Drunk Deaths Anniversaries

Just in case you think we have been implying that Chicago is the only place where great artists fall on drunken ruin, I point to this great post about the Centennial of the death of O. Henry. As our beloved Bowery Boys point out "He may even been drunk here" in the above image.

Interactive Monday Assignment - Valentine Haiku

Junk Thief has been known to go on a date now and then, and with this being the week for exchanging Valentines, he thought that would make a good theme for an assignment.

Sometimes the best dating advice comes not from self-help books, advice columns or the dreaded Doctor Phil. The best advice comes from the side of cartons.

Here are a couple of examples:

"Can't decide between two shades? Try the lighter one first. You can always go darker later"
- Just for Men

"If possible, use weight to dose; otherwise use age."
- Walgreen's Anti-Diarrheal Caplets

See aren't these a lot more helpful and practical than the usual psycho-babble about open communication and respecting boundaries? Plus, they have the elegance of haiku.

Now share your own product label dating advice.

Feathers for the Queen

Just as Junk Thief must have door knobs, Shelley's character in Wild in the Streets must have feathers in order to be presented to the Court of St. James. Why? If you must ask, you have no understanding of the powerful pop poetry of this movie. Why it has never received the homages bestowed on Valley of the Dolls and its ilk is beyond me. This film is a Junk Thief favorite. If you'd like to join me for a midnight screening at the Junkplex, just let me know. (Perhaps a double header with Bloody Mama would be in order.)

Looking at the River, Thinking of the Sea

I've been reading, rereading, a lot of Cavafy the past four to six weeks. All of his verses recalling flesh stationed in the past, anticipation of barbarians and treats vibrant in his hand but just out of reach seem very relevant of late.

As the northern California non-season of "spring" moves into the more tangible fog season, I look ahead at my upcoming travels and the disconcerting task of entering so many abstract landscapes. Going from golden grasses of California to the green pastures of the rest of the country in June always focuses me on the blue of the distance, taking sustenance in longing and trying to avoid the futility of fulfilment.

After a long period of loss, I've been reassessing what desire is and the hazards associated with it. In the past I associated that with travel, but too much of my travel has become familiar, not the blue highways I have once pursued with such passion. The foreign has always brought me much greater comfort than the familiar, but now I am not sure what either really either. I question if they have reversed places in my world.

The outreaching hand, however, that I suppressed for much of the past few years seems to be striving for the distance again. It seeks less fulfilment and more movement, the passage of waters that flow to some greater body of water, circle into some new harbor and then move forward to wrap around another gravitational destination. When I close my eyes I can see blue again, outlining and mawking the sullen hues of black.

That Winter

(As many of you know, I've been in my intergenerational writing group, a primarily LGBT -- actually just plain old G -- though recently being about 20% straight. I've also just started a 9-week writing group with author/poet Louise Nayer. Both have been useful, and I've gotten back on the wagon of creating something other than the vlog/blog scratches and scribbles. To merge those two worlds, I've sharing the prose poem below that has received a decidedly mixed response. I'd appreciate feedback.)

The horrible dream never came true.

So you tell yourself that you never saw it – our entire neighborhood in flames, all the children trapped inside.

Tiny fingers reaching through broken glass and iron bars hot as a sizzling grill.

No water left on earth to fight the flames, only blood and Coca-cola sputtering from the corner hydrant.

Even the ghosts had abandoned us.

You told me that the world had become too big and young for you to put up a fight anymore. You preferred to live in a secret kingdom under a red toad stool. Everything was so easy to control down there away from the sun. I enjoyed drinking from tiny tea cups with you until I realized I could do the same on my own and not hear you reading your list of regrets. I still smell the fungus left from that winter we spent down there.

Do you still tell the story of dressing up like your dead brother to revive your mother’s imagination? Then she ran away with your brother and left you with her pearls to contemplate.

Some nights I see my ancestors pushing their rag carts through the streets of Vienna, dead men’s clothes picked off that layer that separated them from the bones. They could see glistening Aryan hair in the windows of the city’s grand homes, marble blue eyes staring out at them and believing the gas lamp glow was enough to warm the brown eyed baby with matted hair in the rag cart.

I almost see them tonight as I look out from this restaurant, distracted at times by the worrisome, hacking cough of the waitress, her hunched shoulders appearing to carry the meal she wishes she could serve. I sense fire and tiny hands reaching from her throat, wanting to place her palm on my forehead, wanting to quiet the dream.

Maybe it’s there -- two walls of fire merging, and the rains return.