tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-296736472011-04-21T23:22:41.900-04:00Dylan Hocknoreply@blogger.comBlogger741100tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29673647.post-1157876649992308652006-09-10T04:21:00.000-04:002006-09-10T04:24:50.150-04:00<span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/4546/1758/1600/watchingcover.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/4546/1758/400/watchingcover.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://watchingthewheelsablackbirdissueii.blogspot.com/2006/09/note-from-editor.html"><span style="font-weight: bold;"><span style="font-size:130%;">Enter</span></span></a><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m<br />m<br />m<br />m<br />m<br />m<br />m<br /><br /></span><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br /></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/29673647-115787664999230865?l=watchingthewheelsablackbirdissueii.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Dylan Hocknoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29673647.post-1157875886810296542006-09-10T03:42:00.006-04:002006-09-15T01:11:33.263-04:00<span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span> <span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmn</span>In the time that has elapsed since <a href="http://watchingthewheelsablackbird.blogspot.com/2006/01/m-enter-m.html">Issue I</a>, the world whizzed on with itself as well as ever and I've found myself here, o' so many months later, having sifted through writing, music, visual work, moved cross country, joined a rock band, reworked my novel entirely, and volunteered for <a href="http://www.boulderfringe.com/">Boulder's Second Annual Fringe Festival</a>. My life always moves in hectic bundles of chaotic energy, bouncing from one project to the next. You might be able to glimpse a little as to why this one-man undertaking can take some time. Not to mention I'm married and have a three year-old son who loves to distract me at all the right moments. In any event, as the globe continues to spin and pop celebrities negotiate deals for baby pictures, I have once again found time enough to put together this zine, which includes a great deal of wonderful work by writers and artists from not only the United States, but Mexico, Amsterdam, and Greece as well. Without further ado, I give you... <a href="http://watchingthewheelsablackbirdissueii.blogspot.com/2006/09/m-m-mm-m-enter-m-m-m-m-m-m-m-m-m-m-m.html">Issue II</a>!<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br />Thank you,<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br /><a href="http://thevelvetgoldmine.blogspot.com/">Dylan Hock</a><br /><a href="http://www.watchingthewheelsablackbird.blogspot.com/">Watching the Wheels: a Blackbird</a><br />Sept. 2006<span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);"></span><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">& for my mother, a <a href="http://www.crocodilehunter.com/#">Steve Irwin</a> memorial...</span><br /></div><span style="font-weight: bold;"><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br /></span><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-weight: bold;"><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span></span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/4546/1758/1600/steve_tribute.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/4546/1758/320/steve_tribute.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">R.I.P. (1962 - 2006)</span><br /></div><span style="font-weight: bold;"><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br /></span><div style="text-align: right; font-weight: bold;"><a href="http://watchingthewheelsablackbirdissueii.blogspot.com/2006/06/table-of-contents.html">Table of Contents<br /></a></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/29673647-115787588681029654?l=watchingthewheelsablackbirdissueii.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Dylan Hocknoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29673647.post-1157873735259191852006-09-10T03:32:00.000-04:002006-09-10T05:01:53.690-04:00<span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/4546/1758/1600/watchingbackcover.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/4546/1758/400/watchingbackcover.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://watchingthewheelsablackbirdissueii.blogspot.com/2006/09/m-m-mm-m-enter-m-m-m-m-m-m-m-m-m-m-m.html">Front Cover</a><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br /><a href="http://watchingthewheelsablackbirdissueii.blogspot.com/2006/06/table-of-contents.html">Table of Contents</a><br /></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/29673647-115787373525919185?l=watchingthewheelsablackbirdissueii.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Dylan Hocknoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29673647.post-1157872795966281272006-09-10T03:19:00.000-04:002006-09-10T05:01:08.300-04:00<pre><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /><pre><br /><br /></pre> <div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-size:130%;">Submit to <a href="http://www.watchingthewheelsablackbird.blogspot.com/"><span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">Watching the Wheels: a </span></a><a href="http://www.watchingthewheelsablackbird.blogspot.com/"><span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">Blackbird</span></a>!</span></span><br /></div> <pre><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /></span></pre><br /><span style="font-size:100%;"><br />For <span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;">Issue 3</span> please email the following to killcolumbus@hotmail.com:<br /><br />--the work: artwork, photography, prose, poetry, music, readings,<br /> essays, reviews, storytelling, comics, videos, etc.<br /><br />--bio: including any websites or blogs by the artist<br /><br />--small headshot (optional but encouraged)<br /><br /><br />or mail submissions to: <a href="http://www.watchingthewheelsablackbird.blogspot.com/"><span style="font-style: italic;">Watching the Wheels: a Blackbird</span></a><br /> 2345 Goss St.<br /> Boulder, CO 80302<span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-weight: bold;"><br /><br /><br /><br /></span></span></span></span></pre> <div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-weight: bold;"><span style="font-size:180%;"> Submission<br /><br />Deadline<br /><br />is Jan 1, 2007</span></span></span></span></span><br /></div> <pre><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /></span></span></pre> <div style="text-align: right;"><a href="http://watchingthewheelsablackbirdissueii.blogspot.com/2006/06/table-of-contents.html">Table of Contents</a><br /><br /><a href="http://watchingthewheelsablackbirdissueii.blogspot.com/2006/09/credits.html">Credits</a><br /><br /><a href="http://watchingthewheelsablackbirdissueii.blogspot.com/2006/09/m-m-mm-m-m-front-cover-m-table-of.html">Closing Cover</a><br /></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/29673647-115787279596628127?l=watchingthewheelsablackbirdissueii.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Dylan Hocknoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29673647.post-1157872309521538422006-09-10T03:07:00.000-04:002006-09-10T05:00:08.410-04:00<pre><span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;"><br /><br /><br /><a href="http://www.watchingthewheelsablackbird.blogspot.com/"><br /></a><a href="http://www.watchingthewheelsablackbird.blogspot.com/">Watching the Wheels: a Blackbird</a></span> is a one man project slated for the web to ease pocket-<br />book strain and reach as wide an audience as possible. Each issue will be devoted to<br />whatever interests are currently taking over my life with a lean toward the oral<br />tradition. Hi. I'm <a href="http://thevelvetgoldmine.blogspot.com/">Dylan Hock</a>.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /> Cover art by <a href="http://shikow.blogspot.com/">Pirooz M. Kalayeh</a><br /> Closing art by <a href="http://shikow.blogspot.com/">Pirooz M. Kalayeh</a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /> Other zines, presses & reading series worth a look:<br /> <br /> <a href="http://www.elpobremouse.blogspot.com/">El Pobre Mouse</a><br /> <a href="http://www.subdaypress.org/">Subday Press</a><br /> <a href="http://onelessmag.blogspot.com/">One Less</a><br /> <a href="http://www.artifactsf.org/">Artifact Reading Series/Artifact Press</a><br /> <a href="http://www.waywardcouch.com/">Ellipsis/Wayward Couch</a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /></pre> <div style="text-align: right;"><a href="http://watchingthewheelsablackbirdissueii.blogspot.com/2006/06/table-of-contents.html">Table of Contents</a><br /><br /><a href="http://watchingthewheelsablackbirdissueii.blogspot.com/2006/09/submissions.html">Submissions</a><br /><br /><a href="http://watchingthewheelsablackbirdissueii.blogspot.com/2006/09/m-m-mm-m-m-front-cover-m-table-of.html">Closing Cover</a><br /></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/29673647-115787230952153842?l=watchingthewheelsablackbirdissueii.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Dylan Hocknoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29673647.post-1157869096620089652006-09-10T02:16:00.000-04:002006-09-10T02:32:20.626-04:00<div style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br /><span style="font-size:180%;">Hey, everyone could use a <a href="http://ebaumsworld.com/2006/07/trainables.html">refresher</a>, now and then...<span style="font-size:100%;"><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br /></span></span><div style="text-align: right;"><a href="http://watchingthewheelsablackbirdissueii.blogspot.com/2006/06/table-of-contents.html">Table of Contents</a><br /></div><span style="font-size:180%;"><span style="font-size:100%;"></span></span></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/29673647-115786909662008965?l=watchingthewheelsablackbirdissueii.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Dylan Hocknoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29673647.post-1157868803750183412006-09-10T02:11:00.000-04:002006-09-10T02:13:23.753-04:00<div style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><span style="font-size:180%;"><br />Maybe chillin' with some <a href="http://www.ebaumsworld.com/2006/08/top-that.html">hip hop</a> is more yo' thang?<br /><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br /></span></span><div style="text-align: right;"><a href="http://watchingthewheelsablackbirdissueii.blogspot.com/2006/06/table-of-contents.html">Table of Contents</a><br /></div><span style="font-size:180%;"></span></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/29673647-115786880375018341?l=watchingthewheelsablackbirdissueii.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Dylan Hocknoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29673647.post-1157868531624410472006-09-10T02:06:00.000-04:002006-09-10T02:08:51.656-04:00<div style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><span style="font-size:180%;"><br />How about a relaxing <a href="http://www.ebaumsworld.com/2006/09/ballbreaker.html">board game</a> with the family?<br /><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m<br />m<br />m<br /></span></span></span><div style="text-align: right;"><a href="http://watchingthewheelsablackbirdissueii.blogspot.com/2006/06/table-of-contents.html">Table of Contents<br /></a></div></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/29673647-115786853162441047?l=watchingthewheelsablackbirdissueii.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Dylan Hocknoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29673647.post-1157866506138309872006-09-10T01:22:00.000-04:002006-09-10T17:50:57.646-04:00<span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br /><a href="http://watchingthewheelsablackbirdissueii.blogspot.com/2006/09/dylan-hock.html">for jack spicer</a><br /><a href="http://watchingthewheelsablackbirdissueii.blogspot.com/2006/09/dylan-hock_115786469648546033.html">thinking about bukowski</a><br /><a href="http://watchingthewheelsablackbirdissueii.blogspot.com/2006/09/dylan-hock_115786502656327030.html">shoes</a><br /><a href="http://watchingthewheelsablackbirdissueii.blogspot.com/2006/09/dylan-hock_115786518157957855.html">to mork, at lunch</a><br /><a href="http://watchingthewheelsablackbirdissueii.blogspot.com/2006/09/dylan-hock_115786534184848493.html">dear prudence</a><br /><a href="http://watchingthewheelsablackbirdissueii.blogspot.com/2006/09/dylan-hock_115786572989179153.html">after talking with kyle</a><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m<br />m<br /></span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/4546/1758/1600/Rome%20VII.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/4546/1758/200/Rome%20VII.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><font><font><br /><br /><a href="http://thevelvetgoldmine.blogspot.com/"><span style="font-weight: bold;">Dylan Hock</span></a> has been editor in chief of three literary journals: <a href="http://thevelvetgoldmine.blogspot.com/2005/05/ink-literary-brothel.html"><span style="font-style: italic;">Ink: a Literary Brothel</span></a>, <a href="http://thevelvetgoldmine.blogspot.com/2005/05/bombay-gin-29.html"><span style="font-style: italic;">Bombay Gin</span> 29</a> , and most recently, <a href="http://www.watchingthewheelsablackbird.blogspot.com/"><span style="font-style: italic;">Watching the Wheels: a Blackbird</span></a>. His work has been published in: <span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">Ill Times</span>, <span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">3 therefore 2</span>, <a href="http://www.elpobremouse.blogspot.com/"><span style="font-style: italic;">El Pobre Mouse</span></a>, <font><font><a href="http://onelessmag.blogspot.com/"><span style="font-style: italic;">One Less</span></a>, <font><font>and others. He has lived and worked extensively studying the <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Cantos">Cantos</a> of <a href="http://www.lit.kobe-u.ac.jp/%7Ehishika/pound.htm">Ezra Pound</a> with Pound’s family at <a href="http://lowres.uno.edu/brunnenburg/">Brunnenburg Castle</a>, <a href="http://images.google.com/imgres?imgurl=http://www.dorftirol.com/bilder/schloss250.gif&imgrefurl=http://www.dorftirol.com/uk/section4.htm&amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;h=192&w=350&amp;sz=47&tbnid=c7aohFTzGJoJ:&amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;tbnh=63&tbnw=116&amp;hl=en&start=4&amp;prev=/images%3Fq%3Ddorf%2Btirol%26svnum%3D10%26hl%3Den%26lr%3D%26client%3Dfirefox-a%26rls%3Dorg.mozilla:en-US:official_s%26sa%3DN">Dorf Tirol, Italy</a>; read on a small European tour, including <a href="http://www.shakespeareco.org/">Shakespeare & Co.</a> and the <span style="font-weight: bold;">D'Aini Gallery</span>, in Paris, France, as well as <a href="http://www.ruigoord.nl/">Ruigoord</a>, Amsterdam, Netherlands, at the invitations of poets/writers <a href="http://www.unlikelystories.org/old/archives/zivancevic.html">Nina Zivancevic</a> and <a href="http://www.epibreren.com/rs/plomp.html">Hans Plomp</a>. He is the author of a one act play, <span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">So Much Noise</span>, and is currently finishing his novel tentatively titled, <span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">the expatriot</span>. In the last year, he also finished filming for a blind role in a reality-documentary investigating the credibility of <a href="http://www.danbrown.com/novels/davinci_code/reviews.html"><span style="font-style: italic;">The DaVinci Code</span></a>, titled <a href="http://www.questforthecode.com/"><span style="font-style: italic;">Quest for the Code</span></a>.<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);"><span style="text-decoration: underline;"></span></span><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br /></span></span></span></span></span></span><div style="text-align: right;"><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><a href="http://watchingthewheelsablackbirdissueii.blogspot.com/2006/06/table-of-contents.html">Table of Contents</a><br /></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/29673647-115786650613830987?l=watchingthewheelsablackbirdissueii.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Dylan Hocknoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29673647.post-1157865729891791532006-09-10T01:16:00.000-04:002006-09-15T01:41:16.293-04:00<span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">after talking with kyle</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br />slump in this room<br />gray as the light is winter<br />thinking<br />of how your words can tear the bark from me<br />and<br />fill me with wormholes and<br />leave me for humus from the mystic summer that is<br />northern California <span style="">―</span>the Bay<span style="">―</span><br />and how it gets me wondering<br />where all the poets are being like gods these days<br />when gods they are, lost in a mirror.<br />What pains must we endure?<br />What grace in the further reaches of the light?<br />Does it us any good to fret the board and count<br />each note played to Pan while waiting for Greece<br />to wrap us in marble and crucify our tongues,<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br />or should we continue the day,<br />each breath,<br />eating the night as the end of a pen,<br />rattling our hair and<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmm</span>standing on street corners<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmmmmmmmmmmmmm</span>hanging<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br /><a href="http://watchingthewheelsablackbirdissueii.blogspot.com/2006/09/six-poems_10.html">Back</a><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/29673647-115786572989179153?l=watchingthewheelsablackbirdissueii.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Dylan Hocknoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29673647.post-1157865341848484932006-09-10T01:14:00.000-04:002006-09-10T17:52:48.346-04:00<span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">dear prudence</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br />the words in my head<br />that spill out<br />on the bed of indestructible cattiness<br />will alter my tongue<br />that speaks to you<br />soft words without<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br /><a href="http://watchingthewheelsablackbirdissueii.blogspot.com/2006/09/six-poems_10.html">Back</a><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/29673647-115786534184848493?l=watchingthewheelsablackbirdissueii.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Dylan Hocknoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29673647.post-1157865181579578552006-09-10T01:10:00.000-04:002006-09-10T17:52:35.336-04:00<span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">to mork, at lunch</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br />sip tea<br />with me<br />my dear<br />and<br />tell me<br />what does<br />your stiff little finger<br />want<br />with all that soup?<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br /><a href="http://watchingthewheelsablackbirdissueii.blogspot.com/2006/09/six-poems_10.html">Back</a><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/29673647-115786518157957855?l=watchingthewheelsablackbirdissueii.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Dylan Hocknoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29673647.post-1157865026563270302006-09-10T01:06:00.000-04:002006-09-10T17:52:20.163-04:00<span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">shoes</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br />antique brown<br />disheveled in front of<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmmmmm</span>the hall closet<br />dark pits in their soles<br />awash in white carpet<br />a few years beaten and<br />stained without attention by<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmmmmm</span>the traffic of feet<br />oblivious to the love<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmmmmmmmm</span>footsies can bring<br />between friends and<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmmmmmmmm</span>lovers' spats<br />droll as old gray socks<br />with holey toes<br />swept under the doormat<br />like an old key<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br /><a href="http://watchingthewheelsablackbirdissueii.blogspot.com/2006/09/six-poems_10.html">Back</a><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/29673647-115786502656327030?l=watchingthewheelsablackbirdissueii.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Dylan Hocknoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29673647.post-1157864696485460332006-09-10T00:50:00.000-04:002006-09-10T17:52:05.400-04:00<span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">thinking about bukowski</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br />bitching about stars and sewing circles<br />poets who don't know what is <span style="font-style: italic;">real</span><br />material unused or little more<br />when he, himself, contributed to the cause for<br />no longer writing about prostitutes,<br />concrete, and fuck/shit/dirty holes<br />his work part of the foundation for an amalgamation<br />of hip jive talkers too tough to sew, so sewing<br />another scene out of patches of Hollywood and<br />west coast cities that thrive on<br />cockroach sex and junky love. Wino sculpture and<br />convict philosophy. Shit, what's left<br />after the ugly and beautiful have been stolen up and<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmn</span>wrapped in the hotcake of poetry and shoveled down<br />the dim throat of the poet aficionados groping in the smoke<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmn</span>as pigs in a blanket, in a greasy spoon open all night<br />and Sunday morning's best? What's left?<br />anything? on the right?<br />anything, that will allow a move forward to<br />the next question, concerned with form and<br />living and how one actually gets by<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br />when all they are is a poet<br />who happened to use the word <span style="font-style: italic;">stars</span> and mean<br />the inexplicable dream of life kept bottled up<br />inside the skin, no more than<br />a flexible urn in motion,<br />and breath-<br />the gust of a moth's wings<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmn</span>escaping the mouth.<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br /><a href="http://watchingthewheelsablackbirdissueii.blogspot.com/2006/09/six-poems_10.html">Back</a><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/29673647-115786469648546033?l=watchingthewheelsablackbirdissueii.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Dylan Hocknoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29673647.post-1157863190985038442006-09-10T00:36:00.000-04:002006-09-10T17:51:52.636-04:00<span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">for jack spicer</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br />you'd think<br />(if you haven't a mind at all)<br />Jesus was the only one<br />who died for mankind. Everyone<br />has visions<br />when the light appears in the dark,<br />heads dropped to the window<span style="">―</span>outside<br />stars, thistle,<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmmmmm</span>a burr<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br /><a href="http://watchingthewheelsablackbirdissueii.blogspot.com/2006/09/six-poems_10.html">Back</a><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/29673647-115786319098503844?l=watchingthewheelsablackbirdissueii.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Dylan Hocknoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29673647.post-1157862511057923752006-09-10T00:18:00.000-04:002006-09-10T00:28:53.420-04:00<span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br /><a href="http://watchingthewheelsablackbirdissueii.blogspot.com/2006/09/soule-t-bitting.html">Twenty Seven Year Old Soup</a><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span> <span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span> <span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span> <span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span> <span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m<br />m<br />m<br />m<br />m<br /></span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/4546/1758/1600/Untitled-1.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/4546/1758/200/Untitled-1.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />Soule T. Bitting</span> is an American expatriot living as manager/caretaker and resident artist at <a href="http://72.14.253.104/search?q=cache:QEvu9NMCKMgJ:katakrotiri.aegeanweb.com/+%22soule+t.+bitting%22&hl=en&amp;gl=us&ct=clnk&amp;cd=5">Villa Kat'Akrokiri</a> on the Amorgos Island, Cyclades, in Greece.<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span> <span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span> <span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m<span style="text-decoration: underline;"><br />m<br />m<br /></span></span><div style="text-align: right;"><a href="http://watchingthewheelsablackbirdissueii.blogspot.com/2006/06/table-of-contents.html">Table of Contents</a></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/29673647-115786251105792375?l=watchingthewheelsablackbirdissueii.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Dylan Hocknoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29673647.post-1157861136739036002006-09-09T23:30:00.000-04:002006-09-10T00:29:23.800-04:00<span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);font-size:130%;" >m</span><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /></span><span style="font-size:130%;">Twenty Seven Year Old Soup<br /></span><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);font-size:130%;" >m</span><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /></span><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);font-size:130%;" >m</span><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /></span><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);font-size:130%;" >m</span><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /></span><span style=";font-family:Times New Roman;font-size:130%;" ><span style=""><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmn</span></span></span><span style=";font-family:Times New Roman;font-size:130%;" >It happens once a year on one day in the early spring in Rouffignac, a very small isolated French village located in the rolling southern high country of the </span><span style="font-size:100%;"><st1:place>Dordogne</st1:place>, that a festival takes place. It is, at first glance, a pig roast. But to the locals and those representative of the gourmet branch of the intelligentsia there is something else. The owners of pigs in and around Rouffignac feed them by a secret timetable a mush of champagne and high grade sweet corn. Not all the pigs, only the young sows and the their piglets. Not all of them either, that would be far too costly, so the sows are numbered in comparison to the expected annual turnout for the big day, that begins early in the morning and lasts in to the wee hours of the night. No one knows, actually, how this tradition and its festival came in to existence, yet it’s been going on since anyone can recall otherwise. If you happen to be there any story you hear about it from a red nosed local late in the afternoon of the big day will satisfy your curiosity.</span><span style=";font-family:Times New Roman;font-size:130%;" ><span style=""><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmn</span></span>This year, at around midday when the first of the sweet fed piglets were about to be carved, it was also happening that a man in a rented car was speeding toward Rouffignac, alone, while his stomach growled and hints of drool wetted the corners of his lips. His name was Norbert Swallowsworth , an American, a gourmand and a very well known writer in the circles of gourmet magazines, always contributing highly amusing as well as concise articles about such matters. Now he was on assignment, rather two assignments. One was for a magazine he would take a commission from to cover the pig roast in Rouffignac and the other, <span style=""> </span>that was to his allegiance to his personal carnal appetite. He was bald, rotund and, now, late because of getting lost as he thought he neared Rouffignac, late and afraid he would miss it all, or at any event arrive when things were settling down some after the initial celebrations.</span><span style=";font-family:Times New Roman;font-size:130%;" >He was also late because wherever his path led him it had been raining profoundly, yet he had no idea that it was gorgeous weather up in Rouffignac.</span><span style=";font-family:Times New Roman;font-size:130%;" ><span style=""><br /></span></span><span style=";font-family:Times New Roman;font-size:130%;" ><span style=""><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmn</span></span></span><span style=";font-family:Times New Roman;font-size:130%;" >He sped onward, climbing into high country, imagining the scented smoke of the champagne and sweet corn fed sows and piglets rising off the coals into his flaring nostrils. Washing it down with the local wine, not as well known as the festival to him, but known; it was somewhere among his notes that were in his briefcase next to him.</span><span style=";font-family:Times New Roman;font-size:130%;" ><span style=""><br /></span></span><span style=";font-family:Times New Roman;font-size:130%;" ><span style=""><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmn</span></span></span><span style=";font-family:Times New Roman;font-size:130%;" >He made another serpentine on the wet two lane highway, fishtailing some which told him to slow down some, he’d get there, it was only a few kilometers now, but he sped on, recklessly, the senses of his line of work and of his own life driving him, a drooling gourmaniac.<br /></span><span style=";font-family:Times New Roman;font-size:130%;" ><span style=""><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmn</span></span></span><span style=";font-family:Times New Roman;font-size:130%;" >Coming out of a turn he saw the highway flatten out, a straightaway, and swore to himself that Rouffignac lay up in the higher ridge of hills ahead of him where he could see sunbeams shining through the breaking clouds, but what he didn’t see was a flooded dip in the road that when he entered it he lost all control of his car. He also lost consciousness.</span><span style=";font-family:Times New Roman;font-size:130%;" ><span style=""><br /></span></span><span style=";font-family:Times New Roman;font-size:130%;" ><span style=""><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmn</span></span></span><span style=";font-family:Times New Roman;font-size:130%;" >He had gone off the highway into a shallow, then flooded, ditch on his side of the road. When he drifted back to consciousness he had no idea what had happened. He realized the position of his rented car but couldn’t figure out… Next thing he knew there was a man, a big man with a great mustache opening his door and asking him in a barely understandable French dialect if he was alright. Norbert poked and patted himself and told the man that he seemed to be alright. The man, who got through to Norbert that he was a farmer and that Norbert was now in between the highway and his land, told him he hadn’t seen Norbert go off the road; it had only been then, now, when he was riding his tractor back to the barn to call it quits after a long rainy day that he saw Norbert’s car in the ditch. Norbert looked at the farmer, looked out the windshield at the weather; it had cleared and it was getting to be dusk.</span><span style=";font-family:Times New Roman;font-size:130%;" ><span style=""><br /></span></span><span style=";font-family:Times New Roman;font-size:130%;" ><span style=""><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmn</span></span></span><span style=";font-family:Times New Roman;font-size:130%;" >It was then that he remembered the pig roast in Rouffignac. Would this farmer take him there? He saw the farmer’s tractor on the side of the highway, idling, just in front of them. Could the farmer perhaps pull him out of the ditch and then he could be on his way? Even while he thought these thoughts they were coming out of Norbert in a form of French the farmer had never heard before, yet, with the simple wisdom of a man of the soil he understood. He told Norbert to forget it. All the pigs were eaten and by now everyone who wasn’t sober was drunk, making the closed fist, thumb to nose, rotating gesture meaning just that.</span><span style=";font-family:Times New Roman;font-size:130%;" ><span style=""><br /></span></span><span style=";font-family:Times New Roman;font-size:130%;" ><span style=""><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmn</span></span></span><span style=";font-family:Times New Roman;font-size:130%;" >Under his breath Norbert swore and then slammed the steering wheel of his rented car with his fist.</span><span style=";font-family:Times New Roman;font-size:130%;" ><span style=""><br /></span></span><span style=";font-family:Times New Roman;font-size:130%;" ><span style=""><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmn</span></span></span><span style=";font-family:Times New Roman;font-size:130%;" >“Look,” the farmer said to him, “We can pull you out of the ditch and then we’ll see. First things first. <i><span style="font-style: italic;">D’accord?</span></i>”</span><span style=";font-family:Times New Roman;font-size:130%;" ><span style=""><br /></span></span><span style=";font-family:Times New Roman;font-size:130%;" ><span style=""><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmn</span></span></span><span style=";font-family:Times New Roman;font-size:130%;" >The farmer had the small car out of the ditch in no time flat, as if he did this kind of thing everyday. Then he rigged it so its nose was off the ground close to his tractor, motioned for Norbert to get up on it with him, knowing but not really caring that it might be Norbert’s first time on a tractor and aimed the whole show toward home which wasn’t too far down the highway.</span><span style=";font-family:Times New Roman;font-size:130%;" ><span style=""><br /></span></span><span style=";font-family:Times New Roman;font-size:130%;" ><span style=""><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmn</span></span></span><span style=";font-family:Times New Roman;font-size:130%;" >Arriving, the farmer swung into the yard, made a half circle and came to a halt. He gave Norbert a hand down off the tractor and with the car up he climbed under it and began examining the rear axle with the help of a flashlight he had taken from a waterproof box under the seat of the tractor.</span><span style=";font-family:Times New Roman;font-size:130%;" ><span style=""><br /></span></span><span style=";font-family:Times New Roman;font-size:130%;" ><span style=""><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmn</span></span></span><span style=";font-family:Times New Roman;font-size:130%;" >By the time he came out from under the car the farmer’s three tall, handsome, burly and weathered sons had come from the barn and were circling the car, speaking to Norbert and listening to their father under the car.</span><span style=";font-family:Times New Roman;font-size:130%;" ><span style=""><br /></span></span><span style=";font-family:Times New Roman;font-size:130%;" ><span style=""><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmn</span></span></span><span style=";font-family:Times New Roman;font-size:130%;" >Then he crawled out from under and said to them all, looking at Norbert, “Just as I thought. You got a bent axle. When we were towing your car back here I felt an odd rhythm the way it was moving along with us. It’s bent and there’s two things for sure: One, you missed the pig roast and two, you’re not going anywhere tonight. And maybe a third.”</span><span style=";font-family:Times New Roman;font-size:130%;" ><span style=""><br /></span></span><span style=";font-family:Times New Roman;font-size:130%;" ><span style=""><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmn</span></span></span><span style=";font-family:Times New Roman;font-size:130%;" >“What’s that?” Norbert wondered, circled close by these big country rough looking country folk and as the sky over them was black as coal.</span><span style=";font-family:Times New Roman;font-size:130%;" ><span style=""><br /></span></span><span style=";font-family:Times New Roman;font-size:130%;" ><span style=""><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmn</span></span></span><span style=";font-family:Times New Roman;font-size:130%;" >“The weather’s s’posed to get worse<span style=""> </span>by tomorrow. Best you can do is stay the night with us and we’ll see what we can do tomorrow. There’s a bed for you, a bath and you will certainly join us at our table.”</span><span style=";font-family:Times New Roman;font-size:130%;" ><span style=""><br /></span></span><span style=";font-family:Times New Roman;font-size:130%;" ><span style=""><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmn</span></span></span><span style=";font-family:Times New Roman;font-size:130%;" >Norbert gulped. His taste buds shed a tear. His gourmet’s body and soul got the dry heaves thinking of what he had missed and now, now to eat, to eat with, what could he call them? Was peasants the right word, he wondered? He wasn’t sure. He was damp and chilly and it was dark and<span style=""> </span>from that dark sky the rains began again. He seemed to be at their mercy.</span><span style=";font-family:Times New Roman;font-size:130%;" ><span style=""><br /></span></span><span style=";font-family:Times New Roman;font-size:130%;" ><span style=""><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmn</span></span></span><span style=";font-family:Times New Roman;font-size:130%;" >As a matter of fact, he was!</span><span style=";font-family:Times New Roman;font-size:130%;" ><span style=""><br /></span></span><span style=";font-family:Times New Roman;font-size:130%;" ><span style=""><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmn</span></span></span><span style=";font-family:Times New Roman;font-size:130%;" >He was led into the mud-room off to one side of big kitchen. The men, except for Norbert, took off their work boots and changed into thick soled slippers. Then, after washing their hands, including the gourmand, at a sink they stepped into the kitchen, where the farmer’s wife was<span style=""> </span>setting a long wide table for the evening supper. It was at this time that Norbert got around to learning his host’s name, his wife’s and those of his sons and they all, in turn, found out Norbert’s. He was<span style=""> </span>given a chair at on one side of the table next to the eldest son and the wife who sat at the end of the table close to the working end of the kitchen.</span><span style=";font-family:Times New Roman;font-size:130%;" ><span style=""><br /></span></span><span style=";font-family:Times New Roman;font-size:130%;" ><span style=""><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmn</span></span></span><span style=";font-family:Times New Roman;font-size:130%;" >Everyone seated, Norbert found his right hand being held by the woman’s left hand and his left in the huge and tough right hand paw of the eldest brother and realized that everyone’s hands were holding their neighbors, creating a circle around the table. Norbert was dumbstruck, but it didn’t matter because it was the father who said grace, yet not dumbstruck enough to say his amen in unison with the others. During the short, warm blessing of the meal he was trying to recall the last time he’s done this in company before a meal and could not.</span><span style=";font-family:Times New Roman;font-size:130%;" ><span style=""><br /></span></span><span style=";font-family:Times New Roman;font-size:130%;" ><span style=""><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmn</span></span></span><span style=";font-family:Times New Roman;font-size:130%;" >Before him, his place setting, like the rest of his host’s, was a quite large soup bowl, a wine glass, a fork, a big soup spoon and an Opinel, a famous name in folding knives, was open and locked, the blade about four inches long. There were two good sized flasks of red wine at either end of the table, two baskets of rough homemade bread and nearer to the woman of the house sat a huge lidded steaming pot of, what Norbert soon saw, soup. As the guest, his bowl was ladled out first. Looking in to, he wondering with some trepidation just what kind of soup it was. When his wine glass was filled he wondered again just what sort of wine it was. He was used only to drinking wine from bottles that had labels on them, being, besides a gourmand he was also a connoisseur of wine. The bread was passed and it looked passable to him, though he found the cut pieces to have apparent differences as to their freshness.</span><span style=";font-family:Times New Roman;font-size:130%;" ><span style=""><br /></span></span><span style=";font-family:Times New Roman;font-size:130%;" ><span style=""><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmn</span></span></span><span style=";font-family:Times New Roman;font-size:130%;" ><i><span style="font-style: italic;">“Bon appetite!</span></i>” Norbert heard someone say, still looking into his soup, wondering if he could eat it. “Sante!” he heard from somewhere else, looking at the wine, like his soup, wondering if it would be drinkable. He took a nip of it and he had to admit to himself that it was good.</span><span style=";font-family:Times New Roman;font-size:130%;" ><span style=""><br /></span></span><span style=";font-family:Times New Roman;font-size:130%;" ><span style=""><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmn</span></span></span><span style=";font-family:Times New Roman;font-size:130%;" >Now for the soup. The sons were leaning over their bowls, spooning up with much gusto the soup and the bread they had tossed into it. Their father, their mother, were spooning the soup as well, but not quite as ravenously as their sons. As yet, Norbert hadn’t touched his but he knew he must and finally, with great inner courage, he took a hesitant spoonful, telling himself not to taste anything. But that was not so easy, because like the wine, the soup was quite tasty. He wanted to say “delicious”. No matter, that came with the second spoonful. His third became “outstanding”, his fourth, trying to discern the varied flavors and textures became “absolutely marvelous” and the fifth, the fifth Norbert could not find any words of description.</span><span style=";font-family:Times New Roman;font-size:130%;" ><span style=""><br /></span></span><span style=";font-family:Times New Roman;font-size:130%;" ><span style=""><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmn</span></span></span><span style=";font-family:Times New Roman;font-size:130%;" >“You like the soup,” his host remarked to him.</span><span style=";font-family:Times New Roman;font-size:130%;" ><span style=""><br /></span></span><span style=";font-family:Times New Roman;font-size:130%;" ><span style=""><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmn</span></span></span><span style=";font-family:Times New Roman;font-size:130%;" >“Oh… Oh… very much so, very, very much so,” Norbert replied and asked his hostess for another steaming bowlful of it, which he went at it not unlike the three brothers.</span><span style=";font-family:Times New Roman;font-size:130%;" ><span style=""><br /></span></span><span style=";font-family:Times New Roman;font-size:130%;" ><span style=""><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmn</span></span></span><span style=";font-family:Times New Roman;font-size:130%;" >Finished, fending off yet another serving, wishing to have room for the cheese and fruit that was placed on the table, he took his wine glass up, stood and said to the farming family, “The soup you have served me is the best, absolutely the best soup, I have ever eaten!” Then turning to his hostess, he told her, “I must, I absolutely must, be given the recipe. I will come, if you permit me, with a photographer and I shall publish an article in one of any of the gourmet magazines I contribute to about all of you<i><span style="font-style: italic;"> and</span></i> most importantly in praise of this simply indescribable soup. Yes. That will come, but now, it is of the highest importance that I can learn the recipe. Please, if you…” Here the exuberance of his voice began to falter, slowing down into cut syllables when he realized everyone seated around him was looking at him with jaws dropped, a look in their eyes as if Norbert had suddenly gone into a fit.</span><span style=";font-family:Times New Roman;font-size:130%;" ><span style=""><br /></span></span><span style=";font-family:Times New Roman;font-size:130%;" ><span style=""><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmn</span></span></span><span style=";font-family:Times New Roman;font-size:130%;" >A second of silence. He flopped back down into his chair, looking at them all wondering what he<span style=""> </span>had said. Had he said something wrong? An insult? What was it?</span><span style=";font-family:Times New Roman;font-size:130%;" ><span style=""><br /></span></span><span style=";font-family:Times New Roman;font-size:130%;" ><span style=""><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmn</span></span></span><span style=";font-family:Times New Roman;font-size:130%;" >The father, the head of the farm, calmly explained to Norbert that he couldn’t be given the recipe.</span><span style=";font-family:Times New Roman;font-size:130%;" ><span style=""><br /></span></span><span style=";font-family:Times New Roman;font-size:130%;" ><span style=""><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmn</span></span></span><span style=";font-family:Times New Roman;font-size:130%;" >“Why is that? For what reason? Is it a secret? A secret recipe?”</span><span style=";font-family:Times New Roman;font-size:130%;" ><span style=""><br /></span></span><span style=";font-family:Times New Roman;font-size:130%;" ><span style=""><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmn</span></span></span><span style=";font-family:Times New Roman;font-size:130%;" >“I assure you <i><span style="font-style: italic;">monsieur</span></i> Norbert” his host continued, “it is not a secret, not at all. If it has a secret it is this: Every scrap of meat, of fowl, piece of rice, noodle, as well as every bit of uneaten legumes from every meal at this table goes into that great caldron you see sitting at the back of the stove. And that caldron has been kept warm on the stove ever since my family and I took over this farm and that was, let me think, yes, that was twenty seven years ago.”<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br /><a href="http://watchingthewheelsablackbirdissueii.blogspot.com/2006/09/story.html">Back</a><br /></span><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/29673647-115786113673903600?l=watchingthewheelsablackbirdissueii.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Dylan Hocknoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29673647.post-1157855995716762422006-09-09T22:39:00.000-04:002006-09-27T18:04:30.433-04:00<span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br /><a href="http://watchingthewheelsablackbirdissueii.blogspot.com/2006/09/justin-kishbaugh.html">Often, I Wish I Never Left</a><br /><a href="http://watchingthewheelsablackbirdissueii.blogspot.com/2006/09/justin-kishbaugh_09.html">Injin</a><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><a href="http://profile.myspace.com/index.cfm?fuseaction=user.viewprofile&friendid=15559663"><br /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/4546/1758/1600/ONE-EYE.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/4546/1758/200/ONE-EYE.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><a href="http://profile.myspace.com/index.cfm?fuseaction=user.viewprofile&friendid=15559663">Justin Kishbaugh</a></span> is a man… with a pony tail.<span style=""> </span>A man with a ponytail.<span style=""> </span>Actually, he wears it in more of a bun, or, top-knot-type-thing.<span style=""> </span>So… Justin Kishbaugh is a man with a bun-top-knot-type-thing, who currently lives in Pittsburgh.<span style=""> </span>He sold his soul to a Ph.D. program at <a href="http://www.duq.edu/">Duquesne University</a> and quells the demons with <a href="http://www.yuengling.com/">Yuengling Lager</a> (or scotch, when he can afford it).<span style=""> </span>Justin has been quoted as saying “Oh, yes, I certainly do enjoy poetry, and the fine [on-line] journals that publish them, especially the ones with the stranger names.”<span style=""> </span>Justin has a cat named Weapon-X, and a really cool new pair of white, red, and black <a href="http://www.converse.com/index.asp?CSID=44&amp;bhcp=1">Converse</a>. <span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br /></span></span><div style="text-align: right;"><a href="http://watchingthewheelsablackbirdissueii.blogspot.com/2006/06/table-of-contents.html">Table of Contents</a><br /></div><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-size:100%;"></span></span><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/29673647-115785599571676242?l=watchingthewheelsablackbirdissueii.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Dylan Hocknoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29673647.post-1157855899955207562006-09-09T22:29:00.000-04:002006-09-27T18:07:32.360-04:00<span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size:130%;">INJIN</span><br /><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br />gilted ray(Seedling+nascent) Bent blade (green)>lift pitch toss>potatoes and ham Blade green blue P shoe sole<br />drop A We stop a coffee shop R dime drop roll cem (cr a. ck) ent [] K fall Shee say [] meet I a light stroll (<br />suddenly) "may I, N beg pardon" seed deed G her "yes... darlin'" "I like these little inlets that they're doing<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmn</span>periodically"<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br /><a href="http://watchingthewheelsablackbirdissueii.blogspot.com/2006/09/two-poems.html">Back</a><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style=""></span></span><span style=""></span></div></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/29673647-115785589995520756?l=watchingthewheelsablackbirdissueii.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Dylan Hocknoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29673647.post-1157855351444745862006-09-09T22:24:00.000-04:002006-09-27T18:07:14.783-04:00<span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">Often, I Wish I Never Left</span></span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br />Orchid lips pout overfull<br />words unhinge and spill<br /><span style="font-style: italic;">champagne bubbles</span> over<br />day's dwindling cigarettes<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br />The porch-lights dim as<br />evening comes in<br /><span style="font-style: italic;">rain-laced pearls</span><br />leave midnight to<br />tremble as we speak<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br />Shoulders strain to break<br />under <span style="font-style: italic;">minute's weight</span><br />against this backdrop<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br />we pray<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br />we make<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br />Our bodies <span style="font-style: italic;">wrapped in cotton<br /></span>our breath<span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-style: italic;"> etched in gold<br /></span></span></span></span>fingerprint your memory across my skin<br />for suns leave them cold<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br /><a href="http://watchingthewheelsablackbirdissueii.blogspot.com/2006/09/two-poems.html">Back</a><br /><span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-style: italic;"></span></span></span></span><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/29673647-115785535144474586?l=watchingthewheelsablackbirdissueii.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Dylan Hocknoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29673647.post-1157854870869587332006-09-09T22:10:00.000-04:002006-09-09T22:21:10.870-04:00<span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br /><a href="http://watchingthewheelsablackbirdissueii.blogspot.com/2006/09/sarah-peters.html">Runaway</a><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span> <span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span> <span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span> <span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span> <span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m<br />m<br />m<br />m<br />m<br /></span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/4546/1758/1600/sjp.blackbird.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/4546/1758/320/sjp.blackbird.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><span style="font-weight: bold;"><br /><br /><br />Sarah Peters</span> lives in Grosse Pointe, Michigan where she practices ABA therapy with children with autism. She is the author the chapbook <a href="http://www.habenichtpress.com/publications/peterscurses.html"><em>Curses and Other Love Poems</em></a>, published by <a href="http://www.habenichtpress.com/">Habenicht Press</a>. She is presently working on a zombie movie screenplay, set in Detroit, titled <span style="font-weight: bold;">White Flight of the Living Dead</span>. Sarah has had poems anthologised in <a href="http://wsupress.wayne.edu/glb/mipoetry/boydaa.htm"><em>Abandon Automobile: Detroit City Poetry 2001</em></a>, <a href="http://wsupress.wayne.edu/index.html">Wayne State Press</a> and <a href="http://www.poetspath.com/exhibits/poems_from_penny_lane.html"><em>Poems from Penny Lane</em></a>, <span style="font-weight: bold;">farfalla press/McMillan and Parrish</span>.<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span> <span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span> <span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br /><div style="text-align: right;"><a href="http://watchingthewheelsablackbirdissueii.blogspot.com/2006/06/table-of-contents.html">Table of Contents</a><br /></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/29673647-115785487086958733?l=watchingthewheelsablackbirdissueii.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Dylan Hocknoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29673647.post-1157854229301977112006-09-09T22:05:00.000-04:002006-09-09T22:21:35.913-04:00<span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">Runaway</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br />1.<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br />At seven, lived outside,<br />in a nearby wood,<br />with my cat<br />and four kittens,<br />for what I remember<br />as a weekend, to avoid<br />having the kittens given away.<br />Didn't have much of a plan, so when<br />the bologna sandwiches<br />ran out, I went home<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br />2.<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br />Ran away again at 13.<br />Slept in Mr. Shaker's office<br />at the Punch and Judy Theatre.<br />I was obsessed with theology,<br />so even though I had run away,<br />I was spot on-time for catechism.<br />My dad knew I wouldn't miss it<br />and waited outside school.<br />After, lost and depressed,<br />not a little from the '70s-produced<br />contemporary prodigal-son movie,<br />I heard "get in" from the half-open<br />electric windows of my dad's<br />brand-new 1980 Eggplant<br />Mercury Cougar Sedan.<br />To lessen the humiliation,<br />I got in the back seat,<br />as if he were my driver.<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br /><a href="http://watchingthewheelsablackbirdissueii.blogspot.com/2006/09/poem.html">Back</a><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/29673647-115785422930197711?l=watchingthewheelsablackbirdissueii.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Dylan Hocknoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29673647.post-1157853598311057382006-09-09T21:48:00.000-04:002006-09-09T21:59:58.330-04:00<span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br /><a href="http://watchingthewheelsablackbirdissueii.blogspot.com/2006/09/maureen-foley.html">Military General</a><br /><a href="http://watchingthewheelsablackbirdissueii.blogspot.com/2006/09/maureen-foley_09.html">Clouds</a><br /><a href="http://watchingthewheelsablackbirdissueii.blogspot.com/2006/09/maureen-foley_115785205280270376.html">Just Can't Wait</a><br /><a href="http://watchingthewheelsablackbirdissueii.blogspot.com/2006/09/maureen-foley_115785260899614637.html">Circus</a><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span> <span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span> <span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span> <span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span> <span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);"><br />m<br />m<br />m<br />mm</span><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/4546/1758/1600/modifiedmo.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/4546/1758/200/modifiedmo.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><span style="font-weight: bold;"><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />Maureen Foley</span> is a painter, writer, and freelance journalist who grew up on an<span style="font-family:monospace;"> </span>avocado ranch in Southern California. Her writing has appeared in <a href="http://www.sbmag.com/">Santa Barbara<span style="font-family:monospace;"> </span>Magazine</a>, <a href="http://www.wired.com/wired/">Wired</a>, <a href="http://www.nytimes.com/">New York Times</a>, <a href="http://www.nypost.com/">New York Post </a>and <a href="http://www.naropa.edu/writingandpoetics/bombaygin.html">Bombay Gin</a>. Her art has been<span style="font-family:monospace;"> </span>exhibited in galleries in San Francisco, Boulder, and Santa Barbara. She received<span style="font-family:monospace;"> </span>her MFA in Prose from <a href="http://www.naropa.edu/index.html">Naropa University</a>. Currently, she teaches art to children<span style="font-family:monospace;"> </span>in San Diego and she is searching for an agent.<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span> <span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span> <span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br /><div style="text-align: right;"><a href="http://watchingthewheelsablackbirdissueii.blogspot.com/2006/06/table-of-contents.html">Table of Contents</a><br /></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/29673647-115785359831105738?l=watchingthewheelsablackbirdissueii.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Dylan Hocknoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29673647.post-1157852608996146372006-09-09T21:35:00.000-04:002006-09-09T22:02:07.743-04:00<span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">Circus</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmn</span><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">(a section from </span><span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">Scenic Overlook</span><span style="font-weight: bold;">, a novel)</span><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br /></span></span><span style=";font-family:Arial;color:black;" >LATE AFTERNOON<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br /></span><span style=";font-family:Arial;color:black;" ><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmn</span></span><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:100%;color:black;" >Stop everything when the Circus comes to town. Lay down your arms and sell the farm. Find stuff cheap for dress up and go there, go there, go there. The Circus makes you drop everything. They wake up in the dew-pissed morning when the cobwebs are still hanging earrings and they see the tents and they know that something special arrived in the night. They arrive to see their dreams play out with a musical accompianist.<br /></span><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:100%;color:black;" ><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmn</span></span><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:100%;color:black;" >Everything is dictated by who you fall in love with. The contortionist, the clown, the juggler, the acrobats, the singers, the twin trapeze artists, an usher with a fake French accent, the woman sitting next to you holding a rose. The Circus is a backdrop, an excuse, a theater of imagination. It travels through and everyone in the circus is a nomad from another land. Let's go, let's leave, let's abandon the commonplace and join the spectacle.<br /></span><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:100%;color:black;" ><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmn</span></span><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:100%;color:black;" >But the dark mistake is thinking the specatacle will transform you. Everything becomes common once you do it enough. Ten performances a week, twice a day for four days every week, then living in hotels and the performers become your family and the crowd replaces your lover. The Circus, the Circus, the Circus. The Circus brought these two lovers together finally. They'd been trailing each other for years, they'd met and lost touch, loved and lost, lost and found. They're looking for their final release. They are not on stage.<br /></span><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:100%;color:black;" ><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmn</span></span><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:100%;color:black;" >The Kid stands six foot nine with curly brown hair. He takes tickets at the fourth entrance. <st1:country-region st="on"><st1:place st="on">America</st1:place></st1:country-region> walks in and notices instantly the mole on his left cheek, his large hands, his fake French-Canadian accent. <st1:country-region st="on"><st1:place st="on">America</st1:place></st1:country-region>'s perfume announces her arrival. She wears white fishnet thigh-highs over another pair of black fishnets. She wears things torn from her closet twenty minutes earlier.<br /></span><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:100%;color:black;" ><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmn</span></span><span style="font-size:100%;"><st1:country-region st="on"><st1:place st="on"><span style=";font-family:Arial;color:black;" >America</span></st1:place></st1:country-region></span><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:100%;color:black;" > knew she would meet The Kid tonight. She found a brown jersey skirt covered with tiny cream-colored stars. She found a spangly torquoise top covered with sequins and fake jewels. She found dangly gold earrings with tiny hearts suspending into the ether. She found too much make-up on her face and magenta lipstick puckering her lips into an exclamation.</span><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:100%;color:black;" ><br /></span><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:100%;color:black;" ><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmn</span></span><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:100%;color:black;" >"'Ow are you?" said The Kid, oozing with fake French-Canadian goodness.<o:p></o:p></span><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:100%;color:black;" ><br /></span><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:100%;color:black;" ><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmn</span></span><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:100%;color:black;" >"Very well. Are you with the Circus? Are you from <st1:country-region st="on"><st1:place st="on">Canada</st1:place></st1:country-region>? <i style="">Comment t'allez vous?"</i> she smiled, handing him her ticket to ride.<o:p></o:p></span><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:100%;color:black;" ><br /></span><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:100%;color:black;" ><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmn</span></span><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:100%;color:black;" >He punches the ticket twice, then looks for her seats. They are in the section he will usher once the show begins. <o:p></o:p></span><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:100%;color:black;" ><br /></span><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:100%;color:black;" ><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmn</span></span><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:100%;color:black;" >"<i style="">Jeh suisse bonne, merci.</i> Yes, ey ahm from Mone-tree-al. I travel wid dee Cercus. You are een my section. Door seex, to your left. I 'ope you weel be having a good show," The Kid lies through his teeth, before winking.</span><span style=";font-family:Arial;color:black;" ><o:p><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br /></o:p></span><span style=";font-family:Arial;color:black;" >EARLY EVENING</span><span style=";font-family:Arial;color:black;" ><o:p><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br /></o:p></span><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:100%;color:black;" ><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmn</span></span><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:100%;color:black;" >They meet again during intermission. A ring of ushers circles the stage, to protect drunk spectators from rushing it. The Kid stands, as instructed, with his hands behind his back on the second aisle, stage right, near the middle of the stage.<o:p></o:p></span><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:100%;color:black;" ><br /></span><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:100%;color:black;" ><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmn</span></span><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:100%;color:black;" >He sees an older man holding a glass of champagne lean onto the stage.</span><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:100%;color:black;" ><br /></span><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:100%;color:black;" ><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmn</span></span><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:100%;color:black;" >"Excuse me, sir. Please don't touch the stage." The man raises his eyebrows in surprise. Ushers can disappear, cloaked by invisibility. The old man obeys the request, steps back to his seat, to his ailing wife. <o:p></o:p></span><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:100%;color:black;" ><br /></span><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:100%;color:black;" ><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmn</span></span><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:100%;color:black;" >During the intermission, The Kid counts sixteen people dressed up in circus clothes. He sees Carlos Santana and his family in the VIP section. He remembers stroking his cock during his shower that morning. He sees <st1:country-region st="on"><st1:place st="on">America</st1:place></st1:country-region>, remembers her perfume as a visceral experience from earlier in the day, tumbling in a wave.<o:p></o:p></span><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:100%;color:black;" ><br /></span><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:100%;color:black;" ><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmn</span></span><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:100%;color:black;" >She approaches. They've met before. In <st1:country-region st="on"><st1:place st="on">India</st1:place></st1:country-region>. In <st1:state st="on"><st1:place st="on">Colorado</st1:place></st1:state>. In <st1:city st="on"><st1:place st="on">San Francisco</st1:place></st1:city>. Their past lives are negotiating the distance. Past lives are now. A child together. Or not. They've healed each other and now there's nothing left to lose. This time he drops the fake accent. He looks directly at her face and then over her head. <o:p></o:p></span><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:100%;color:black;" ><br /></span><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:100%;color:black;" ><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmn</span></span><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:100%;color:black;" >The other ushers all watch, exchanging the details during the second act, later. The way she touches his shoulder. The way he ignores the child who begins climbing onto the stage a few feet away. <o:p></o:p></span><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:100%;color:black;" ><br /></span><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:100%;color:black;" ><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmn</span></span><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:100%;color:black;" >They're kissing lightly by the end of intermission, just like that, holding hands and lips enmeshed. Just like that, they've hijacked the performance. As she talks he bites his lower lip. He fancies himself the ghost of a famous dead writer. She pretends to be a trapeze artist from a 1930s circus. But the year is 2005 and the lights are dimming and they're making out. <o:p></o:p></span><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:100%;color:black;" ><br /></span><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:100%;color:black;" ><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmn</span></span><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:100%;color:black;" >He takes her hand and they rush behind the bleachers and open each other up and swim inside. Everything's possible in the Circus. Their energy is so magnetic that it throws the performances off. The twin acrobats miss their cue and one of them hits the cables that hold up the tent. The juggler drops the ball. The Chinese tumblers fall onto the stage. <o:p></o:p></span><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:100%;color:black;" ><br /></span><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:100%;color:black;" ><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmn</span></span><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:100%;color:black;" >During a brief silence in the action on stage, as the crew runs onstage to pick up the 6 year-old Chinese brother with his broken arm, America screams into the silence, orgasmic, like a trapeze artist who misses the cue and falls three stories onto a cushion of dead writer's yellowing pages torn.</span><span style=";font-family:Arial;color:black;" ><o:p><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br /></o:p></span><span style=";font-family:Arial;color:black;" ><o:p></o:p></span><span style=";font-family:Arial;color:black;" >NIGHT</span><span style=";font-family:Arial;color:black;" ><o:p></o:p></span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br /><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:100%;color:black;" ><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmn</span></span><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:12;color:black;" ><span style="font-size:100%;">A Circus only works at night, when the light is artificial. The ushers all cover The Kid's ass. They take the blame, clean his aisles, sweep his rows, punch his timecard out.</span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-size:100%;">It's all so that he can sneak out into the parking lot and into the freedom of <st1:city st="on"><st1:place st="on">Santa Barbara</st1:place></st1:city> with the woman he's known for years. They're rooting for him. They've got his back. They found each other and this is it. The Circus leaves town tomorrow.</span><br /></span><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);font-size:100%;" >m</span><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /></span><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);font-size:100%;" >m</span><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /></span><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);font-size:100%;" >m</span><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /><a href="http://watchingthewheelsablackbirdissueii.blogspot.com/2006/09/written-visual-work.html">Back</a></span><br /></span><span style=";font-family:Courier;font-size:12;color:black;" > </span><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/29673647-115785260899614637?l=watchingthewheelsablackbirdissueii.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Dylan Hocknoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29673647.post-1157852052802703762006-09-09T21:29:00.000-04:002006-09-09T22:01:50.400-04:00<span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/4546/1758/1600/JustCan_tWait_Foley.0.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/4546/1758/400/JustCan_tWait_Foley.0.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size:130%;">Just Can't Wait<span style="font-size:100%;"><br /></span></span><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br /><a href="http://watchingthewheelsablackbirdissueii.blogspot.com/2006/09/written-visual-work.html">Back</a><br /></div><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-size:100%;"></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/29673647-115785205280270376?l=watchingthewheelsablackbirdissueii.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Dylan Hocknoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29673647.post-1157851588525298492006-09-09T21:06:00.000-04:002006-09-09T22:01:28.156-04:00<span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">Clouds</span><br /><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmn</span><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">(a section from a long poem entitled </span><span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">Salt Light Distance)</span><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span></span></span><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /></span></span></span>Up in the sky, bring in the sense of these things-<br />passing- Away- a turn of phrase- Too much bright- Eclipse<br />the sun-<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br />Clouds remind me of texture- Teeth- A bit chomped in the<br />celestial away looking down- Clouds mirage the sky-<br />Evaporate like incandescence- A strange knocking in the<br />wall- A cloud like a whisper, cloud like a zipper, cloud<br />like a hand folding the blue laundry sky- Ordinary mist<br />escaping, the ocean attracts clouds, creates heaves of<br />light escaping air-<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br />Refracting pink in the morning or late at night- Lungs full<br />of clouds, the surface trying to fill- Air, cliff, a voice<br />that's failing- A mountain of tan and pink encircled by a<br />path- There's no way to travel up or down- Keep climbing<br />until he tells you to leave the bike there- It's not your mountain-<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br />The end is nowhere, the end is here-<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br />Clouds are the manifestation of water at one point in their<br />cycle- They will keep looking down from above- We need<br />them- Of course turbulence, wind patterns, shifting-<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br />Evolving, like telling a story of transition- Colder, the<br />energy of air and you're looking at me- Blown off the cliff<br />into the distance of forgetting- We're not sure who we are<br />in a new place- A house that is dark water inside, the cast of<br />light- Ashes in the gray, absorbed.<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br />I look down and see backyards full of pools, green lawns-<br />Everything from above is condensed into finite borders and<br />clean crisp color- From a distance the world appears<br />geometric-<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br />The way the hips move against the red backdrop- palms and<br />all we have left is light- the distance in forgetting- We<br />can't understand the sounds- Some people collapse against a<br />backdrop of approaching light- Distance- let's observe the<br />faculty for knowing- Waiting for the phone call- Patterns<br />are repeating texture- Diligence- absorbed and known-<br />Absorbed and seen-<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br />Of course, there's no difference between the skit that's on<br />fire and the legs above and below it- A skirt is an<br />arbitrary line in the sand- Convince me that clouds are<br />essential- Entangled, a nightmare- Graphite clouds, smudged<br />chimeras- Dreaded and lopsided, the little hoops above the<br />horizon- If I knew you, I'd say something different.<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br />Gold and square, like salt that is encrusted with the<br />elements, we eat the clouds that fall at our feet- We are<br />servants to the language that we speak- Melody and a<br />strange yellow cast, through the walls of salt, thirsty<br />just thinking-<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br />C'mon let's find a seat- There's a way to work that is also<br />solidly in touch with ground fires- I see ash and I<br />remember the yellow-smoke light and the leaf that<br />disintegrated in my palm in the backyard at the old house-<br />When did we move? Are you moved? Blue hills that surround<br />the distance- We have surrendered our own knowing-<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br />Tell me the story of why- Freessias smelling predictably<br />sweet-<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br /><a href="http://watchingthewheelsablackbirdissueii.blogspot.com/2006/09/written-visual-work.html">Back</a><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/29673647-115785158852529849?l=watchingthewheelsablackbirdissueii.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Dylan Hocknoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29673647.post-1157850339774880282006-09-09T21:00:00.000-04:002006-09-09T22:01:12.463-04:00<span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/4546/1758/1600/MilitaryGeneral_Foley.0.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/4546/1758/400/MilitaryGeneral_Foley.0.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br /><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size:130%;">Military General<br /></span><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br /><a href="http://watchingthewheelsablackbirdissueii.blogspot.com/2006/09/written-visual-work.html">Back</a><br /></div></div></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/29673647-115785033977488028?l=watchingthewheelsablackbirdissueii.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Dylan Hocknoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29673647.post-1157830729814090962006-09-09T15:01:00.000-04:002006-09-09T15:43:17.766-04:00<span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br /><a href="http://watchingthewheelsablackbirdissueii.blogspot.com/2006/09/john-sinclair.html">Two Prayers</a><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span> <span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span> <span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span> <span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span> <span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);"><br />m<br />m<br />m<br />mm</span><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/4546/1758/1600/john_sinclair.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/4546/1758/200/john_sinclair.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br />Poet, blues and jazz historian, former manager of the <a href="http://www.answers.com/topic/mc5" class="ilnk" target="_top" onclick="assignParam('navinfo','method|4'+getLinkTextForCookie(this));">MC5</a>, radio host, and political activist all describe <a href="http://www.johnsinclairradio.com/"><span style="font-weight: bold;">John Sinclair</span></a>, but the consistent profile is one of a dedicated music enthusiast. Sinclair was born October 2, 1941, in Flint, MI, where he discovered rhythm & blues radio as a grade schooler. Disc jockeys like the Frantic Ernie D possessed the gift of consistently being able to speak in rhyme. His initial exposure to this music and unique banter had a life-altering effect on Sinclair. Upon graduation of high school he attended <a href="http://www.albion.edu/">Albion College</a>, <a href="http://www.flint.umich.edu/">University of Michigan at Flint</a>, and went to graduate school at <a href="http://www.wayne.edu/">Wayne State University</a> in Detroit for an M.A. in American Literature -- he did his graduate thesis on <a href="http://www.answers.com/topic/william-seward-burroughs" class="ilnk" target="_top" onclick="assignParam('navinfo','method|4'+getLinkTextForCookie(this));">William S. Burroughs</a>' <a href="http://www.fb10.uni-bremen.de/anglistik/kerkhoff/beatgeneration/BurroughsNaked.htm">Naked Lunch</a> -- before dropping out in 1965. Throughout college Sinclair became enamored with jazz, embracing not only bebop but also the burgeoning avant-garde. Sparked by the love of this music, Sinclair took notice of the surrounding political culture that formed it. He heard <a href="http://www.cmgworldwide.com/historic/malcolm/index.htm">Malcolm X</a> speak, sided with the emerging antiwar movement, and had been introduced to a beatnik lifestyle. The combination of influences led to the creation of the <span style="font-weight: bold;">Detroit Artists' Workshop</span>, which would gradually morph into <span style="font-weight: bold;">Trans Love Energies</span>. Forming a commune with like-minded friends, they brought film, music, painting, and literature to anyone in the community who was interested, presenting art as universally tangible, not an unknown entity wrapped in an academic elitist shield. In the midst of these high-energy surroundings, Sinclair was first introduced to <a href="http://www.answers.com/topic/mc5" class="ilnk" target="_top" onclick="assignParam('navinfo','method|4'+getLinkTextForCookie(this));">the MC5</a> and shortly thereafter worked with the band as manager. In the midst of this creativity, the <a href="http://www.67riots.rutgers.edu/d_index.htm">Detroit Riots</a> took place in the summer of 1967. Coupled with years of police harassment aimed at the workshop, the tension forced Sinclair and friends to take refuge in the college town of Ann Arbor, MI. After setting up a similar communal situation in Ann Arbor, Sinclair followed the lead of the <a href="http://www.bobbyseale.com/phototour/">Black Panther Party</a> and created their counterpart, the <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/White_Panther_Party">White Panther Party</a>. The <a href="http://www.answers.com/topic/mc5" class="ilnk" target="_top" onclick="assignParam('navinfo','method|4'+getLinkTextForCookie(this));">MC5</a> provided the musical vehicle for "total assault on the culture" propelling radical political statements to a national audience through rock & roll. The antagonistic rhetoric surrounding Sinclair found him among other political dissidents that were targeted by government officials. Sinclair was finally railroaded off to jail after giving away two joints to an undercover narcotics agent. Since this was his third conviction on similar offenses, Sinclair received the maximum sentence of ten years. While in prison, the <a href="http://mywebpages.comcast.net/lux2001/freejohn.html">Free John</a> campaign was founded and culminated in a benefit concert to get Sinclair released. Taking place in Ann Arbor, the benefit featured <a href="http://www.answers.com/topic/phil-ochs" class="ilnk" target="_top" onclick="assignParam('navinfo','method|4'+getLinkTextForCookie(this));">Phil Ochs</a>, <a href="http://www.answers.com/topic/stevie-wonder" class="ilnk" target="_top" onclick="assignParam('navinfo','method|4'+getLinkTextForCookie(this));">Stevie Wonder</a>, <a href="http://www.allenginsberg.org/"><deadilnk dsid="2340" entry_key="P 2447">Allen Ginsberg</deadilnk></a>, <a href="http://www.bobbyseale.com/">Bobby Seale</a>, and the main attraction, <a href="http://www.johnlennon.com/">John Lennon</a> and <a href="http://www.instantkarma.com/yokomenu.html">Yoko Ono</a>. <a href="http://www.answers.com/topic/john-lennon" class="ilnk" target="_top" onclick="assignParam('navinfo','method|4'+getLinkTextForCookie(this));">Lennon</a> took up Sinclair's plight on the suggestion of newfound friends and radicals <a href="http://www.theaction.com/Abbie/">Abbie Hoffman</a> and <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Jerry_Rubin">Jerry Rubin</a>. He even wrote a song about the case, "<a href="http://www.oldielyrics.com/lyrics/john_lennon/john_sinclair.html">John Sinclair</a>," that was released on the <a href="http://www.answers.com/topic/sometime-in-new-york-city-live-jam" class="ilnk" target="_top" onclick="assignParam('navinfo','method|4'+getLinkTextForCookie(this));">Sometime in New York City</a> album. Three days after the concert took place, the Michigan Supreme Court overturned his conviction and Sinclair was released from prison after serving two years. A thorough investigation into these years of revolution was chronicled by Sinclair in his book <a href="http://images.google.com/imgres?imgurl=http://www.louisianamusicfactory.com/images/product/30131.jpg&imgrefurl=http://www.louisianamusicfactory.com/showonemerch.asp%3FTypeID%3D74%26ProductID%3D30131&amp;amp;amp;amp;h=273&w=180&amp;sz=20&hl=en&amp;start=12&tbnid=MJbXXqAH4p2mUM:&amp;amp;amp;amp;tbnh=113&tbnw=75&amp;prev=/images%3Fq%3Dguitar%2Barmy%26svnum%3D10%26hl%3Den%26lr%3D%26sa%3DN">Guitar Army</a>, originally published in 1971 and featuring many sections written while in prison. Following his release, Sinclair hesitantly got back into music management and promotion, despite feeling burned by the <a href="http://www.answers.com/topic/mc5" class="ilnk" target="_top" onclick="assignParam('navinfo','method|4'+getLinkTextForCookie(this));">MC5</a>, who had discharged his services immediately when he went to prison; they dropped the White Panther rhetoric, made two more albums, and self-destructed in 1972. Meanwhile, Sinclair co-founded the <span style="font-weight: bold;">Rainbow Multi Media Corporation</span> and the <a href="http://www.a2.blues.jazzfest.org/">Ann Arbor Blues and Jazz Festival</a>. When the funding for these projects ran out, he turned his attentions to local grassroots community issues, hosted radio shows, worked for <a href="http://www.norml.org/">NORML</a> as state coordinator, and continued freelance writing for various publications. In 1991 the lifelong Michigan resident moved to New Orleans. The eclectic music scene flourishing in the Crescent City provided a rejuvenating base for the development of his spoken word poetry performances, backed by his band the <a href="http://www.emusic.com/artist/10557/10557241.html">Blues Scholars</a>. He also started broadcasting at the award winning jazz and heritage radio station <a href="http://www.wwoz.org/">WWOZ</a>. 1994 found Sinclair releasing his first musical project <a href="http://www.answers.com/topic/if-i-could-be-with-you-spoken-word-album" class="ilnk" target="_top" onclick="assignParam('navinfo','method|4'+getLinkTextForCookie(this));">If I Could Be With You</a>, featuring the <a href="http://www.cduniverse.com/search/xx/music/pid/1040958/a/If+I+Could+Be+With+You.htm">Ed Moss Society Jazz Orchestra</a>, from a performance in Cincinnati. In 1995 another live piece <a href="http://www.answers.com/topic/full-moon-night" class="ilnk" target="_top" onclick="assignParam('navinfo','method|4'+getLinkTextForCookie(this));">Full Moon Night</a> was issued, this time featuring the Blues Scholars from a date at <a href="http://www.thejukejoint.com/kalcofhous1.html">Kaldi's Coffeehouse</a> in New Orleans, containing a freer musical backdrop more in tune with Sinclair's poetic style. <a href="http://www.answers.com/topic/full-circle-rock-album-12">Full Circle</a> followed in 1996, reuniting Sinclair with early Detroit cohorts former-<a href="http://www.answers.com/topic/mc5" class="ilnk" target="_top" onclick="assignParam('navinfo','method|4'+getLinkTextForCookie(this));">MC5</a> guitarist <a href="http://www.answers.com/topic/wayne-kramer" class="ilnk" target="_top" onclick="assignParam('navinfo','method|4'+getLinkTextForCookie(this));">Wayne Kramer</a> and former-trumpeter of the <span style="font-weight: bold;">Contemporary Jazz Quintet</span> <a href="http://www.answers.com/topic/charles-moore-jazz-artist" class="ilnk" target="_top" onclick="assignParam('navinfo','method|4'+getLinkTextForCookie(this));">Charles Moore</a>. The labor of love tribute to pianist <a href="http://www.answers.com/topic/thelonious-monk" class="ilnk" target="_top" onclick="assignParam('navinfo','method|4'+getLinkTextForCookie(this));">Thelonious Monk</a>, <a href="http://zookeeper.stanford.edu/index.php?s=byAlbumKey&n=336697&amp;q=&action=search&amp;session=">Thelonious: A Book of Monk</a>, followed after years of red tape hassles, featuring Sinclair reciting his poetry sans musical accompaniment. In the late '90s, Sinclair also started digging through his taped archives of early Ann Arbor Blues and Jazz Festival performances releasing discs by <a href="http://www.answers.com/topic/sun-ra" class="ilnk" target="_top" onclick="assignParam('navinfo','method|4'+getLinkTextForCookie(this));">Sun Ra</a>, <a href="http://www.answers.com/topic/victoria-spivey" class="ilnk" target="_top" onclick="assignParam('navinfo','method|4'+getLinkTextForCookie(this));">Victoria Spivey</a>, <a href="http://www.answers.com/topic/roosevelt-sykes" class="ilnk" target="_top" onclick="assignParam('navinfo','method|4'+getLinkTextForCookie(this));">Roosevelt Sykes</a>, <span style="font-weight: bold;">Little Sonny</span>, and various obscure Detroit blues artists. <span style="font-size:85%;">~ Al Campbell<br /><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span> <span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span> <span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m<br />m<br />m<br /></span></span></span><div style="text-align: right;"><a href="http://watchingthewheelsablackbirdissueii.blogspot.com/2006/06/table-of-contents.html">Table of Contents</a><br /></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/29673647-115783072981409096?l=watchingthewheelsablackbirdissueii.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Dylan Hocknoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29673647.post-1157828477453539922006-09-09T14:51:00.000-04:002006-09-09T15:40:20.353-04:00<span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">Two Prayers</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmn</span>1<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br />To Nkonde came<br />the devout<br />to implant their demands<br />with nails in torso,<br />wodden flesh of neck & upper arms--<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br />those wishes most fervently desired<br />were tied with string<br />to the head of the nail<br />& driven home--<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br />The faithful spoke<br />direct to the belly of Nkonde<br />thru the conch shell em-<br />bedded there, immediate opening<br />to the spirit world--<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br />Nkonde, erect,<br />ancient power figure,<br />vessel of the ancestors,<br />eyes white as river bottom clay--<br />mmmnO Nkonde! l Help us!<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br />--<span style="font-style: italic;">after Prof. Robert Farris Thompson<br />Detroit Institute of Arts<br />August 20, 1977<br /><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m<br />m<br />m<br />m<br />mmmn</span></span>2<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br />Michigan was trees<br />endless lakes & rivers<br />but the trees were everywhere<br />until the white men came--<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br />millions upon millions of board feet<br />ripped from Michigan trees<br />built the houses of the Great Plains<br />& the white possessed the whole land--<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br />Goodbye White Pines!<br />May your spirits<br />ever guide us<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmn</span>until your return<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br />--<span style="font-style: italic;">at the Lumbermen's Monument<br />Oscoda, Michigan<br />August 25, 1977</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br /><a href="http://watchingthewheelsablackbirdissueii.blogspot.com/2006/09/two-prayers.html">Back</a><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/29673647-115782847745353992?l=watchingthewheelsablackbirdissueii.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Dylan Hocknoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29673647.post-1157827360603143512006-09-09T14:35:00.000-04:002006-09-09T16:29:36.246-04:00<a href="http://watchingthewheelsablackbirdissueii.blogspot.com/2006/09/elizabeth-martinez.html">Cat's Eye</a><br /><a href="http://watchingthewheelsablackbirdissueii.blogspot.com/2006/09/elizabeth-martinez_09.html">Drink</a><br /><a href="http://watchingthewheelsablackbirdissueii.blogspot.com/2006/09/elizabeth-martinez_115782666362804555.html">Soon</a><br /><a href="http://watchingthewheelsablackbirdissueii.blogspot.com/2006/09/elizabeth-martinez_115782674588931137.html">Speechless</a><br /><a href="http://watchingthewheelsablackbirdissueii.blogspot.com/2006/09/elizabeth-martinez_115782684189535568.html">Grow </a><br /><a href="http://watchingthewheelsablackbirdissueii.blogspot.com/2006/09/elizabeth-martinez_115782694294620624.html">The Sea of Love</a><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Elizabeth Martinez</span>, is a 39 year old in midlife crisis. Her husband, poet <a href="http://deljuan.blogspot.com/">Juan Martinez</a> suggests she should write poetry for medicinal purposes.<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br /><div style="text-align: right;"><a href="http://watchingthewheelsablackbirdissueii.blogspot.com/2006/06/table-of-contents.html">Table of Contents</a><br /></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/29673647-115782736060314351?l=watchingthewheelsablackbirdissueii.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Dylan Hocknoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29673647.post-1157826942946206242006-09-09T14:34:00.000-04:002006-09-09T14:47:06.486-04:00<div style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">The Sea of Love</span><o:p><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br /></o:p>The sound my heart knows<br />Is the breeze<br />Of the warm wind<br />In winter walking<br />Towards the sea<br />The footsteps of the<br />Little ones playing<br />Whispers in the<br />Leaves of the trees<br />In the morning<br />Hearing you tell me<br />“I love you”<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br /><div style="text-align: left;"><a href="http://watchingthewheelsablackbirdissueii.blogspot.com/2006/09/six-poems.html">Back</a><br /></div> </div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/29673647-115782694294620624?l=watchingthewheelsablackbirdissueii.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Dylan Hocknoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29673647.post-1157826841895355682006-09-09T14:32:00.000-04:002006-09-09T14:46:51.823-04:00<div style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">Grow</span><o:p><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br /></o:p>I want to live<br />My life<br />Not without<br />Romance<br />Weathered in style<br />Seasoned with taste<br />Euphoric tales of<br />Love ever after<br />Bread and wine<br />Makes the flowers glow<br />With humbleness<br />Silent in the dark<br />Sweetens the moments<br />Meekness covers all<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br /><div style="text-align: left;"><a href="http://watchingthewheelsablackbirdissueii.blogspot.com/2006/09/six-poems.html">Back</a><br /></div> </div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/29673647-115782684189535568?l=watchingthewheelsablackbirdissueii.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Dylan Hocknoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29673647.post-1157826745889311372006-09-09T14:31:00.000-04:002006-09-09T14:46:39.716-04:00<div style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">Speechless</span><o:p><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br /></o:p>My heart sings<br />For the melody of<br />Your kiss<br />The warmth of your<br />Eyes is what I need<br />My hand is the comb<br />For your hair<br />Your neck seduces<br />My thoughts<br />I am unable<br />To speak<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br /><div style="text-align: left;"><a href="http://watchingthewheelsablackbirdissueii.blogspot.com/2006/09/six-poems.html">Back</a><br /></div> </div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/29673647-115782674588931137?l=watchingthewheelsablackbirdissueii.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Dylan Hocknoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29673647.post-1157826663628045552006-09-09T14:29:00.000-04:002006-09-09T14:46:21.623-04:00<div style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">Soon</span><o:p><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br /></o:p>Beyond my means<br />My wounds will not heal<br />Soon my love<br />I will be ready<br />Please wait for me<br />Falling into your arms<br />Leading me into your core<br />Your eyes tell me<br />To breath<br />But I bleed<br />Bring me back<br /><span style=""> </span>To life<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br /><div style="text-align: left;"><a href="http://watchingthewheelsablackbirdissueii.blogspot.com/2006/09/six-poems.html">Back</a><br /></div> </div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/29673647-115782666362804555?l=watchingthewheelsablackbirdissueii.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Dylan Hocknoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29673647.post-1157826547014131302006-09-09T14:27:00.000-04:002006-09-09T14:46:07.840-04:00<div style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">Drink</span><o:p><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br /></o:p>The sand melts<br />Away the pain<br />It becomes a<br />Full glass<br />Crying out<br />The song of the cactus<br />Do not stop<br />To look for limes<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br /><div style="text-align: left;"><a href="http://watchingthewheelsablackbirdissueii.blogspot.com/2006/09/six-poems.html">Back</a><br /></div> </div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/29673647-115782654701413130?l=watchingthewheelsablackbirdissueii.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Dylan Hocknoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29673647.post-1157826425680245902006-09-09T14:24:00.000-04:002006-09-09T14:45:54.430-04:00<div style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">Cat’s Eye</span><o:p><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br /></o:p>My thoughts flow<br />Of romance<br />Being swept<br />Off my feet<br />Dancing in the wind<br />During the heat of the night<br />The nova’s around me<br />That beauty<br />That can not be surpassed<br />By all the money<br />In the world<br />The cat’s eye<br />That caught me<br />By surprise<br />Wanting wanting wanting<br />To feel special<br />For so long<br />I have dreamed of<br />That perfect match<br />Made in heaven<br />Illusive but real<br />I need the kiss<br />Of reality<br />The love songs of yesterday<br />Are not far<br />From my heart<br />As I sit with<br />The candlelight<br />Writing from my<br />Bathtub with passion<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br /><div style="text-align: left;"><a href="http://watchingthewheelsablackbirdissueii.blogspot.com/2006/09/six-poems.html">Back</a><br /></div> </div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/29673647-115782642568024590?l=watchingthewheelsablackbirdissueii.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Dylan Hocknoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29673647.post-1157826015130469362006-09-09T14:05:00.000-04:002006-09-09T14:20:15.133-04:00<a href="http://watchingthewheelsablackbirdissueii.blogspot.com/2006/09/bob-thatcher.html"><span style="">Off the Road</span>—1992</a><span style=";font-family:&quot;;font-size:12;" ><br /><a href="http://watchingthewheelsablackbirdissueii.blogspot.com/2006/09/bob-thatcher_09.html">Pretty Girls (A Perspective)</a></span><span style=""><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span> <span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span> <span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span> <span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span> <span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m<br />m<br />m<br />m<br />m<br /></span></span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/4546/1758/1600/robertthatcher001.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/4546/1758/200/robertthatcher001.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br />Unable to come up with a way to live his own life around his hometown in 1966, <span style="font-weight: bold;">Bob Thatcher</span> hopped on his motorcycle and rode from New Jersey to Los Angeles.<span style=""> </span>Back then, he’d planned to be a biker, but ended up a hippie/hitchhiker instead.<span style=""> </span>He spent the years 1970 until 1992 hitchhiking up and down the West Coast, and back and forth across Canada, partying.<span style=""> </span>In 1992, he bought a one-way ticket from San Francisco to Nashville, where he spent the next three years writing the first draft of a novel, but he didn’t like the summer weather there, so he returned to the West Coast.<span style=""> </span>In December 2002, he headed to Southern California from another stay in Oregon, and turned himself in after thirty-two years as a hippie-dazed, weed and acid fugitive, and had the charges totally dropped.<span style=""> </span>(Like someone who learns of a terminal illness and has a short time to live, the warrants turned out to be a blessing.<span style=""> </span>The constant possibility of arrest left him no time for sadness, anger, boredom, or the like.)<span style=""> </span>Now he's sixty and ready to start selling some of what he's written about his experiences over the years.<span style=""> </span>He has completed a near-future road, adventure novel, <span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">Sinner’s Revenge</span>; a novella on his nine years of doing occasional adult, X-rated feature films, <span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">Deep Thumb</span>; several other short stories and essays; and a few pieces in the works.<span style=""> </span>This is his first appearance in print.<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span> <span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span> <span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br /><div style="text-align: right;"><a href="http://watchingthewheelsablackbirdissueii.blogspot.com/2006/06/table-of-contents.html"><span style="">Table of Contents </span></a><br /></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/29673647-115782601513046936?l=watchingthewheelsablackbirdissueii.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Dylan Hocknoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29673647.post-1157825051542285342006-09-09T13:53:00.000-04:002006-09-09T14:21:47.696-04:00<span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">Pretty Girls (A Perspective)</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmn</span>I know, I know, “pretty” and “girls”, both words are offensive to some people.<span style=""> </span>There are also those who would have little kids wear safety helmets and goggles to finger paint.<span style=""> </span>Hysterical as one group or another is being about most everything these days, the real world is still there.<span style=""> </span>And like it or not, the real world includes pretty girls.<span style=""> </span>They are real.<span style=""> </span>Special, but real.<span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);"><br />mmmn</span>Pretty girls have ruined my life and I love them for it, I wouldn’t have had it any other way.<span style=""> </span>(There were twenty, twenty-five kids in my early 1950s kindergarten class.<span style=""> </span>I remember two, the pretty girls, Natalie and Virginia.<span style=""> </span>For eternal life, a money machine, and Paris Hilton for a month, I couldn’t name the teacher or a single other kid.)<span style=""> </span>I’ve had great jobs with bright futures, friends, hobbies, peace of mind, and money, but they last only precisely until some little honey smiles my way and pow, I’m a goner—used, amused, and defused.<span style=""> </span>Then I’m ready to start it all over again.<span style=""> </span>(I like them feisty ones.)<span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);"><br />mmmn</span>But it’s not necessary to know pretty girls intimately; it makes it all worth it just to see them around.<span style=""> </span>When none are in sight, just knowing they exist in the world can keep you going.<span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);"><br />mmmn</span>According to some folks, it took advertising and men’s magazines to tell us what is desirable in a female.<span style=""> </span>I think not.<span style=""> </span>I’m sure guys were walking full speed into trees and tripping over their own feet while checking out a pretty girl long before beer commercials.<span style=""> </span>Heck, we wouldn’t be here if they weren’t; let’s lose that notion right now.<span style=""> </span>I don’t know how the same body parts put together basically the same way can have such a varied appeal.<span style=""> </span>I’m not saying it’s fair, or right . . . only true.<span style=""> </span>Some people don’t even want “pretty” to count.<span style=""> </span>Ha!<span style=""> </span>I don’t want summer to ever end.<span style=""> </span>(Bet I get my wish first.)<span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);"><br />mmmn</span>I like to watch other people’s reactions to pretty girls. <span style=""> </span>In the back of a Santa Rosa/San Francisco bus the other day rode a young copper-top with milky white skin, wearing a brown leather bomber jacket.<span style=""> </span>(Reading James Joyce.)<span style=""> </span>She had folks shooting sideways looks at her all the way, even from the front of the bus, men, boys, and two women couldn’t look at her hard enough.<span style=""> </span>And recently in Healdsburg, I spotted this dark-haired goddess entering a market with a pretty blonde girlfriend.<span style=""> </span>I stopped at a fast-food restaurant up the street and a few minutes later the two girls came in.<span style=""> </span>(The power of wishful thinking.)<span style=""> </span>Then through the window I saw him coming, a guy with his mother and his about ten-year-old son.<span style=""> </span>He walked in normally, innocently, but when he saw her he could have snapped his neck he looked elsewhere so fast.<span style=""> </span>After regrouping, then checking where mom, the boy, and the guy behind the counter were looking, he started copping glances.<span style=""> </span>There ought to be a law.<span style=""> </span>Sometimes I think the Ayatollah was right . . . cover them babes up.<span style=""> </span>Give us a break.<span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);"><br />mmmn</span>No.<span style=""> </span>Yes!<span style=""> </span>Nooo . . .<span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);"><br />mmmn</span>(Allah, help us.)<o:p><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br /></o:p><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmn</span>I had a deprived childhood . . . no sisters.<span style=""> </span>My grandfather was a big help.<span style=""> </span>He told me he planned to write a book: What I Know About Women.<span style=""> </span>“It’s going to be <span style="font-style: italic;">this </span><span style="text-decoration: underline;"><span style="font-style: italic;"></span></span> thick.<span style=""> </span>And every page is going to be blank.”<span style=""> </span>When I decorated my room with Life Magazine pictures of Brigitte Bardot, my mother promptly redecorated with a razor blade, slashing away any images of offensively located skin or obscenely shaped clothing.<span style=""> </span>I ignored the warnings on the TV commercials and used Brylcreem by the pint.<span style=""> </span>My favorite song was “The Wanderer”.<span style=""> </span>It’s a stage of life that some of us manage to live through.<span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);"><br />mmmn</span>Now, over sixty, a survivor of the sexual revolution, after many years as a California get-naked-and-party hippie, three unconventional marriages, and being a dedicated ‘60s, ‘70s, and early ‘80s swinger, (until AIDS got turned loose in the world), I feel about as qualified to have an opinion of pretty girls as anybody.<span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);"><br />mmmn</span>I remember telling my first wife some of my observations on the subject back in the middle ‘60s.<span style=""> </span>I told her I thought pretty girls were so accustomed to the red-carpet treatment all the time, big come-ons from guys wherever they went, that by being casual, like going through a door ahead of one, or scratching your nose while you’re talking, or handing a pretty girl a jar to open that you’re having trouble with, can make you stand out a bit in their world full of gallantry and posturing.<span style=""> </span>(Getting the silent treatment in the car on the way home from a party one night, it finally came out what was wrong.<span style=""> </span>Apparently I’d absently rubbed my nose while talking to some gal and seeing it my wife had surmised that I was making a play for the other woman.)<span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);"><br />mmmn</span>Pretty girls have told me that looking so good can get mighty lonely sometimes.<span style=""> </span>Men are afraid to talk, figure somebody looking so fine has to have all kinds of boyfriends and wonderful things going on, wouldn’t care to meet them.<span style=""> </span>Other times guys who do talk won’t deal with her beyond her looks, that’s all that matters to them.<span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);"><br />mmmn</span>Ahhh . . . but when it’s good, it’s great.<span style=""> </span>There are pretty girls who thrive on the attention, enjoy dressing up that body, revel in the opportunities that looking good present, exploit their looks like any other asset or ability, are centered enough to handle unwanted advances without coming unglued, enjoy life.<span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);"><br />mmmn</span>John Lennon sang that a pretty face lasts only a day or two.<span style=""> </span>An old cha-cha song said if you want to be happy, never make a pretty woman your wife, to get an ugly girl to marry you.<span style=""> </span>It’s said that beauty is only skin deep.<span style=""> </span>In an article on looks I read, “Although she feels that she looks better now than she ever did, [she] says looks don’t even cross her mind anymore.”<span style=""> </span>(Huh?<span style=""> </span>Then how’s she know she looks better now?)<span style=""> </span>Janis Joplin wasn’t pretty, but boy was she beautiful.<span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);"><br />mmmn</span>Ever see Barbii, the dancer/porn star?<span style=""> </span>(“Back by urgent demand.”)<span style=""> </span>I didn’t particularly want to spend big bucks to see her in person like some tourist, but I did go apply for a job where she was dancing, hoping to catch a glimpse of her.<span style=""> </span>I’m sorry, but I doubt if I’d have been so inspired by, say, Janet Reno, back at that same time, intelligent and successful as she may have been.<o:p><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br /></o:p><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmn</span>Just being <span style="font-style: italic;">with</span> a pretty girl makes for changes.<span style=""> </span>I was walking with Jessica in <st1:place st="on">West L.A.</st1:place><span style=""> </span>As we passed a gas station, one of two motorcycle cops parked across the street yelled at a guy pumping gas, “Put those eyeballs back in your head or we’ll shoot!”<span style=""> </span>Up a couple blocks, I was waiting for her outside a store when the cops came roaring by, and when they spotted me they both spontaneously waved to me as they passed, just because I’d been <span style="font-style: italic;">with</span><u></u> her!<span style=""> </span>Another time I was in an <st1:state st="on"><st1:place st="on">Oregon</st1:place></st1:state> hospital about to be released.<span style=""> </span>The Saturday shift, nurses and aides I hadn’t dealt with before, was on.<span style=""> </span>I was pretty much riffraff compared to the wealthy rancher in the other bed getting lots of attention . . . until Kathy, with her mane of blonde hair, wearing cut-off jeans and a skimpy top, came in with my clothes.<span style=""> </span>Suddenly all the nurses got noticeably concerned with how I was doing.<span style=""> </span>Amazing.<span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);"><br />mmmn</span>I’m not sure if there can be an actual point to this story.<span style=""> </span>Pretty girls, easily as holy as any spectacular sunset or moon-lit ocean scene from a TV commercial for religious tapes.<span style=""> </span>Whew, they can all take your breath away and make you glad you’re alive.<span style=""> </span>That’s all I know.<o:p><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br /></o:p><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmn</span>Some folks seem to confuse beauty with obscenity, call a topless woman at the beach or a nude centerfold pornographic, not the work of nature that it is.<span style=""> </span>Spending lots of time in <st1:country-region st="on"><st1:place st="on">Canada</st1:place></st1:country-region> during the 1970s, I noticed no such nonsense up there.<span style=""> </span>There was regular nudity on the six o’clock news, on family camping shows, in daytime network movies.<span style=""> </span>Many here in this country <span style="font-style: italic;">seriously</span> agree with the Ayatollah; luckily others have some fun with skin and beauty and such.<span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);"><br />mmmn</span>I managed an adult book store in <st1:state st="on"><st1:place st="on">Idaho</st1:place></st1:state> for a few months.<span style=""> </span>Groups of girls would hit the door from time to time, always with a burst of laughter.<span style=""> </span>(“We’ve been sitting in the car for almost an hour waiting till nobody we knew was around so we could come in here.<span style=""> </span>We’re looking for favors and gifts for our friend’s bachelorette party.<span style=""> </span>Where’s the edible underwear?”)<span style=""> </span>Several daughters brought in their reluctant mothers, always heading to the twenty-five-cent movie booths in the back room.<span style=""> </span>(One mom came out for more quarters.<span style=""> </span>“If I’m going to watch this,” she told me defiantly, “I’m going to see the end.”)<span style=""> </span>Every time was the same when they left: Mom, eyes glazed and riveted straight ahead, made a bee-line for the front door, while daughter, grinning triumphantly, strolled along behind.<span style=""> </span>Mostly the customers were couples and military men.<span style=""> </span>(The store had a pretty tame selection of boy/girl magazines and videos, but did have four bondage magazines on display in the corner.<span style=""> </span>Never sold one, but about three times a week somebody’d lift one to show a friend, “Hey, this is what <span style="font-style: italic;">you</span> need, yuck, yuck,” and then put it back on the rack.<span style=""> </span>One day three grandmother-types came in, never so much as glanced up at me, they spread out around the store.<span style=""> </span>A committee, I’m sure.<span style=""> </span>They perused the covers of magazines, the selection of paperback books and videos, the marital aids and sex toys, never touching a thing or saying a word.<span style=""> </span>Then they spotted them . . . the bondage magazines.<span style=""> </span>Zap—like a magnet.<span style=""> </span>The three proper ladies spent the next fifteen minutes shoulder to shoulder, going one page at a time through all four magazines.<span style=""> </span>Then, noses high, aghast, out the door they marched.<span style=""> </span>They had certainly found what they were looking for, God love ‘em.) (Like the magazine cartoon, a similar woman standing at her window looking through binoculars, “Harry, come quick.<span style=""> </span>The neighbors are offending us again.”) (My personal favorite is the people who were outraged by the mere outlines of two humans, a male and a female, on the outside of one of those rockets NASA shot up.<span style=""> </span>Some called it “pornography in space”, like our very <span style="font-style: italic;">shape</span> is indecent.)<span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);"><br />mmmn</span>Pretty girls . . . the hobby.<span style=""> </span>(Remember ‘The Rifleman’ episode where disaster would strike whenever this pretty girl walked by?<span style=""> </span>She thought she was jinxed.<span style=""> </span>Nowadays it’s often cars getting rear-ended by similarly distracted drivers.<span style=""> </span>Cute waitresses make more in tips.<span style=""> </span>I’ve seen a taxi driver offer a free ride just because a pretty girl was in the group.<span style=""> </span>Emergency-room staff work harder to save an attractive person.<span style=""> </span>Even babies smile more often at good-looking mothers.)<span style=""> </span>It’s not a crime.<span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);"><br />mmmn</span>So anyway, I have always been blown away by those before-and-after makeup pictures in magazines.<span style=""> </span>The models look like totally different people, from plain to gorgeous.<span style=""> </span>I know one girl myself who has that dramatic of a change after doing her makeup every morning.<span style=""> </span>I know another who’s an after/after.<span style=""> </span>First thing in the morning, without so much as a comb to her red hair, Beth is cover-girl material; she can’t look bad.<span style=""> </span>Riding with her in her little Mazda truck on a rain-slicked freeway, she pulled out to pass three vehicles just before our exit.<span style=""> </span>Doing just shy of eighty-miles-an-hour, ready to cut off the third car we had passed to make our turn, the girl with us screamed.<span style=""> </span>Beth laughed as she made the exit, told the girl that I’m the only person who isn’t afraid of her driving.<span style=""> </span>Hey, I just figure: What a way to go!<span style=""> </span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br /><a href="http://watchingthewheelsablackbirdissueii.blogspot.com/2006/09/two-stories.html">Back</a><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/29673647-115782505154228534?l=watchingthewheelsablackbirdissueii.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Dylan Hocknoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29673647.post-1157824342111695262006-09-09T13:39:00.000-04:002006-09-09T14:21:31.550-04:00<span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">Off the Road<span style=";font-family:&quot;;font-size:12;" >—</span>1992</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m<br />m</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m<br />m</span><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmn</span>For all I knew, I wouldn’t still be alive now in the nineties; ain’t nobody guaranteed their next breath.<span style=""> </span>And the way the board changes, no telling what the game will be past maybe later today . . . but even then you can be taking a chance.<span style=""> </span>So deciding on a lifestyle change meant a total fresh start: no lamenting over my personal situation, how the world should be, or what I’d planned on twelve or twenty years ago.<span style=""> </span>It’s day one.<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmn</span>Looking around, I have to go “whew”.<span style=""> </span>I feel vindicated for the last twenty-five years I wasted on fun and travel.<span style=""> </span>With every new wave of layoffs and failed pension funds and savings institutions, my knees go weak.<span style=""> </span>I could have worked all those years and then suddenly still been in the same boat I’m in now.<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmn</span>By keeping the overhead down over the years, when I made a buck, I got to spend it.<span style=""> </span>(I live like a millionaire every chance I get.<span style=""> </span>Often that’s only for a matter of hours or days, but those hours and days add up.) (Won’t find me living in a flophouse eating canned dog food with thousands of dollars stashed in the mattress for a rainy day.)<span style=""> </span>I’ve got no monthly payments, I know girlfriends aren’t after my money, and my time has pretty much always been my own.<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmn</span><st1:place st="on"><st1:placename st="on">Laguna</st1:placename> <st1:placetype st="on">Canyon</st1:placetype></st1:place>, rock ‘n’ roll music festival, Christmas 1970.<span style=""> </span>The announcer on stage introduced somebody in the crowd, “ . . . been ‘on the road’ for five years,” and everybody cheered.<span style=""> </span>That same winter I spent bouncing between <st1:city st="on">Long Beach</st1:city> and <st1:city st="on"><st1:place st="on">San Clemente</st1:place></st1:city>.<span style=""> </span>(Yes, President Nixon lived there in <st1:city st="on"><st1:place st="on">San Clemente</st1:place></st1:city>.<span style=""> </span>Just nobody ventured near that half of town.)<span style=""> </span>Traveling the <st1:street st="on"><st1:address st="on">Pacific Coast Highway</st1:address></st1:street> back then was like seven months of Saturday nights: beach parties, hippie and surfer girls in every direction, orange sunshine, quality back yard garage bands.<span style=""> </span>I carried a jacket with a toothbrush in one pocket and a hairbrush in the other, a sleeping bag and a smile.<span style=""> </span>I’d catch a day or two’s work from time to time, fall in love several times a week, got to dance a lot.<span style=""> </span>As a workie I was ruined.<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmn</span>From SoCal to B.C., I learned that my sleeping bag didn’t care where it was.<span style=""> </span>It could be laid out along a river, on a friend’s futon or a rest area picnic table, under the stars or under a bridge . . . simply left rolled up in a corner when a bed presented itself was okay, too.<span style=""> </span>It didn’t know the difference.<span style=""> </span>Just keep it dry . . . it was happy.<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmn</span>I hitchhiked.<span style=""> </span>You had a friend driving tomorrow to where I wanted to be hundreds of miles away, I’d turn down an offered ride.<span style=""> </span>By the next day your friend might not have been in the mood for a rider, be forced to say no to a more preferred passenger or some last-minute cargo because of me, or simply his plans might change.<span style=""> </span>Somebody just pulling over is open for some company right now.<span style=""> </span>(When traveling with a girl, you get a ride quicker . . . but the quality can go way down.) (I thumbed with a large dog for five years, but got sick of talking about it every ride.)<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmn</span>It’s no fun to hitchhike to work, whole wrong attitude.<span style=""> </span>The idea is to be out there, your bed in hand, even with a destination . . . no rush, staying open, enjoying being there along the highway.<span style=""> </span>On a slow road I’ve thumbed both ways, whichever way a car passed didn’t really matter, just being high on the possibilities.<span style=""> </span>(Few strangers will come knocking on your door to invite you to play, but on the road, with a good attitude, it’s hard to avoid.) (In a city, just up and down a main drag would do.)<o:p> </o:p><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);"><br />m<br />mmmn</span>I went alone to see Kris Kristofferson in concert in <st1:city st="on"><st1:place st="on">Portland</st1:place></st1:city>.<span style=""> </span>Three folks took the seats to my left.<span style=""> </span>The girl sitting next to me pulled out a poster with a picture of Kris on it.<span style=""> </span>“I snatched this off the wall in the lobby.<span style=""> </span>I’m here for that face.<span style=""> </span>Why are you here?”<span style=""> </span>I answered, “I stashed my sleeping bag in a locker at the bus station and I sold blood to buy my ticket.<span style=""> </span>I’m here because he sings songs about me.”<span style=""> </span>She got up and took the seat on the other side of her friends.<span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);"><br />mmmn</span>On my way south to <st1:city st="on"><st1:place st="on">San Jose</st1:place></st1:city> late one night, I got a short—like three exits—ride with a guy I’d never seen before.<span style=""> </span>He commenced to tell me how long I’d been on the road, how I packed my suitcase, what people thought of me and how that compared with what I thought of myself.<span style=""> </span>Then when he dropped me off he told me exactly how much money I had in my pocket and drove off.<span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);"><br />mmmn</span>Standing across from the ranger station in Gasquet, on beautiful Route 199, in pulled a sheriff’s truck, two window-vans full of men wearing camouflage clothing, and an empty dump truck.<span style=""> </span>C.A.M.P.<span style=""> </span>(Campaign Against Marijuana Prices.) (sic)<span style=""> </span>The deputy went inside.<span style=""> </span>One of the paramilitary troopers got out of a van, stood rigid behind his dark glasses, hands clasped behind his back, feet apart, giving me the stern stare across the road for a full five minutes.<span style=""> </span>Finally his keeper came out of the office and they all headed north.<span style=""> </span>A while later a local girl pulled up, asked, “You in a real big hurry to get somewhere?”<span style=""> </span>I said, “Nope.”<span style=""> </span>She said, “Hop in.”<span style=""> </span>Several hours later she returned me to the same spot.<span style=""> </span>Just as she turned back down her street, the sheriff’s truck, vans, and (now loaded with the green) dump truck came driving by.<span style=""> </span>The plant warriors howled and hooted, thought it was pretty darned funny that I was still there.<o:p> </o:p><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);"><br />m<br />mmmn</span>I ran away from home when I was almost twenty-one.<span style=""> </span>I didn’t actually head to <st1:state st="on"><st1:place st="on">California</st1:place></st1:state> back then, it was just as far as I could get away on a motorcycle.<span style=""> </span>I never left the West Coast after that because I liked the weather and the people.<span style=""> </span>I stayed on the road because I decided that I’d rather be hungry than bored.<span style=""> </span>I found a need out there for a person who was available for limited amounts of time and I met people in between jobs who appreciated talking to somebody who didn’t know anyone they knew.<span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);"><br />mmmn</span>I’ve landed on my feet so many times after bailing out of an unsatisfactory situation that I lost even a healthy amount of fear of the unknown.<span style=""> </span>Stick out my thumb and there’s a new something to do right down the road.<span style=""> </span>(Though sometimes it’s raining in between.) (Rain and my parents being the only challenges in life I haven’t figured out how to deal with.)<span style=""> </span>From playing pool in Bell Gardens to softball in the Emerald Triangle, picking apples in Oyama to volleyball in Molalla, foot-cruising the Haight to planting trees around Vedder Crossing, Laytonville, or Boulder Creek, working Hollywood movie crews to kicking back with a tall one watching the drive-in movie from under the freeway overpass south of Roseburg, the West Coast has always satisfied.<o:p> </o:p><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);"><br />m<br />mmmn</span>But, alas, I’ve been bouncing up and down from <st1:city st="on">Tijuana</st1:city> to <st1:place st="on"><st1:placename st="on">Whistler</st1:placename> <st1:placetype st="on">Mountain</st1:placetype></st1:place> so many years now it’s almost like having my own place.<span style=""> </span>I know where to sleep, where not to get let off, places to head when I need a shower, some work, or the use of a car.<span style=""> </span>With AIDS in the world and the carrot of casual sex gone from in front of my nose, and those hearty party people I used to run into on the road replaced pretty much these days by the hopeless homeless, it’s time to change the channel.<span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);"><br />mmmn</span>I recently began tying my hair back every day and took an informal live-in job.<span style=""> </span>(It’s strange sleeping indoors every night, so I recorded some traffic sounds to play as I fall asleep.)<span style=""> </span>Time to maneuver into a tolerable situation for the times.<span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);"><br />mmmn</span>The best security I could think of for the road was a slingshot and a small magnifying glass.<span style=""> </span>If it came down to it for any reason, I could always shoot something and start a fire to cook it.<span style=""> </span>Now I figure our only hope for survival as a planet would be some kind of law to require all the big shots to relieve themselves outside at night.<span style=""> </span>Maybe by checking out the stars on a regular basis they’d get a little perspective on our situation:<span style=""> </span>floating on a speck of dust through space.<o:p> </o:p><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);"><br />m<br />mmmn</span>So anyway, I’m retired from the life now.<span style=""> </span>Off the Road.<span style=""> </span>Now where do I apply for my pension?<span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);"><br />mmmn</span>I’d like to live the life of a former NFL quarterback; that would sure be okay.<span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);"><br />mmmn</span>I could get serious again with the clarinet or pool cue.<span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);"><br />mmmn</span>Or maybe I’ll just marry Madonna.<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br /><a href="http://watchingthewheelsablackbirdissueii.blogspot.com/2006/09/two-stories.html">Back</a><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/29673647-115782434211169526?l=watchingthewheelsablackbirdissueii.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Dylan Hocknoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29673647.post-1157771622415715462006-09-08T23:05:00.000-04:002006-09-10T22:54:55.800-04:00<span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br /><a href="http://watchingthewheelsablackbirdissueii.blogspot.com/2006/09/thomas-r-peters-jr.html">What I Remember from Lisa Jarnot's Reading</a><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmmn</span><span style="font-size:85%;"><a href="http://watchingthewheelsablackbirdissueii.blogspot.com/2006/09/thomas-r-peters-jr.html">for L.J.</a><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br /></span><a href="http://watchingthewheelsablackbirdissueii.blogspot.com/2006/09/thomas-r-peters-jr_08.html">Nam Rats God</a><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">ml</span><span style="font-size:85%;"><a href="http://watchingthewheelsablackbirdissueii.blogspot.com/2006/09/thomas-r-peters-jr_08.html">for Stan Brakhage</a><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br /></span><a href="http://watchingthewheelsablackbirdissueii.blogspot.com/2006/09/thomas-r-peters-jr_115777060281898870.html">indifferent candy</a><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br /><a href="http://watchingthewheelsablackbirdissueii.blogspot.com/2006/09/thomas-r-peters-jr_115777093084934955.html">"Almost every trace of the Moths"</a><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmmmmmn</span><span style="font-size:85%;"><a href="http://watchingthewheelsablackbirdissueii.blogspot.com/2006/09/thomas-r-peters-jr_115777093084934955.html">with Jack Spicer</a><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br /></span><a href="http://watchingthewheelsablackbirdissueii.blogspot.com/2006/09/thomas-r-peters-jr_115777108207055020.html">Meanwhile Back at the Ranch</a><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/4546/1758/1600/713376299_l.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/4546/1758/200/713376299_l.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><a href="http://profile.myspace.com/index.cfm?fuseaction=user.viewprofile&friendid=60409757"><span style="font-weight: bold;">Thomas R. Peters, Jr.</span></a> moved to Boulder, Colorado in 1985 to study poetry at the <a href="http://www.naropa.edu/">Jack Kerouac School of Disembodied Poetics (now Naropa University)</a>. There he restarted the then defunct <i><a href="http://www.naropa.edu/writingandpoetics/bombaygin.html">Bombay Gin</a> </i>magazine with friends, which he edited for four years. He also served as contributing editor to <i><span style="font-weight: bold;">In This Corner</span> </i>and <i style="font-weight: bold;">The New Censorship</i>. He has performed with the industrial and cacophonic experimental music group <span style="font-weight: bold;">Architect's Office</span>, completed two 16 mm films: <span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">instead of sleeping with people</span><span style="font-weight: bold;"> </span>and <span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">There's a price to be paid for dreaming</span>. He is the author of five books of poetry: <span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">Listen to My Machine</span> (<span style="font-weight: bold;">Rodent Press</span>), <span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">over the roofs of the world</span><span style="font-weight: bold;"> </span>(<span style="font-weight: bold;">Cityful Press</span>, reprinted by <a href="http://www.yale.edu/hardysoc/Promotions/tracking.htm">Dead Metaphor</a> in 2000), <a href="http://www.magersandquinn.com/index.php?main_page=product_info&products_id=1050210&amp;isbn_id=2961832"><span style="font-style: italic;">100 missed train stations</span></a> (<span style="font-weight: bold;">Holy Mackerel Press</span>, reprinted by <span style="font-weight: bold;">farfalla press</span><span style="font-weight: bold;"> </span>with twelve new stops in 2002), <a href="http://www.poetspath.com/napalm/nhs04/thomas_r_peters_jr.html"><span style="font-style: italic;">The Book of Silence</span></a> (2005), <span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">Selected Poems 1986-2006</span> </span>(2007), and has contributed to <a href="http://btobsearch.barnesandnoble.com/booksearch/isbnInquiry.asp?z=y&btob=Y&amp;isbn=0971466815&itm=76"><span style="font-style: italic;">I Know Why the Caged Bird Drinks</span></a> (2003) with <a href="http://www.bigbridge.org/Issue2/Text/Bios/Collom_Bio.html">Jack Collom</a> and special guests, as well as both an introduction, and poems, to the anthology <a href="http://www.poetspath.com/exhibits/poems_from_penny_lane.html">Poems from Penny Lane</a>. He's performed his poetry and stories in Colorado, Iowa, California, New York, and Texas to audiences numbering from a handful to as many as 20,000 at the <a href="http://www.lollapalooza.com/default.asp?fd=1">Lallapaloosa Festival</a> where he performed on all three stages. He has appeared in various literary journals including <i><span style="font-weight: bold;">Big Fire-Proof Box</span>, <a href="http://www.naropa.edu/writingandpoetics/bombaygin.html">Bombay Gin</a>, <a href="http://www.corpse.org/">The Exquisite Corpse</a>, <a href="http://www.frictionmagazine.com/index.asp">Friction</a>, <span style="font-weight: bold;">In this Corner</span>, <span style="font-weight: bold;">The New Censorship</span></i>, and in 2001, <i><span style="font-weight: bold;">Abandoned Auto</span>, </i>an anthology of Detroit poets (<a href="http://wsupress.wayne.edu/index.html">Wayne State University Press</a>). Currently, he is the owner of the <a href="http://www.abebooks.com/home/beatbookshop/">Beat Book Shop</a> in Boulder, Colorado and has run the weekly Monday night poetry readings at <a href="http://home.earthlink.net/%7Epennylaneboulder/poetry.html">Penny Lane Coffee House</a> since 1987, now hosted at the <a href="http://thelaughinggoat.com/">Laughing Goat Coffee Shop</a>. Also, you can look for him in the feature film<a href="http://movies.yahoo.com/movie/1807598460/info"> </a><a href="http://movies.yahoo.com/movie/1807598460/info"><span style="font-style: italic;">American Saint</span></a> directed by Joe Castello, which features <a href="http://www.imdb.com/name/nm0180984/">Kevin Corrigan</a>, <a href="http://www.imdb.com/name/nm0001704/">Vincent Schiavelli</a>, and <a href="http://www.imdb.com/name/nm0000437/">Woody Harrelson</a>. He currently has work in <span style="font-weight: bold;">Orbit</span> and other literary publications.<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">*Photo by Ula</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br /><div style="text-align: right;"><a href="http://watchingthewheelsablackbirdissueii.blogspot.com/2006/06/table-of-contents.html">Table of Contents<br /></a></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/29673647-115777162241571546?l=watchingthewheelsablackbirdissueii.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Dylan Hocknoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29673647.post-1157771082070550202006-09-08T23:02:00.001-04:002006-09-08T23:33:00.323-04:00<span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">Meanwhile Back at the Ranch</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br />I was feeling inspired<br />so I made myself a drink & turned on the TV<br />I don’t think there’s anything<br />I like more than more than Modern Poetry &amp; cartoons<br />except for Vodka & film noir<br />or watching you get dressed in the morning,<br />you say, how do you make yourself a drink?<br />just what turns on a TV?<br />this morning, I read the lives of<br />Auden, Corso, Sexton &amp; Ed Dorn,<br />“No one that followed her poetry<br />was surprised when she committed<br />suicide in 1974,”<br />How much longer shall I inhabit<br />the lower east side<br />this weekend I looked for Gregory<br />at the “kettle of fish,”<br />Auden at the Holiday Bar.<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m </span><br />Morning television sucks,<br />so do the guys outside with the jackhammers,<br />at 5am I heard a car window crash<br />followed by a car alarm which drove away,<br />Rimbaud lived to the ripe old age of 37<br />he didn’t die at 19 he just stopped<br />living, HENRI de TULOUSE-LAUTREC<br />made a painting in 1896 that looks<br />so much like Caitlin, it’s called<br />“Femme a’ sa toilette,”<br />Woman Dressing, that<br />I had to draw<br />a tattoo on her back<br />now they no longer resemble<br />each other,<br />In the last few weeks<br />I’ve traveled thousands<br />of miles on trains,<br />in two days my niece<br />Caroline will be one year old,<br />some day she will<br />understand this,<br />I hope by then<br />I will too.<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br /><a href="http://watchingthewheelsablackbirdissueii.blogspot.com/2006/09/five-poems.html">Back</a><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/29673647-115777108207055020?l=watchingthewheelsablackbirdissueii.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Dylan Hocknoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29673647.post-1157770930849349552006-09-08T22:58:00.000-04:002006-09-08T23:32:43.806-04:00<span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">“Almost every trace of the Moths”</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmmmmm</span><span style="font-weight: bold;font-size:85%;" >with Jack Spicer</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m </span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m </span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m </span><br />I.<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br />With the gums gone you<br />are toothless, And the nose is next to nothing<br />the eye alive<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br />And now the rattling<br />Of the radiator the floor<br />is loose, the even row of it<br />fit to raise 11 children.<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br />You will count on them 1, 2, 4, 8, One hundred<br />You will stay in the midst of them,<br />You will know them, you will hear them<br />in the narrow meadow<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br />II.<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br />In the endless endlessness<br />snow, sea salt<br />He lost his teeth<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br />Without eyes or thumbs<br />He suffers from restlessness<br />How to lick a wound<br /> (salt)<br />His lover left.<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br />Snow sea salt love<br />In the lovely endlessness<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br />III.<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m </span><br />Blue rooted heron, loon lake<br />river song, like me no traveler<br />taking a rest, loose-winged water-bird<br />And dumb with music theory.<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br />I stand upon the waterfront, like him no traveler<br />before, dangling on Icarus wings<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br />Aching for flight, for waxen wings<br />I ache and take my rest<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m </span><br />So let us die for death alone is motion<br />And death alone will make these herons fly.<br />I fall wingless in the ocean<br />& die.<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br /><a href="http://watchingthewheelsablackbirdissueii.blogspot.com/2006/09/five-poems.html">Back</a><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/29673647-115777093084934955?l=watchingthewheelsablackbirdissueii.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Dylan Hocknoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29673647.post-1157770602818988702006-09-08T22:55:00.000-04:002006-09-08T23:32:28.193-04:00<span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">indifferent candy</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br />sure,<br />salvation is all<br />elliptical &<br />full of sparks—<br />but what about candy<br />&amp; fingerprints<br />on the fridge—<br />I’m not too bright<br />but it beats combat<br />or jibes,<br />certainly<br />indifference<br />can’t be<br />all bad.<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br /><a href="http://watchingthewheelsablackbirdissueii.blogspot.com/2006/09/five-poems.html">Back</a><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/29673647-115777060281898870?l=watchingthewheelsablackbirdissueii.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Dylan Hocknoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29673647.post-1157770471583234972006-09-08T22:46:00.000-04:002006-09-08T23:32:11.213-04:00<span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">Nam Rats God</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">ml</span><span style="font-weight: bold;font-size:85%;" >for Stan Brakhage</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br />I.<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br />Above the little<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmm</span>do not worry<br />cared little to leave the house<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmm</span>come with us<br />To fell the sacred top!<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmm</span>Obeying<br />He grabbed an axe<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmm</span>Made the long climb, slowly<br />The only tree there<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmm</span>a bowman<br />the goddess herself shot,<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmm</span>looked down<br />shall touch the ground<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmm</span>their cottage<br />swung an axe for the slanting<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmm</span>while they wondered<br />the oak tree trembled<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmm</span>seeing the neighbors trouble<br />And acorns paled<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmm</span>and the poor quarters<br />And when the axe bit into<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmm</span>me a temple<br />As from the neck<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmm</span>to the marble columns;<br />And they were all stunned;<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmm</span>the root was golden<br />And they paid for there devotion<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmm</span>with this carefully carved<br />axe of Eurystheus<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmm</span>struck marble<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br />II.<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br />Then turning to them<br />Till, from death the other<br />most dear to favor<br />and my final prophecy:<br />in my hour of death, little?<br />this did not stop him either<br />weakened by blows, dragged down<br />like to be fell,<br />and its’ falling weight<br />laid low the temple<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br />For ten miles around and the dry years together<br />stunned at their own, their forest neither<br />Robed all in black; per se<br />punished by seeing<br />they prayed, from<br />the beautiful, was granted<br />made the fields tremble<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mn</span>watched the temple<br />She planned an awful punishment<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mn</span>for the mortals<br />was something days over<br />in any act of his; she would cut loaves<br />appeal to famine they still had time<br />Are never allowed to meet<br />and the bark was closed over<br />Summoned one of the mountains<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmmmn</span>even to this day.<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br /><a href="http://watchingthewheelsablackbirdissueii.blogspot.com/2006/09/five-poems.html">Back</a><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/29673647-115777047158323497?l=watchingthewheelsablackbirdissueii.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Dylan Hocknoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29673647.post-1157769983769204532006-09-08T22:43:00.000-04:002006-09-08T23:31:52.240-04:00<span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">What I Remember from Lisa Jarnot’s Reading</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmm</span><span style="font-weight: bold;font-size:85%;" >for L.J.</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br />At the meridian<br />where I saw the bird<br />near the meridian<br />at at at the corner<br />of Sixth by a side street<br />where I saw Lou Reed<br />the meridian<br />at the meridian<br />where I saw the bird<br />in Jane & Anselm’s backyard<br />at the meridian<br />where I saw the bird<br />the meridian<br />Hockey Night in Canada<br />are the Stars really playing tonight?<br />scowl<br />swish swish swish<br />corduroy scowl<br />at the meridian<br />it’s such an honor<br />with Bernadette Mayer<br />behind me<br />at the meridian<br />the bird<br />scarf<br />the bird<br />did I start at 8:25<br />are the Sabers really playing tonight?<br />Buffalo<br />Hockey night in Jane &amp; Anselm’s backyard<br />did you recognize it?<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br /><a href="http://watchingthewheelsablackbirdissueii.blogspot.com/2006/09/five-poems.html">Back</a><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/29673647-115776998376920453?l=watchingthewheelsablackbirdissueii.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Dylan Hocknoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29673647.post-1157749887476819312006-09-08T16:49:00.000-04:002006-09-10T23:09:26.386-04:00<span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br /><a href="http://watchingthewheelsablackbirdissueii.blogspot.com/2006/09/richard-froude_115774632696501332.html">Practical Math / TV Edit</a><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span> <span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span> <span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span> <span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span> <span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mm<br />m<br />m<br />m<br />m<br /></span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/4546/1758/1600/524223708_l.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/4546/1758/200/524223708_l.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><a href="http://www.richardfroude.blogspot.com/"><span style="font-weight: bold;">Richard Froude</span></a> is from Bristol, England. He is the Managing Editor of <a href="http://www.waywardcouch.com/"><span style="font-style: italic;">Ellipsis</span></a> magazine at <a href="http://www.waywardcouch.com/">Wayward Couch Press</a>. He also compiles and publishes the free poetry journal <a href="http://richardfroude.blogspot.com/2005/04/current-projects.html"><span style="font-style: italic;">Clark Kent</span></a> and is a member of <a href="http://richardfroude.blogspot.com/2005/04/current-projects.html"><span style="font-style: italic;">Pop Seance</span></a> with <a href="http://www.hobartpulp.com/website/april/morse.html">Jesse Morse</a>, <a href="http://72.14.253.104/search?q=cache:cSPWcNYOLQ0J:jacketmagazine.com/29/clark-newt-iv.html+%22ryan+newton%22+ellipsis&hl=en&amp;gl=us&ct=clnk&amp;cd=2">Ryan Newton</a>, and <a href="http://72.14.253.104/search?q=cache:18xNKHK8uaQJ:jacketmagazine.com/31/anderson-collom.html+%22Erik+Anderson%22+ellipsis&hl=en&amp;gl=us&ct=clnk&amp;cd=1">Erik Anderson</a>. He is the author of <a href="http://richardfroude.blogspot.com/2005/04/publications.html"><span style="font-style: italic;">Tarnished Mirrors: Translations of Charles Baudelaire</span></a> (<span style="font-weight: bold;">Muffled Cry</span>, 2004) and the collaborative screenplay with <a href="http://www.stacyelaine.com/">Stacy Elaine Dacheux</a>: <a href="http://richardfroude.blogspot.com/2005/04/bio.html"><span style="font-style: italic;">The Lie (And How We Told It)</span></a>. He is currently translating selections form <a href="http://www.geocities.com/Paris/LeftBank/4027/">Rilke's</a> <a href="http://nupress.northwestern.edu/title.cfm?ISBN=0-8101-1888-2"><span style="font-style: italic;">Book of Hours</span></a> for a text book on religious and occult poetry. Beginning in April 2006, his fiction column <a href="http://www.americandrivelreview.com/richard/richard.php"><span style="font-style: italic;">Seeing Dead People</span></a> appears monthly at the <a href="http://www.americandrivelreview.com/index.php"><span style="font-style: italic;">American Drivel Review</span></a>. He lives in Portland, Oregon.<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span> <span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span> <span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m<br />m<br />m<br /></span><div style="text-align: right;"><a href="http://watchingthewheelsablackbirdissueii.blogspot.com/2006/06/table-of-contents.html">Table of Contents</a><br /></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/29673647-115774988747681931?l=watchingthewheelsablackbirdissueii.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Dylan Hocknoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29673647.post-1157748224173347962006-09-08T16:40:00.000-04:002006-09-10T23:12:25.490-04:00<div style="text-align: right;"><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Scene Seven</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br />The cocoon splits. Butterfly clicks.<br />Zoom to abandoned shell, backdrop of perfect dock leaf.<br />Closer still, we can see the veins.<br />The Weather's on all three channels.<br />Music box reprise.<br />Carriages detach from the diesel engine.<br />The seismograph pulses in uniform rhythm.<br />Glass case now empty of man and child. The leather seat remains.<br />Flash to the cafe, repetition of girl looking up.<br />Her eyes are now closed.<br />The invigilator checks his watch.<br />No more parachutes.<br />The invigilator checks his watch.<br />Would you stop writing please.<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br /><div style="text-align: left;"><a href="http://watchingthewheelsablackbirdissueii.blogspot.com/2006/09/poem_08.html">Back</a><br /></div></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/29673647-115774822417334796?l=watchingthewheelsablackbirdissueii.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Dylan Hocknoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29673647.post-1157748012433186182006-09-08T16:37:00.000-04:002006-09-08T16:47:30.896-04:00<div style="text-align: right;"><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Scene Six</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br />Seismographic fluctuations as we have never seen.<br />Same cafe girl opens gray front door to the set of the Weather Report.<br />An expression of surprise.<br />She holds up three fingers, as Thatcher, '87.<br />Behind glass the man stands and reaches to his child. A small crowd has gathered.<br />Their fingers touch.<br />Front Page Headline. Thatcher Resigns.<br />The cocoon rests on linoleum.<br />Effect of film reel igniting.<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br /><a href="http://watchingthewheelsablackbirdissueii.blogspot.com/2006/09/richard-froude_115774822417334796.html">Next></a><br /></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/29673647-115774801243318618?l=watchingthewheelsablackbirdissueii.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Dylan Hocknoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29673647.post-1157747854747060652006-09-08T16:35:00.000-04:002006-09-08T16:46:55.626-04:00<div style="text-align: right;"><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Scene Five</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br />Cocoon rolls to the floor. The impact registers on the seismograph.<br />The child has passed through one revolution. A music box accompanies.<br />Opposite cafe girl. She looks up with brown eyes.<br />And hold this shot.<br />Thatcher is surprised by the tacked map.<br />The weatherman smiles.<br />And the map is blurring. The coast appears to be shifting.<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br /><a href="http://watchingthewheelsablackbirdissueii.blogspot.com/2006/09/richard-froude_115774801243318618.html">Next></a><br /></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/29673647-115774785474706065?l=watchingthewheelsablackbirdissueii.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Dylan Hocknoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29673647.post-1157747711629309422006-09-08T16:31:00.000-04:002006-09-08T16:46:28.120-04:00<div style="text-align: right;"><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Scene Four</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span> <span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span> <span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br />Over cafe girl's shoulder, zoom to her page: Da Vinci's <span style="font-style: italic;">Il Corpo Umano</span>.<br />Map now tacked to gray front door.<br />The cocoon continues to form. A high speed shot.<br />The seismograph has settled.<br />Glass case child begins to rotate. The portly man stares up.<br />Floor plan: Great Pyramid of Giza.<br />The cocoon rolls over a graphic page.<br />Ordinance Survey Detail: Crewe and Surrounding Area.<br />The invigilator sighs.<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span> <span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span> <span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br /><a href="http://watchingthewheelsablackbirdissueii.blogspot.com/2006/09/richard-froude_115774785474706065.html">Next></a><br /></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/29673647-115774771162930942?l=watchingthewheelsablackbirdissueii.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Dylan Hocknoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29673647.post-1157747457813155732006-09-08T16:28:00.000-04:002006-09-08T16:45:51.653-04:00<div style="text-align: right;"><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Scene Three</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br />Return to map of British Isles printed over with lines of binary code.<br />A weatherman winces.<br />A child appears in the museum case, above and in front of the seated man.<br />Girl at cafe table, reading, we cannot see her face.<br />A shudder on the seismograph.<br />A caterpillar begins to cocoon.<br />It is struggling.<br />Thatcher knocks on the gray front door.<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br /><a href="http://watchingthewheelsablackbirdissueii.blogspot.com/2006/09/richard-froude_115774771162930942.html">Next></a><br /></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/29673647-115774745781315573?l=watchingthewheelsablackbirdissueii.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Dylan Hocknoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29673647.post-1157747298591217592006-09-08T16:14:00.000-04:002006-09-08T16:45:20.276-04:00<div style="text-align: right;"><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Scene Two</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br />Return to analogue clock.<br />Return to map of British Isles.<br />A gray front door slams shut.<br />Library footage: Thatcher drifts off.<br />Gymnasium, the invigilator's pencil snaps.<br />An engergy flash. The DeLorean appears and speeds across a now-existant bridge.<br />Doc Brown's second time machine follows momentarily with sons Jules and Verne.<br />Man in museum case, previous image multiplied into eleven columns of eight.<br />Thatcher jerks awake.<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br /><a href="http://watchingthewheelsablackbirdissueii.blogspot.com/2006/09/richard-froude_115774745781315573.html">Next></a><br /></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/29673647-115774729859121759?l=watchingthewheelsablackbirdissueii.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Dylan Hocknoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29673647.post-1157746326965013322006-09-08T16:02:00.000-04:002006-09-08T16:44:50.136-04:00<div style="text-align: right;"><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">Practical Math<br />TV Edit</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span> <span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span> <span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span> <span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span> <span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span> <span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);"> </span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Scene One</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);"> </span><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m<br /></span><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br />An analogue clock. 10am in the gymnasium. You may begin writing now.<br />Portly man occupies leather seat inside a glass museum case.<br />Fade over Ordinance Survey map of the British Isles.<br />In the gymnasium an invigilator paces down rows of desks.<br />Clich<span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:10;" >é</span>d executioner, hooded, swinging an axe.<br />A seismograph begins slight undulations.<br />Then levels off.<br />Three-carriage diesel locomotive pulls away.<br />Library footage: Thatcher speaking in the Commons.<br />Library footage: Thatcher holding up three fingers outside 10 Downing Street, 1987.<br />An Assyrian image of Midas.<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br /><div style="text-align: right;"><a href="http://watchingthewheelsablackbirdissueii.blogspot.com/2006/09/richard-froude_115774729859121759.html">Next></a><br /></div></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/29673647-115774632696501332?l=watchingthewheelsablackbirdissueii.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Dylan Hocknoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29673647.post-1157688988960497972006-09-07T23:33:00.000-04:002006-09-08T00:25:03.133-04:00<span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br /><a href="http://watchingthewheelsablackbirdissueii.blogspot.com/2006/09/pat-nolan.html">Bug Life</a><br /><a href="http://watchingthewheelsablackbirdissueii.blogspot.com/2006/09/pat-nolan_07.html">Controlled Substance</a><br /><a href="http://watchingthewheelsablackbirdissueii.blogspot.com/2006/09/pat-nolan_115768509890371127.html">Hand in Hand</a><br /><a href="http://watchingthewheelsablackbirdissueii.blogspot.com/2006/09/pat-nolan_115768554729261086.html">Idleness</a><br /><a href="http://watchingthewheelsablackbirdissueii.blogspot.com/2006/09/pat-nolan_115768570309599193.html">Set Your Filters</a><br /><a href="http://watchingthewheelsablackbirdissueii.blogspot.com/2006/09/pat-nolan_115768586375918245.html">Briefly</a><br /><a href="http://watchingthewheelsablackbirdissueii.blogspot.com/2006/09/pat-nolan_115768640328031535.html">Liquid Zone</a><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/4546/1758/1600/Pat%20Nolan.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/4546/1758/200/Pat%20Nolan.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br /><a href="http://www.bigbridge.org/issue9/poetpnolan.htm"><span style="font-weight: bold;">Pat Nolan</span></a> was born in Montreal, Canada in 1943, but has lived most of his adult life along the Russian River in Northern California. He is an author, translator, editor, and publisher.<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br />His poetry and prose have been published in numerous magazines such as <span style="font-style: italic;"><a href="http://www.rollingstone.com/">Rolling Stone</a>, <a href="http://www.parisreview.com/">The Paris Review</a>, <a href="http://www.poetryproject.com/world.html">The World</a>, <a href="http://www.bigbridge.org/index.htm">Big Bridge</a>, <a href="http://poetryflash.org/">Poetry Flash</a>, </span>and <a href="http://www.corpse.org/"><span style="font-style: italic;">Exquisite Corpse</span> </a>as well as literary magazines in Europe and Asia. His work has also appeared in various anthologies including <span style="font-style: italic;"><a href="http://images.google.com/imgres?imgurl=http://www.poets.org/images/media/80_june17.jpg&imgrefurl=http://www.poets.org/viewmedia.php/prmMID/5691&amp;amp;h=200&w=129&amp;sz=15&hl=en&amp;start=1&tbnid=g8IFSWUOFP70eM:&amp;amp;tbnh=104&tbnw=67&amp;prev=/images%3Fq%3D%2522up%2Blate%2522%2Bpoetry%2Banthology%26svnum%3D10%26hl%3Den%26lr%3D%26sa%3DN">Up Late</a>, <a href="http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/tg/detail/-/1574231006?v=glance">Thus Spake the Corpse</a>, <a href="http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/tg/detail/-/0517566818?v=glance">Out of this World</a>, </span>and <span style="font-style: italic;"><a href="http://www.amazon.com/More-Poetry-Comics-David-Morice/dp/1556522207">More Poetry Comics</a>.</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br /><a href="http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/0394521978"><span style="font-style: italic;">The Random House Book of Twentieth Century French Poetry</span></a> and include his translations from the French of Surrealist poet <a href="http://french.chass.utoronto.ca/fcs195/soupault.html">Philippe Soupault</a>. <a href="http://goliath.ecnext.com/coms2/product-compint-0000706260-page.html">Pygmy Forest Press</a> published a selection of his translations of Soupault's early work entitled <a href="http://www.bookfinder4u.com/IsbnSearch.aspx?isbn=0944550320&mode=direct"><span style="font-style: italic;">Where the Four Winds Blow</span></a> in 1993. He was also the editor and publisher of <span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">The End</span>, a '70's literary magazine. He is the founder of <span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">The Black Bart Poetry Society</span>, and publisher of its newsletter, <span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">Life of Crime</span>.<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br />He is the author of eleven books of poetry. <a href="http://www.detritus.com/catalog/catalog.cgi?action=search&keyword=Tangram%20Press">Tangram Press</a> of Berkeley published a limited, letterpress edition of a selection of his tanka entitled <span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">Cloud Scatter</span> in 1992. More recently, Tangram Press brouth out selections from a larger manuscript as a chapbook entitled <span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">4 Poems from Exile In Paradise</span>, and as a handful of poem cards, also in a limited, letterpress edition. <span style="font-weight: bold;">Fell Swoop Press </span>of New Orleans issued <span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">Volume II</span> of <span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">The Nolan Anthology of Poetry: the Modern Era</span> in the spring of 2003.<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">Thin Wings</span> (2003) and <span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">Untouched by Rain</span> (2005) from <span style="font-weight: bold;">Empty Head Press</span> represented a synthesis of art and literarture, or more precisely put, love of art and a lifelong pursuit of literature. The making of a book in an artist's task, the contents belonging to the author. Art provides the circumstance for the poems. Literature accrues weight as an object, an aesthetic object. Each book is individually made: cut, glued, and hand sewn. The poems are original <a href="http://www.ahapoetry.com/tanka.htm">tanka</a>, a Japanese verse form from which <a href="http://www.ahapoetry.com/haiku.htm">haiku</a> was eventually derived.<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br /><div style="text-align: right;"><a href="http://watchingthewheelsablackbirdissueii.blogspot.com/2006/06/table-of-contents.html">Table of Contents</a><br /></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/29673647-115768898896049797?l=watchingthewheelsablackbirdissueii.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Dylan Hocknoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29673647.post-1157686403280315352006-09-07T23:24:00.000-04:002006-09-10T23:05:32.756-04:00<span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">Liquid Zone</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br />The road disappears<br />in the sunlight<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br />drive<br />the gossamer bridge<br />the flowing<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmn</span>hair of bright lit<br />particle haze<br />as the sun<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmn</span>dips toward<br />the barbed skyline<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br />a quiet storm of nerves<br />stirs<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmn<span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">behind the wheel<br />steers</span></span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mml</span>also blindly through<br />a patch of dazzling white<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);"><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><br /></span></span><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br /><a href="http://watchingthewheelsablackbirdissueii.blogspot.com/2006/09/seven-poems.html">Back</a><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/29673647-115768640328031535?l=watchingthewheelsablackbirdissueii.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Dylan Hocknoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29673647.post-1157685863759182452006-09-07T23:21:00.000-04:002006-09-10T23:02:45.906-04:00<span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">Briefly</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br />Light stream bathes the room<br />cuts a bright swath across<br />the rug the cat thinks he owns<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br />untie my laces slough off<br />my boots I can feel<br />the gratitude of my feet<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br />and there among the green maze<br />of the overgrown mallow<br />the tiniest of birds frolic<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br />as a species we are pouring<br />over the edge of history<br />like water over a dam<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br />afternoon fades<br />the sparkling lights are birch<br />leaves caught in a breeze<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br /><a href="http://watchingthewheelsablackbirdissueii.blogspot.com/2006/09/seven-poems.html">Back</a><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/29673647-115768586375918245?l=watchingthewheelsablackbirdissueii.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Dylan Hocknoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29673647.post-1157685703095991932006-09-07T23:19:00.000-04:002006-09-08T00:19:38.253-04:00<span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">Set Your Filters</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br />I love to wash the car<br />pleasure mixed with trepidation<br />paint will chip dings happen<br />I could almost do it twice<br />my affection for everything unyielding<br />a triumph I must repeat<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br />the open maw of<br />a butterfly's wings<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br />poetry is the art of place<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br />I'm always trying to fool myself<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br />the wind came up<br />and slammed the door<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br /><a href="http://watchingthewheelsablackbirdissueii.blogspot.com/2006/09/seven-poems.html">Back</a><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/29673647-115768570309599193?l=watchingthewheelsablackbirdissueii.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Dylan Hocknoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29673647.post-1157685547292610862006-09-07T23:12:00.001-04:002006-09-10T23:01:51.426-04:00<span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">Idleness</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmmmmmmmm</span><span style="font-size:85%;">For my drinking companions,</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmmmmmmmm</span><span style="font-size:85%;">T'ao Ch'ien and Kumasen</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br />Paralyzed by the thought of all the time I want<br />represented as the character for tree and gate<br />as in gaze at tree through portal of mind<br />also depicted as moon viewed through gate<br />I keep the gate closed to have morning to myself<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br />introduce words to the lines on the page<br />eventually<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmm</span>someone will read between them<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br />they are singular signals that say<br />either "come hither" or "go away"<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br />when all my cells<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmn</span>in unison decide<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmmmmmmmmmm</span>on equilibrium<br />that'll be the day<br />till then thrive on the chaos of the system<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br />hair now like the graying feathers of an old bird<br />no need for tonsure I'll be bald eagle all too soon<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br />tastier than even candy one Satsuma is not enough<br /><br /><br /><br /><a href="http://watchingthewheelsablackbirdissueii.blogspot.com/2006/09/seven-poems.html">Back</a><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/29673647-115768554729261086?l=watchingthewheelsablackbirdissueii.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Dylan Hocknoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29673647.post-1157685098903711272006-09-07T23:09:00.000-04:002006-09-10T23:00:00.660-04:00<span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">Hand in Hand</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br />At the end of a cloud<br />clotted day the sun<br />makes an appearance<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br />that lone BBQ rib<br />no one would eat<br />an offering to the gods<br />until tomorrow when<br />it's someone's breakfast<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br />symmetry in language<br />balance in the soul<br />the amorphous shimmering<br />indefinable self<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br />the road disappears<br />in puddles of light<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br /><a href="http://watchingthewheelsablackbirdissueii.blogspot.com/2006/09/seven-poems.html">Back</a><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/29673647-115768509890371127?l=watchingthewheelsablackbirdissueii.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Dylan Hocknoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29673647.post-1157684806215458332006-09-07T22:57:00.000-04:002006-09-08T00:18:49.266-04:00<span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">Controlled Substance</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br />I'll pay for this in the morning<br />pronounce myself in the first person<br />beyond a region known as the instance<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br />"this must be remedied" I say to myself<br />understanding perfectly<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmmmmmmmmmmn</span>what I mean<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br />carry on<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmmmmn</span>lair of the liar<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmmmmmmml</span>liar of the lair<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmm</span>lala lala lala la<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br />just waiting for something to put me<br />in a good bad mood<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmmmm</span>I request vigilante action<br />I must find my soft chewy center<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br />life can crush you like an old<br />aluminum beer can if you let it<br />private heartaches<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmmmmmmml</span>should stay that way<br />slowly savored like a hard candy<br />with the half life of plutonium<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br />I build on such effects<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);"></span><br /><a href="http://watchingthewheelsablackbirdissueii.blogspot.com/2006/09/seven-poems.html">Back</a><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/29673647-115768480621545833?l=watchingthewheelsablackbirdissueii.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Dylan Hocknoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29673647.post-1157679763225511042006-09-07T21:30:00.000-04:002006-09-08T00:18:34.400-04:00<span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">Bug Life<span style="font-size:100%;"><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);font-size:85%;" >m</span><span style="font-size:85%;"><br /></span><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);font-size:85%;" >m</span><span style="font-size:85%;"><br /></span><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);font-size:85%;" >m</span><span style="font-size:85%;"><br />The smaller butterflies of autumn<br /></span><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);font-size:85%;" >m</span><span style="font-size:85%;"><br />water's velvet quench<br /></span><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);font-size:85%;" >m</span><span style="font-size:85%;"><br />rustic in my domestication<br />domestic in my rustication<br /></span><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);font-size:85%;" >m</span><span style="font-size:85%;"><br />Sunday muted<br />by a layer of fragile high clouds<br />a thread of smoke<br /></span><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);font-size:85%;" >mmm</span><span style="font-size:85%;">sews up the day<br /></span><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);font-size:85%;" >m</span><span style="font-size:85%;"><br />I saw the light<br />at the end of the tunnel<br />it was a stop light<br /></span><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);font-size:85%;" >m</span><span style="font-size:85%;"><br />of course<br /></span><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);font-size:85%;" >mmm</span><span style="font-size:85%;">there's intelligent design<br />unfortunately few have<br /></span><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);font-size:85%;" >mmm</span><span style="font-size:85%;">the intelligence<br /></span><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);font-size:85%;" >mmmmmmmml</span><span style="font-size:85%;">to understand it</span><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);font-size:85%;" ><br />m</span><span style="font-size:85%;"><br />a mass of bug life swirls up<br />into the later amber rays<br /></span><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);font-size:85%;" >m</span><span style="font-size:85%;"><br />the inexorable Darwinian slide<br />into materialism<br />thems that's got<br /></span><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);font-size:85%;" >thems </span><span style="font-size:85%;">thems that don't<br /></span><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);font-size:85%;" >thems thems </span><span style="font-size:85%;">that never changes<br />thems that's in the middle<br /></span><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);font-size:85%;" >thems </span><span style="font-size:85%;">the sky is falling<br />the earth opens up at their feet<br /></span><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);font-size:85%;" >m</span><span style="font-size:85%;"><br />in a cathedral of trees<br />our mere existence<br /><br /><br /><br /><a href="http://watchingthewheelsablackbirdissueii.blogspot.com/2006/09/seven-poems.html">Back</a></span><br /></span></span><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/29673647-115767976322551104?l=watchingthewheelsablackbirdissueii.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Dylan Hocknoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29673647.post-1157650472357386742006-09-07T13:25:00.000-04:002006-09-07T13:34:32.360-04:00<a href="http://watchingthewheelsablackbirdissueii.blogspot.com/2006/07/keith-kumasen-abbott.html">The Hat (After Matisse)</a><br /><a href="http://watchingthewheelsablackbirdissueii.blogspot.com/2006/09/keith-kumasen-abbott.html">Kensho Express</a><br /><a href="http://watchingthewheelsablackbirdissueii.blogspot.com/2006/09/keith-kumasen-abbott_07.html">War Gamins</a><br /><a href="http://watchingthewheelsablackbirdissueii.blogspot.com/2006/09/keith-kumasen-abbott_115764964513843664.html">Two Kinds of Guards</a><br /><br /><br /><br /><div style="text-align: left;"><center></center></div> <div style="text-align: left;"> <center></center> </div> <div style="text-align: left;"> <center></center> </div> <div style="text-align: left;"> <center></center> </div> <span style="font-family:Arial;"><br /></span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/4546/1758/1600/kabbott.0.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/4546/1758/200/kabbott.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-family:Arial;"><a href="http://www.naropa.edu/faculty/abbott.html">Keith Kumasen Abbott</a> was born in Tacoma, Washington, grew up in the Northwest, lived in </span><span style="font-family:Arial;">California for 28 </span> <span style="font-family:Arial;">years and now resides with </span><span style="font-family:Arial;">his wife Lani in Longmont, Colorado. Currently he is on the faculty of the Writing and Poetics Department & Visual Arts Department at <a href="http://www.naropa.edu/">Naropa University</a>, where he teaches MFA workshops and Asian calligraphy.<br /><br /><br /><br /></span><div style="text-align: right;"><a href="http://watchingthewheelsablackbirdissueii.blogspot.com/2006/06/table-of-contents.html">Table of Contents</a><br /></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/29673647-115765047235738674?l=watchingthewheelsablackbirdissueii.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Dylan Hocknoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29673647.post-1157649645138436642006-09-07T13:17:00.000-04:002006-09-07T13:43:13.023-04:00<span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">Two Kinds of Guards<span style="font-size:100%;"><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);font-size:85%;" >m</span><span style="font-size:85%;"><br /></span><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);font-size:85%;" >m</span><span style="font-size:85%;"><br /></span><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);font-size:85%;" >m</span><span style="font-size:85%;"><br />The Swimmer surfaced and conducted<br />the passengers to a bare bones<br />discussion their last vacation<br /></span><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);font-size:85%;" >m</span><span style="font-size:85%;"><br /></span><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);font-size:85%;" >m</span><span style="font-size:85%;"><br />It could only happen in a movie<br /></span><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:85%;" >There we cool</span><span style="font-size:85%;"><br />instant purification no blowback<br /></span><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);font-size:85%;" >m</span><span style="font-size:85%;"><br /></span><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);font-size:85%;" >m</span><span style="font-size:85%;"><br />But soon Frau Kulp<br />inches in looking coy<br />with the cure-all tour for borders<br /></span><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);font-size:85%;" >m</span><span style="font-size:85%;"><br /></span><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);font-size:85%;" >m</span><span style="font-size:85%;"><br />Passports terrorists<br />and mis-placed items<br />enjoy the bomb squad small room<br /><br /><br /><br /><a href="http://watchingthewheelsablackbirdissueii.blogspot.com/2006/09/three-poems-brushwork.html">Back</a></span><br /></span></span><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/29673647-115764964513843664?l=watchingthewheelsablackbirdissueii.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Dylan Hocknoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29673647.post-1157649328707886092006-09-07T13:09:00.000-04:002006-09-07T13:39:12.416-04:00<span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">War Gamins</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br />She was showing the house<br />and you two came upon the wary waterbeds<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mm</span>scooting away at your approach<br />and the wallpaper hung on weary so weary<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mm</span>shying away from your touch<br />Tears glazed the granite kitchen counters<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mm</span>--chemical smears they were<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br />The phones sport Roman Numerals<span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mn</span>(Empire)<br />The Can't Be Happy boys were<br />watching their mortars shell<br />the competition the next neighbor<br />over plus a few malcontents who<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mm</span>lined the causeways<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br />Rodeo cowgirl stencils handmade by<br />the anonymous silent majority who built<br />the mortars but never sold them too<br /><span style="font-style: italic;">This way, please, to the tests for Slave I.Q.s</span><br /><br /><br /><br /><a href="http://watchingthewheelsablackbirdissueii.blogspot.com/2006/09/three-poems-brushwork.html">Back</a><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/29673647-115764932870788609?l=watchingthewheelsablackbirdissueii.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Dylan Hocknoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29673647.post-1157648472102692902006-09-07T12:50:00.000-04:002006-09-07T13:38:54.866-04:00<span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);font-size:100%;" >m</span><br />Kensho Express<br /><br /></span><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br />The stunned bird fell<br />in your hair<br />The thump of the window<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmm</span>still circling<br />through the glass<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br />You dared not move<span style="">—</span><br />nor did I<span style="">—</span>on the inside--<br />and outside your hands smoothly<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmm</span>rose--<br />but the bird awoke<br />furious but staggering--<br />around and around your hair<br />it fluttered and lurched.<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br />For a moment you gave up<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmm</span>and what a lovely<br />peace fell through your face<span style="">—</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmm</span>and you waited--<br />your hand up to your ear<span style="">—</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmn </span>smiling at the melee--<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmmmmmn</span>your tangled hair<br /><br /><br /><a href="http://watchingthewheelsablackbirdissueii.blogspot.com/2006/09/three-poems-brushwork.html"><br />Back</a><br /><span style=""></span><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/29673647-115764847210269290?l=watchingthewheelsablackbirdissueii.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Dylan Hocknoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29673647.post-1153107119084151062006-07-16T23:26:00.000-04:002006-09-07T13:38:30.176-04:00<span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/4546/1758/1600/The%20Hat%20%28After%20Matisse%29.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/4546/1758/400/The%20Hat%20%28After%20Matisse%29.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size:130%;">The Hat (After Matisse)<br /><br /><br /><br /></span><div style="text-align: left;"><a href="http://watchingthewheelsablackbirdissueii.blogspot.com/2006/09/three-poems-brushwork.html"><span style="font-size:100%;">Back</span></a><br /></div></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/29673647-115310711908415106?l=watchingthewheelsablackbirdissueii.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Dylan Hocknoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29673647.post-1152999999893823202006-07-15T17:38:00.000-04:002006-07-15T17:49:24.206-04:00<span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);"><br />m</span> <span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br /><a href="http://watchingthewheelsablackbirdissueii.blogspot.com/2006/07/jared-del-rosso.html">(the man said)</a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style=""><!--[if gte vml 1]><v:shapetype id="_x0000_t75" coordsize="21600,21600" spt="75" preferrelative="t" path="m@4@5l@4@11@9@11@9@5xe" filled="f" stroked="f"> <v:stroke joinstyle="miter"> <v:formulas> <v:f eqn="if lineDrawn pixelLineWidth 0"> <v:f eqn="sum @0 1 0"> <v:f eqn="sum 0 0 @1"> <v:f eqn="prod @2 1 2"> <v:f eqn="prod @3 21600 pixelWidth"> <v:f eqn="prod @3 21600 pixelHeight"> <v:f eqn="sum @0 0 1"> <v:f eqn="prod @6 1 2"> <v:f eqn="prod @7 21600 pixelWidth"> <v:f eqn="sum @8 21600 0"> <v:f eqn="prod @7 21600 pixelHeight"> <v:f eqn="sum @10 21600 0"> </v:formulas> <v:path extrusionok="f" gradientshapeok="t" connecttype="rect"> <o:lock ext="edit" aspectratio="t"> </v:shapetype><v:shape id="_x0000_i1025" type="#_x0000_t75" style="'width:99.75pt;"> <v:imagedata src="file:///C:\DOCUME~1\ADMINI~1\LOCALS~1\Temp\msohtml1\01\clip_image001.jpg" title="iconIII"> </v:shape><![endif]--><!--[if !vml]--><!--[endif]--><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/4546/1758/1600/Pic.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/4546/1758/320/Pic.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><span style="font-weight: bold;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style=""><span style="font-weight: bold;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style=""><span style="font-weight: bold;"><br />Jared Del Rosso </span>is a sociology student at <a href="http://www.bc.edu/"><st1:place st="on"><st1:placename st="on">Boston</st1:placename> <st1:placetype st="on">College</st1:placetype></st1:place></a>.<span style=""> </span>Occasionally, he writes short fiction.<span style=""> </span>While most of his stories are not dedicated to <a href="http://www.ushistory.org/paine/">Tom Paine</a>, "<a href="http://watchingthewheelsablackbirdissueii.blogspot.com/2006/07/jared-del-rosso.html">(the man said)</a>" is.<span style=""><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style=""><span style=""><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: right;"><a href="http://watchingthewheelsablackbirdissueii.blogspot.com/2006/06/table-of-contents.html"><span style=""><span style="font-weight: bold;">Table of Contents</span></span></a></p><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/29673647-115299999989382320?l=watchingthewheelsablackbirdissueii.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Dylan Hocknoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29673647.post-1152998901102666572006-07-15T17:09:00.000-04:002006-07-15T17:50:17.723-04:00<p><span style="font-size:130%;">(the man said)</span></p><p><br /></p><p> <b><span style=""></span></b><span style="font-size:130%;">1.<br /></span></p><p><br /></p><p><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmmm</span>In <st1:country-region st="on">America</st1:country-region>, <st1:placename st="on">New York</st1:placename> <st1:placetype st="on">State</st1:placetype>, <st1:place st="on"><st1:placename st="on">Orange</st1:placename> <st1:placetype st="on">County</st1:placetype></st1:place>, between Pine Bush and Ellenville, without asking me, Ez's got it in reverse.<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmmm</span>"52's closed ahead," he says. "I just remembered. Fallen rocks. Right down the side of mountain."<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmmm</span>He points at a sign.<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmmm</span>"Fallen rock zone." I read it out loud. To him. I open my window. "Appropriate."<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmmm</span>"Yep," he says. "<st1:place st="on"><st1:city st="on">Boulder</st1:city></st1:place> big as a car."<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmmm</span>So Ezra Marsh's got the car in reverse, backing out of someone else's driveway. There's no flag on the front porch in the spot where a house in this town flies a flag. In case you were expecting that, I mean. It's just not there.<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmmm</span>There are no tracks, no fallen ladders crossing/scarring (take your pick) the country, in the towns in upstate where the freight train never bothered to come.<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmmm</span>There's only the now broken promise of mobility along the roads.<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmmm</span>There's only the sun still bleeding over the horizon.<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmmm</span>West; we're headed back east to Pine Bush.<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmmm</span>"Jack's house," I say.<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmmm</span>"Yep," says Ez.<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmmm</span>He doesn't know we're coming, but somehow Jack's already opening the door before we're knocking.<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmmm</span>"Party's been over since before it began," he says.<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmmm</span>"Whaa," says Ez.<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmmm</span>"You'll see," Jack says. "Come in."<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmmm</span>There's only one car in the driveway other than Jack's. It's Ez's. There are two dozen drunks inside. There are two could be drunks lying on top of each other in the corner. There are a couple of girls looking through Jack's drawers.<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmmm</span>"She means to do me harm." He points at one of the girls, the thinner of the two, brown hair, glasses. "Common thief." She doesn't notice but seems to smile. Somehow, a wine bottle appears in Jack's hand. "But there's nothing in there but porn," he says.<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmmm</span>The girls pull out some magazines and start flipping pages.<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmmm</span>"Where'd they come from?" I ask.<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmmm</span>"I dunno." he says. "They just came. Like they just came running in from like across the fields outside. And it's like, it's like, it's like, it's like." Jack's looking around at everyone. "It's like I don't exist."<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmmm</span>"Huh," says Ez.<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmmm</span>"Watch," Jack says.<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmmm</span>At this point, Thinner Girl puts down the magazine, glances at Jack, raises her eyebrows, shrugs, and Jack climbs onto the counter.<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmmm</span>"Get outta here! Everyone! Depart from me! Depart, depart, partpartpartparpapuh!" Jack's screaming, mumbling hysterical and no one stops moving to listen. He starts splashing wine everywhere. Strawberry wine, from this town's own vineyard. The taste sticks on the lips. Jack proves it by climbing off the counter and kissing the Thinner Girl. She takes him by the arm. Licks her lips then his.<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmmm</span>“Shh," she says all sexily.<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmmm</span>“Shh," Jack says.<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmmm</span>"I'll take you. Secretly," she whispers, right in front of me.<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmmm</span>I almost tell them that I heard. There's no secret. Just a no good situation - a bad omen - a ruined prophecy. But I don't. Instead I watch them take off for the south side of the house, where the sun never sets and the moon never rises and there's no one watching. Even Ez doesn't bother noticing. Instead, he moves to Jack's bookcase, sort of leading a couple girls by the elbows and telling them about how men feign liberty for the women.<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmmm</span>"It's not nothing really," he says. Then he takes and swallows a mouthful of something.<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmmm</span>Only one girl is listening to him. Ez is staring at the one behind her.<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmmm</span>"Girls, women, madams, damsels. Can I still call you that, fair damsels? Yes?"<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmmm</span>The girl who's listening nods. The girl Ez is staring at sneezes.<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmmm</span>"Walking and chained, we are. Symbols, see, I'm sick of symbols. I offer you my hand, see, and that's not it." Ez hands his hand to the Sneezing Girl, and she looks down at her hand, wipes it on her pant leg, and takes his.<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmmm</span>"You could take my hand, see, see." Jack swallows more drink. There's a flap of skin below his left eye that's twitching. “Symbols, I'm sick of symbols. Your hand." He lifts Sneezing Girl's sneezed on hand. "Possibility. The Future, I mean of course. Your eyes - The Soul. Breasts - Mother. Thighs - Shelter. Cunt. - <st1:place st="on"><st1:country-region st="on">America</st1:country-region></st1:place>. Every pioneer imagines himself a Big Dick. Penetrating the wilderness and poetic truths. Just give me the blowjob."<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmmm</span>I swear, this rant has actually worked before.<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmmm</span>"So poetic," snarls Listening Girl.<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmmm</span>“That's exactly what it's not," Ez says.<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmmm</span>“Then what about love?" says Listening Girl.<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmmm</span>Now even Sneezing Girl is listening.<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmmm</span>Ez bites his lip, takes another drink, then turns to her.<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmmm</span>"Love?"<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmmm</span>"Yes, that thing," she says. "Another symbol, yes?"<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmmm</span>"I believe in the lovers," Ez says. He stops and glances at Sneezing Girl, who finishes his thought.<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmmm</span>"But not in their ideas," she says.<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmmm</span>Ez kisses her mouth.<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmmm</span>"Not in their love," he says.<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmmm</span>Sneezing Girl is convinced, I know it, and Ez has won. Before he can hide away with her, I get the keys from him.<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmmm</span>"Leavin?" he asks.<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmmm</span>“Maybe," I say.<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmmm</span>“Drinkin?" he asks.<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmmm</span>"Not tonight."<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmmm</span>"Why?"<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmmm</span>“Too late. I can't catch up with everyone."<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmmm</span>"Kay," he says. The girl pulls on his arm. "Come back for me one day."<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmmm</span>Stepping over bodies, bottles, both, I make it out of the house then to the car. When I open the door there's a shriek and a body falling out and me screaming “shit" and something spilling on my foot.<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmmm</span>It's another drunk girl.<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmmm</span>“Sorry for what I've done, sorry for what I've done, sorry for." She's mumbling to herself. I pick her up, put her back in the seat, and she goes right for the plastic cross Ez put up around the rear view mirror as some sort of ironic, unfunny joke.<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmmm</span>“Sorry," she mumbles, "for what I've done, what I've."<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmmm</span>"What?" I say.<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmmm</span>She fingers the cross then leans out of the car against my hip.<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmmm</span>"Look, you've gotta get out," I say.<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmmm</span>"Na," she says.<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmmm</span>"Come on." I pull on her arm.<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmmm</span>"Give me a choice," she says.<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmmm</span>"What?"<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmmm</span>“Something to choose. Like, we'll fly together."<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmmm</span>“There's no choice," I say. "Get out." I pull her out, she rolls on the ground, gets up, puts her arms out for wings, and tries to fly. It doesn't work. She's on the ground again, now crying.<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmmm</span>"I'm sorry," she says.<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmmm</span>This is it.<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmmm</span>I imagine lifting her, her clinging to my skin with her fingers, apologizing for God knows what - a life, cremating her last mother last winter, and how she can't visit or find her great<span style="color:white;">-</span>grandmother's grave, so did they ever really cross the Atlantic in that big tinfoil boat, and a life. Some girls get drunk and tell life stories.<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmmm</span>Sometimes the girl needs saving.<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmmm</span>Sometimes the story.<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmmm</span>I pick her up, put her in the passenger's seat, and let her let me take her home.<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmmm</span>I go home with the girl. She tells me that her name's Abby then she shows me her room. Then she undresses, down to the bra, right in front of me. Then I don't touch her. She tells me she's sorry for not asking my name, or being in the car, or not thanking me soon enough for the ride, and for being this drunk.<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmmm</span>I stare at her. She talks.<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmmm</span>"It's a mess. My room. It's too hot, no a/c. Sorry. And the window won't shut, but I guess it doesn't matter right now."<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmmm</span>Her skin moves through the hot, sticky air. I try to shut the window that she claims is stuck. It won't budge.<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmmm</span>"It's stuck," I say. "Why?"<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmmm</span>“Dunno," Abby says. "Came like that."<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmmm</span>Abby sits down on the edge of her bed, links her feet together, then sings,<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmmm</span>"Abby, Abby unmade the bed."<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmmm</span>She stacks the pillows on the floor, then falls on them. The sheets - powder blue baby boy - she wraps around herself. Right now, what, or all, she has is a face and a body connected beneath sky. An entire atmosphere of her sheets and breasts. Even if she drops them (the sheets) she still won't be naked behind the bra and everything else implicated in her hiding.<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmmm</span>But instead of dropping them, she tightens the sheets around her waist, yawns, looks at the ceiling, then falls asleep on her bed's mattress.<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmmm</span>I stare at her, scribble down my name and number on a piece of paper, and head back to Jack's to get Ezra. When I get there, the place looks like a dug up cemetery. Prostrate people are everywhere. From the living room, I see Ezra and Jack sitting in the kitchen, staring at the ceiling and mumbling. Ez is holding an empty bottle and trying to burn off the label with his cigarette. Jack notices me first. He hops off the counter, runs over to me, and wraps his arm around my shoulder.<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmmm</span>"Cute girls are cute," he says. "Hot girls are hot. Perfect girls are perfect. Man, you missed a lot."<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmmm</span>Jack smiles. Ez does too.<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmmm</span>“Man," Ez says to Jack. "As drunk as you are, man, you'll never be drunker than yourself."<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmmm</span>"Huh," says Jack.<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmmm</span>“Dunno. Read it in a book once," says Ez.<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmmm</span>"You can't believe anything you read," I say.<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmmm</span>"No, suppose not," says Ez. He frowns, thinks to himself, then hops off the counter. "Hey! You came back for me!"<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmmm</span>"Yup," I say.<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmmm</span>Jack follows Ez and me to the door. He kicks a bottle off the front steps and sits down. Ez and I leave him there and get in the car, but before I have a chance to get it into reverse, Jack runs at us with this big, dumb grin and hurls his body at the windshield. Ez rolls down his window, leans out, and tries to push Jack off. I put on the wipers, but before they hit Jack, he rolls away and sticks his head through Ez's open window.<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmmm</span>"Beware the ides of March!" he shouts.<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmmm</span>That it?" Ez asks.<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmmm</span>“Read it in a book," says Jack. He runs away before Ez has a chance to find something to throw.<br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmmm</span> In the summer, the swamps that you have to drive past to get to Ez's smell like semen.<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmmm</span>Like life bubbling in the muck.<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmmm</span>Ez sniffs the air and says, "I wanna write a book called <i>Our Homoerotic Heritage</i>."<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmmm</span>"What?"<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmmm</span>"How the <st1:place st="on"><st1:placename st="on">Washington</st1:placename> <st1:placetype st="on">Monument</st1:placetype></st1:place>'s really a hard on, how we erect giant, bronze statues of our Founding Fathers. You know what they say about an eight<span style="color:white;">-</span>foot tall bronze man?"<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmmm</span>"What do they say, Ez?"<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmmm</span>"Nothing, really, but I bet he'd have a big, bronze cock."<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmmm</span>"Except you can't get a statue's pants down."<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmmm</span>“That's what worries me," he says.<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmmm</span>"What's that?"<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmmm</span>"We might be the sum total of everything we can't have."<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmmm</span>Everything Ezra can have he has. In its entirety. Hence, the "just give me the blowjob" speech before. All the cigarettes. All the liquor. But he's worried about what he can't have.<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmmm</span>"Like," says Ez, stopping himself as we pull into his driveway.<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmmm</span>"Like what?"<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmmm</span>Ez gets out of the car and comes around to my side. I roll down the window. Somehow, suddenly, Ez looks very serious and very sad. "Like to find Tom Paine, we can't even take 17 east to 87 down to <st1:place st="on"><st1:city st="on">New Rochelle</st1:city></st1:place>."<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmmm</span>"What?" I never know why Ez knows these things. Or why they matter.<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmmm</span>"Cuz back in the 19th century, without asking me, they took his body from his farm there to <st1:place st="on"><st1:country-region st="on">England</st1:country-region></st1:place> and they lost it. We can't get to him from here."<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmmm</span>Ez seems sincerely hurt by this. And I don't even know what to say.<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmmm</span>"Yeah," I say.<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmmm</span>Looking up at the sky, then his door, then skipping away, Ez shouts back, "But I guess no one should have to spend a death in <st1:place st="on">Westchester</st1:place>."<span style="color:white;"> -</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style=""><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmmm</span>Alone now, I could lose myself for hours, days, lifetimes, and no one would know. Instead, I drive home, fall asleep, and wake to a message from Abby.<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmmm</span>“Sorry to pass out - naked, almost, I guess. Don't know how that happened. Or why. Sorry. Anyway. Like to see you again. Call me. Seven four four two six three nine. Yeah, so, see ya."<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmmm</span>I start to call her back, but get stuck half way. On the twoooooooooooo. “Meeeeeeeeeeeee," it sounds like, and I hang up about then.<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmmm</span>I realize that I don't know what I'd have done with Abby had she stayed awake.<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmmm</span>I realize that I've got to bring Ez his car. I drive to his house, bang on his door until he wakes, and he drives me home. On the ride, the short one it is, back through the swamps, past the cardboard box post office, past the Presbyterian Church at the intersection, ... past the church's cemetery, called <st1:place st="on"><st1:city st="on">Hopewell</st1:city></st1:place>, Ez tells me all about the girl.<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmmm</span>“Don't know her. Don't remember her name. She told me. Can't have her."<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmmm</span>"Why not?" I ask.<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmmm</span>"Already taken," he says.<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmmm</span>"Ah."<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmmm</span>"You?"<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmmm</span>“Me what?" I ask.<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmmm</span>"Any girls last night?"<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmmm</span>"Abby something or another."<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmmm</span>"Abby?"<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmmm</span>"I think. Don't really remember," I say.<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmmm</span>"You didn't drink," Ez says.<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmmm</span>"Right, but<span style="color:white;">-</span>."<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmmm</span>"Abby sounds familiar," he says.<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmmm</span>"Yeah?"<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmmm</span>"I think I fucked her once. What she look like?"<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmmm</span>Yeah, huh, sure, god. Ez stops staring through the windshields and looks at me. He notices my silence.<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmmm</span>"Kidding, man. Never had her. Don't know her. Don't think I do, and probably never will."<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmmm</span>"Ah," I say.<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmmm</span>"Kidding," he sighs.<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmmm</span>I guess it's not awkward really, because I know he's kidding, but I can't think of anything to say. Ez drops me off, says, "I'll come back for you one day," and I decide to go back to Abby's.<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmmm</span>I don't call. Instead, I knock and Abby opens the door. She's fully dressed. The room smells like cigarettes, and I don't remember that from last night.<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmmm</span>There's a fan in the jammed window. It's not running.<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmmm</span>I don't remember that from last night either.<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmmm</span>"I try to keep the air moving when he's here," Abby says. She points at the window.<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmmm</span>I don't remember anything about him from last night.<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmmm</span>Everything should stop. Hands should go white, should be thrown in my pockets, where they'd stay. Cheeks should pause on their way down to the floor, that black vacuum of a mouth writhing. I imagine what it'd look like if everything stopped. Not pretty.<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmmm</span>But nothing stops. Something under my stomach, maybe it's my intestines, fall behind the wall of my abdomen, into my hips, holding right above everything that's down there. Abby sighs.<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmmm</span>"I tell him smoking's no good."<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmmm</span>"Ah," I say.<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmmm</span>"But he does it anyway." She pauses. “So how are you?"<br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmmm</span>(How am I?<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmmm</span>I'm a little too hot. Turn on the fan. Get this air out of here. I can't breathe.<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmmm</span>I'm a little too <span style="color:white;">-</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmmm</span>I'm a little too <span style="color:white;">-</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmmm</span>See, the problem is that I'm still remembering you naked and now you've got your hand in your pockets and I notice the difference. How it disrupts the slope of your hip. All five fingers, I've counted them. They could press against the spot above my belt, find their way, slide down beneath, and I'd still be thinking about them in your pocket.<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmmm</span>You naked yesterday.<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmmm</span>Him smoking.)<br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmmm</span> "I'm a little warm."<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmmm</span>"Oh," she says. "Well, I've been thinking about getting a/c, but they cost so much to run."<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmmm</span>I begin to leave Abby at that. I take steps towards the door, too small to notice, more like a slide that I could blame on the earth's rotation. Half an hour of this, and I'm out of there. I head home and listen to her message again.<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmmm</span>"Naked, almost, I guess. Don't know how."<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmmm</span>While I was gone, Ez left a message.<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmmm</span>I don't listen.<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmmm</span>Everybody wants everything.</p><p class="MsoNormal" style=""><br /></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style=""><span style="font-size:130%;">2. </span> <br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style=""><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style=""><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmmm</span>I go back to Abby every Friday night.<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmmm</span>I leave Abby every Saturday morning, before we ever fall asleep.<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmmm</span>Tonight is no different, except this time she gets naked around <st1:time hour="0" minute="0" st="on">midnight</st1:time>, instead of quarter after and says, "he's on his way."<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmmm</span>"Now?"<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmmm</span>"Now."<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmmm</span>"Again?"<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmmm</span>"Again."</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style=""><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmmm</span>(He...<span style="color:white;">-</span>, he...<span style="color:white;">-</span>, he <span style="color:white;">-</span> until it sounds like me laughing, I repeat to myself the name of his unnamed, bodiless body. The one that she lets in after she makes me leave. I imagine what he must look like: stone thighs, rope veins. Then I imagine him reaching his hand into my pocket.<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmmm</span>"Can you see me now," I call.<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmmm</span>"No." He breathes.<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmmm</span>“Then fuck you."<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmmm</span>I see his breath: white, fog, burning white breath.<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmmm</span>One time, Abby described his shirt moving for me. His chest heaving, I didn't ask about that. I envision a peninsula sinking and her sighing, groaning, moaning, loaning her<span style="color:white;">-</span>her<span style="color:white;">-</span>her - whatever she says 0he's calling it this week, her:pussycuntthisthinghersyoursmine and)</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style=""><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmmm</span>My shirt moved, (she tugged it), and I stand, buttoning the second button underneath my chin. I still haven't even touched her yet.<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmmm</span>"He doesn't wait for conclusions," she once told me.<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmmm</span>The doorknob seems to turn itself. Abby opens the door and I leave. She shuts it behind me and locks it. I imagine her peaking out the keyhole, then I put my hand into my pocket and finger the key that I don't want to have to try.<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmmm</span>She gave me it a week ago. She stood in this very same doorway, the one the key supposedly, allegedly, presumably unlocks, with her eyes closed for a long blink. Her lips barely touched each other and I could hear the breath slip out between them. Then she reached her hand into her pocket, took out the key, and handed it to me. I left then like I'm leaving now. </p> <p class="MsoNormal" style=""><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmmm</span>Then, every Saturday, after I leave Abby's, I meet Jack and Ez at Cronin's. The place is a bar in an old farmhouse. The red paint is still on it outside and it stills almost seems to smell like cows, flies, and sweat. When I stomp the mud off my shoes (the parking lot was never paved), Ez tells me that he swears he can hear hooves banging against the floor boards.<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmmm</span>The plan tonight, like every previous Friday night and Saturday morning since Abby, is to get me drunk, while Ez and Jack watch over me. Tonight, though, everything seems to move quickly. Maybe it's because Abby kicked me out fifteen minutes earlier than usual, but Jack takes off with his girl - that Thinner Girl - before I'm even drunk. That's never happened, and I notice the difference when the two of them leave. As the brush by me, there's a harmonica solo screeching out of the jukebox. Jack whisper to the girl, “the harmonica always blows back." She puts her hands in his pocket and they leave. I go looking for Ez, who (and I can only notice this because I wasn't drunk enough) stopped drinking about fifteen minutes ago. I find him in the bathroom. Actually, I spot him before that and follow him in. He doesn't notice me until he hits the stall.<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmmm</span>“Ready?" he asks.<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmmm</span>"For what?"<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmmm</span>"Leaving?"<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmmm</span>"It's early," I say. "I'm not drunk either."<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmmm</span>"Yeah, but."<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmmm</span>"I don't know why I go and see the girl," I say. I'm not waiting, I decided, to get drunk to moan - shriek almost - about her. They let me do that every weekend. Anyone around us who hears me chalks it up to the alcohol. But I know what I'm doing.<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmmm</span>"I thought you only bitched Abby out when you drank." Clearly, Ez doesn't know what I'm doing.<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmmm</span>"I did drink."<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmmm</span>"You're not drunk you said."<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmmm</span>"I'm serious this time. I don't know why." </p> <p class="MsoNormal" style=""><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmmm</span>(Why: to listen to her voice, watch her naked. She always gets naked right before she kicks me out. I listen to her voice, stare at her eyes, and imagine him fucking her. But I have the key, I know. I've never used the key, because she lets me in. I listen and she always gets naked while I'm around. She calls me Saturday, around sunrise, while he sleeps, stone asleep, and she sits on the edge of the bed telling me things.<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmmm</span>She's never mentioned his name, or how he treats her.)<br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmmm</span>"You're serious? This time?" Ez asks. He puts himself away, walks to the sink, then slaps me across the head, just hard enough to sting.<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmmm</span>"Wash your hands first," I say.<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmmm</span>He throws the water on, keeps it running, stares into the mirror at me, and doesn't say anything yet. I take a step away from the sink, but keep my eyes on him.<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmmm</span>“Shit. You're really serious, aren't ya?"<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmmm</span>I nod.<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmmm</span>"You called her, 'the girl,’ that's why." Ez never even tries to make sense. He looks away from me and at the water, still running in the sink and finally hot enough to steam. He plunges his hands into it, rinses, then pulls them out, cursing the germs.<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmmm</span>"I know her name. It's Abby," I say.<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmmm</span>"But you don't call her that. Every week here, "why do I go to the girl, the girl, the girl. And you call him, her little fuckmate, Him."<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmmm</span>"I don't know his name."<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmmm</span>"What do you think it is?"<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmmm</span>"What?"<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmmm</span>"You imagined it?"<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmmm</span>"Ez. What? Come on now."<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmmm</span>"Exactly what you're doing. I know it and she knows it too. You've got her, this life, but you're obsessed with what she won't give you. Body, sex, not even that. You want the name, a picture of his dick."<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmmm</span>"What?" Ez never even tries to make sense, but I worry that he does anyway. A picture of his dick, though, no.<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmmm</span>"What, what? Fuck it man. She gave you a key, she talks to you, gets naked, naked, fucking naked. Have you even touched-."<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmmm</span>"No."<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmmm</span>"What are you waiting for?"<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmmm</span>"I don't know<span style="color:white;">-</span>."<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmmm</span>“Don't know. You know. You want to create all of her. Her - as a fucking." Ez turns and walks out. I follow and strain to catch his words in the darkness of the bar. "As a fucking entire thing. Body lining up with voice. With him around - with him around."<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmmm</span>“He's fucking fucking her, Ez."<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmmm</span>"You can't win with him around. You can't lose either. But once you do either, it's over. Nothing to need her for. The Fucking Potential. No dream of that entire thing cuz you'd have it all as it is or else none of it."<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmmm</span>Ez is now stalking through the crowd, letting his elbow catch people's sides. A wave of drinks splash as he pushes through a crowd of girls. He stops for a second, just long enough to stick his tongue out at the bartender, some blonde, almost like the ones you see in commercials. Then he pushes his way through the door and brings me to his car.<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmmm</span>Sober, one notices more than when drunk. Like how we're leaving the bar fifteen minutes before it closes. Like how the swamps don't smell in Autumn. Instead, when air blasts through the window, I actually feel it on my face and think, "I'm not drunk." The wind makes me smell the cigarettes in Ez's car. I'm sober and I'm finally noticing how neatly the night ran and how it does that every Saturday. How Ez likes women, naked women especially. How he worries about what he can't have.<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmmm</span>When he leaves me in my driveway, I stand in the lawn and watch him pull out. He could turn either way out of the driveway and still get to Abby's. And anyway, even if there could be a wrong way to Abby's, he could turn around at any point and backtrack. Sober, I finally realize that I've never asked where he goes after leaving me, or who does Abby after she makes me leave. Never even asked his name.<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmmm</span>I run inside, grab the phone and dial Ez's number. I know he's not there and his machine will answer.<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmmm</span>"Ez you - you - you."<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmmm</span>Ez, she isn't your version of <st1:place st="on"><st1:country-region st="on">America</st1:country-region></st1:place>. You can't just have the blowjob without it all - future, eyes, souls, promises. Voice, her voice, I've got it. In my pocket. They key you don't have.<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmmm</span>"Ez you - you're right."<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmmm</span>I don't take Abby's call that morning. She leaves a message that I erase. I'm not too worried about what I can't have anymore, because eventually you have to get to the story's ending.<br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style=""><br /></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style=""><span style="font-size:130%;">3. </span><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style=""><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style=""><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmmm</span>Alone, I could lose myself for hours. I spend the week and let Friday come. When I arrive at Abby's, she's already naked.<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmmm</span>"On his way?" I ask.<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmmm</span>"No. I didn't think you were coming. You didn't take my call."<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmmm</span>"I'm here."<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmmm</span>"Yes."<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmmm</span>Abby stretches across her bed. Her foot runs slowly up and down the wall. She doesn't say anything. I stare at the wall behind her flesh and count the roses that are printed on the wallpaper. This is the first time that I've noticed them.<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmmm</span>Abby doesn't say anything when I sit down next to her on her bed. She doesn't say anything when I put my hand on her hip, or when I start writing on her with my finger - infinities, loops, letters, words. I put both hands on her - I hold tight to her hips - look up with my head above her abdomen - that spread of muscle twisting beneath me. Then she doesn't say anything when I remember he's coming and it's quarter after and I get up and leave. She doesn't say, “Stop." She doesn't say, "Go." I think I hear her mumble, "I don't know why we do this," but that's just me actually saying it for real. When I cross through her door I tell myself it'll be the last time. I don't bother shutting it.<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmmm</span>At Cronin's, I down shots of something. Some guy at the bar throws his arm round my shoulder at number four or five or whatever and keeps with me. At some point, Ez replaces that guy and tells me to stop.<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmmm</span>"Not even feeling it," I say.<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmmm</span>"Not yet," Ez says. He drags me into the bathroom and leans me against the stall door.<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmmm</span>"I know," I say.<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmmm</span>He leans close to the stall, keeps one hand on the wall and pulls down his pants with the other. I drag myself closer to him, clinging to the wall to keep off the floor.<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmmm</span>"Yeah? What do you know," he says. "And stop looking at my dick."<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmmm</span>"I'm not<span style="color:white;">,</span>" I say, but my head won't even support itself anymore.<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmmm</span>"And what's it you know?"<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmmm</span>"You. And Abby. Every time I leave. Man, I'm feeling it now. Beginning to." I step away from the stall. The light in the bathroom flashes on off on.<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmmm</span>“Me and Abby what?" Ez says, pulling his pants back up.<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmmm</span>"Fucking."<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmmm</span>I make a fist and hit him in the mouth. He stumbles. I lunge towards him. We both end up on the floor. He's on top and there are arms and legs flailing. My head starts bouncing, and I realize that I'm on the floor. In the stall. On the tiles. There's only the toilet and now someone's pushing on the door.<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmmm</span>"You've got a friend out here."<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmmm</span>Whose voice?<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmmm</span>I push the door back. Legs slide out underneath me. My ass is wet. Black stuff covers my lips.<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmmm</span>I can't even try to get up.<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmmm</span>I don't dream anything.<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmmm</span>I can't.<span style="color:white;">-</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmmm</span>But I must have dreamt something, because I wake on the floor near Abby's bed. There are two bodies on it. I crawl to the bathroom and throw up. A light goes on in the bedroom. I crawl back. Abby is sitting on the edge of the bed naked.<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmmm</span>“That's what he gets," I say.<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmmm</span>"What?"<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmmm</span>I point at the other body in the bed.<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmmm</span>"Ez."<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmmm</span>"Who?"<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmmm</span>I stare, best I can, through the half lit room at the roses on the wallpaper. My eyes trace a path to Ez's thigh. I point at him, proving it all to Abby. That I know.<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmmm</span>"He left me in the bathroom," I say.<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmmm</span>Abby turns on another light. The room and the night it keeps inside itself flash and I suddenly remember that I had Ez's car the first night that I left Abby.<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmmm</span>I realize that it's not his thigh under the roses. Everything stops. For real this time. It's not pretty. I can taste the black stuff on my tongue. There are threads of it between my teeth. I can smell it on my arm.<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmmm</span>"But you came and got me anyway?" I ask Abby. "How'd you know?"<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmmm</span>Abby shakes her head.<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmmm</span>"How'd I get in?"<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmmm</span>"You have a key."<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmmm</span>I drop my hand into my damp pocket and find nothing.<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmmm</span>"You didn't come get me?"<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmmm</span>Abby shakes her head again. "You're so sad."<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmmm</span>“Sad?" Here it comes. The refusal at least.<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmmm</span>"And the saddest thing is - you make me a better fuck for him."<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmmm</span>"What?"<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmmm</span>"Your keys over there." Abby points at a dark spot on the floor then crawls beneath the sheets and falls back asleep. I stare at her then crawl into the bathroom, flush the toilet, and fall asleep on the bathroom floor.<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmmm</span>When I wake, I go back to the bedroom. Abby's gone and he's sitting on the bed, still naked and staring at the open window. I pick up the key and sit down on the floor. My pants are still wet. Probably not worth saving. Neither of us says anything, because:<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmmm</span>Without Abby in bed - with only me here - there's nothing around that he wants to fuck.<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmmm</span>With him staring back at me, with the key in my hand, without Abby, I can't figure out how this is ending.<span style="font-size:78%;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: right;"><br /></p><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-weight: bold;"><br /></span><a href="http://watchingthewheelsablackbirdissueii.blogspot.com/2006/07/story_15.html"><span style="font-size:130%;">Back</span></a><br /></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/29673647-115299890110266657?l=watchingthewheelsablackbirdissueii.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Dylan Hocknoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29673647.post-1152664688778780142006-07-11T20:26:00.000-04:002006-09-10T04:57:16.580-04:00<span style="font-size:100%;"><br /><a href="http://www.archive.org/download/NickDebniakSillyTurnsYouSadness/03_Silly_Turns_You_Sadness.mp3">Silly Turns You Sadness*</a><br /></span><span style="font-size:100%;"><a href="http://www.archive.org/download/NickDebniakSolarVeins_0/01_Solar_Veins.mp3">Solar Veins*</a><br /></span><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><a href="http://www.archive.org/download/NickDebniakSolarVeins/03_Organ_Song_Trilogy.mp3">Organ Song Trilogy*</a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/4546/1758/1600/530350343_m.2.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/4546/1758/400/530350343_m.0.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a></span><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /><a href="http://www.archive.org/download/NickDebniakPublicDisgrace_0/02_Public_Disgrace.mp3">Public Disgrace*</a></span><br /></div><span style="font-size:100%;"><a href="http://www.archive.org/download/NickDebniakMakingThemSorry/03_Making_Them_Sorry.mp3">Making Them Sorry*</a></span><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /><a href="http://www.archive.org/download/NickDebniakPalmerHall_0/03_Palmer_Hall.mp3">Palmer Hall*</a><br /><a href="http://www.archive.org/download/NickDebniakYouKnow_0/04_You_Know.mp3">You Know*</a><br /><a href="http://www.archive.org/download/NickDebniakNotaReceipt_0/03_Not_a_Receipt.mp3">Not a Receipt^</a><br /><a href="http://www.archive.org/download/NickDebniakUnleashtheFuryRoughDemo_0/03_Unleash_the_Fury_Rough_Demo.mp3">Unleash the Fury^</a></span><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /><a href="http://www.archive.org/download/NickDebniakEarlyMorning_0/01_Early_Morning.mp3">Early Morning*</a><br /><a href="http://www.archive.org/download/NickDebniakIncredibleSons_0/09_Incredible_Sons.mp3">Incredible Sons*</a></span><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/4546/1758/1600/424726431_l.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/4546/1758/200/424726431_l.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-weight: bold;font-size:130%;" ><br /><span style="font-size:100%;"><a href="http://profile.myspace.com/index.cfm?fuseaction=user.viewprofile&friendid=4212178"><font>Nick Debniak</span></a></span></span><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font> has been playing music for more than 15 years. In that time he has worked, grown, and helped to lead the pack as one of West Michigan's finest indie musicians. Playing, writing, and leading bands <font><span style="font-weight: bold;">Olive</span>, <a style="font-weight: bold;" href="http://profile.myspace.com/index.cfm?fuseaction=user.viewprofile&friendid=54799660"><font>Super American Metal</span></a><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font>, <font><span style="font-weight: bold;">The Sex</span>, <span style="font-weight: bold;">Northern Means</span>, and <font><span style="font-weight: bold;">Halsey</span>, <font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font>has not only fine-tuned his skills as a lyricist and songwriter, but given him time, and room for experimentation and growth as an artist. He has produced two LP's, <span style="font-weight: bold;">Vol. 1</span>, and <span style="font-weight: bold;">Homecoming Kings</span>, as well as a year-long project in which he produced one<span style="font-weight: bold;"> 3-song EP</span> every month for a year -- a vehicle that led to some of his best work to-date. Currently, he is writing and recording solo while fishing around for competent collaborators. To purchase this album, contact <a href="http://www.watchingthewheelsablackbird.blogspot.com/">Watching the Wheels: a Blackbird</a> editor-in-chief <font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><a href="http://thevelvetgoldmine.blogspot.com/">Dylan Hock</a><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font> at killcolumbus@hotmail.com</span>. Contact <a href="http://profile.myspace.com/index.cfm?fuseaction=user.viewprofile&friendid=4212178">Nick</a> and tell him what you think of his music at <span style="font-weight: bold;">favblaster@yahoo.com</span>, or leave comments below.<br /><br /><a href="mailto://favblaster@cx.com"></a><br /><br />*<a href="http://profile.myspace.com/index.cfm?fuseaction=user.viewprofile&friendid=54799660">Super American Metal</a><br />^Halsey<br /></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></div><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><br /><br /><br /></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span><div style="text-align: right;"><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><a style="font-weight: bold;" href="http://watchingthewheelsablackbirdissueii.blogspot.com/2006/06/table-of-contents.html">Table of Contents </a><br /></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/29673647-115266468877878014?l=watchingthewheelsablackbirdissueii.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Dylan Hocknoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29673647.post-1151801329702398402006-07-01T20:43:00.000-04:002006-07-15T13:44:25.763-04:00<span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">n</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">n</span><br /><span style="font-size:100%;"><a href="http://watchingthewheelsablackbirdissueii.blogspot.com/2006/07/bradley-fink.html">In Strange Eruptions</a></span><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/4546/1758/1600/Chief.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/4546/1758/200/Chief.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />For most of 28 years <span style="font-weight: bold;font-size:100%;" ><a href="http://www.footstepstooxford.co.uk/where_the_sun_beats.html"><font>Bradley Fink</span></a></span><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font> has lived on the southern east coast of Florida. Since earning his writing degree from <a href="http://www.fsu.edu/">Florida State University</a>, he has accomplished nothing to speak of other than to blow the bulk of an unsubstantial inheritance from his grandmother. At the moment he is somewhere far away on travels around the world. He wants you to know that Argentina is very beautiful country. Thailand as well. He suggests that you take the time to visit those places some day. Meanwhile he is experiencing life, contemplating and making notes. He hopes that you like his story here. He wishes you a wonderful day...<br /><br /><br /><br /></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span><div style="text-align: right;"><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><a style="font-weight: bold;" href="http://watchingthewheelsablackbirdissueii.blogspot.com/2006/06/table-of-contents.html">Table of Contents</a><br /></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/29673647-115180132970239840?l=watchingthewheelsablackbirdissueii.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Dylan Hocknoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29673647.post-1151800828141417852006-07-01T20:18:00.000-04:002006-07-15T17:37:17.926-04:00<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:130%;">In Strange Eruptions</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style=""> <br /> </span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmmm</span>The awning of The Sunset pattered softly, caught in a flutter by some sweeping gale that bore forebodings of squalls from the west. Palms swayed in the street; heavy clouds were moving in. Out over the wetland the sky was streaked with gray and the darkness that seemed a shadow some miles out, draping the land like a shroud, was the rain. It appeared to be coming on like a plague.<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmmm</span>From the way of the swamp rose a despairing howl, not of the wind but the prevailing whining drone of an engine, a single automobile that appeared in the quarter-mile distance of the otherwise deserted road. Jack Runyon figured it to be the last of the undaunted fishermen. Seated alone at his table outside the café, heavily clothed and capped with a mosquito-netted hat, he looked wearily on as the car sped east away from the storm that was fast moving in off the swamp. The road, he thought, fostered those ominous qualities of emptiness and fear of which he had known only with hurricanes. There wasn’t a soul to be seen out of doors. Looking again west to the glades and the storm, closer now and dark like the coming of midnight, a shudder ran through him not of angst but despair as though the very darkness had been awaited. It had come too soon. He sipped the last of his drink and moved inside the café.<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmmm</span>“Its bad news,” said Mike. Behind the counter he was rounding the inside of a highball with a washcloth.<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmmm</span>Jack settled at the bar. “Weather to breed,” he nodded.<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmmm</span>“To flourish,” said Mike. “They’ll spread like goddamned smallpox. It’s bad news.”<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmmm</span>Though the place was open for business it did not appear so; the windows were shut, the door closed, and lights inside had been dimmed to an unpalatable glow. Behind the counter neon signs hung unlit, their mechanical hum silent so as not to attract insects near off the swamp. Through an unshaded pane the rain outside was coming now fitfully in short bursts of wind, blowing in first one way, then another, circling above the street like miniature spouts gathered from the puddles on the pavement. An old rusted pick-up pulled up to The Sunset in the hard driving rain.<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmmm</span>“Nolan,” said Mike.<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmmm</span>Jack turned to see the boy standing dripping wet in the open doorway, holding in his hand a brown paper sack stained dark and sodden where the rain had soaked through. He wore on his head the same fashion hat that Jack had now laid on the bar, the netting of which hung from the brim to cover his face in a veil, and was dressed as well in dungaree pants and a sweater to cover his arms. Under the tumult of the storm the two looked on at each other in quiet anticipation, both quite similar in clothing and countenance. Without speaking the boy extended his hand with the paper bag when, as if by signal, the bottom tore through and three dead birds fell to stiffly the floor. The men looked down at them in steady dismay.<span style=""><br /></span><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmmm</span>“Shut the door,” said Mike.<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmmm</span>Nolan swept backward with his foot. “More crows,” he said. “Got these from Jim Powell telling me give em’ to you. He says there ain’t no doubt about it now, says he found em’ this morning fallen about his lawn. And his little girl, Emily, she’s sick.”<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmmm</span>Jack’s eyes moved to the window and he shifted in noticeable discomfort. “How bad is she?” he said.<span style=""><br /></span><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmmm</span>Nolan scratched his head, still looking down at the birds. “She fell asleep yesterday afternoon and hasn’t woke since.”<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmmm</span>Creeping from behind the bar, Mike stooped and kicked at one of the birds. It was stiff as wood and its wings were unbroken and there was no trace of blood.<span style=""> </span>“Well,” he said. “Now its for certain.”<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmmm</span>Jack’s nodded, his head fading in feeble movements off his sunken shoulders. His voice trailed pitifully low. “You go tell Jim to get her to a hospital,” he said. “Anyone else you see on the street, if anyone’s still about, wave them down and have them stay indoors. Tell them that now it’s for certain.” He stared out the window as if considering something else, then turned silently back toward the bar. The boy stood watching him but Jack, with a drooped palm, waved him away. He raised a finger to Mike.<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmmm</span>“We’ll take care of them,” said the boy. “Soon as this weather stops.”<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmmm</span>“Right,” said Jack. “Soon as it stops.” Mike poured a whiskey floater into his mug, screwing the cap back tight, but Jack took the bottle and set it beside himself. Getting drunk was all he could do now. Two fallen fishermen on the skirts of the swamp, crows dropping from trees like coconuts, he thought: Maybe it will be <i style="">them </i>who take care of <i style="">us</i>. Tilting his head back and raising the mug, he cringed as the liquor burned into his throat. The drumming in the rafters told of a furious rain that would hold for a spell. Perhaps in less than a week they would sweep through the county. Shaking himself back from these thoughts, Jack raised the bottle and poured from it another, saying, “Go on. Give Jim’s family my regards.”<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmmm</span>The boy refitted his hat and took a can of repellant from his pants. Spraying a thin stream of the stuff into the air, he stepped into the mist, patted his clothing, then disappeared again out into the rain. Jack slipped off his stool. At the window he stood with his nose to the glass watching the pick-up truck pull away. The town was dark and deserted. From the awning of the place the rain ran heavily, swelling into a river in the flatness of the street. Palm fronds strewed the walk. The wind had picked up quite a bit. A tiny black winged bug, in its hopeless effort to light on Jack’s nose, batted against the windowpane, bounced off, swooped again, bounced, finally settling on the clear sleek surface where Jack had smudged the opposite side. His eyes crossed watching it.<span style=""> </span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmmm</span>“Haven’t closed a day in fourteen years.” Mike had come up beside Jack and was standing there looking out. He reached behind to tie his apron. “Not for Christmas, never once during hurricane season, sure as heck not for this.”<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmmm</span>“No,” muttered Jack. “No need to for this.” Turning aside he winked uneasily, realizing afterward that his guilt had betrayed him. Mike saw this and gave him an awkward sideways glance, then looked back to the windowpane.<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmmm</span>“Looks like a flooding.”<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmmm</span>“Looks like it’s for certain,” nodded Jack.<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmmm</span>“Not much we can do now but to wait for it to clear. Might be days. Might be more.”<br />mmm“Well,” Jack pursed his lips. “I ought to phone it in, get the word out on the evening news.” He glanced with searching eyes through the runny pane, scratching at his collar and sighing as he turned away from the glass. Mike placed a hand on his shoulder.<span style=""> </span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmmm</span>“There’s no blame in it, Jack.”<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmmm</span>Jack shook him off.<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmmm</span>“The hell with it,” Mike said. “It was Jim’s decision as much as it was yours and mine. We all screwed up.”<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmmm</span>“It’s a terrible mess,” Jack said. “Depending on how long the rains last, how far the water runs into the swamp,” Cocking his ear toward the rafters, he paused then shook his head. “Coming on heavy now.”<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmmm</span>“And with a good rise they’ll spread through Loxahatchee faster than you could kill ten. But there’s nothing we can do about it now. When the weather clears we’ll spray the fields and into the swamp. Until then we’ll just have to sit tight.”<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmmm</span>“Right,” muttered Jack. At the bar he took the phone and set it beside the bottle, a sad hollow anguish about his eyes. Picking up the receiver, he put it to his ear, scratched at the stubble of his chin, and set it down. “This should make big news all the way up the coast,” he smirked. Again he dialed and with a deep breath patiently listened for the voice. The door opened, and a young couple scuffled into the café.<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmmm</span>The man was tall and slender with very fair skin, not of a southern complexion. He stood dripping wet inside of the open door while the girl, an unbeautiful brunette, removed her poncho, shaking herself from the rain. They were strangers to The Sunset Cafe. Jack and Mike glanced at each other, then looked on at the couple with the same settled discomfort with which they had surveyed the fallen crows.<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmmm</span>“This town is positively deserted,” said the girl. She dabbed carefully at her eyes with a tissue.<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmmm</span>“Town?” said the man. “This isn’t a town. I could swear we had driven right off the map.” He had some sort of Northern accent. “Excuse me, could you tell us how far up from <st1:place st="on">Key Largo</st1:place> we are?”<span style=""> </span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmmm</span>“Two hours north,” said Mike. “Shut the door.”<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmmm</span>Receiving from the bar two cold and curious stares, the two stopped their primping and took each other’s hand. Jack set down the phone.<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmmm</span>“It is a terror out there,” said the girl a little shyly. “And everyone seems to be hiding away. Isn’t it just our luck, honey, to vacation in the middle of a hurricane?”<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmmm</span>“It isn’t a hurricane,” said Mike. “Just some squalls moving in off the swamp.”<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmmm</span>Suddenly the girl screamed and the man, seeing what had startled her, pulled her roughly toward him. She buried herself into his shirt. Dropping his washcloth Mike was from behind the counter with a trash bag and quickly stooping to the floor. “Two folks fell sick yesterday fishing off the swamp,” he said flatly. “Looks like today we had one in town.” He dangled the last bird by its tail feathers and dropped it into the bag. “You two should be careful out there, put on some heavy clothes.”<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmmm</span>Gently the young man stood the girl off. Petting her, he suggested she go to the restroom to make herself a wash from the sink. Nodding her head weakly, looking a bit embarrassed, she quickly ran off to where Mike pointed her to the back of the place. The young man stood unmoved for a moment, looking rather out of sorts, but finally settled on taking to the stool beside Jack. Everything remained silent but for the wind outside and the occasional shifting of a body on the floorboards.<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmmm</span>Jack threw his head back for a drink. He was not feeling better but much worse now. Perhaps he was wrong for blaming himself. No, he figured. The responsibility had been his and ultimately the decision was his, and therefore the blame should be his. An image of Jim’s little girl, lying unconscious in her hospital bed, haunted him. Feeling helpless, he glanced up to see the young man studying him from the corner of his eye. The man turned on his stool, smiling, and reached out his hand to Jack.<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmmm</span>“Name’s Ellis,” he offered aloud.<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmmm</span>Jack stood and moved away to the end of the bar, letting his head fall heavily to the counter. Mike hung a glass and took another from the rack, checking it thoroughly for spots.<span style=""> </span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmmm</span>“Well,” said the young man. “He’s awfully nice.”<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmmm</span>“He doesn’t want to be bothered,” said Mike.<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmmm</span>“No kidding,” said the man. “Is he a drunk?”<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmmm</span>“No,” said Mike. “He’s the mayor.”<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmmm</span>Ellis let a short nervous holler but Mike, glancing up silently, showed that he was not being joked with. The man’s mouth quickly settled.<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmmm</span>When the brunette returned from the restroom she appeared somewhat less shaken. Softly she stood whispering to her husband while tugging at the collar of his shirt.<span style=""> </span>The young man thanked Mike, laying some money down upon the counter, and they turned to leave when suddenly the wind rushed through the place. Glasses rattled with menacing chime. A highball fell from its rack and shattered to the floor. The boy was back in the open doorway. Clutching at his head with one hand while the other held tightly to a citronella torch, he used the weight of his body to shut the door against the squall. With a breath of ease he set the torch against the wall, removing his hat to lay it on the counter where Jack looked as if he had fallen dead. Nolan looked down on him and then up to Mike, who shrugged as he bent to gather the broken glass.<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmmm</span>“From what I hear Lou Hayes’s got a dead bull,” said Nolan.<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmmm</span>Jack neither budged nor made a sound.<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmmm</span>“And Mrs. Wallis says she’s ain’t feeling right, but that’s no surprise.”<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmmm</span>Mike stood up with a dustpan, shaking his head with discouragement.<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmmm</span>“Lotsa folks are real scared, Jack.”<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmmm</span>There was no answer.<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmmm</span>“Jack?”<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmmm</span>“Leave him be,” said Mike. “He’s brooding.”<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmmm</span>The boy noticed the young couple down the bar. Staring at them stone-faced for nearly a minute, conspicuously studying their summer attire, he reached into his pants pocket and fumbled around to produce box of matches. “Ought to be dressed better than that,” he said. Taking up the torch, carefully lighting the wick, he approached the young man with a black bitter stream of smoke trailing in the air behind him. “That’ll keep em’ away if any sneak in,” he handed over the torch. “It’s because they can’t stand the smell.”<span style=""> </span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmmm</span>The young man took the torch and held it away from himself. Wrinkling his nose, he offered it back. “We were just leaving.”<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmmm</span>Nolan shook his head. “This here’s no weather to be driving around in.”<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmmm</span>The girl eyed the man pleadingly. He looked to the window. The sky was gone to darkness. Where the pavement had been a near inch of water rushed rampant toward the swamp. Fronds swept along as coconuts rolled with the current. Palms bent like sawgrass in the wind. Setting the torch against the bar, its black bitter stream drifting up toward the rafters, he took the girl’s hand and pulled her down onto the stool where the smoke wafted between them. She gave a huff of annoyance.<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmmm</span>“Smells awful,” she said frowning.<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmmm</span>“Sure,” nodded Nolan, sitting down. “That’s why they don’t come near.”<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmmm</span>“Won’t come near?” said Ellis.<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmmm</span>“Mosquitoes,” said Nolan. “Ain’t you heard?” Jack looked up from the end of the bar and the boy, catching Mike’s eye as well, lowered his voice to a whisper. “Mosquitoes are carrying encephalitis.”<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmmm</span>The girl gasped and looked frantically into the air around her.<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmmm</span>“Had some folks fall sick in the past few days. Seems they’ve been about for nearly a week now, getting into the pastures and such. They breed when it’s wet so the rain’s no good at all.”<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmmm</span>Slowly Jack rose from his stool and reached for the bottle, mumbling to himself as he disappeared into the back with the telephone cord trailing behind him.<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmmm</span>“Mayor Jack,” Nolan said. “He’s awful down about this whole mess.”<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmmm</span>The girl pouted, whisking away the smoke. “I’d say he’s drunk.”<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmmm</span>“Yeah,” Nolan said. “He feels bad about it.”<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmmm</span>From the back came cursing and a slam of the phone.<span style=""><br /></span><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmmm</span>“Christ,” said Ellis, snickering. “You’d think he imported encephalitic mosquitoes.<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmmm</span>“No,” said Nolan, leaning in close. “Three dozen ibis.”<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmmm</span>“Ibis?”<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmmm</span>“Ibis. Cattle egret. It’s a long, skinny bird with a beak about so.” The boy held his hands eight inches apart to show the length. “Stays in the fields mostly, eating up insects.”<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmmm</span>“More birds,” said the girl, straightening herself. “Lovely, they can eat the mosquitoes. Honey, can we please go?”<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmmm</span>“You’ve got it backward,” Nolan said. “The birds came in last month from the east and <i style="">now</i> people are getting sick. Some of those birds must have carried it over with them. Mosquito’s feed off the birds and, well, you see how we’ve got a problem.”<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmmm</span>With a sudden start the boy jumped in his stool, slapping down hard at the nape of his neck. Drawing back his hand he frowned, and with a quick tug at the collar of his shirt he came off with a loose string.<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmmm</span>Now Ellis became low and curious. “But then why the ibis?”<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmmm</span>“Brought them in to eat the weevils,” Nolan said shortly, dropping the string into the torch.<span style=""> </span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmmm</span>“Weevils?” Huffed the girl.<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmmm</span>“We’ve been having a problem with the weevils this past year, destroying all the town’s bottlebrush.”<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmmm</span>The girl was growing irritable. “Mosquitoes and weevils. Do you hear this honey? This is some place you’ve brought us.”<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmmm</span>“Used to be the best fishing spot on the east bank of the Everglades,” Nolan nodded proudly. “Bass and catfish bigger than most dogs.” Ellis watched as the pride slipped slowly from the boy’s face. “But that was some while back,” he said. “You heard of Australian Melaleuca?”<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmmm</span>“No,” said Ellis.<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmmm</span>“It’s a weed that spreads root deep and quick, sucking up all the water from the ground. The land down here was never so good for planting, too wet see, until some while back a farmer brought this Melaleuca thinking to soak up his marsh fields. Problem was the weed spread too quick, out into the glades, drying up all the water out of the swamp. It’s been about for quite a few years now, spreading nearly an acre a day, drying up the land so fast can’t anybody stop it.”<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmmm</span>“So they brought in weevils to eat the Melaleuca?” Ellis figured.<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmmm</span>Nolan nodded. “That didn’t hardly work, neither. Weeds still spreading and now we’ve got weevils eating up the town’s bottlebrush.” He looked to the window with a sullen glance. “Its an awful mess,” he said, leaning back. “And now with the weather here and all, and it not likely to ease up for maybe a week, it’s quite a problem, yes sir.”<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmmm</span>From the back Jack came stumbling with the phone. Clumsily setting it upon the counter, he poured a heavy drink, then fell into a drunken slump to the stool at the end of the bar.<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmmm</span>“Goodness,” said the girl.<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmmm</span>Steadying himself with some difficulty, Jack made an unfortunate attempt to switch the television set. He let his eyes fall to the young couple watching him. Feeling the grief but no longer thinking or wanting to care, he took up his glass and went to the window that was now teeming violently with rain.<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmmm</span>“Strange fellow,” Ellis said. “Strange place.”<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmmm</span>Jack believed that was right; this was about as ruined a place as he’d ever seen. It belongs now, he thought, to the weevils and weeds. With wretched eyes he looked to the median of the street where the palms were stripped bare and a stop sign had blown in from somewhere, lying red-streaked with mud like a great pinprick in the flesh of the earth. The shame weighed upon him like a wet blanket. It was really one hell of a storm. Turning back he saw the place cast with an eerie glow, shadows dancing like ghosts in the light of the flickering torch. Jack was tired now. Shuffling to the bar he managed to switch on the local news. Mike did not look up from his highballs, but kept at them for some time while nothing sounded but the rain in the rafters over the static hum of the television set.<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmmm</span>Ellis looked to the girl, patted her knee and winked, as if promising to soon be leaving. The boy stared somberly into the torch against the bar as it sputtered in the dim light of The Sunset. Suddenly the smoke stopped rising and the flame went out and there was nothing left of the bitter smell. Slipping off his stool Nolan went to the window, staring transfixed into the furious storm. Briefly a strong gale blew in sideways, guiding the rain away from the glass, and as the pane ran off the surface cleared and three black, winged bugs lighted from the outside. Reaching back the boy fingered the flesh of his neck while smoothing it over with the palm of his hand.<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmmm</span>“I suppose it’s like any disease,” Nolan said, his voice muffled beneath din in the rafters. Ellis smiled consolingly at the brunette, while Jack at the bar had fallen asleep to the frantic transmission of the weather report.<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmmm</span>“Somehow there’s got to be a cure.”<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmmm</span>Woodenly Mike reached across the counter and took the bottle, screwing the cap back tight. He then stepped quietly to the cash drawer where, without counting anything, he proceeded to empty its contents into the front pouch of his apron.<span style=""> </span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmmm</span>“Surely there is,” Ellis said, patting the girl’s knee.<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmmm</span>“Sure there is,” the boy repeated absently. From the television came the sudden, blaring, high-pitched trumpet of an emergency broadcast. Ellis and the girl started at the sound. The boy did not stir, but remained squinting sharply down his nose to where he had pressed it against the window. “But if the problem is what I think it is,” he said, tapping at the glass where the insects spotted the wet pane. They scattered momentarily but quickly returned, now numbering five instead of three. “We might not want to keep searching so bad for that cure, because I really hate to think what it could be.”</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"><a href="http://watchingthewheelsablackbirdissueii.blogspot.com/2006/07/story.html">Back</a></span></p><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/29673647-115180082814141785?l=watchingthewheelsablackbirdissueii.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Dylan Hocknoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29673647.post-1151633638695467752006-06-29T22:10:00.000-04:002006-07-15T13:42:39.533-04:00<span style="font-size:100%;"><br /><br /><span style="font-size:100%;"><a href="http://watchingthewheelsablackbirdissueii.blogspot.com/2006/06/amye-barrese.html">Gypsy Lady</a></span><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /></span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/4546/1758/1600/me2a.3.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/4546/1758/200/me2a.2.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /><br /><br /></span><br /><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /><br /></span><span style="font-weight: bold;font-size:100%;" ><a href="http://www.dreamagic.com/poetry/barrese.html">Amye Barrese</a></span><span style="font-size:100%;"> is a poet living in Northeast Pennsylvania. She writes, plays guitar, and dabbles in photography in her spare time. She holds a Bachelors Degree in Creative Writing from <a href="http://www.psu.edu/">Penn State</a> and like many English Majors, has a job that has nothing to do with her skills. She has two Yorkies, Fred and Ginger.</span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /><br /><br /></span></span></span><div style="text-align: right;"><a style="font-weight: bold;" href="http://watchingthewheelsablackbirdissueii.blogspot.com/2006/06/table-of-contents.html">Table of Contents</a><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /></span></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/29673647-115163363869546775?l=watchingthewheelsablackbirdissueii.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Dylan Hocknoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29673647.post-1151633412786821432006-06-29T22:08:00.000-04:002006-07-15T17:37:42.613-04:00<span style="font-size:130%;">Gypsy Lady<br /><br /><br /></span><br />My gypsy lady looks down at me<br />Wrapping me tightly<br />in the hanging mysteries around her neck.<br />Spinning her web of dead husbands<br />And buried babies..<br />Reading my palm like the Sunday paper...<br />Spilling my dirty destiny<br />At my naked feet..<br />(This one means three children..<br />This one is a failed marriage…)<br />My gypsy lady wears a stoic smile,<br />And carries my heart in her purse,<br />Next to her crystal ball.<br /><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"><a href="http://watchingthewheelsablackbirdissueii.blogspot.com/2006/06/poem.html">Back</a></span><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/29673647-115163341278682143?l=watchingthewheelsablackbirdissueii.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Dylan Hocknoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29673647.post-1150237829113767222006-06-13T18:28:00.000-04:002006-09-27T18:06:51.733-04:00<span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br /><a href="http://watchingthewheelsablackbirdissueii.blogspot.com/2006/09/note-from-editor.html">Editor's Note</a><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br /></span><a href="http://watchingthewheelsablackbirdissueii.blogspot.com/2006/09/poem_08.html"><span style="font-size:130%;">Richard Froude</span></a><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"><a href="http://watchingthewheelsablackbirdissueii.blogspot.com/2006/09/written-visual-work.html"><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmmmmmmmmmmm</span>Maureen Foley</a></span><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /></span><a href="http://watchingthewheelsablackbirdissueii.blogspot.com/2006/09/six-poems_10.html"><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmm</span>Dylan Hock</span></a><a href="http://watchingthewheelsablackbirdissueii.blogspot.com/2006/06/poem.html"><br /></a><a href="http://watchingthewheelsablackbirdissueii.blogspot.com/2006/09/seven-poems.html"><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmmmmmmmmmmm</span><span style="font-size:130%;">Pat Nolan</span></a><br /><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br /><a href="http://watchingthewheelsablackbirdissueii.blogspot.com/2006/09/intermission.html"><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm</span>Intermission</a></span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br /><a href="http://watchingthewheelsablackbirdissueii.blogspot.com/2006/09/two-stories.html"><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm</span><span style="font-size:130%;">Bob Thatcher</span></a><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"><a href="http://watchingthewheelsablackbirdissueii.blogspot.com/2006/09/five-poems.html"><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm</span>Thomas R. Peters, Jr.</a></span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"><a href="http://watchingthewheelsablackbirdissueii.blogspot.com/2006/06/poem.html"><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmmmmmm</span>Amye Barrese</a><br /></span><span style="font-size:130%;"><a href="http://watchingthewheelsablackbirdissueii.blogspot.com/2006/09/six-poems.html"><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm</span>Elizabeth Martinez</a></span><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /></span><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br /><a href="http://watchingthewheelsablackbirdissueii.blogspot.com/2006/09/intermission_115786909662008965.html"><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmmmmmmmmmmmmm</span>Intermission</a></span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br /><a href="http://watchingthewheelsablackbirdissueii.blogspot.com/2006/09/poem.html"><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmm</span>Sarah Peters</a><br /></span><a href="http://watchingthewheelsablackbirdissueii.blogspot.com/2006/09/two-poems.html"><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm</span>Justin Kishbaugh</span></a><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"><a href="http://watchingthewheelsablackbirdissueii.blogspot.com/2006/07/story.html"><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm</span>Bradley Fink</a><br /></span><span style="font-size:130%;"><a href="http://watchingthewheelsablackbirdissueii.blogspot.com/2006/09/story.html"><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmmmmmmm</span>Soule T. Bitting</a><br /></span><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br /><a href="http://watchingthewheelsablackbirdissueii.blogspot.com/2006/09/intermission_10.html"><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm</span>Intermission</a></span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br /><a href="http://watchingthewheelsablackbirdissueii.blogspot.com/2006/09/three-poems-brushwork.html"><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm</span>Keith Kumasen Abbott</a></span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"><a href="http://watchingthewheelsablackbirdissueii.blogspot.com/2006/09/two-prayers.html"><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmmmmmmmmmmmm</span>John Sinclair</a></span><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /></span><span style="font-size:130%;"><a href="http://watchingthewheelsablackbirdissueii.blogspot.com/2006/07/story_15.html"><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmm</span>Jared Del Rosso</a></span><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /><a href="http://watchingthewheelsablackbirdissueii.blogspot.com/2006/07/selected-songs.html"><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm</span>Nick Debniak</a></span><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmmmmmmmmmmm</span><a href="http://watchingthewheelsablackbirdissueii.blogspot.com/2006/09/credits.html"><span style="font-size:85%;">Credits</span></a><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmmmmmmmmmmm</span><a href="http://watchingthewheelsablackbirdissueii.blogspot.com/2006/09/submissions.html"><span style="font-size:85%;">Submissions</span></a><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmmmmmmmmmmm</span><a href="http://watchingthewheelsablackbirdissueii.blogspot.com/2006/09/m-m-mm-m-m-front-cover-m-table-of.html"><span style="font-size:85%;">Closing Cover</span></a><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span> <span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span> <span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span></span></span> <span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);font-size:130%;" ><span style="font-size:100%;">m<br />m<br />m<br />m<br /></span></span><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">Back Issues:</span><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;"><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span> <span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m<br />m</span></span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://watchingthewheelsablackbird.blogspot.com/2006/01/m-enter-m.html"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/4546/1758/200/Watching%20the%20Wheels%20Issue%201%20Cover.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br /><a href="http://watchingthewheelsablackbird.blogspot.com/2006/01/m-enter-m.html">Issue I</a><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m<br />m<br /></span><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">Also, be sure to check out and sign on as a friend to <span style="font-size:130%;"><a href="http://profile.myspace.com/index.cfm?fuseaction=user.viewprofile&friendid=109384581">Watching the Wheels: a Blackbird's Myspace page</a></span>!<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br /></span></div><span style="font-weight: bold;"><br /></span></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/29673647-115023782911376722?l=watchingthewheelsablackbirdissueii.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Dylan Hocknoreply@blogger.com0