From the Ground Up

From the Ground Up

Sometimes they fill the air with noise, as if they were lonely. They fret with little black things, peering above toward the loud boxes, transfixed as if a mouse was about to dart from them. They must really need practice as I always find one or the other sitting by those gadgets.

They pollute the whole house with odious odors from cans that spit clouds of offensive junk. I do wonder what they believe they will kill with those. They miss the worst and target the best. The carpets are littered with crunchy tidbits and parts of rolly pollies or crickets, but that one wasp is still trying to escape through the blinds, and the fleas are multiplying for the end of this crazy world.

Well, the roaches will eventually inherit the leftovers from the looks of the compost or whatever that mound is in the corner of the yard. I regularly patrol all sides for rodents that have laughed at those silly traps (no matter the effort) for the clever plastic boxes, the little poison pellets, or the clang of metal jaws. There seems to be a clever species to resist any of mankind's inventions.

My nostrils are desiccated by the puffing thing in the corner. It permeates all breathing space with noxious gas on a regular basis like a stinking wind in my hair. The machine that spits cold down upon us can roar and whir in such obnoxious sessions. I'd rather be hot and slovenly in a dark corner than suffer the frigid drafts that tease me bones and cramp me muscles.

In winter they heat this place beyond comfort. Only the closets offer relief, but all those smelly shoes and perfumy things clutter the same space, so forget that zone. Lay low and don't exert yourself, that's about all one can do, day or night, of course.

Well at least what the moths and weevils have left will end up as compost or mouse poop, somewhere. Nature has a way of compensating for everything, and I can find plenty to eat, after all. It's all a game, isn't it?

I can't complain too much, they let me stay here for free, so I simply sigh, glare or walk away. But most of the time I take advantage of the soft furniture in my own relaxed style. I luxuriously stretch on the couch and blend in with the décor, not to bother anyone, my coat matches the microplush of the divan, how convenient!

It's our special symbiosis that works best; it’s because my needs are so simple. They forget about me until dinner time. Some of the stuff she cooks really smells great, but her taste for veggies irritates me. She insists in offering me tasteless morsels of things not known in nature. Well, not my nature anyway.

After supper they relax in the front room. That's what they think they are doing. Relaxing. They yell, bark, burst and bellow at each other over some box games and lights. It tires me just to avoid curses and objects flying across rooms. I'm glad I'm not involved. I know all the nearest hiding places where I can ignore all of them.

That's my way. I'll try to eat when they finally sleep. I'll sniff their winds, listen to their stomach rumblings to detect fragrant eggs, ‘pootin’ popcorn, or silent-but-greasy goose fat farts.

Rumbling throats and flapping nostrils sing a nightly serenade. When tractor trailers and rural equipment stop their daily traffic, I can finally enjoy nature’s nightlife here.

The kids aren't too bad. Well, except for the one who likes to dunk my head under water. He'll leave me alone today. He's nursing a bad case of black eye. His younger brother must have been adopted. He's the only sweet one in the family. He wants to share his pickles or prunes with me, and he doesn't get mad when I turn up my nose at that. I occasionally sit on his bed as he reads me a story. I'm patient, he's dedicated; we'll survive.

He brought home a new cat box from the yard sale next door. I hope that he learns to empty it more often, before mold grows long grey hairs on those clumps. The box of cat litter that came with it shows multiple cats. One resembles me like a twin, all these silly ads are quaint, but personally, I prefer the sand below the rosebushes ‘cause their dog hates thorns. Meow!

A Poet Apart

A Poet Apart

somewhere a man sits
in his chair
contemplating a sad belly

dark stubble creeps on his jaw
a stubborn set against it all
eyelids low reveal none
none of the bad hangovers
that crowd the memory
and corrode perception

his pen opens a poem
only to close upon the mystery
of lingering loneliness

the tilt of his head a perfect egg
bright against evening shadows
words beat the winter about him
exposing veins where rages blood
and beer flooding plains of love and loath

crude honesty leaves no gap for fresh air
it slaps the truth into the cracks
ink over vodka laced in smoke
a perfect cocktail of senses
to follow the clock around

to earn that rare recognition
in a stranger's pupil
a man a chair one poem

A Review of Wolfgang Carstens' "Rented Mule" (by nadine Sellers)

Canadian writer Wolfgang Carstens ‘The Prolific’ has once more taken to the edge of the plebeian plight; from there peering over the abyss of cement cityscapes, entering the daily drudge to sink into the dregs of multiple shifts. Shifts of moods, shifts of needs that rise and fall with necessity at the heels of poetic brevity. This book, under the seal of NightBallet Press.

Carstens’ acuity, finds the detail like that of the great and the dead  who have brought us to deep and sad recognition of the human comedy. The artistic duo of writer and illustrator leads to the perfect distortion of word and line, rounded, lean or bloated. As if Janne Karlsson had been sitting in the security booth of the supermarket, capturing residual humor from the mindless breath beneath..

All these bipeds rolling around circular lives that lead right back to comfort foods, comfort gadgets, in discomfort of uniform apparel for the sake of pretense, existence. The hierarchy of the workplace runs by in concentric pressure down to the least and latest “rented mule”. It chokes the word out of the poet and the line out of the artist in softly delivered jabs; oh what a clean and blunt object, the pen and the pencil!

Lost in Writing

Upon entering this writer's venue, it feels as if I was caught up in a surprise bachelor party, and can't find the exit. A bit overdressed, no fluff, no glitter; glamour does not enter my lexicon, the word ‘romance’ bumps against my sensitivity, shunning the use of offensive words as much as I can. “F” words range between feel and fear, not fond of ‘fun’. I guess that I must have stumbled into the wrong place at the right pace. Should I dig out the dusty thesaurus to find another name for ‘boring’?

In the time it takes to crawl out of incomputerate existence, I have reaped some pleasure in elbowing the literate cyber-community. The trip from isolation to revelation has helped me to embrace new writing and refined expression. I have met valuable artists, sensual poets and generous stewards of the collective consciousness.

Could a writer sense the different mental planes at work here? Words plop up from the cerebral pond. Friends know that, left to indiscriminate scribbling, I may eventually express the very breath that drives the writing. The longer I linger in this stagnant personal pool, the more algae will obscure my thoughts, till light dims memory altogether.

This life appears a bit bloggish since I migrated those writing efforts to the open web. The freedom of subject seems – subjective? I am swept by the whoosh of overwhelming streams and memes. The best blogger list carries a large percentage of men exercising their opinion and women flexing their hunting muscles on the information trail. So, a click and a cliche apart, I am neither male, nor huntress of any game. Mind over meat, matter over money? should I swim upstream or drown in the current wave?

While tentatively sniffing niches, I am establishing a novel route overland and overseas, seeking evidence of social progress, and yes, finding some, buried under piles of tantalizing and enticing tales. I follow the comment tracks and discover astute readers and co-writers of common ilk. Talent is sure to carve a rutted path among the needful throng. But someone has to hold the flashlight upon the road.

When all the qualitative ratio has been entered, one site seems no better, nor worse than another, just a different home for various styles. Entertaining or stimulating, most writers have so much to share in a more or less literary genre. Discretion being a minor virtue and kindness a major attribute, it is best to refrain from gossip in the ball court, for fear of being hit by a mean racket ball bouncing off the walls.

Pet names and clever pseudonyms may empower the timid, but they provide useful cover for the vengeful and the bully; anonymity offers little justice to the serious writer. Hidden identities detract from the boldness of truth. Truth, the wide spectrum lenses of authoritative vision, sneaks under guise of freedom of speech, under cover of freedom of information. It assumes shapes in the reader's perception, mobile, malleable or elusive.      

Concerned moralists, caring religionists and passionate atheists can be found within the ranks of the web. Shy or loud, in praise or protest, each one is digging at the essential human crust. Each voice, once formed of silence is loosened upon the globe in incremental word count. Gone are the limits of propriety, when women were kept busy at the wood stove, men were enchained to the paycheck and ideas died in the bed sheets of boredom. Alright, alright! we still have radiant stoves and glorious sheets, but we can write about the burning issues or the strangling ideologies with a strange feeling of fictional freedom. As if Art was imitating us.

Witnessing the human theatre through a controllable screen has given us a wider view of the universality of drama. We know that pain is eclectic in its face, it crosses the Ocean at the speed of news, it lives in the great noise, bounces off pages, and dwarfs our senses. Of course, it is essential to shun cyber-sluts who tease tired readers. All eyes open for psychic leeches who market ideas for effect, I mean predatory trolls who seek to taunt the lame or scratch the wounds. All manner of people hide under the opacity of social media, some hunger for fragile emotional systems; they jeopardize relationships through veiled identity, these provide us with necessary patience. For growing up with a global perspective, I am grateful.

We all need the nourishing atmosphere of the masters of language who help us to carry culture to a kinder level. Did I say kinder? That may be a bit optimistic. Whether written in a cathartic fit or an artistic fiesta, the object of word-smithing is to dispense enthusiasm to the receptive minds in this, our creative medium. The trick is to engage the subconscious. When at the quietest of moments, a thought comes upon you, find a pen, a keyboard or tablet, move gently, so as not to startle the idea, for it may never visit this way again, not in quite the same form, not in these very words, ever. Quick, write it down.

Verve will evaporate if you open your mouth. These tiny leaks of momentary glory will ooze the plot out, piecemeal. Beware! If you satisfy questions with any answer about your writing, the theme will flounder or waver.  Sensuous or lyrical, serious or satirical, satisfy the reader’s hunger with a polished story.  Life may provide you with empiric material, but the cryptic mind will decode the subtleties.

Dictate to your fingers, release the pressure of unspent passion, never to divulge the whole plot till it appears on small screens for its intended audience. Thank you for relieving me of my cyber-social duties, for deflating my pockets of guilt when I do not respond or reciprocate. Words can pull the ballast out of the writer's belly. But, readers are the ones who have the ultimate power to restore the balance between the writer and the written. Oh yes, that’s a lot to expect of voracious papivores who consume reams of published matter in a single day.

 OK!Mind hermetically sealed against vicarious seepage, keyboard at the ready, both typing digits at attention, I am, again, eager to nestle in this quasi anonymity, among few fine literati. See you next book!

Review of Zarina Zabrisky and Simon Rogghe's Green Lions.

A string pulls me toward the small book on my desk, this invisible lace draws me over and over to flip pages by thumb and to plunge along a travelogue of subcutaneous senses. Zarina Zabrisky and Simon Rogghe have fused an artistic duet that pours from pages of sketch and poetry.

The synchrony of evocative verse plays along allusions to self discovery, Simon darkly, in italics, Zarina boldly, in ink, dance to a black and white cerebral and corporeal harmony. Together they follow the meanders of their unabashed impulses. Their tongues express a blend of archaic aura with rich Slavic and Semitic influences. Their bodies, felt along moving metaphor. The authors translate the seen from the perceived in swirling words that flash images on raw senses

The colors of language bring vivid meaning to the flat print of black and white sketch “your stomach-it pulses violet and scintillates dark purple” Simon’s juxtaposed italics complement her sensuous line drawings to intriguing perfection.  

Mutual honesty flows deeply below each stanza “We have a pact against futile pursuits” says Rogghe.  The emphasis upon the personal establishes the insular quality of passion spoken in word and deed. Simon displays the gentle force which protects, Zarina allows necessary healing to progress. “I am a story within a story” drives the reader to the center of her being. She spirals the strands of spontaneous thought with tactile sensuality.

Animals allude to particular characteristics which they, together, weave along mystical paths. Flirting cranes on a full page drawing symbolize the elegant attraction of poet and artiste. Zabrisky’s swans idealize fidelity, each bird drawn by her hand elicits the relational flight of beings on a life journey, through the air above the mundane. In “Equestrian Seduction Duet” Pegasus untethered, takes us on an undeniable trip of all senses. Her plain text wonderment “Tell me, are horses lonely creatures?. Like people, like islands, like cities, like lovers.”, his wondrous reply imparts intimacy “when a horse takes off, it barely pats the ground”. Selecting a single quote would diminish this entire exquisite poem. I chose to hear their words echo into the subconscious.

Exotic locations become visions along the evolutionary path of sentiments. Queretara resonates to the rhythm of heels upon earthen tiles, impatient feet scaring fear away by day and the same feet restoring peace beyond crimson gauze by night. The innate mystery dissipates pain in single words and terse couplets; each one is chosen with economy against a larger scope of influence. They, together impart vulnerability, “I wept the forest bear of my fear” shares Zarina--against backgrounds of natural settings. “a gift of seaweed and love”. Whether by fire or by sand, the reader is pulled into the experience.  The immediacy of love above the desert scratches raw portrayals in Tableau Vivant. Simon Rogghe indeed paints essential emotive landscapes. “sand as blood—eyes of salt”

In conclusion, I skip the compliments, the summary, all I want to do is to return to the book and drown my day in layers of sensual reality, that magical sweet spot of being. Suspended by words, held by Green Lions.

Cyanic Dump

A faded sign warns the intruder “Do Not Enter”. The large gray hill looms large and dull below the mill, where nothing subsists and no animal dares venture.

Winter wind slaps the mountain over the narrow portal, the mill clangs dryly on the hillside above us. Children run, screaming after a mangy mongrel. I call my sons to keep them safe, safe from volatile compounds, from mineral particles, from cyanide and the unknown. Snakes have long retired to impoverished mines and abandoned prospects. They will writhe in a spring dance when the world awakens above them. Ready as we will be to hunt for whatever has survived.

Winter wind burns the lungs as I stumble down the path to chase chuckars away from the mining camp, away from hungry dogs and idle youths. Tomorrow the sleek gray partridges will be dinner for my own children, and I watch them grow, the bird, the hare, never taking more than we need to live on the arid land. Dogs dig the ashen hill for whatever died there.

Winter wind, green and dry, inflames my nostrils with cyanic anger, I scream in the zephyr. The miner’s children play king of the mountain on the oxides of horror-zinc-lead-or silver. I scream in the weather, though no one can hear me, nor much less care in the race to futility. School is too far away, their mother is too drunk, their father works underground. Their future looms large and rich as the dreams of the poor. I am but a stranger in a sterile land. Winter wind stirs caustic ripples about the ochre mound. Its peak is round like an old bald head covered with dripping crevasses of dried pus, caked for a half life. Miners die young above the ground. 

Curious teens approach with blasting caps in hand, ready for the holidays of fire and crackers. I warn everyone to stay clear of the dangerous explosives, the tallest turns around and pulls his full frame as large as he can stretch. “There’s no danger, I light those all the time” he fights the blustery gusts and draws nearer to my sons, I tilt my head to the right in a quick motion, all three run in the direction of my gesture. The two kids that tail their big hero erupt in spontaneous bursts of laughter that echo in the canyon across us. As the wind dies down, sheets of vapors and ethereal dust drop like drapes of gossamer cloth fainting upon the hillside.

The eldest of the juveniles finds a pack of matches and a lighter in the depth of his brown pants. He shows the goodies to his accomplices. “Now we can have fun” he declares at the top of his lungs. I shake my head and walk to him. His eyes recede in his flat face, no smile moves his dry lips, the youth recoils sideways to avoid my gaze. Shaking a firm “no” with my entire torso, I tell each of these miner’s children that their fathers will be punished or fired if the bosses find out they are in possession of mine property.

“Who’d tell’em?” they simultaneously ask, I reply “the ambulance driver”, “uh?” “oh, yes after your face is peppered by sulfur and metal” they turn to each other like chipmunks checking for the eagle’s shadow on the ground. “My dad is a powderman, he giv’em to me all the time, I never blowed mysef’ up, I know what I’m doin’”.his jaw juts out a good inch forward and his mouth closes under certainty of power.

“Have you seen any old metal stoves around?” I inquire. All of a sudden faces come alive and they stumble upon each other to show me where the best of treasures can be unearthed. We follow them, they erupt in a myriad questions about my accent, my kids, my clothes, what do I know, what they know, a veritable fireworks of curiosity and giggles takes place in this new sand circus. “Have you ever had jackrabbit? It’s good. And I know where you can get a hundred of them birds you were chasing up there—I can find some real good stuff for you in the old dumps, wanna come with us?” “I’ll show you!”.

The afternoon spent running on burro trails down the canyon mouth, we are all loaded with ancient artifacts, old tools in various states of disrepair, dolls with missing heads, chipped glasses, glassless spectacles, twisted wire and unreadable signs that invite hilarious guessing. We part newfound friends at the crossroad to our shacks. Making dates for further explorations on week-ends or summer vacation, job allowing, metal prices willing, never knowing when the ore runs out or when the miners call it quits. 

I am in the yard, sorting our collected prizes by immediate use, expected re-use or flat out creative purposes. Suddenly a sharp sound splits the still air above the valley. The boys and I stare at each other, we all stand stiff and frozen. We recognize the agony behind the scream. More yelling follows, I find myself running down the steep gravel road, I slip and glide not remembering that I am barefooted. The younger teens run toward me “don’t tell nobody! Don’t tell on him, please” they beg, scared little boys that they are, they still don’t believe powder is dangerous. I must promise before I approach the fallen oldest one. A few spots mar his face with driplets of blood, but his right arm is quite chewed up. I don’t believe he is a candidate for infection, the very heat of the burn must have cauterized his wounds. “as long as you keep the area clean, you’ll be fine, but you may hurt for a long time. The stuffing has left his ego, he whines and stares at his arm, someone’s little boy has played with fire and his daddy won’t feel sorry for him, his daddy will know he has taken these from his work jacket. There will not be any pocketfuls of presents anymore. Fait accompli! 

 

I run back to our house for bandages and sterilizer. My sons have waited with trepidation. I regale them with   descriptions of flesh and blood, the hanging skins and smell of scorched meat, making appropriate grimaces to emphasize the gruesome accident. To send a warning of caution in all things that burn or go boom! A chill courses through my veins when I think I have spotted more than mere curiosity in the youngest, I believe I have seen genuine attraction to risk taking in the bluest of his eye.

Mill gossip soon carried from shack to house kept me informed on the health of the teen. His father was later given his last check with a promise of not mentioning that he had committed the dreaded powder theft, code of honor among diggers. Never leave a job with a price or a crime on your head. He was a good man with a regular son. City or country, boys-will-be-boys is an expectation in the harsher places where men make a hard living up or down below. And mothers are often absent for all obvious and not so obvious reasons. Boys will be men. Maybe.

      Winter wind blows upon the hill where all children breathe. A lone buzzard circles in the fading day.

A review of the new edition of The Fires of Waterland by R.A.Kukkee

The Fires of Waterland. By Raymond Alexander Kukkee.

If a book is to be judged by its cover, then the Fires of Waterland by R.A. kukkee presents the reader with an ominous presence. Fire remains ever present in the belly of the story, in the lives of the characters. Water, its opposite cools the spirits with self doubt and secrecy.

Polar views of the poor, and of those in control arise along raw conflict. They drive suspense with a certain knowledge of the ruts on these roads. Truth and adversity make strange bedfellows in this movie of the mind. “Some things are better left under the bed, like dust balls” said Floyd, a smart man in this saga.

Small town, orphanage, youth and old age, no subject is spared along the pages. The simplicity of the language reveals the  visceral complexity of these lives as they weave in and out of hardship.

Dialog is well served with unwavering accuracy; Fletch and Livvy take us on a tour of youthful yearnings and covert feelings. They lead us into explosive consequences and let us explore the innermost flesh of being. The stuff of living permeates the very innards of this book from page one. Hard and ultimately hopeful; like life. Like fire.

A review by Nadine Sellers. The new edition of: The Fires of Waterland by author Raymond Alexander Kukkee