dry Creek off 101 n., see? ‘n’ that’s what I could use her,HERE! good paddling, for piddling..piddling, hear? piddling – her’n’there,’n’ev’rywhere – ‘way the hours passed, piddling..past El Segundo, billboard to the left: LUCKY STRIKE! drilling for oil in rush hour’s marsh, thee HOUR GANG gang, pen in hand, –‘Scribblingfuries’, oriental cat with his poets’ chop’s, reaches for lunch-box with a picture of Mao ‘n’ Roy Rogers..Ow! poet-commuters/consumers – all stripes – aimless, idealess ideologues, idlers rolling, rolling ‘long with Big Chief Lockstep’s concrete caravan, “Woo-woo! Woo-woo!” heading down Rose Parade’s nowheres. Blue woman, HER! vaulted cavernous sky-scape tipi; eagle feathers ‘n’ war-cries, Hoops! smoke-signal’s sunrise reflecting in tunnels, beam’d from walls of glass..golden, bending lights to heaven! kecking, sodden eyeballs to curb..hunger, –who, me? what..when..who? Why! it’s Tom O’Hawks, fine Irish poet and none other. Step up to the plate, young brave one, and show ’em what you got..Drive-thru Strike-out’s ‘n’ poetry-slam’s, –“Hey! batter, batter..” The pitch! Batter, batter..the pancake batter, it’s on my chest! my red-hot poet’s heart’ll, do the rest, –REST? Spatula! flipping spirits!! silver dollars..and coffee, no rest (Ughh). Can we wrest this poem from my brain? (Sigh) it’s not the best. Road’s rage, poets’ rage, –rage,RAGE! it’s all the rage, it’s just..are going through a stage. All the world IS
‘s
~c.
Ps: a stage, and all the poets, well..it’s a struggle, you know. Just do your best (God hears a poet’s fears).
THE COW-PIE, A poem (of the SUPER-natural!) Once, upon an estuary, while I drifted past a dairy, hear the milk-cows, “Moo..moo-moo!” All at once their MOOs grew silken, milk-machines begun a-milkin’, labour I’d be loath to do, a job! I’d deign not do. WOULD YOU?? Quoth the poet, “Boo, hoo, hoo.”
~c.
Ps: There’s more but I’ll skip it.
Scruffy's..Blurgh! 