Denial: An Automatic Writing Exercise with Explanation

The gypsies nailed boards together to make the boxcars they rode out of town. They rode together towards the Nile river in sunny Egypt. Daniel was the oldest or the youngest of the gypsies. Daniel was a prince. Daniel had dreams at night -- and sometimes waking-fever dreams during the day. Dreams that he was being nailed to a cross.

[Note: The above is based on an automatic writing exercise I did at the Kemper Art Museum's "Chance Poetry" workshop, led by Eileen G'Sell, on Thursday, December 2.

Participants viewed the "Chance Aesthetics" exhibition and wrote two words on separate slips of paper; on returning to the class room, each person drew one slip of paper from a hat. This word was the starting point for the automatic writing exercise.

My word was "denial."

I first thought of the joke, "denial isn't just a river in Egypt," and then "the nail". Then, I looked for an anagram and found "Daniel." Lately, I've been listening to the new R.E.M. live album and have been thinking of the song "Carnival of Sorts (Boxcars Out of Town"). "Egypt" led to "gypsies". In the explanation of the exercise, Eileen G'Sell mentioned Gertrude Stein, and I thought "Daniel was the oldest or the youngest" seemed Steinian. In one line I make Daniel a prince and in the next give him waking-fever dreams of being nailed to a cross....]

The Ecstatic Museum Sings the Scaffold Blues

Yesterday I participated in a chance poetry workshop at the Kemper Art Museum at Washington University. This workshop, held in conjunction with the exhibition "Chance Aesthetics," explored some of the ways in which poets have integrated chance into their artistic practice. Participants were divided into groups that collaborated on writing poems utilizing variations on chance systems such as Exquisite Corpse, Checkerboard Chance, and Ouvrior de Litterature Potentille (OULIOP).

The Kemper will host a chance poetry reading on Friday, December 4, from 6:00 to 8:00 p.m. The public is invited to attend and read their own works or their own favorite Surrealist poem, or simply come to listen and enjoy.

Here are the poems that the participants created:

Checkerboard Chance #1:

He wandered in to the noisy bar
Crawling, screaming, itching
Dressed for the presidential inauguration
He needed a screaming leader
Slowly pulling himself up off the ground
Rolling, raunchy, robot-like

Checkerboard Chance #2:

And so the game begins...
Tire-swings make summer fun
Eliot knew to roll his trousers
Rolling through ales at the Royale
-- Remember, we say to each other,
The Alamo.

Wherefore art thou?
In the cave? In your aerie?
Hanging on the limb of a
Weeping willow
Clinging desperately to the chance
Gripping with knuckles and
Nails clenched together
I am Napoleon.

Exquisite Corpse:

If the tall policeman burns the wooden angel
And skipping adolescents grow pricey cauliflowers,
Will the inflamed stool arrive like a flea-bitten robot?

The ecstatic museum sings the scaffold blues.

OULIPO #1

Using your eyesore, change the World Wide Web
Flutter the itch. I've seen green eyelets
Sink beneath their napalm Atlantic
Waxes kneading skirts like a dove.
Slant a glare at what
You shouldn't look at, silver supreme
Broiled by a chandelier.

OULIPO #2

Escape doesn't cross your mine-field
Until you want to get out
Of a lousy skeleton.
Escape from the working class,
A scary plague,
From being trapped,
From an unpleasant release

OULIPO #3

Muskateer:

Ibex dances but does Icarus move?
Musk-plant -- nothing -- a heller of a
Notochord it can be --
A nougat to set dane-gold --
Daphne to debridement --

But mustache
Can be a meltwater

Wafting, lifting --
A curry-comb to peacock.

OULIPO #4:

The gyroscope navigated Bobbies together
To make boyscouts they rode
Out of tracers
Dapple was a printing.
He had dresses that he would be
Nailed to a croupier.

The Air Above

amusing to consider something i said
thirteen years ago when we first met
in a single cavern of this house
it was not you who agreed to give
could not possibly have been you
the air above places has got to be
right and all, i said

[originally posted 6-30-2009]

A Storm

as solid as a stick
you remembered feline cruelty
turned, whistled softly
a cruel hurricane
no pattern
legs, arms, and chest
gotten there only by inches
she shrugged, gently

[originally posted 6-14-2009]

Big Leagues

She bit her lip,
thinking that it was a good game.
He smiled, then, glad to be playing.

[originally posted 5-16-2009]

An Elegy of Sorts

Surprised
I have remembered
The passing
Close to the end
It helped
We all knew we were
So large, so low
I have realized

[originally posted 6/17/09]

Radio

the message arrived the same day
he was diffidently at work by that time

listening to the news
words he had never heard
words indeed he had never even
listened to

what it meant to be freed
to be silenced of this babble
within him

leaving himself

[originally posted 5/31/09]

Song for Stevie Nicks to Sing

Hair, chains, honey
undone, an array
old and sickly
a song.

[originally posted 5/24/09]

Black Diamond Detective Agency, Part 3

It was 10:30 by the time I felt sufficiently revived to venture out of the office into the streets. The first place I went was to the bank where I cashed a check for $100. From there I made my way to a barber shop where [a saint with scissors] managed to get me looking somewhat respectable.

The next stop was a Goodwill resale shop where I picked out a cliched sort of movie detective outfit: dark suit, tan overcoat, and a battered but not beaten fedora. I was hoping that Curt would get the joke. Things were going well and showed every sign of continuing that way. I returned to the office where I changed into my getup.

When I called the public library to ask for information about Ramiland, I was connected to a very friendly and helpful librarian. She sounded like she'd be a lot of fun when she wasn't being a librarian. She didn't know anything off hand about Ramiland but told me that she could locate some sources for me if I wanted to come by and pick them up. I told her that was fine. I told myself not to get too excited about the librarian. She was probably about 70-years-old and most likely had a figure like a baby elephant.

She wasn't and she didn't. At the library, we had a pretty good time talking. She thought my detective outfit was as amusing as it was supposed to be. She had been, though, only able to find articles in two magazines, which she handed over to me with a wink.

And here, dear reader, my story grinds to an expository halt never to recover, except for this brief passage:

It was around 2:00 when I finished reading. The librarian I returned the magazines to was 70-years-old and did have the figure of a baby elephant. She had a pretty voice and I was in a good mood so I flirted with her for a little bit. We didn't exchange phone numbers, though, and I didn't even get a wink.

-30-

[originally posted 6/5/2009]

Black Diamond Detective Agency, Part 2

My clothes were in even worse shape than my hair. The Hawaiian tourist shirt had never been the height of fashion and was now just barely wearable. It did go, more or less, with the Army surplus fatigue pants I had on. The splotch of puke, my own or someone else's I couldn't remember, on my right thigh came pretty close to matching the flowers on the shirt. I didn't think Curt or his family would appreciate that too much.

I looked around the lovely Black Diamond Detective Agency for something else to wear but couldn't find anything. I did find my checkbook in a pair of black-and-pink checked pants that I couldn't remember ever wearing. Looking at them now, I was glad that I didn't. I was pleasantly surprised to find that I had $450 in my account. It was obviously money left over from the last time I had worked as a laborer on a construction site. I certainly hadn't worked on a $450 case for a least a year. As a matter of fact, I hadn't worked on a case of any kind -- cases of beer excluded -- for 6 months. Maybe I'd been working on too many cases of beer.


(To Be Continued)

[originally posted 6/4/2009]

Black Diamond Detective Agency, Part 1

Note: Way back in 1980 I took a fiction writing class at Southern Illinois University at Edwardsville taught by Lloyd Kropp, and my final project was a short story that, frankly, doesn't live up the the promise of it's first two and a half pages. Those first pages, though, are worth posting here.

It was 9:45 in the morning when the ringing of the telephone ended my sweet dreams. I know it was exactly 9:45 in the morning when the telephone rang because I'm a detective and I get paid to remember little details like that. It had been a long time since I'd been paid for remembering little details, though, so I did a fairly good imitation of a man leaping out of bed to answer the phone. The imitation was flawed because I was sleeping on the floor of my office and only had to roll over on my side to answer the phone. As far as I was concerned, I was leaping out of bed and it's the thought that counts.

"Uh, yeah, what do you want?" I interrogated my caller.

"This is Black Diamond Detective Agency, isn't it?" I allowed that it was and further admitted that I was George Blake, head honcho. "George," the caller continued in much happier and excited tones, "this is Curt Simonson. I just got into town a couple of days ago and I thought I'd give you a call to invite you over."

"Oh, hello, Curt. It's been a long time. You've been off in Africa or someplace, right?"

"That's right. I've been doing fieldwork in Ramiland in eastern Africa. The political situation got pretty hot so I decided it was about time to come home to the family for awhile."

"So you're back at "the Mansion," eh? I think I can still remember how to get there. What time do you want me?"

"Around 3:30, if you can make it. And, George, I may have to ask you to mix a little business with pleasure."

"That's fine with me. Lord knows I could do with a little of both. I'll see you at 3:30, then. 'Bye." I hung up and began getting ready for the upcoming reunion. The first thing I needed, I saw when I finally located a mirror under a pile of old newspapers on my desk, was a shave and possibly a haircut. A haircut soon became a necessity when it became obvious that no amount of combing was going to produce any style other than grubby. It'd been a long time since I'd dealt with anyone who would mind hiring a detective whose hair was grubby.

(To Be Continued)

[originally posted 6/3/09]

Different Rather Than Difficult

Uncertain, the vital seconds went by
He said unhappily,
"Don't ask me how."
A vague recollection
different rather than difficult
A sudden sense of a picture
From behind her
He parted her lips
And thought finally, desperately.

[originally posted 5/3/09]

A House But Not A Home

The process of bringing the
house up to the standards of
Jean Harlow's ghost was
difficult, to say the least.

[originally posted 3/20/2009]
[written circa 1978/1979]

And Away You Go

He would have inquired
after them
had the ghosts of the house
not spirited
him away.

[originally posted 4/6/2009]
[written circa 1978/1979]

Notes from a Conversation

Hell, he said.

Alone, she said.

Anything, he said.

Wait, she said.

Wish, he said.

No, she said.

[originally posted 4/30/09]
http://contraptionstl.blogspot.com

The Office

"welcome"
amiable, careful
"up to date"
i didn't listen
"pay attention"
completely out of touch
jabbering at me.
"manager," he said.

[originally posted 6/12/09]
http://contraptionstl.blogspot.com

Dragon

we were all excited
we would have dodged
fire struck
from her breath
but by the time
we started out
sudden darkness
scapegoats invented

[originally posted 6/18/09]
http://contraptionstl.blogspot.com

Eggs! No!

He had already
decided that
the eggs
had to go.
Smooth.
Round.
White.
Unbearable.

[originally posted 5/13/09]

http://contraptionstl.blogspot.com

November '54

the cold November of 1954
remains in mind
like a shadow-soul caught
between heaven and hell.

[originally posted 5/8/09]
http://contraptionstl.blogspot.com
[written circa 1979/1980]

Dr. Benway Consults

he told his patient that
he had often cured such a mania
but that just in case
he should find
a transistor radio

[for William S. Burroughs]

[originally posted 4/23/09]
http://contraptionstl.blogspot.com

A Short Story With No Moral #4

There was once a young woman who was obsessed with obsequiousness. She had heard someone being referred to as obsequious, liked the way it sounded, and resolved to one day become obsequious herself.

Unfortunately, the young woman was not entirely sure of what the word meant. Being of a somewhat proud nature, she was reluctant to ask anyone for a definition. The young woman was convinced, however, that to be obsequious was to be grand and important.

The picture the young woman had in her head was of herself, dressed in the most beautiful gown in the world, descending a marble staircase that ended in a huge ballroom filled with the most elegant of the elegant. As she came into sight, heads would turn in her direction, there would be gasps, and someone would say quietly to her friend, "Isn’t she just too too obsequious?"

On only one occasion did the young woman ever tell anyone about her dreams of obsequiousness. She happened to have been in bed with a young man of whom she was quite fond -- dreams of marriage alternated with dreams of obsequiousness -- and they were exchanging secrets of the heart. The young man had just finished telling the young woman of his longing to be the manager of a Denny’s restaurant when the young woman suddenly blurted out, "I want to be obsequious!"

The young man laughed. It was the most ridiculous thing he had ever heard. The young woman, who on rare occasions might say "please" or "thank you," and who would butt in lines and when asked to pass something at the dinner table would say, "You’ve got arms. Get it yourself," wanted to be obsequious. It was to laugh.

The young woman, however, did not laugh. She was deeply hurt and angry. She thought that the young man was laughing at her for wanting to be grand and important. She thought he was laughing at her dreams. "Get out," she screamed at the young man. "Get out of my bed! Get out of my house! And get out of my life!"

The young man sat in stunned silence for a moment, very quietly said, "O.K.," and wordlessly got dressed, gathered up his things and left the apartment.

That was the last the young woman ever saw of the young man. She would often think of that night and how things had gone wrong. As the years went by, she grew more and more convinced that the young man had meant to hurt her and, thus, she grew to hate him. Eventually, her hate grew too much for just the one young man and she began to hate all men.

One day she received a letter notifying her that her aunt had died leaving her five million dollars. "I’m rich," she thought, "I can quit my job and do anything I want. I can be obsequious now. First, I’ll go out and buy myself the most beautiful gown I can find."

The woman, who by this time as no longer young, made plans to throw a huge party in the most exquisite hotel in Vienna, Austria. She invited everyone who was anyone, and a few who weren’t, and she even invited the man, who was also, of course, no longer young, who had hurt her.

After months of preparations, the day of the party finally arrived. The woman boarded the jet airliner that would carry her to Austria. She was eating caviar and drinking champagne when the airliner went into a nosedive and crashed in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean.

News of the disaster reached the party at midnight. At first a hushed silence fell over the crowd. Finally, a Texas millionaire broke the silence. "Well, shucks, as long’s were all here, let’s make this the best goddamn wake Vienna, Austria’s ever seen!"

And so they did.

[written circa 1982/1983]

Roldo the Fish-Headed Boy

Roldo was a boy
(that is, he was a young human
with a penis
who differed from the rest of his society
in that he had the head of a fish

Roldo was a bright boy
he was good at math
and at reading and writing
and he could ride a bicycle like
nothing
but, still, he had the head of a fish

Other boys were often cruel to Roldo
girls, (young humans with vaginas)
were also cruel to him
they (the boys and girls) made up a song

The song was about Roldo
when he would ride by on his bicycle
they would sing:
Roldo the fish-headed boy
he’s so ugly we want to cry
he’s a fish and he should fry
and then they would laugh

The singing and laughing hurt Roldo
but he loved riding his bike too much to
stop

Roldo would often ride blocks
and blocks out of his way to avoid
other children and thus was sometimes
late in arriving at home
where he mother and father would be
anxiously awaiting his return

Mother and Father were worried about Roldo
they felt guilty about inflicting a fish-headed child
on the world and the world
on a fish-headed child
and they were afraid that something would
happen to him and somehow their guilt would be
revealed

But, still, they loved Roldo and when he would
return in tears they would hug and kiss him
and tell him that everything would be alright
and though they hadn’t really believed it
as the years passed things did begin to get better

Roldo’s fish-headedness became less and less
Until one day Roldo was just an average
boy
and went out riding his bike
and no one laughed or sang

[written circa 1981/1982]

A Purposely Pointless Tale

There once was a young man who was taken with idea of being Spanish. The young man read every book on Spain that he could; he listened to nothing but albums by flamenco guitar players. Every night he dreamed of emigrating to Spain, where he would fall madly in love and be married.

Unfortunately, the young man was very poor; he wasn't even able to purchase he beloved Spanish books and records; he had had to check them out from a library. Also, the young man was not terribly bright. He had just barely managed to graduate from high school.

One day he was struck with an inspiration. "I know how I'll get to Spain," the young man thought, "I'll pretend I'm a Spanish orphan who has been abandoned in America." To this end, the young man set about learning as much Spanish as he could (which, as it turned out, wasn't much).

After he had learned twenty or so words, the young man felt he was ready. "From now on, I'll speak only Spanish. And then they'll have to send me to Spain."
The young man went to a bus stop near his home. An elderly woman was waiting for a bus to take her home. The young man walked up to the woman and said, "La use en llama alta ni sobre mornillas electricas expuestas." The woman reacted by walking away.

The young man was puzzled but not discouraged. "I need," he thought, "to go somewhere I can talk to a lot of people. I'll go to a supermarket and stand by the entrance." And so, the young man went to a big Whole Foods not too far from his home.

"Hervir hasta que seque ni calientar," he would say to everyone going into the store. "La cafeteria vacia," he would say to everyone leaving the store. Despite these efforts, no one offered to send the young man to Spain but several people did give him their loose change. One old, old, man gave the young man a ten-dollar bill. "La use si esta rajada o arnda," the young man said to the old, old man.

The young man spent five hours at the Whole Foods store speaking Spanish to everyone who went through the doors. By the time he was ready to go home, the young man had collected seventy-five dollars and fifty-five cents. The young man gave a small boy, who had been trying to sell chocolate bars by the exit doors thirty-two cents in pennies, and started to walk dejectedly home. The young man had really hoped that someone would have offered to send him back to Spain.

The young man wasn't aware of it, but two sullen and surly youths had been watching him as he collected money. The sullen and surly youths followed the young man on his way home. When he reached a secluded area, the sullen and surly youths jumped on him and began beating him. The young man broke free. He darted into the street. The youths followed. A bus, speeding down the street, swerved to miss the young man but hit the sullen and surly youths, killing them instantly.

When dealing with the police and the driver of the bus, the young man thought it was best to forget about speaking only Spanish. Besides, he had come up with another plan.

The next day, the young man, this time holding a box in which to collect money, was back at Whole Foods speaking Spanish to the customers as they went in and out of the doors. "La himpe con materiales que rascan," he would say. That day he filled his box with eighty-seven dollars and twenty-three cents. Four months of speaking Spanish provided the young man with enough money to finance his dream trip to Spain.

[written circa 1981/1982 with minor changes 2009]

The Thing Tangible.

Triage ceremony. Current slaves are free; it was this image of empty lives that made a man die. Dust of the packed flesh and not flesh is spirit. Dust of the softball games. Examine the same five activities of the smelling flesh, doing something of a new mind in an age of gods.

Unmask down thyself. This image made a man die. Dressed in this garment of those pleasures -- alcohol, drugs, sexual skylarking -- marvelous rage is suffering. Being happy is whether from taste or travel the image; it is the true escape. Notice this: God said it is the garment of pleasure to eat it. Make no mist, woman! Joy turns to make the image of the sexual skylark; turns, commanding, to talking persons made of none of their order. Truly love the sexual eternity.

The lust of the thing tangible. The image -- fulfillment and law -- she obeyed only in the true escape from restraint. Power. The answer is satisfactory: Keep it holy. Be surprised if that issue is not comprehensible without the content from a grand crusade. Satellites and mania. Unity in neutrality. Two weeks of a common heritage, clearly stung. For all the given doctrine, the U plan may be in the evil empire.

To love the image is what he called the Dramatic Backwardness Union. No political leader knows how to deal with such an influence. Divide that new generation: the U plan may be the division. This image of lust made a man die. The thing tangible worked hard to believe a final, earthly, Spirit. Others seek casinos, or rich food, or sexual skylarking. Examine their role in the master plan: risking activities beats the boredom.

[written circa 1984/1985]

In The Here And Now

we live like the hatters
who continued to make hats
long after the fashion
of men wearing hats had passed

the fashion assassinated by
john fitzgerald kennedy
who cheekily took his oath of office
hatless, yes, but with a
full head of hair

other men were no less bald
as they put away their hats
than in the time before when they
covered their heads with fedoras
bowlers, boaters, and beaver-felt
top hats processed with mercury
that left the hatters mad

but we are still wearing our baseball caps
little-leaguers trying not to lose
that pop-fly in the sun

Spider's Web

from peach tree green leaves hangs
spider's web glistening with dew
the morning sun shining through

On the Horizon

So to speak and so to find
He became like a thundercloud
Untouched by time
Pushing his way directly
Out and up and through
They were with and, then, without
Conclusively coming to terms with
Almost certainty.

Dream

Asleep I have never
been able to dream.

Three months ago
Sleeping on my left side
A crash, very loud in the forest
Woke us and we knelt holding
Each other and with a secure grip
I pulled her to me and
Soon she was riding on top.

Asleep I have never
been able to dream.

Desert

From the first she suspected
The grass that led down
I know she barely realized
I watched them
Her fingers in front
In their car, the radio
A cool rain falling
I began to drive out
Into the desert that day

Bed

The shock of the inept
Thrusting in his bed
Where they had tested
The notion that they
Were not far from each other.

As he looked back
She did not look back.

The Red Drapes (for Roman Polanski)

She was totally paralyzed after
A few glasses of champagne and
After all that noise, she
Stayed there and opened up
He examined her, approving
She did not consider
What had occurred
When she saw the heavy red drapes
Early in the morning over
And around her long legs
"Goodbye," he said and
"You figure it out."

Echolia

As more of a reflex
He shook his head
And with it the echoes
He still had to punctuate
Which would someday
lead him to himself

The End of It

Fingers flickering at buttons
His hands were clamped over
Because she mentioned wanting
He guessed he did understand
Nothing serious and certain
Trying to imagine for awhile
The end of it suddenly
Reading into it what they wanted
They had gotten bored
But still nothing had been done.

A Country Song

He could get mean as many
But being too lonely alone
Like a dancer she kept turning
And they laughed.

She found him too late to
Tend him and care for him
And they knew it too
Only there's no chance at the top
But she felt one down
she could stop.

Anyone For?

It ought to have been as simple
As stepping through the door
In white shirt and pants saying
"You are now going to tell me
What I want to do."

The Harvest

Fiona Robyn has posted another one of my poems on her blog A Handful of Stones.

Robyn says that "a small stone is a polished moment of paying proper attention."

sitting in the ginkgo room
barefoot
surrounded by books
harvesting words

Missed Connection

Lost hearts try to contact me elsewhere
As I loiter sanguinely –
That is to say cheerfully,
Confidently; optimistically –
At the séance where the medium's
Cat slumps in a window cleaning
Her fur in the reflections
Of the flaming sky.

This poem was a response to prompt #83 at Read Write Poem. That was fun. I'll certainly do it again.

Times Square, 1973

This poem was written to be submitted to a poetry contest (see below) but I missed the deadline by a day. Oh, well, I don't think this is exactly what they were looking for.

Bright Lights Big Verse: Poems of Times Square sponsored by the The Poetry Society of America and the Times Square Alliance to help celebrate Times Square, and the qualities that Times Square represents —- diversity, desire, dynamism and the marriage of commerce and culture —-through poetry.

A smell barely remembered reminds her
of the day when the two of them met
and went to a Times Square hotel. She
should have known better than to skip
lunch and pick him up. He sometimes
complained when she did. But the fashion
has changed, she said. In the room,
she imagined rather than felt
the breeze from an open window
that he gazed out, humming quietly.
She asked him to come nearer and like
a long fall slowed she reached out
and touched him and it stood up and
went hard into the pink and together
they moved rhythmically. They could not
stay with it long but he could move
as she moved and then he shivered slightly
and with delight shuddered. They turned
aside and she stared at the lights beyond
as if awakened on the other side.

In the Trees

i was all alone and waved and yelled "away"
in the trees because of them
if one of us -- in print, in person --
gets to where the light fades
it's all over
for your familiar surroundings

The Stars

and there beside me
he would stand and say
she had never asked
why bother to leave
too obscure, the stars,
he explained

With Sails

with sails on rough seas
towards themselves rather than
away from one another

and nobody would even have to know
what he sees peering perplexedly away
i said bitterly to him alone

to be found that way...
to be anything other...
to think that when...

The Air Above

amusing to consider something i said
thirteen years ago when we first met
in a single cavern of this house
it was not you who agreed to give
could not possibly have been you
the air above places has got to be
right and all, i said

Remembrance

she saw it as nothing
much to remember as long
as she had never felt
a desire to do so before

it was one of her rare
impulses of joy

ours; we were done
stood at one end
in the same darkness
she seemed very quiet

Dreaming

he had not seen why
could not ask even for an explanation
he dreamed about it to repeat it
it keeps things close, he said,
even if they were not
far away, though, before
and, it seems, were more near

A Slow Twist

he's being carried past us.
it is, as a thing, a new way of looking,
a slow twist,
a kind of indignation.
we still feel it, though,
but not as much as before,
this emptiness in the middle.

Solstice

the slow tumble
a phantom embrace
in early summer

Forgetting

we could depend on a sharp glance
a very likely possibility
as she bent to desire. the sun
jumping through a region altered.
she gave a too large smile;
he grunted, glanced at us, worried.
then, we said nothing about it.

Morning Glory

bleak, moonlit autumn
shimmering, dimly seen
girls, again, and going
to the right place
ambiguous, yet
nowhere, blurred
blue peaking high

for Karl Kaltenthaler

Dragon

we were all excited
we would have dodged
fire struck
from her breath
but by the time
we started out
sudden darkness
scapegoats invented

An Elegy of Sorts

Surprised
I have remembered
The passing
Close to the end
It helped
We all knew we were
So large, so low
I have realized

Aftermath

i'm crying in quiet rage
slowed down voice, wearily
i laughed and went back
conveniently forgetting that
we had made it to next door

A Storm

as solid as a stick
you remembered feline cruelty
turned, whistled softly
a cruel hurricane
no pattern
legs, arms, and chest
gotten there only by inches
she shrugged, gently

Garden Party

complex light leaving you to
it to be embarrassed by noise
already in the music
never before music
garden party sound
of life brightening thick
almost as good as jumping out
it seemed the best

The Office

"welcome"
amiable, careful
"up to date"
i didn't listen
"pay attention"
completely out of touch
jabbering at me.
"manager," he said.

At Last

he looked everywhere positively
again frantic his eyes
no luck then you returned
you knew already the hardness
we would lie on the bed
down the middle think of
someone you had heard, seen
quiet for once he tried to watch
your fingers your eyes
could not tear his eyes away

morning came to find us
somewhat delayed but sleepless
tongues hanging out, kissing
at last

Kitchen

hard-board prone on the kitchen floor
immediately your words raised
from inaudible
so quickly i understand at last
having been yourself

honey
again and across and back

Clean Break

warmth of her skin nice, safe
drew closer not too reason
dark leather on soft and pink
laughter, no good
a silence, clean break

daylight now mockery

"Let's Go"

close to his body frustrated desperation
impossible, though, over the curved
slightly raised mound all the way down
fixed, apparently, plains across gold
going down no doubt
she had come, that morning
locked on to her, a shame to end
cheating, it, here

Compared to What

a dreary place the sun
no longer at her back
flat, featureless, could not
see, made for less
strayed too far, cold and wet
no sound, snow and wind
too, the absence liked

The Wine Bar

all the young people: indifferent company
idiot storms: intelligence little
touch and clink face to face
meaningless but, soon,
obscurely disturbing
light, deceptive, friendships
ultimate loneliness versus
suppressed impulses

Black Diamond Detective Agency, Part 3

It was 10:30 by the time I felt sufficiently revived to venture out of the office into the streets. The first place I went was to the bank where I cashed a check for $100. From there I made my way to a barber shop where [a saint with scissors] managed to get me looking somewhat respectable.

The next stop was a Goodwill resale store where I picked out a sort of cliche movie detective outfit: dark suit, tan overcoat, and a battered but not beaten fedora. I was hoping that Curt would get the joke. I returned to the office where I changed into my getup. Things had been going well and showed every sign of continuing that way.

When I called the public library to ask for information about Ramiland, I was connected to a very friendly and helpful librarian who sounded like she'd be a lot of fun when she wasn't being a librarian. She didn't know anything off hand about Ramiland but told me that she could locate some sources for me if I wanted to come by and pick them up. I told her that was fine and told myself not to get too excited about the librarian. She was probably about 70-years-old and most likely had a figure like a baby elephant.

She wasn't and she didn't, I found out when I got over to the library. We had a pretty good time talking and she thought my detective outfit was as amusing as it was supposed to be. We exchanged phone numbers and promised to make it out to a club sometime in the very near future. The only sources she had been able to find were articles in two magazines, which she handed over to me with a wink.

And here, dear reader, my story grinds to an expository halt never to recover, except for this brief passage:

It was around 2:00 when I finished reading The librarian I took the magazines back to was 70-years-old and did have the figure of a baby elephant. She had a pretty voice and I was in a good mood so I flirted with her for a little bit. We didn't exchange phone numbers, though, and I didn't even get a wink.

-30-

Black Diamond Detective Agency, Part 2

My clothes were in even worse shape than my hair. The Hawaiian tourist shirt had never been the height of fashion and was now just barely wearable. It did go, more or less, with the Army surplus fatigue pants I had on. The splotch of puke, my own or someone else's I couldn't remember, on my right thigh came pretty close to matching the flowers on the shirt. I didn't think Curt or his family would appreciate that too much.

I looked around the lovely Black Diamond Detective Agency for something else to wear but couldn't find anything. I did find my checkbook in a pair of black-and-pink checked pants that I couldn't remember ever wearing. Look at them now, I was glad that I didn't. I was pleasantly surprised to find that I had $450 in my account. It was obviously money left over from the last time I had worked as a laborer on a construction site. I certainly hadn't worked on a $450 case for a least a year. As a matter of fact, I hadn't worked on a case of any kind -- cases of beer excluded -- for 6 months. Maybe I'd been working on too many cases of beer.


(To Be Continued)

Black Diamond Detective Agency, Part 1

Note: Way back in 1980 I took a fiction writing class at Southern Illinois University at Edwardsville taught by Lloyd Kropp, and my final project was a short story that, frankly, doesn't live up the the promise of it's first two and a half pages. Those first pages, though, are worth posting here.

It was 9:45 in the morning when the ringing of the telephone ended my sweet dreams. I know it was exactly 9:45 in the morning when the telephone rang because I'm a detective and I get paid to remember little details like that. It had been a long time since I'd been paid for remembering little details, though, so I did a fairly good imitation of a man leaping out of bed to answer the phone. The imitation was flawed because I was sleeping on the floor of my office and only had to roll over on my side to answer the phone. As far as I was concerned, I was leaping out of bed and it's the thought that counts.

"Uh, yeah, what do you want?" I inquired of my caller.

"This is Black Diamond Detective Agency, isn't it?" I allowed that it was and further admitted that I was George Blake, head honcho. "George," the caller continued in much happier and excited tones, "this is Curt Simonson. I just got into town a couple of days ago and I thought I'd give you a call to invite you over."

"Oh, hello, Curt. It's been a long time. You've been off in Africa or someplace, right?"

"That's right. I've been doing fieldwork in Ramiland in eastern Africa. The political situation got pretty hot so I decided it was about time to come home to the family for awhile."

"So you're back at "the Mansion," eh? I think I can still remember how to get there. What time do you want me?"

"Around 3:30, if you can make it. And, George, I may have to ask you to mix a little business with pleasure."

"That's fine with me. Lord knows I could do with a little of both. I'll see you at 3:30, then. 'Bye." I hung up and began getting ready for the upcoming reunion. The first thing I needed, I saw when I finally located a mirror under a pile of old newspapers on my desk, was a shave and possibly a haircut. A haircut soon became a necessity when it became obvious that no amount of combing was going to produce any style other than grubby. It'd been a long time since I'd dealt with anyone who would mind hiring a detective whose hair was grubby.

(To Be Continued)

Insatiable

going on and on
spread, sprawled, increased
touched, twitching, octopus
tentacles, machines, belts
vanished, swallowed
here and there
they were swamped
throats blazed
in their turn
vanished, eaten
searched, forced
seemed, becalmed
and it was not enough

Sunset

he thought, he did think
even on the hill
he had known
he had denied
foliage vanished
molten sunset
gone, she
had been more beautiful
he had believed
beauty exotic, not tentative
her cruel smile, her
beauty
in a smile
still remained as
she would tell

Radio

the message arrived the same day
he was diffidently at work by that time

listening to the news
words he had never heard
words indeed he had never even
listened to

what it meant to be freed
to be silenced of this babble
within him

leaving himself

Cheshire

slowly i smiled
i don't care to
dwell on it
you're thinking i am
able to see
in the dark because
you think
you're thinking
i am a cat or an owl

Night

once he dreamed, a boy, then
night swelled, a consuming
darkness, unblinking
at the spark, the silver, the sprawl

afterward, only the night

Beyond Belief (Almost)

naked flame that was what
she was wearing
reason said it was difficult
to believe in
to think of it
and how all of it
could not be
otherwise
with all the irony consequent
it did not but it almost seemed to
much of the time
really seem to be there

All I Know

This morning I don't know why
She was leaving saying
I did well enough
She'll ask me again
I'll have to tell her I
don't think
I don't know all I know

Perhaps

she had been scintillating, perhaps
in a dream of dreamers dreaming
of her
perhaps the dream, still, was her

she fell silent, perhaps
she was a dream, perhaps
they were a dream, perhaps

Oklahoma, U.S.A.

She saw him just before
Too many, too much
Her hope
Into the dust

A Poem for Stevie Nicks to Sing

Hair, chains, honey
undone, an array
old and sickly
a song.

Fooled by Mirrors

And sometimes that was it
slow and puzzling
a dirty rainbow
allowed to penetrate
dazzling volumes.

Drawing to a Close

for Mary Sprague

"What's she doing?" was the question.
"Making paper black," I answered.
"Is that good?" he asked.
"Better," I said, "than if she
isn't."


T. Renner, "Tree (for Mary Sprague)," 2009, colored ink on notebook paper, 3" x 3".

For more of my drawings, paintings and photographs, visit Tony Renner, Artist..

"Haiku" Posted On A Handful of Stones

Fiona Robyn has posted one of my poems, "Haiku," on her blog A Handful of Stones!

Robyn says that "a small stone is a polished moment of paying proper attention."

"Haiku" is a reworking of a poem, see below, that I wrote in 1979, when I was 18 years old. My notes indicate that it was accepted for publication in a magazine called "Lore-X."

In the Water?

Little darting fish
swim around and around
the aquatic lovers

Passing

As though to avoid encounter
the spirit passed through
the wall
into the netherworld.

Daybreak

In an hour or so
the sun would rise and
her day would begin.

The Past, Remembered

Not too many years ago
well, maybe a hundred
or maybe less
well, sometime

To Not Forget

He remembered at that instant.
A rare phenomenon.
She drew a long, deep breath.

Big Leagues

She bit her lip
thinking that it was a good game.
He smiled, then, glad to be playing.

Carnival

Too noisy to care
His heart
The girls laughing now
The sight of them a shock
The luxury of restlessness

His Head Was Spinning

Dizzy, he pulled levers, flicked switches
light swirled, desired cried
branches blossomed, pistils shuddered

Eggs! No!

He had already decided that the eggs
had to go.
Smooth.
Round.
White.
Unbearable.

Changes

A delicious bedroom door
couldn't possibly turn his
daughter into an outboard motor,
could it?

Listen Here, Partner

To understand one story
told many times
in diverse voices.

Born To Lose

The first man to quit and
go elsewhere
lived for years and years
and years there
and then died, as he would
have done
had he stayed put. You can't
win.

Geology 101

Rivers of doubt
Ribbons of worry
Mountains of pride
Collapse into a mist
of longing

November '54

The cold November of 1954
remains in mind
like a shadow-soul caught
between heaven and hell.

Idea

A good idea would be
an idea that would make
King Solomon ponder it for
no little while.

Good Morning

She woke at the
sound of the birds
welcoming with
their morning song
the rising sun.

The Choir Sings

Having nothing better to do
the robins
formed a choir in a
blossoming apple tree and
sang continuously their
apple tree song.

Satisfaction

An exercise in logic
is satisfied.

His attention
left open for her.

As if she were seeking.

Different Rather Than Difficult

Uncertain, the vital seconds went by
He said unhappily,
"Don't ask me how."
A vague recollection
different rather than difficult
A sudden sense of a picture
From behind her
He parted her lips
And thought finally, desperately.

Huevos

"The sun is striking an egg instead, then?"
I asked
bewildered by this development.

See! Birds!

Glorying in the sensation of swift flight,
the seabirds
dive
down
into
the
sea spearing fish with
their bills and rocket back into the sky.

Notes from a Conversation

Hell, he said.
Alone, she said.
Anything, he said.
Wait, she said.
Wish, he said.
No, she said.

Is That A Poem In Your Pocket Or Are You Just Glad To See Me?

Celebrate the second national Poem In Your Pocket Day today by putting a poem in your pocket! Don't just leave it there, though, whip that sucker out from time to time during the day and read it to your friends and co-workers.

I put together a little -- 4.25" x 2.75" -- 16-page chapbook containing 14 of the poems I've shared here with you over the last several weeks.

Copies will be available for FREE at Left Bank Books and Subterranean Books here in the STL.

Listen to the Ether

In the center of the big room
Amazed and considerably dismayed
She saw no one else.

She realized almost immediately
That he had no interest.

He stood there trembling.

At this late moment
The ether was silent.

Paradise

tell him hey for mister granerford
the children yell
as i pass by the window of
the tenement on my way
to paradise.

Weather Report

How was I to know
that in the middle of April
the sun would come out
and boom like a
cinema spook?

Journeyers

"The trip might only
take a few months"

If that was true
If that was a fact

Nobody could see that

"We don't need guileless
innocence unhappily fighting"

"It would be kind of a shame
to get home in a year"

Premonitions

dark tree branches
floating down
towards him.

when dreams came to him
even added mentally
something would remain unrevealed.

Poem for R. Kelly

hidden he
listened

she spoke

hidden he
heard

hidden he
turned
his face
downward
for a moment

Dr. Benway Consults

he told his patient that
he had often cured such a mania
but that just in case
he should find
a transistor radio

[for William S. Burroughs]

"Qu'ils mangent de la brioche!"

As she slept
Marie dreamed
oblivious

None for Me, Thanks

The girl, along
with everyone else,
had to drink the tea
made from the bitter
leaves of regret.

Roldo the Fish-Headed Boy

Roldo was a boy
(that is, he was a young human
with a penis
who differed from the rest of his society
in that he had the head of a fish

Roldo was a bright boy
he was good at math
and at reading and writing
and he could ride a bicycle like
nothing
but, still, he had the head of a fish

Other boys were often cruel to Roldo
girls, (young humans with vaginas)
were also cruel to him
they (the boys and girls) made up a song

The song was about Roldo
when he would ride by on his bicycle
they would sing:
Roldo the fish-headed boy
he’s so ugly we want to cry
he’s a fish and he should fry
and then they would laugh

The singing and laughing hurt Roldo
but he loved riding his bike too much to
stop

Roldo would often ride blocks
and blocks out of his way to avoid
other children and thus was sometimes
late in arriving at home
where he mother and father would be
anxiously awaiting his return

Mother and Father were worried about Roldo
they felt guilty about inflicting a fish-headed child
on the world and the world
on a fish-headed child
and they were afraid that something would
happen to him and somehow their guilt would be
revealed

But, still, they loved Roldo and when he would
return in tears they would hug and kiss him
and tell him that everything would be alright
and though they hadn’t really believed it
as the years passed things did begin to get better

Roldo’s fish-headedness became less and less
Until one day Roldo was just an average
boy
and went out riding his bike
and no one laughed or sang

And Still

You rip the mask from my face
It falls at my feet
The scales drop from my eyes
I can see you plainly now
You can see me clearly now
I lash out with a jagged blade of rage
You are cut
You bleed
Sorry I'm sorry I say
I pull the mask from your face
I lay it at your feet
The scales drop from your eyes
You can see me clearly now
I can see you plainly now

Left At Home, Again

She practices her ballroom dancing
up
and
down
the hall
her broom for a partner.

A Poem for Your Confusion (A Song for Michael Stipe to Sing)

Around and around and around
Floating floating floating
down to the sky
up to the ground
give me an ounce give me a pound
around and around and around

Go to the well go to the well
fight back tears
fight back tears
go to the well go to the well

Silence silence silence
I want to hear a pin drop
a pin drop
fall from your grace
laughter laughter laughter

Around and around and around
swimming swimming swimming
into the water
into the sea
give me an ounce give me a pound
around and around and around

Faster Than Light (FTL)

The stars exploded in a flash of
indignation when the ship reached
light speed.

Four O'Clock

Four in the morning found him
slumped
at his typewriter
-- fast asleep --
his coffee cup filled with
-- cigarette butts --

A Good Cry

Tiny, blazing, tears
came streaming down
his cheeks when
he realized
she wasn't
there
anymore.

A Short Story With No Moral #4

There was once a young woman who was obsessed with obsequiousness. She had heard someone being referred to as obsequious, like the way it sounded, and resolved to one day become obsequious herself.

Unfortunately, the young woman was not entirely sure of what the word meant. Being of a somewhat proud nature, she was reluctant to ask anyone for a definition. The young woman was convinced, however, that to be obsequious was to be grand and important.

The picture the young woman had in her head was of herself, dressed in the most beautiful gown in the world, descending a marble staircase that ended in a huge ballroom filled with the most elegant of the elegant. As she came into sight, heads would turn in her direction, there would be gasps, and someone would say quietly to her friend, “Isn’t she just too too obsequious?”

On only one occasion did the young woman ever tell anyone about her dreams of obsequiousness. She happened to have been in bed with a young man of whom she was quite fond – dreams of marriage alternated with dreams of obsequiousness – and they were exchanging secrets of the heart. The young man had just finished telling the young woman of his longing to be the manager of a Denny’s restaurant when the young woman suddenly blurted out, “I want to be obsequious!”

The young man laughed. It was the most ridiculous thing he had ever heard. The young woman, who on rare occasions might say “please” or “thank you,” and who would butt in lines and when asked to pass something at the dinner table would say “You’ve got arms. Get it yourself,” wanted to be obsequious. It was to laugh.

The young woman, however, did not laugh. She was deeply hurt and angry. She thought that the young man was laughing at her for wanting to be grand and important. She thought he was laughing at her dreams. “Get out,” she screamed at the young man. “Get out of my bed! Get out of my house! And get out of my life!”

The young man sat in stunned silence for a moment, very quietly said, “O.K.,” and wordlessly got dressed, gathered up his things and left the apartment.

That was the last the young woman ever saw of the young man. She would often think of that night and how things had gone wrong. As the years went by, she grew more and more convinced that the young man had meant to hurt her and, thus, she grew to hate him. Eventually, her hate grew too much for just the one young man and she began to hate all men.

One day she received a letter notifying her that her aunt had died leaving her five million dollars. “I’m rich,” she thought, “I can quit my job and do anything I want. I can be obsequious now. First, I’ll go out and buy myself the most beautiful gown I can find.”

The woman, who by this time as no longer young, made plans to throw a huge party in the most exquisite hotel in Vienna, Austria. She invited everyone who was anyone, and a few who weren’t, and she even invited the man, who was also, of course, no longer young, who had hurt her.

After months of preparations, the day of the party finally arrived. The woman boarded the jet airliner that would carry her to Austria. She was eating caviar and drinking champagne when the airliner went into a nosedive and crashed in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean.

News of the disaster reached the party at midnight. At first a hushed silence fell over the crowd. Finally, a Texas millionaire broke the silence. “Well, shucks, as long’s were all here, let’s make this the best goddamn wake Vienna, Austria’s ever seen!”

And so they did.

Road

Her few words
wound their way
from
her lips
to my
ears
as though
they were
a sleigh
coming down
a mountain
road.

Ark

In the ark
the animals became
very, very, very, very
friendly.

Ask Noah.

Speed

Fifteen hundred per minute
is quite fast
if you stop to think of it.

Pardon Me, I Thought You Were Someone Else

Grasping the hand thrust
from the cylindrical room
brought him
face to face
with the future,
like it or not.

Amen, Omen, Amen

Even though you,
as an omen,
have the advantage of being
taken very seriously
I wouldn't advise anyone
to talk to Mama.

And Away You Go

He would have inquired
after them
had the ghosts of the house
not spirited
him away.

Legend

The night birds flew screeching
through the flame-licked ruins
of torn and twisted legends of
greater times.

Courage

As if courage could be transmitted
he developed an entire science
for the generation to come.

Artist

He drank whiskey
from the bottle
with one hand.

Hhe drew her face
in the sand
with the other.

Wintertime

They lay down
in an unmarked field of snow
behind a silent tree.

Writing

If it's worth
writing at all,
it's worth overwriting.

* * * *

Happy National Poetry Month!

From poets.org:

National Poetry Month is a month-long, national celebration of poetry established by the Academy of American Poets. The concept is to widen the attention of individuals and the media—to the art of poetry, to living poets, to our complex poetic heritage, and to poetry books and journals of wide aesthetic range and concern. We hope to increase the visibility and availability of poetry in popular culture while acknowledging and celebrating poetry’s ability to sustain itself in the many places where it is practiced and appreciated.

Who started it? The Academy of American Poets has led this initiative from its inception in 1996 and along the way has enlisted a variety of government agencies and officials, educational leaders, publishers, sponsors, poets, and arts organizations to help.

Oh, Hello There

She looked up and
found herself saying
nothing
to the world
in general
and to
the wall
in particular.

Infinity

In the middle of
nowhere
with
nothing
to do
and
all the time in the world
to do
it in.

Gospel

He ran from
cactus to cactus
preaching the word
of the Lord
quite mad
from the sun.

On the Road

She could not help snatching
one last side-long glance
at the lights of the truck
as it rolled
on and on and on
down the road
leaving her
alone.

Portrait

A picture of Goethe
faces me from the
far wall.

I stare him
down.

Pilgrimage

The weary pilgrims
trudge through the snow
sparkling
in the cold winter sun
making their journey
somehow more bearable.

A Purposely Pointless Tale

There once was a young man who was taken with idea of being Spanish. The young man read every book on Spain that he could; he listened to nothing but albums by flamenco guitar players. Every night he dreamed of emigrating to Spain, where he would fall madly in love and be married.

Unfortunately, the young man was very poor; he wasn't even able to purchase he beloved Spanish books and records; he had had to check them out from a library. Also, the young man was not terribly bright. He had just barely managed to graduate from high school.

One day he was struck with an inspiration. "I know how I'll get to Spain," the young man thought, "I'll pretend I'm a Spanish orphan who has been abandoned in America." To this end, the young man set about learning as much Spanish as he could (which, as it turned out, wasn't much).

After he had learned twenty or so words, the young man felt he was ready. "From now on, I'll speak only Spanish. And then they'll have to send me to Spain."
The young man went to a bus stop near his home. An elderly woman was waiting for a bus to take her home. The young man walked up to the woman and said, "La use en llama alta ni sobre mornillas electricas expuestas." The woman reacted by walking away.

The young man was puzzled but not discouraged. "I need," he thought, "to go somewhere I can talk to a lot of people. I'll go to a supermarket and stand by the entrance." And so, the young man went to a big Whole Foods not too far from his home.

"Hervir hasta que seque ni calientar," he would say to everyone going into the store. "La cafeteria vacia," he would say to everyone leaving the store. Despite these efforts, no one offered to send the young man to Spain but several people did give him their loose change. One old, old, man gave the young man a ten-dollar bill. "La use si esta rajada o arnda," the young man said to the old, old man.

The young man spent five hours at the Whole Foods store speaking Spanish to everyone who went through the doors. By the time he was ready to go home, the young man had collected seventy-five dollars and fifty-five cents. The young man gave a small boy, who had been trying to sell chocolate bars by the exit doors thirty-two cents in pennies, and started to walk dejectedly home. The young man had really hoped that someone would have offered to send him back to Spain.

The young man wasn't aware of it, but two sullen and surly youths had been watching him as he collected money. The sullen and surly youths followed the young man on his way home. When he reached a secluded area, the sullen and surly youths jumped on him and began beating him. The young man broke free. He darted into the street. The youths followed. A bus, speeding down the street, swerved to miss the young man but hit the sullen and surly youths, killing them instantly.

When dealing with the police and the driver of the bus, the young man thought it was best to forget about speaking only Spanish. Besides, he had come up with another plan.

The next day, the young man, this time holding a box in which to collect money, was back at Whole Foods speaking Spanish to the customers as they went in and out of the doors. "La himpe con materiales que rascan," he would say. That day he filled his box with eighty-seven dollars and twenty-three cents. Four months of speaking Spanish provided the young man with enough money to finance his dream trip to Spain.

Madness

At that brink
of madness it
took an extreme act
of will
to remain
sane.

On the Water

From the top of the terrace
the sun appeared
to sink
into the ocean
leaving
its light behind
to float
on the water.

Ice Floe

His
body
began
to float
down
the river
along with
the
ice.
He was
quite
dead.

The Thing Tangible.

Triage ceremony. Current slaves are free; it was this image of empty lives that made a man die. Dust of the packed flesh and not flesh is spirit. Dust of the softball games. Examine the same five activities of the smelling flesh, doing something of a new mind in an age of gods.

Unmask down thyself. This image made a man die. Dressed in this garment of those pleasures -- alcohol, drugs, sexual skylarking -- marvelous rage is suffering. Being happy is whether from taste or travel the image; it is the true escape. Notice this: God said it is the garment of pleasure to eat it. Make no mist, woman! Joy turns to make the image of the sexual skylark; turns, commanding, to talking persons made of none of their order. Truly love the sexual eternity.

The lust of the thing tangible. The image -- fulfillment and law -- she obeyed only in the true escape from restraint. Power. The answer is satisfactory: Keep it holy. Be surprised if that issue is not comprehensible without the content from a grand crusade. Satellites and mania. Unity in neutrality. Two weeks of a common heritage, clearly stung. For all the given doctrine, the U plan may be in the evil empire.

To love the image is what he called the Dramatic Backwardness Union. No political leader knows how to deal with such an influence. Divide that new generation: the U plan may be the division. This image of lust made a man die. The thing tangible worked hard to believe a final, earthly, Spirit. Others seek casinos, or rich food, or sexual skylarking. Examine their role in the master plan: risking activities beats the boredom.

A House But Not A Home

The process of bringing the
house up to the standards of
Jean Harlow's ghost was
difficult, to say the least.