Miser Magazine VIII

Got the latest Miser this week.  Excellent Cleveland area Art & Literature.  If you aren't getting these, then you have a problem (or 99 problems, and a lack of Miser is one).  Find them on Facebook, subscribe, support local art!  (I've used an exclamation point here, and I don't take that lightly)

Bitter

Freezing today,

21, 22, blowing snow

when the fire alarm went off.

We all evacuated, many

without coats and hats,

some in shirtsleeves.

We stood along Middle Ave.

waiting.  One girl showed us

her frozen hair, while others

compared the shades of blue

their hands had turned.

Some bounced.  Others

held each other close

out of necessity.

There are all sorts of students

at this school, but nothing

brings people together

like the collective outrage

over a bitter day, and the

bitter response 

to a malfunctioning

fire suppression system.

This Christmas We Will Discuss Politics and Religion.

Embracing the season's sense of charity,

overwhelmed by the subtle artistic quality

of evening snow on Christmas lights,

and the beautiful economic politics

of a robed man from Argentina,

I took a sip of coffee and quietly considered

a return to the church of my childhood

before deciding simply to remain a leftist.

Chapter 4: Sugar Maple

Looking out

over the yard

one last time,

a sugar maple has gone red,

and with some desperation

holds every leaf up to sunset

illuminated.

Tonight the frost returns,

tomorrow a windstorm,

maybe some snow.

We're all on borrowed time.

The moment has come

to do something

beautiful.

Chapter 3: Love in a Digital Season

I watched you

watch your phone,

swipe your finger

delicately

on its screen

as you sat there

in autumn sun.

We had just crossed

4th Street bridge

into the heights.

Clouds passed, then

the sun returned.

You smiled.

I did too.

Chapter 2: Reality

Out the window

I heard a baby cry

3 floors down.

At first, I thought

it was 2 stray cats

clawing each other

which would have been

less unsettling.  As it was,

the boy's father held him close

as he screamed at the

injustice of a bitter wind or

some other sad reality.

Chapter 1: Socialism

She told me that she knew a guy once

who lived in an apartment overlooking

the south side, between branches

of Black River.  "The view of filthy

sunsets and poor kids walking to school

drove him to socialism."  She said it

as if a great evil had befallen him,

like alcoholism or madness. In her mind,

his compassion for the poor

was something of a tragedy.

Prologue

I have tried to tell you
something about ourselves
these past years, something
about this place,
its proximity to Black River
yet our inability to articulate
or even fully understand
its spiritual importance
in relation to our own.

I used to watch the river
through barren winter trees
out my childhood windows.

It is everywhere here.

I Could Go On Forever

I sat in my car this morning

as it rained like hell, and said to myself,

this can't go on forever.

I thought about how my statement

could apply to many things like unemployment,

war, optimism, or a toothache,

but that I had only meant the downpour.

I switched off my radio, and listened to a song

that couldn't go on forever.

Having learned that Lou Reed died...

I listen to Satellite of Love

a few times on the way to work,

as I pay close attention to my breathing

like I always do when someone dies,

as if I can simply will myself

to continue when the time comes.

There's a photo of Lou Reed with Warhol 

arm in arm that comes to mind and

I think about Jim's paintings, and how

I forgot to tell him that I dug the one

of Nicholson, and believe it's important

that he keep creating in this way.

I remember listening to Wild Side and

Rock 'n' Roll on Cleveland radio

in a baby blue Nova driving north

on Lake Avenue going to Lorain.

It was a clear day, and I watched 

store fronts and churches on broken

concrete slide into the past outside

a rear window.  I was a kid.  It felt good.

We're not kids anymore, but it's cool.

There's still all this music, and art, and I

still love a drive up Lake Avenue, listening

to Lou, and seeing what you're up to...

Iguazu Falls

                                      for Mandy

Rain over my gutters

demands a proper name

like Iguazu or Angel,

suddenly insistent,

angry even, as our

conversations sometimes

when the world becomes

too much, and its people

too terrible, or selfish so

our emotion becomes

too much water

for the downspout.

Caught in the act.

Courage

The first sip of beer 

is an odd loaf of bread

which, over time,

comes to rest

somewhere 

in the middle of my head, 

warm, calm 

and courageous.

It's 1985, kid.

I met a shaggy-haired kid in 1985.

He defined himself with his disdain

for your existence, and his cutting-edge

devotion to New Wave giants Oingo Boingo.

I heard "Dead Man's Party" on the radio

this morning.  In an odd moment I felt

thirteen years old again, and wondered

if I'm still that awkward.  I think it's close.

From the dashboard they sang,

 Don't run away it's only me...

I hadn't thought of that kid 

in more than twenty years.

The Indianapolis Kid

"Everybody in America was supposed to grab whatever he could and hold onto it.  Some Americans were very good at grabbing and holding, were fabulously well-to-do.  Others couldn't get their hands on doodley-squat."  -Kurt Vonnegut

As the rain gave way to a melancholy overcast, I walked down and stood where Washington meets Meridian at "The Crossroads of America," in the wealthiest nation on earth.  I was sort of searching for a sense of Kurt Vonnegut, so I stood for awhile at that spot he describes in his book.  Looking around for literary genius, I found homeless men and women on every street corner.  It was as if seats had been assigned by the Chamber of Commerce.  The men and women held scrawled cardboard signs that told pieces of stories that did not end well.

I found it somehow heroic, if not at least decent, that the city of Indianapolis didn't attempt to harass, or arrest, or lock-up, or ship off or otherwise hide these down on their luck citizens like many other places do.  Right there they were, in sharp contrast to America's philosophy that poverty is a crime, some of the most oddly optimistic people on planet earth.

Over on Senate an articulate Army veteran sat cross legged out of work.  We talked about the weather.  On Illinois a grandmother nodded hello as she shook out her umbrella.  Here on Meridian someone's little brother smiled at me despite his situation, as snappily dressed disdainful businessmen rushed around us from one stone building to the next.

This Indianapolis kid didn't have doodley-squat in the eyes of those gentlemen.  But through the mist on Meridian, the proud war monument reaching desperately skyward, it was clear the kid had found genius of his own.  It seemed to me that he only needed a living wage, or a place to stay, perhaps some food to eat, and something on which to write it all down.

In my garden I learned something about religion.

Praying mantis

hiding in tomato plants.

He means no harm.

Songs

My friend has a face like unemployment.

Even when he has a job

he looks perpetually uncertain,

desperate and distant.

I see him now and again

in the afternoon.  He sits

on a bus bench at the corner

of Cleveland Street and Olive

with the sun on his unemployment.

A family of birds nests above him

in the drug store sign.  He says,

if he pays attention he can hear them sing.

Their song lives somewhere within

quick clips of music from passing cars,

the hum of engines, an occasional

tire squeal, and the click click click

of the traffic light.

He told me once

that he sits there

until the song 

is all he can hear,

and in that moment

he smiles.

Memory

Having written down the titles of two documentaries,

the physical strain of attempting to remember an author's name

made Matt's entire face pucker.  He still got it wrong.

Photo by Kevin Costello 8.8.13

When local art arrives in the mail.

Hello readers (both of you).  I got the new Miser in the mail today.  The editors have been kind enough once again to include a story I have written.  The story features a tape deck given to me by Scott Demos, a show at the Phantasy Theater, and the harsh reality of diminishing skateboarding skills.  The rest of the book is packed with cool, thought provoking art as well as other literary efforts including a piece by Tom Kryss (a personal favorite).  I can't say enough about it.  Check them out on Facebook, subscribe to the magazine through PayPal, support local art.

In Your Honor

I went to the bar

expecting your arrival.

We placed our bets,

watched the clock,

and you didn't show.

We had a few beers

anyway.  I saw some

people I sort of knew,

created small conversations

out of memory, history,

and nonsense,

just like you and I

would have done.

The moment when conversation crosses the fine line between weather and injustice.

It'll be mostly sunny, humid and 95

the next few days, I told him, like Florida

without the legalized lynching.

Forward

I push the mower ever forward

on parallel lines.  There is 

a sense of order in this task

that is lacking at times elsewhere.

Forward as the breeze carries

with it songs of goldfinches and

freight trains, the smells

of honeysuckle and angry dog.

There's a bumper crop of tomatoes

this year, and a low spot

still flooded in mid-July.  I push

forward thinking of these things,

or in better moments thinking

nothing at all, only a subconscious

recognition of parallel lines,

the smell of fresh cut grass,

a natural order, ever forward.

Baseball Secrets

On the radio

there is a terrible,

suspenseful pause
 

between game sounds
and the announcer's call, like

thud of glove or crack of bat
 

so it becomes

interminable, a forever,
as if there is a secret

lost somewhere

between strikes 2 and 3
before it hits my antennae.
 

Looking ahead to the 4th of July going south on Middle.

Looking out

     over a southside

   under gloom clouds.

A northwind blows stars

         and stripes

           on every patriotic

lamppost.

It is June.

The sun is lost, but

threatening

like that foulmouthed

   kid I know

      hanging out at the corner

of 10th and Middle.

Great Awakening

Nearly every morning,

say 5:30 or 6,

the littlest cat

visits our bedroom door,

lays down and reaches beneath.

The door moves with him

back and forth 

and back and forth

creating the illusion

of someone knocking

with great urgency.

I get up,

reach blind for glasses

and walk barefoot

to answer the door.

No one, of course,

is there

but this cat on his back

looks up, makes a sound

like a question,

as if he is surprised

to have awakened someone,

as if his only intention

had been to beat hell

on a bedroom door

at 5:30 in the morning

but certainly

not to disturb anyone.

He is a picture of innocence,

as much as any of us is innocent.

He rubs against my leg.

We walk to make the coffee.

It is time to go.

Miser

June Miser Magazine out now.  They've been kind enough to publish a short story I've written entitled Eddie's Cigar Store.  Find a copy.  Check them out on Facebook.  Support what they do.

Avian Neurosis

Two house sparrows
on a third floor window ledge

look in at me, then
look at one another,

then back at me.
I become self conscious,

certain there was something
in that glance, some

knowing judgement
before they leapt to flight

into unbelievable blue
above the south side.



The Washington Building, where birds pass judgement.

The Odd Way of Memory.

I often cannot remember

what I was going to say,

like it's gotten away.

I find myself

lost in conversation,

temporarily

in daydream,

thinking perhaps

about the space

on our crooked front walk

where weed breaks concrete

with unmistakable beauty,

then the neighbor's wood gate 

squeaks before it slams

and I remember...

this morning as you slept,

you exhaled loudly.  I thought

it was a message.

Having driven an hour up the road, arriving at the conclusion that you and I aren't nearly as different as we think.

Their tulips bloom in flower beds
just like ours do, and spring
rain stands in oily pools
where cars once were.

In quiet neighborhoods,
much like ours, with fresh
cut lawns, men walk dogs
in early morning half-light
past the occasional home
with boarded-up windows.

Their children count the days
until summer, adults 'til the weekend
while the elderly count days
between visitors, and sometimes
one of them is lost too soon.

All of us suffering in small ways
under the excruciating beauty
of small towns in springtime.

We Are Rabbits

Three rabbits in our front yard.

One is so close I see his eyes move.
He is wary of my intentions.

In a world of unmistakable violence
he has a bite of lawn to eat.

Two ears twitch, turning toward
the most relevant information,

cats and cars, hysterical dogs.
His life turns on a blade of grass.

A dodging streak of white
who disappears into a garden

four doors down.

Miser Magazine

I've got 2 new poems in this cool art and lit zine. Pick up a copy of Miser Magazine at bookstores and music shops around Cleveland. Check them out on Facebook. Support what they do.

Nostradamus 1993

Under a bridge span in summer night
we pulled at cigarettes, and discussed
factories in the distance puffing
3rd shift smoke over Black River.

"Soon enough there'll be nobody
in those factories," you said.
The damp earth smelled vaguely
industrial. It still does.



photo by James Jablonski 3.2013

Haiku for the Allen Memorial Art Museum whose works were at least as inspiring as the birds, especially Liu Bolin hiding at the Sawmill.

Art Museum birds
flap futile resistance to
Oberlin's spring chill.




Number one of 100 haiku in which the author utilizes the line "We were children then" for dramatic effect.

Shoulder high dry grass
where the twin theater stood.
We were children then.

An Officer and a Gentleman

My wife is in our room on the computer.
The cats are there too.

My son is in the living room
playing video games with a friend of his.

I'm hiding out in the basement
drinking a beer and writing this

surrounded by old coats
and boxes of things I have forgotten.

It's cold outside.
I got nowhere else to go.

Entitlement Programs

I saw them first in the soup aisle,
an old Italian couple leaning in
to discuss chicken dumpling
with thick immigrant accents.
Her hair was thinning, but
in a perfect evolutionary coincidence
his back was so stooped he couldn't see.
He placed his spotted hand
on her forearm and smiled.
She placed the soup in their cart.

I saw them again in the checkout
as they waited awkwardly
for the manager to verify
their government assistance,
before paying the two dollars
and a few odd cents difference.
They drew woolen collars tight
against their necks. He pushed the cart
while she held onto his arm
as they passed into the cold night.

V-J Day

Throughout the '40s
guys from the neighborhood
used to walk to the plant
from Pine Street down to Oak.
Each of them with a lunch pail,
maybe a thermos of coffee.

When the Japanese were defeated
with 2 A-bombs on 2 days in August '45
there was relief. Nobody knew
'til later that their production
of green salt made it possible.

Afterward, when the awards arrived
for their service to the country
they were proud, and rightly so.
But then nobody knew 'til later
that the men and the old neighborhood
were as radioactive as Hiroshima.

Pitchers and Catchers 2013

My son and I dusted off the gloves yesterday
for the first throws of the year.
Pitchers and catchers have reported.

In February, levels of optimism
regarding the prospects of the coming season
border on mentally unhinged.

For example, our Cleveland team seems bent
on solving its issue of right handed power
by riddling its line-up with has been Yankees.

And yet, drunken conversations
from Westlake to Ashtabula remain
perversely optimistic.

Around here, my son and I
throw a tennis ball
against the basement wall,

cautious not to hit light bulbs
(& in our optimism)
while ice melts on the streets outside.

New Chapbook February 2013

Cigarettes and Summer

The car smelled like
cigarettes and summer.

The wind was wonderful
and unbearable. You could
scarcely get a breath.

Shielding our smokes
with the three far fingers,
we made it work,
leaning behind the dash,
or a seat, to take a hit.

Beastie Boys bumped
a ridiculously sampled
Paul's Boutique
from the stereo.

We may have been young.
It may have been yesterday.

Time Lapse (mathematics pt. 3)

For a long time, everything happened
"about 10 years ago" when I told a story,
"I used to deliver pizzas" or I once went
to Hoover Dam, or Key West, or San Fran.
But now it is easily 25 years ago
the last time I set foot in Texas,
20 years ago since my last factory job,
15 years since I moved back from Colorado.
10 years since I married the love of my life.
Such is the mathematical shift
in my storytelling.

Rocket (mathematics pt.2)

My son, James, is working on his Rocket Math.
This is the name for his speed solving
of multiplication, then division problems.

We use flash cards for practice. I am
brushing up on my own speed solutions,
but I am the asshole with the answers.

Upon Considering New Year's Resolutions (mathematics pt. 1)

I guess
I always wanted
to be a solution.

I have a few ideas
regarding the reasoning
behind this.

You and I
don't have the time
to go into it.

You're welcome.