Revision of Notes from Arena Sports Bar and Grill

Notes from Arena Sports Bar and Grill

The corner of Fourth

and Washington;

salt lick for the wicked,

for neighbors, workers

fathers, mothers,

one and all wrong

and wronged. Loners

and runners all

nightly migrate and post.

These sad faces do little

to hide loss and nerves

and misfortune.

These people with

withered lips

suck hard on death sticks,

pretend it’s candy.

It’s warm now,

no more hands stuffed in pockets,

cigarette clasped in teeth.

These sad souls,

these snapping turtles

smoke outside with

greater vibrance than in

the gray months passed,

smelling like whisky

and wheat beer,

smoke and oak.

Now pink cheeks lift

through the haze.

A happy buzz of

voices big and small,

washed over with sweet

citrus and coriander.

They’re all here now.

Everyone has a place.

This is theirs.

They drink, smoke,

hide and forget,

yet stay together.

The 3 Rs, revise, revise, revise

As much as I had hoped weekdays would provide time for revisions, with student teaching and school, the time just isn't there.

If only I had a Tardis.

No going back in your own timeline, though. On second thought, that may not work.

Hopefully this is a bit tighter than it's previous rendition. I think it still needs some work, but we're going to start here.

Origins

I am drinking green tea from China,

bought from a Polish bulk foods store,

seasoned with cinnamon from an Indian grocer,

sweetened with Michigan honey.

I scribble with a Holiday Inn pen

from a stay in Spring Lake, Michigan,

but made in Taiwan.

I am from Grosse Pointe

and Detroit, Michigan,

but also Terre Haute, Indiana.

Not the city, but the scruff along

the edges. The dust and the single

room shanties. Ford trucks and

Larry Bird paraphernalia and

too dry summers that make

the rows of corn weep.

The stalks sag from the sun,

shiver in the wind.

I am not from the city,

or the country, but somewhere

nestled in between

where the dialects of each generation

melt to form the language

farm to city to suburb

zink, sink

sal-ary, celery

drawel, pause

nasal vowels

forgotten consonants

voices in harmony, but also

timeless, placeless cacophony.

Origins

Origins

I am drinking green tea from China,

bought from a Polish bulk foods store,

seasoned with cinnamon from an Indian grocer,

sweeten with Michigan honey

while I scribble with a Holiday Inn pen

obtained in Spring Lake, Michigan,

but probably made in Taiwan.

I am from Grosse Pointe

and Detroit, Michigan,

but also Terre Haute, Indiana.

Not the city, but the scruff along

the edges, the dust and the single

room shanties that dot rows of corn

bringing with them Ford trucks

and Larry Bird paraphernalia.

I am not from the city,

or the country, but somewhere

nestled in between.

The dialects of each generation

melt to form the language

farm to city to suburb

zink, sink

sal-ary, celery

drawel, pause

nasal vowels

forgotten consonants

voices in harmony

timeless, homeless cacophony.

Gritty Travelers

Gritty Travelers: This place will never be the same twice

The dunes drift along the horizon

stretched past the eyes’ reach

limitless shifting

the swell of a great wave

a slow, but not frozen sea of sand.

Always moving, the dunes

wait for visitors, for wind and time,

for the requisite momentum

to their constant state of travel.

A small piece of the dunes resides

in the fibers of my living room carpet.

The dunes often travel as stowaways.

They cling to clothes and sweaty skin,

catch on to shoelaces and water bottles.

Sometimes they travel by foot,

slipping into socks to settle

and crunch between toes.

Dunes travel by mouth

by a puff of air—

momentary fly by exhalation;

or wedged between teeth or under

the tongue, for long distance transit.

Many of these gritty travelers are discarded.

Stuck to a shirt or a damp bathing suit,

tossed in with the rest of the laundry

the granules are swept away with the wash,

settling in the bend of a pipe.

From Sleeping Bear Sand Dunes, Empire, Michigan

Smoke burns across the lake’s surface

Chippewa legend says it was a forest fire

that drove the mother bear and her cubs

out from their den, into Lake Michigan.

The great, blue waters could have been the sea,

shaking crests and break neck currents—

the only solace from the flames.

The mother bear was strong. She paddled

without rest, to the bluff of the dunes.

She waited for her cubs,

staring out at the empty and unforgiving waters.

until weak from the glare of the sun,

she fell asleep, the sands covering her body.

One day the bear will awake in a fury.

She will shake the dunes off the horizon

and into the sky.

Revision of Sister Death

Frankly, I think this could still use a liberal chopping. Kill your darlings, as they say. I have a lot of darlings to dice in the near future. Think of it as compost. It needs to be broken down before it is useful. Here's one revision to start off the process of finessing the mess of previously posted material. *edit* Double spacing was not intentional, but I've given up on fixing it.

Sister Death: Margo Kevorkian

Margo,

does history try to forget euthanasia’s

next of kin, grave enabler’s like you,

lost in your brother’s wake

as you reached out to the dying death

like frantic toddlers tumbling in the dark

falling without handrails or walls;

crashing through a house of leaves

never hitting the floor.

You did not talk them off the ledge

when you kissed them good night.

It was usually quiet, but was it gentle?

Did you thread the needle lightly,

with tenderness? Or like an awkward nurse,

did you have to search for a vein,

fishing through fat and muscle

apologizing, this will only sting

but a moment.

Vaguely disappointing

Maybe I need to change my methods, perhaps tell myself that my post is due on Friday, instead of Sunday.

I've never been good with guidelines.

Either way, I'm putting my foot down this morning. No more bullshit, Fragondruit. Free write from the tip top of my head, 15 minutes, no edits, no looking back. Move on and revise later.

Ready? Set? Go:

Notes from Arena Sports Bar and Grill

These people wear

withered lips

suck hard on death sticks,

pretend it's candy.

It's warm now.

No more cupped hands over mouth

or stuffed in pockets,

cigarette gripped in teeth.

These snapping turtles.

These sad souls

smoke outside with

more vibrance than in

the gray months passed.

Pink cheeks through the haze,

happy buzz,

big voice.

We're all here now.

Everyone has their place.

This is theirs.

The corner of Fourth

and Washington;

salt lick for the wicked

for neighbors, workers,

fathers, mothers,

one and all wrong

wronged, loners and

runners all

nightly migrate

and post. These sad faces

hide loss and nerves and

misfortune

smelling like whisky

and wheat beer,

smoke and oak

washed over with sweet

citrus and coriander.

They drink, smoke,

hide and forget,

yet stay together.