November 22, 2013
July 19, 2013
I read about possible military intervention in Syria. And the drone attacks. And the prisoners still in Quantanamo. And this is a Democratic presidency. Makes you wonder where we’d be if Romney had won. Is America treating the world like a drive-by shooting?
May 4, 2013
She was for a while the darling of American television. I loved her. She looked just like our neighbour. She was good natured, bubbly, down to earth, and funny. Very few people knew that she had suffered from polio. That she was a bit lame. She took a much younger man (Burt Reynolds) as a lover.
from my book The Saints of Jazz
check it out.
Dinah Shore (February 29, 1916 – February 24, 1994)
1950s. From shore to shore. Dyed blondes. In suburban homes. Black bodies bobbing up in the swamp. Like apples in a barrel. Big frilly dresses. Puffy sleeves. In the golden days of the Pharaoh. When men drove Chevrolets. Women in church. Happy on their knees.
Every Sunday evening. Black and white laughter. Dinah and her lovers. In alphabetical order. Dinah loved Tarzan. And his jungle. A general named Moose. A singer and his jingles. The Cantabile Choir Of Kingston. A drummer. From the old school. Several actors named Jimmy. A cat. Who wanted to be President. And a red headed kid with buck teeth. And a head too big for his hat.
America had a new home movie. It was called the ‘The Battle of Los Angeles’. UFOs attacked the city of angels. Through the smog. And the alleys. And all their mighty ships were shot down. But no one could find. Where they had crashed. And Dinah kept smiling. Her ankles like a necklace. Throwing a kiss. Across America. To Ed Gein and his buddies down at Biff’s . To the nurse in the E.R. To the waitress on the graveyard shift. And all the little blondes. Watching Dinah. Cracking a joke. Singing a song. America was in love. With being blonde.
March 20, 2013
November 3, 2012
Vanity. I found its birthplace. Like the planet in “Alien”. I know where the monster springs from. Eyeglasses. I had two. One broke. I had to replace it. I went to one of the mega stores. They have thousands of frames. It matters more what you look like than what you see. This was my first pair of glasses. For the real world. Rather than books etc. I’ve used reading glasses for some time. But this was walking around glasses. I wanted John Lennon glasses. (Trotsky wore them too. Actually I think everyone in the 19th century wore them.) I was talked out of them. Now I’ve got Clark Kent glasses. Tights were not included in the sale.
July 12, 2012
Detroit. My Home Town
They’ve boarded up Detroit. Painted all the windows black. Put the cat in the basement. A. J. Foyd has been missing for years. There’s going to be a tea party. You bring the pot. I’ll bring the saucers.
No rest for the wretched. You can hear them crying. On the sidewalk. Stained with red from that kid who fell in love. With a Buick. Onto a broken bottle of Triple X. Blood shot out of his leg. Like air from a flat.
Every day. At noon. The sulphur mills sigh. Smells like the city farted. Causing the junkies to jump. Out of their hotel skins. All you hear. All afternoon. Is a series of splats. It ain’t acid. But when times are tough. You settle for what you can get.
Everyone wants to take credit. For the lower costs. Of reclamations. The churches are abandoned. The soup kitchens are closing. The hospital emergency rooms are empty. There are so many bodies on the asphalt. Recent jumpers. Or recently stoned.
June 21, 2012
Rain on the tin roof. Rain on the tent canvas. Rain falling. Like a drunk staggering home to the woman he loves more after several drinks.
Watching television. House. You turned to me. Do you still love me. I don’t even know how to answer the question. Do I still love my arm. Or my skin. I think the cat wants in.
The fire has gone. Partly due to the medication. Partly due to my boredom. Partly due to that empty bottle rolling across the floor. And yes its partly due to you.
I’m beginning to lose my keys. I’m beginning to forget if I turned off the stove. I’m beginning to forget the names of the kids. But I’ll never forget you. Standing on that frozen corner. Selling jewellery to the freaks. Of nature. My last thought, I’m sure, is of you turning to answer me.
June 16, 2012
Tom Waits is a musician, performer, song writer, poet, actor. God knows what else. But what I love about him is his poetry. Its street poetry. With a little show biz thrown in. There’s a little con in Tom which makes his work both interesting and in case someone takes it too seriously, amusing. He is a unique and precious gift.
Frank’s Wild Years
Well Frank settled down in the Valley and hung his wild years on a nail that he drove through his wife’s forehead he sold used office furniture out there on San Fernando Road and assumed a $30,000 loan at 15 1/4 % and put down payment on a little two bedroom place his wife was a spent piece of used jet trash made good bloody marys kept her mouth shut most of the time had a little Chihuahua named Carlos that had some kind of skin disease and was totally blind. They had a thoroughly modern kitchen self-cleaning oven (the whole bit) Frank drove a little sedan they were so happy One night Frank was on his way home from work, stopped at the liquor store, picked up a couple Mickey’s Big Mouths drank ’em in the car on his way to the Shell station, he got a gallon of gas in a can, drove home, doused everything in the house, torched it, parked across the street, laughing, watching it burn, all Halloween orange and chimney red then Frank put on a top forty station got on the Hollywood Freeway headed north Never could stand that dog.
A very odd film called Big Time
May 23, 2012
Confession of a Newly Divorced Woman
At the bottom of the stairs. I used to wait for you. To come down. Head first.
You’re a joy. When you’re fixing the garbage disposal. And your fingers are dripping. With sarcasm.
At the wedding. Your mother wept. Outside. In the parking lot. You’re not supposed to get married. At 3 o’clock. In the morning.
I can take heart ache. Who doesn’t want to find their husband. Jerking off. Over the dishes. Still wearing an apron.
This isn’t a marriage. Its an arrangement. The twins. Aren’t yours. They were adopted. Lets sign the papers. And send them back. UPS. Will guarantee almost anything.
I had more sex. When I was single. Your breath was bad. But not your confidence. I was wrong. And now I have to pay my indulgences. Still. I look out the window. And hope I see you walking. This way.
May 18, 2012
Its so big. All around us. Step ladders up a giraffe’s back. Kindness in the executioner’s swing. Every moment around me. An ambush. Of memory. I’m almost blind with joy. Even toward the banker who buggered me.
A cloud. In Russian trousers. The pink stain. In her white basketball shorts. Those sweet lips. Sucking. On those purple grapes. Walking around naked. Three o’clock in the morning. In the almost empty American rooms.
Rough. Skin. Like drapes. Fade. And sag. Your body is defeated by time. You scream like a child. Just give me one more turn.