31 July 2012
J ust don’t say anything until i
finish okay you know we got rained
out on friday so on saturday
we had to play a doubleheader
simpson what’s new has a gimpy arm
and praithor wasn’t ready to start
anyway al couldn’t start against
sellers and tommy was due against
grainville what i really called about
was walker are you still there don’t say
anything well in the second game
i’m sitting in the bullpen our boy
pulling his usual his baby
blues not to be denied no glasses
and he says the tar bothers his face
of course there’s not a blooming cloud in
the sky and carver hits this sinking
liner and walker stands there squinting
so he breaks late and the wrong way you
still there but first walker was frozen
like he was even frightened to move
anyway he breaks the wrong way he’s
half blinded by the sun this is
where it gets are you still listening
this is where it gets really pretty
walker changes directions like he
bounced off a wall he runs and dives and
floats a few inches above the grass
like a pelican skimming for fish
you’ve seen pelicans before i guess
well he’s gliding along like a bird
i can see this white gown washed under
him like a wave i don’t know if i
need a vacation or not so this
wave or train bears him along till he
makes the catch and the crowd goes crazy
he displays the scoop and then the fist
for the groundlings and the organist
about has an epileptic fit
i don’t know if anyone else saw
or not this guardian angel what
else you want me to call it well she
stood cool yeah it was a she so what
well she stands cool as a cucumber
her breast is stained all green while walker
brushes off his immaculate knees
she wipes her sunglasses on her hem
you gonna keep interrupting me
so walker spits in his glove like he’s
about to heal an ump of blindness
well this angel was looking pretty
amused while he adjusted his cup
we’re dead last and they’re alone on top
you still figure we should call him up?
30 July 2012
Bartender: What'll it be?
Double Agent #1 (motioning toward the far end of the bar): I'll have what he's having.
Bartender (calling to the opposite end of the bar): So, what's your pleasure?
Double Agent #2 (motioning back toward his nemesis): I'll have what he's having.
29 July 2012
his name. I don’t know his name, but this man knows mine.
He is greater than Adam, the innocent one,
naming the creatures as they paraded in line.
But that man bestowed no catness, no idling purr,
no electric fur, no lodestone for the compass arrow.
Yes. Here comes the one who brings flesh and bone and core,
bearing brass bell on his bronze tongue, pith and marrow.
Not unlike those who would gather fire on long limbs
and trek through rain and wind from distant lightning strikes,
or those who returned with brimming pots from secret wells.
Here he comes. Yes, it's him. He knows my name, knows me.
Say it, and resurrect me, remember me once
again. Give me water, bring me thunder, break the spell.
28 July 2012
I finally drug myself into work around 10:30 since I didn’t have any deliveries until 11:15, and I was type 1. It had been a long night. And no, I wasn’t hung over, just on the threshold of another failure of nerve - trying to figure out how I could come up with a good, or even lame would do, excuse for not going by to see Cadney today and dealing with the ruling. Admit it. That’s an odd word.
27 July 2012
26 July 2012
i just jumped in line
they taught me to use a gun
and to read landmines
N o one else from my village
is left alive
and now they are stripping me
of my handmade knives
25 July 2012
24 July 2012
23 July 2012
we gallop up to the wall and stop the horrible thought the horrendous scene escapes like a wily fox words there are none to sic my son on the atrocities
galopamos hasta el muro y paramos el horrible pensamiento la horrenda escena escapa como un zorro furtivo mi hijo, palabras no hay alguna para dar caza ante atrocidades
22 July 2012
dining room this is where his friend betty
sat with her cherry red walker i called
it her sports car gary shook hands like a man
every sunday for years we shook hands
and he would notice when i limped and when
my limp got better betty says “i guess
you know” and i ask “know what?” squatting down
in front of her ruby red ferrari
she says “gary went to the hospital
and he died” and i stumble out “i'm sorry”
while cupping her hands for just a twinkling
since they're swollen up with arthritis
gary is gone and his hands fold up inside us
21 July 2012
Read the rest of installment #6
20 July 2012
19 July 2012
18 July 2012
I n the same school
n a white-collared blouse
she stood before me
she died before me
there she comes, my queen,
the sea is linen, my king,
and the wind is nothing
17 July 2012
and when the world was turned
16 July 2012
blue swales and red ditches
15 July 2012
i knew him knew
the truth whole truth
and nothing but
saltines grape juice
and dixie cups
daddy as teddy
sank in the sawdust
in his wing-tipped shoes
betty’s wink was the word
the pulpit promised
peach crates stacked up
crates found out back
the broken book as bird
some young booby
testing its span
its pages ruffled by
the whiffling of
14 July 2012
W e headed back to the Econoline and I cleaned up the baby’s breath from the driver’s side. I had plucked it out at the last minute – why clutter up the magnificent roses. Flackette was a big fan of the gypsophila, but I was more in line with the English Garden school. It was indeed a “gyp,” a filler, watering down the moonshine. I palm-dozed the delicate, already starting to dry, flowers into the center of the seat - on top of the two brown cowhide oranges.
We drove back from Brookline, most of the way, in silence. It was an okay silence. Not the silence of I-wish-somebody-would-say-something silence. Nietzsche, I think, said something about a good wife was somebody you could talk to after the erotic dried up. I’ll take a wife you can sit in silence with, without undue tension. Tone was a good wife.
Read the rest of installment #5
13 July 2012
12 July 2012
W ater is a cruel lens
now, that i am cut off
now, that i have fallen
now, that i am detached
from the tree, and stricken
now, that you have fallen
and what will happen first?
will you evaporate
or will i flameless burn?
or shall we not take turns?
11 July 2012
avec son violon
entre ses genoux.
les quatre lignes fines
sur la cuisse l'intérieur
de la matinée.
l'âme du violon.
S he dreams. if she sleeps
with her violin
between her knees.
the four fine lines
on the inside thigh
of the morning.
the soul of the violin.
the soul awakening.
10 July 2012
09 July 2012
08 July 2012
or that my best church-going shoes are hiking boots
D doesn't really care what translation I use
or that my guitar is hardly ever in tune
D doesn’t care about my Appalachian twang
or that some, if not most, of my sermons are train
wrecks, or that all of the hymns under my fingers
groan like the blues and we meet where they play bingo
D doesn’t care about my stories or my plots
or my notes on the words from the carpenter’s cross
but she is quite happy about one of the arts
that I have practiced and mastered, at least in part,
the art of holding one of her hands, not too tight,
while pushing her wheelchair, a steady pace and straight
07 July 2012
I hate Sundays. Especially late in the day. Bad things happen on Sunday evening. The Wonderful World of Disney really didn’t come on in colour like the advertisement said it would. Not if you have a black and white T.V. What did I know about receptors and decoders and tri-colour reproducers? Give me a break. I was 7 years old. I thought that was the wonderful thing about it– the show would ride in on a full colour horse and make your T.V. a colour T.V. for an hour. You know, just like the fairy with the wand turns the peacock. That explains a lot I guess about my childhood. I was a hopeful romantic. The guys in the Alamo would hold out. Ole Yeller wouldn’t die at the end. The horse with the broken leg wouldn’t get put down.
Read the rest of installment #4
06 July 2012
05 July 2012
04 July 2012
03 July 2012
lways as a child
02 July 2012
le vol delà de l'eau,
l'indigne de la diamant,
l'indigne des monts,
les mains des jeunes
flies across the water.
the flight across the water,
unworthy of the diamond,
the lover hungry for monday.
unworthy of the mountains,
the old mountains,
the hands of young men,
01 July 2012
|L.L. Dean 2012|
hair from fountain
lips breaking up
while squatting and
and fumbling at
my locker my
numbers i twirled
the knurled nose of
my lock and watched
four pink finger-
prints charming on
that flagrant nape
unmoved she flew
past my torn mouth
a fervent frog’s