Weed Control - A short short

            On May 12^th Fred Trapp, age 38, shot his dog in the backyard. The weapon was an unremarkable 9 mm Glock, discharged only once. The dog was a three year-old Labrador/Irish Setter mix, a female named Sammie, who had lived with the Trapp family for just over eighteen months. She was killed instantly. It being a weekday the two Trapp children, Argus and Mia, were away at school and most of the neighbors were at work, leaving few in the area to hear the gun’s report. However, Mara White, the elderly mother of Trapp’s next door neighbor, was visiting that day, and called the Avondale police to report the gunfire next door.

The Debt

I've owed the newsstand man a quarter
for a little more than a year
on  a copy of the Times he gave me
one morning when I came up short.
I walk past him every day now.
His gray beard still the same,
arrayed around him, gum, and newsprint.
In sunshine snow and rain.
When I pass he doesn't look at me.
Doesn't remember, probably,
That I never paid my debt.
But I haven't stopped at that newsstand
Since he let me have the Times.

Liquid History ... mmm, boozy!

A History of the World in Six Glasses by Tom Standage
My rating: 3 of 5 stars

I'm usually a little leery when journalists write history books (the obvious counter-example being Bob Woodward, who writes about contemporary history and is a whole other bag of nails), and this one bears out why. Starting with the dubious and much commented-upon inclusion of a numeral in the title, the main thrust of Six Glasses is consistently toward accessibility rather than depth. I found it worked best when discussing areas I was less familiar with, which only serves to illustrate my point.

Ginsberg’s Bus

One Sunday morning in November
Alan Ginsberg caught a bus
On Avenue A and mounted it
Like a salmon above his mantle.

It was cold, but hadn't snowed yet
Though the thought was there
In the way the exhaust curled
And bounced along the pavement

He looked out his window
Past his coffee cup, empty
After a night writing letters
And saw it lumbering like oxen.

Around the corner of St. Marks
Where a bongo player'd passed out
On the sidewalk, with a cop
Too bored to beat him.

That bus was caught without knowing
And now it's all that's left
Of that morning, that corner,
Or Ginsberg, for that matter,
Although it still belongs to him.

The Bucket - A Sestina

The kitchen window rings with falling rain
that leaves its tracks upon the glass in steps,
and underneath the sink the bin is full;
Banana peels and coffee grounds and life.
It's time to feed the pile, that gracious pile.
The wonder-making garden-feeding goo.

Mud on my feet, Oregonian goo
composed of slugs, and moss, and ferns, and rain,
as my bucket heads out to that old pile
of mud and worms. Twenty seven steps
across my lawn. The love of my life
after my wife and kids, it grows so full.

It's prickly after the summer, but full
of basil, filled with its fragrant goo,
and of lavender, which is full of life.
My shirt so quickly becomes damp in the rain
and my hummingbird is dogging my steps.
We happy four, grass, man, bird, and the pile.

That gaping, glorious, grand old man pile
so full, puff'd full, swollen full, bursting full.
That final goal of my pilgrimage steps
to give out my offering of grand goo
that sings, and dances and lives for the rain
and brings still more singing dancing life

I'm not the only one sliding through life
on the long long pilgrim path to my pile.
They all greet me stepping out to the rain
indeed I come to find my garden full
of snails and ravens, and a trail of goo
from the slug crawling down across my steps.

Now his trail is my trail along my steps -
smeared across my bare feet, the streaks of life
lived, pulled, wrenched out from the goo
that marinates at bottom of the pile
in Oregonian fog, and brimming full
to run into the garden with the rain.

This divine gift of given goo lies across my steps
dancing in the rain, in this lily life.
When I am tossed on that pile, I will be full too.

Cloudland

At dawn we'll ride, my children

Up to where day touches night

Where starlight brushes daytime's fingers

And kisses our cheeks mid-flight.

Wild geese come up to greet us
Albatross says hello,
The wind is our dear brother
and guide to the sights below.

The cloud people will hear us coming

And lay out a welcome feast

of sky-berries, with cloud-cream

(the best comes from the northeast).

We'll ride like kings and queens, dear daughter,

Crow and whoop like jesters, son,

Find our way among the peaks and

down valleys that are sugar - spun.

Then when our ride is ending

And evening is drawing near,

I'll hold you both close to me

and whisper in your ears.

You are the prince of Cloudland

and the princess of the sky

The world is made for you my loves,

so reach out, reach out, and fly.

How to write s#!*, lesson one.

What follows is my review of a book called Assassin,by Ted Bell.  It contains strong language.  You've been warned.