16th Post: A Poem

Gentle reader(s),
Below you will find a poem that I have been writing off and on for the last eight months. I almost feel bad for telling you that, because now you will read it and say, 'Eight months for this??!?? This chumba-wumba is clearly NOT the writer he thinks he is.' Well, I am the writer I think I am... warts and all. This is a personal piece, derived from witnessing the near-total and absolute destruction of so many hopes and dreams all over this country. I am proud of what you will read below and I dedicate it to all of those who need a snorkel to move around in their home.

Best,
Ed

One in the Hand

Seated on a Bank’s back porch

In a chair ere too once mine

I spied upon a common bird

Perched on a scrawny pine

Why he chose such real estate

I cannot surely say

He likely found it suited him

Despite its perilous sway

Whether dove or crow or mocking bird

I could not then discern

For ‘twas the portent of the clouds

That beckoned my concern

It was a sight beheld before

On a day that promised sun

And I’d been proven ill-prepared

When all was said and done

My battered heart grew faint with fear

A punch-drunk’s flinch derived

From oft-dwelling on my own affair

With wind and storm and pride

A nest I’d built (or bought…who cares?)

For life and wife and years

A nest I’d filled (for naught…who knew?)

With this and that and – finally – my tears

As with a bird, the proverb goes

I’d chosen bush, not hand

And opting for the softer course

I’d bypassed rock for sand

For what is rock, my reason said,

But sand pressured and proven true

And so it went with bird and Benz

What is better than one, but two?

My ways bespoke one life

My means bespoke another

And by and buy my story went

‘Till one sank upon the other

The storm called forth, I stood to flee

I had long forgot the bird

So engrossed I was by thoughts of me

But then a song I heard

No, not song, more battle-cry

‘Twas loud and sharp and clear,

“I shall not be forced to fly,

My chosen plot is here!”

Inspired by this one vs. all

I sat back into my the chair

I would bear witness to this fight

One neither clean nor fair

Are not birds imbued with nature’s grace?

With such seeming ease they soar

And now this one would be battered by

What had buttressed it before...

…all at once

Lashing wind and pelting rain

Assailed my former porch

Seeping darkness overcame me

I sat in want of torch

Oh but to see my kindred friend

On whom my hopes were pinned

To revel in his resolute

Defiance of the wind

Stand fast my spirit-brother

Keep your regal, rigid form

Stand fast despite your footing

Stand fast despite the storm

Spears of lightning, each a vision

My feathered-friend was there(!)

Though the wind blew rain in torrents

And stripped his nest-tree bare

Soon gone were all the nettles

Soon gone were all the cones

Soon gone were all the unhatched eggs

Soon wind would pick the bones

I knew this storm would take and take

Until taking became took

I wanted hard to turn away

But God made our eyes to look

The bird gave ground, mere inches

But ground given is ground lost

No blood could sate the vampire thirst

And no fee offset the cost

Perhaps offended by so small a foe

The storm surged to full extent

The pine soon listed, fell to Earth

The victor thumped its chest and went

I ran over to the wreckage

And all through the tree I searched...

...I found my friend, my brave, brave friend

Crushed by his cherished perch

The sun returned, the coward

He had fled the coming storm

Now, as if to beg forgiveness

He sought to make my cold friend warm

Alas…

There will be no more songs, no battle-hymns

My champion, my David undermined

By rotted trunk and stunted roots

I wonder, can you a parallel derive?

I too had fought, and hard, to keep

My chosen plot and place

But I too succumbed to odds unfair

I’d lost my home…and face

I mourned him then, I mourn him now

God bless his lion heart

Surely he was doomed to fail

And deep down known it from the start

His story ends, mine lingers on

On these two legs I’ll stand

From this day forth, I’ll know ground firm

And cling well to bird in hand.

Epilogue:

The storm, it would be later said

Was worst since last it came

But words ‘worst since’ to me and you

Means worse loom still, or same

15th Post: A short story Pt. 1

The End Starts Here (<--- tentative title)

“Does the line form here, do you know?”

“Yeppers.”

“Ok, good. Thank you.”

“Excited to meet Avia Walker? I heard her speak at a literary summit in Boulder last spring. It was such a treat.”

“Wait, I thought this line was for Anthony Spencer.”

“Oh that was yesterday, hon.” She crinkled her nose a bit. “I didn’t much care for him, though. He kept looking down my shirt.”

“Yesterday?!? I could have sworn the notice said today.” He exhaled a mixture of coffee and bran. “Now what am I going to do?” He held up manuscript. “I brought my novel. I knew Spencer would appreciate it.”

“Oh, Yeah? That’s kind of rude, don’t you think?” She gave him that look like his Mother used to, a mixture of ‘really, that was your decision?’ and ‘why am I not surprised.’ It felt wrong for a complete stranger to seem so familair. “To bring your own stuff to a book signing? I mean, it’s all so very, ‘Hey look at me everyone, I’m a writer too. I’ll just set up my table next to yours, Avia. Scoot over, honey, your hogging the masses.” She looked at him again, and repeated her thesis, “A little rude, don’t you think…ah…”

She held out the ‘ah’ inviting him to proffer his name. He obliged, “Roman. My name is Roman.” Clearly she wasn’t a writer; she had used the word ‘stuff’ and the wrong ‘your’, but she did use the correct ‘too’ so she had potential to be a literary agent. Roman scanned the scene. This line is at least three hundred people long and that means I will be stuck next to this beneficiary of public education for at LEAST 2 hours. If that happens I’ll snap, plain and simple.

“Roman, huh? What a manly name.” She actually looked impressed, and that made her instantly more attractive in Roman’s eyes. “So, Rrrrroman…” Rolling the ‘r’ in his name made Roman have impure thoughts, “…my name is Ahshleigh. The first ‘h’ and the ‘gh’ are silent.”

Roman had to think about that for a minute……………………, “Do you mean to say that your name is spelled in a non-traditional fashion?”

“Yeppers. My Momma wanted her little girl to stand out in a crowd.”

“How is that possible? Unless everyone were to wear name tags all the time…” Roman stopped because he thought there was short story in there somewhere. Something allegorical about social status relative to how non-traditionally the name was spelled, perhaps?…He instantly named his protagonist ‘Roman’ and the antagonist ‘Grrrrtrood’, then mentally filed it away.

“Hello? Anybody home?” She waved her hand in front of Roman’s face and the saccharin sweet smell of cucumber and melon made him simultaneously hungry and nauseous.

“What!?” He snapped.

“Don’t be snappy, you zoned out there for – like – 30 seconds. Anyways, you aren’t seriously going to hand over that stuff to Avia Walker, right Roman? I mean, that’s just rude, don’t you think?

I cannot be around this repetitive negativity…also, she’ll probably tip off Walker that I’ve got a manuscript and then I’ll get tossed, or worse, Walker will take my work and dump it off to her assistant. He shuddered at the thought. I need to buy some time…He caught another whiff of puke-cumber melon...and some space. What to do, what to do…(!)…Fake Phone Call. Brilliant! He jumped a little and reached into his pocket, “Excuse me, I need to get this.” Then, in a further flash of genius, he gave her a ‘what can you do’ look, “I’m expecting my Doctor. The lab results were coming back today and I’m waiting to hear if it’s contagious or not. Save my spot?”

The look on her face made his morning. He stepped out of line and slowly walked further down the concourse with the phone by his ear saying just loud enough over his shoulder, “But Doctor that can’t be right. How can a person be expected to not breathe on someone else? Well, yeah…I guess I could quarantine myself for a month.”

He took a seat at a Café around the corner from the bookstore and motioned to the female employee who was clearing off cups and saucers. When she approached Roman didn’t look at her, “I’ll take a large tap water with a lot of ice.” Then he deigned to glance at her name-tag, “Thank you…uhhh… Krystaphania?” He looked at her and was about to say ‘Seriously?!?’, but then thought better of it as ‘Krystaphania’ was once upon a time probably known as ‘Christopher’. Instead he quickly looked down and muttered, “Thank you.”

When (s)he brought the beverage, Roman didn’t touch it.

The plan was to wait about 20-30 minutes until Ahshle-whats-her-face was sufficiently further up the line before trying again. The plan also included a couple of quick re-writes so as to make it more palatable for Avia Walker. Roman had not read much of her work, but knew she was no fan of strong male leads and he had made a point of portraying his hero, ‘Roman’, as both virile and commanding, something Anthony Spencer’s leads all had in common. What to do…what to do…

Part 2 coming soon...I welcome your thoughts/suggestions. If you are having trouble leaving comments, just email them to me at: highspeed81@hotmail.com. Thanks!

14th Post: All Apologies

Dear gentle, loyal reader, this is a post of apologies. Apologies that cover a myriad of atrocities committed on behalf of my ego, my laziness, my obliviousness, my callousness, my selfishness, my short-sightedness, my anti-social...ness, my intense desire to be right...ness, and/or my reactionary nature. I owe so very many apologies to so very many people for so very many reasons, that I scarcely know where to begin. I guess all I can do is...

1) I want to apologize to you for not being more consistent with this Blog. In truth, I really do enjoy writing it. Also in truth, I am a lazy crap-for-crap and unless I am inspired (in TFTR fashion), I will not simply sit down and force myself to write. So for those of you (Mom) who keep checking back here, in vain, for updates...to you I must say, "You like me...you really like me!"

2) I want to apologize for - summarily, out-of-hand - dismissing anyone and everyone with a peace symbol on their car, person, or domicile as a naive, delusional, tree-hugging hippie. You are entitled to your delusions, and your naiveté brings a mirthful smile to my soul. Long may you live in your land of rainbows and unicorns; long may your consistent patronage inspire more and more head shops to dot the landscape.

3) I want to apologize to Dave Matthews Band (DMB). For many years now, I have loathed you. Sure, the quality of your musicianship is to be applauded. And who wouldn't commend your judicious choice of Tour Bus waste dumping sites ( http://www.tonyrogers.com/humor/dave_matthews_crap.htm ). Of course, your song titles are...interesting (Tripping Billies? Proudest Monkey?) and Dave, when you play you look like you have been constipated for close to 24 years. Long have I decried your existence as an opiate for the Abercrombie & Fitch masses; a banner for the coffeehouse pseudo-intellectuals to waive to the world to say, "See, we love soy lattes, earth tones AND accessible acoustic driven 'rock'." I also saw you as a banal, generic sign for the 'poor-little-trust-fund kids' to waive to the rest of us as if to say, "See? We listen to the same bands you do. The only exception is, I had my butler run out to Tower records and buy the boxed set...while you had to sell blood and other bodily fluids to buy nose-bleed seats to their shows." But then I heard the song Crush...and here we are...

4) I want to apologize to the Boston Red Sox. See above. (but I still won't root for you).

5) I want to apologize to Country Music. I dismissed you out of hand as formulaic and archaic purely on the basis that at least every other song deals with working outside all day and then finding alcohol, or partying by a lake with large trucks, bonfires, and alcohol (a dangerous combination), or breaking off a relationship and then drowning oneself (and one's horse) in alcohol, or operating large, multi-ton agricultural equipment while swigging alcohol. Ok, maybe I made that last one up...but the point is made. ON TOP OF ALL THAT you have a 'band' like Rascal Flatts who's lead singer may or may not have skipped puberty altogether and who perpetrated the most egregious aural assault on mankind since the US used AC/DC to pry Manuel Noriega from his church in Panama in the form of the 'song' Me and My Gang. But then my wife introduced me to Brad Paisley and his song This is Country Music (that he wrote by the way...the closest Rascal Flatts gets to writing a song is signing their CDs) and here we are...

6) I want to apologize to Stephenie Meyer for I shall never read your 'books'. Ever. Never ever. Never ever ever. The great, the sublime, the LEGENDARY author Anne Rice has ruined me for all other vampire fiction. She and she alone (further apologies to Bram Stoker), treated the monster as a man and, ultimately, the man as a monster. She expertly weaved a human heart into an inhuman beast...and when she finally rips it, bleeding and broken from the chest of Louis, you know that any future portrayal of sparkly diamond skin in the sunlight is a joke.

7) I want to apologize to my wife, she will read #6 and #5 and, well, pretty much all of this and accuse me - correctly, it would appear - of being an overly-dramatic, egomaniacal, gasbag. I love you too, sweetheart.

8) I want to apologize to all of the overly-dramatic, egomaniacal gasbags out there for being such a poor representation of you. You deserve better. I recommend Keith Olbermann.

9) I want to apologize to my novel(s), short stories, and haikus that are whirling and swirling around half-formed and under-fed in my mind. You deserve a better host. Someone who can breathe the proper life into you. Someone who will dedicate themselves to the nurturing and furthering of your eventual existence. I recommend...pretty much anyone but me. (but mostly Cormac McCarthy).

10) I want to apologize to my son. You see buddy, I love you too much. I want to protect you too much. I already can tell that I will be that Dad who won't let you play tackle football, or ride your bike without a helmet, or do any of those perceived high-risk activities all young boys want to do. I will shelter you, I will smother you...but it will all be in love.

11) I want to apologize to my friends who live near and far, I do not call you as often as I should. I do not seek you out to hang as often as I should. This is a problem...and I will fix it. Expect a call, soon. If you don't get one...you probably should get the hint...or give me your new number.

12) I want to apologize to my Brother-in-law, Luke...for the humiliating defeat I dealt you in FIFA so long ago. You will feign ignorance of this event (as any bested man would), but let me bring it all back to you: I was the USA (sans Clint Dempsey and Tim Howard...it was FIFA 06) and you were mighty England at the height of its Golden Era. And I beat you...nay, I CRUSHED you 4-0. I think I even scored two goals with Josh Wolff (Who? Exactly). AND THEN (this is the best part)...and then your X-box 360 broke. Yes, that's right...I beat you so bad, your own X-box committed suicide in shame. I want to apologize to you again, now, for dredging up the depths of your degradation and putting it on display for all to see. Should you dispute these things that I have said, I will call upon your wife - who was there - to attest to these events.

13) I want to apologize to the game of basketball. For whenever I pick up your rounded namesake...I bring great shame upon your legacy...and myself...and my family...and my wife's family...and anyone watching at that moment...You know what, I'm just going throw up an apology across the board. You all deserve one.

14) I want to apologize to my Bible...you have not been opened in so very long...I will rectify tonight.

15) I want to apologize to I-595...the words/names I habitually direct at you between the hours of 7:30am and 8:00am would make Richard Pryor blush.

16) I want to apologize to the Duke Blue Devils men's basketball team. We were young when we met (well, I was anyways) and I supported you loyally...even in the face of my wife and in-laws. But when my son was almost with us, my wife sat me down - and with an earnestness to rival most Joel Osteen book covers - pleaded with me to not force our as-yet-unborn son to chose between us. So, for love of my son (as described in #10), I forsook you for another...the UNC Tarheels. But we'll always have JJ...and his sweet, sweet jumper...

17) I want to apologize to my Fender Stratocaster guitar. I heard a rumor once that a young John Mayer came to Sam Ash in Margate looking for a Strat but tripped over his size 16 feet in the parking lot and hit his face on the side rail of an Expedition. He then spent 3 hours looking at his face in a side-view mirror trying to gauge if the fall did - in fact - improve it. He ultimately decided that one cannot improve upon perfection and strolled inside just as I was paying for you. Alas...what you could have been...

18) I want to apologize to former American Idol winner Taylor Hicks. I put a voodoo curse upon you because my wife had an unhealthy infatuation with your voice. While your precipitous decline in popularity is a boon to the Earth...I am sure it has caused you much in the way of hardship.

19) I want to apologize to Umberto Eco. You worked so hard to write The Name of the Rose, but I gave up mid-way through...It was just too much. I get it, you're brilliant. You don't need to bash me over the head with your philosophy on Sin and Penance. And your philosophy on the value of Science. And your philosophy on the importance of language. And your philosophy on the role of the Church in society. And your philosophy on forbidden knowledge. And your philosophy on...well, you get the idea.

20) I want to - lastly - apologize to my Mother. That one time in 1995...it was me. I did it, and I felt terrible for minutes afterwards.

FIN