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Crisis Chronicles Cyber Litmag (2008-2015)

~ Contemporary Poetry and Literary Classics from Cleveland to Infinity

Crisis Chronicles Cyber Litmag (2008-2015)

Monthly Archives: January 2009

Merrily, Merrily (by Dianne Borsenik)

31 Saturday Jan 2009

Posted by Crisis Chronicles Press in 2000s, American, Borsenik (Dianne), Cleveland, Writing

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Dianne Borsenik reads “Merrily, Merrily” on 3 August 2008 at Joe Sundae’s in Sandusky, Ohio


http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5eKJEK_6LP0

* * *

poem (c) 2008 by Dianne Borsenik
used with the poet’s permission

find Dianne at http://www.myspace.com/poetofthelotus
and http://www.myspace.com/lixandkix

Dianne will be a featured reader (with C. Allen Rearick, John Dorsey, Zach Moll, Lisa LaTourette & Lester Allen)
on 3/14/2009 (8 pm) at the
As We Speak poetry event (Bela Dubby, 13321 Madison Avenue; Lakewood, Ohio)

& with Jesus Crisis on 3/10/2009 (9 pm) at the Collingwood Arts Center (2413 Collingwood Blvd.; Toledo, Ohio)

Dianne also co-hosts the
Lix and Kix monthly music/poetry event
every 3rd Tuesday from 7 pm to 9 pm at the 806 Wine and Martini Bar  (806 Literary Road; Cleveland, Ohio)


Other poems by Dianne appear in these volumes available from Amazon:

     

Death by Peanut Butter (by Kevin Eberhardt)

31 Saturday Jan 2009

Posted by Crisis Chronicles Press in 2000s, American, Cleveland, Eberhardt (Kevin), Writing

≈ 8 Comments



Little Bo Eberhardt, aka Kevin

Little Bo Eberhardt?



What kind of shit is that
The coroner can’t even
Pry my lips apart the
Leguminous paste gluing
My tongue to the roof of
My mouth my teeth
Compressed mid-chew my
Hands coated in this
Thick substance fingered
Fresh from the jar can’t
Say I wasn’t warned but
Who really listens any
More ain’t nothin’ better
In the morning than stale
Bread aggressively toasted
Smothered in waves of
Thick peanut butter chased
Down with lukewarm coffee 
Well maybe sex & that
Wouldn’t be a bad way to
Go either lips glued together
In much the same fashion
Different paste of course
Can’t imagine puttin’ that
On toast but anything’s
Possible I guess






* * * * *

By Kevin Eberhardt, included in the Crisis Chronicles Library by permission.

For more Kevin Eberhardt work, please check out his blog:
http://roundingofthestone.blogspot.com
as well as
http://agentofchaos.com/ke/index.html
and several issues of
The City Poetry (www.thecitypoetry.com).

His work can also be found accompanying images
  by London photographer Richard Byerley at
www.richardbyerley.com.

Contact northern Ohio poet Kevin Eberhardt at ke767@hotmail.com.

January (by William Carlos Williams)

30 Friday Jan 2009

Posted by Crisis Chronicles Press in 1900s, American, Williams (William Carlos), Writing

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young William Carlos Williams


January
by William Carlos Williams
[from Sour Grapes (1921)]


Again I reply to the triple winds
running chromatic fifths of derision
outside my window:
                                    Play louder.
You will not succeed.  I am
bound more to my sentences
the more you batter at me
to follow you.
                        And the wind,
as before, fingers perfectly
its derisive music.


* * *


    

Cleveland: The Rectal Eye Visions #8 (by d.a. levy)

30 Friday Jan 2009

Posted by Crisis Chronicles Press in 1900s, American, Cleveland, levy (d.a), Writing

≈ 4 Comments



d.a. levy, Cleveland poet
d.a. levy
(10/29/1942 – 11/24/1968)

Rectal Eye Vision #8 / part I    -for w.e. wyatt-

                                                            Acapulco lips

the dragon of winged lions & the ch’i-lin
racing in sum sort of mind game – i cant see this
the words are just falling out of the pen

the ch’i-lin has the body of a deer 
    on my homemade postcard he carries a holy man
the ch’i-lin has the feet of a horse 
    on my homemade postcard the words say 
    CHINESE BRONZE MING DYNASTY    (1368-1644)
the ch’i-lin has the tail of an ox 
    & walks off the card into the living room 
    carrying a holy man

it is ten years since the silence was broken 
    like a bird that appears only in times of 
            PEACE & HAPPINESS
We made our plans carefully/first in the 5th century B.C.
    and worked – making revisions in the text as time 
    pretended to move around us/
in ceylon – the 8th century – we painted our dreams 
    drank tea & watched the oceans lap our shores 
    no one knew or knows our number

when we moved it was as a mountain mist 
    & there were rumors that we hid in the valleys 
    & wore animal masks in death dances 
    & meanwhile we planned the motion of fire in water
our motions in silence

a gesture at the sky to keep track of our years
    we didnt bother when they preferred to run from their
    shadows                               i think it was the
11th century someone noticed 100,000 dead in a dream
& we knew that in their fear they would attempt to end all
shadows        &      we made our plans

when they invented the radio we laughed at how slow it was
& raced the waves as the ocean pressing our shores

the last i remember is 1890 we kissed the books and
smiled at the mountains moving away – not knowing what to say
                                i was to be reborn here
                        & you were to be reborn there
                        & that was that

Now in the 20th century there are many small fires burning
                    what do you think they will do when they discover
                    they cannot destroy our light
and when we meet them at the gates
laughing/as the mountains move away/


Rectal Eye Vision #8 / part II    -for art kleps-

an exodus in autumn/the white tiger has returned
the thunder & lightening is a shock for 100 miles
GOOD FORTUNE

AK of the AdriondAKs : the SPINing concepts frighten me
    it is sad to be a dreamer,unable to dream
                 a lover unable to love
                 a builder denied materials
 ALL Three rowed out to sea in a sieve
 gone,gone,gone to the other shore/
 landed on the other shore, SVAHA!

GATE GATE PARAGATE PARASAMGATE BODHI SVAHA!

oh well/ if the government wants to live on a war economy
i guess we can give them a war————-i feel a dream
death approaching, the anxiety is a bitch.
                                -(*)-
                AMERICA WAKE UP!
        GOD DOESNT WANT YOU TO KILL HIS ANGELS        a
    if you knew the price you will pay for this                  small
    WAR ECONOMY                NATION OF DEATH            prophecy
    STOP THE KARMIC MURDER PIE            NOW
    Worse than worshiping the golden calf you
    are killing for it
                       consider the weight of yr possessions
                       america, twice this weight you will 
                       carry when you die
for the innocent and pure of heart
i am raising the flags/ a warning of storms
Be Prepared to GO HOME LAMBS

i do not have the courage to say
this may be your last sacrifice

they will not weep on wall street
until it is too late & the tears have no meaning

there is no reason to play with death
this is not your country
when i smelled love burning/ i cried
& NOW i smell the horse of the Angel of Death

go home lambs

you are trying to build
a temple in a graveyard
YOU/have years to plan, my days are numbered
LAUGH at my fears and ignore my love
yet love & fear are the only wings to move on

when you have visited your own death
everyday is the last
                            GO HOME LAMBS
let yr children be born in the sun
“this country is insane”
                            GO HOME LAMBS
in the world of the spirit one does not
lose what he has gained.






* * * * *

taken from ukanhavyrfuckinciti bak
originally collected and edited by rjs and
published by t.l. kryss, GHOST PRESS CLEVELAND, 1967

since d.a. levy rejected copyright as “copyrot,” you may freely reproduce and pass on his work

To view an inspired video of Jesus Crisis reading levy’s work please visit
http://crisisblog.crisischronicles.com/2008/07/25/jesus-da-levytates-on-video.aspx

For more d.a. levy, check out the page clevelandmemory.org has devoted to him.
Another excellent resource can be found at
www.clevelandpoetryarchive.com

for even more by or about d.a. levy, please check out these:

   

Blizzard (by William Carlos Williams)

29 Thursday Jan 2009

Posted by Crisis Chronicles Press in 1900s, American, Williams (William Carlos), Writing

≈ 4 Comments


young William Carlos Williams


Blizzard
by William Carlos Williams
[from Sour Grapes (1921)]


Snow:
years of anger following
hours that float idly down–
the blizzard
drifts its weight
deeper and deeper for three days
or sixty years, eh? Then
the sun! a clutter of
yellow and blue flakes–
Hairy looking trees stand out
in long alleys
over a wild solitude.
The man turns and there–
his solitary track stretched out
upon the world.



* * *


    

An Encounter (by James Joyce)

28 Wednesday Jan 2009

Posted by Crisis Chronicles Press in 1900s, Irish, Joyce (James), Short Stories

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An Encounter
[from Dubliners, 1914]

It was Joe Dillon who introduced the Wild West to us. He had a little library made up of old numbers of The Union Jack , Pluck and The Halfpenny Marvel . Every evening after school we met in his back garden and arranged Indian battles. He and his fat young brother Leo, the idler, held the loft of the stable while we tried to carry it by storm; or we fought a pitched battle on the grass. But, however well we fought, we never won siege or battle and all our bouts ended with Joe Dillon’s war dance of victory. His parents went to eight- o’clock mass every morning in Gardiner Street and the peaceful odour of Mrs. Dillon was prevalent in the hall of the house. But he played too fiercely for us who were younger and more timid. He looked like some kind of an Indian when he capered round the garden, an old tea-cosy on his head, beating a tin with his fist and yelling:

“Ya! yaka, yaka, yaka!”

Everyone was incredulous when it was reported that he had a vocation for the priesthood. Nevertheless it was true.

A spirit of unruliness diffused itself among us and, under its influence, differences of culture and constitution were waived. We banded ourselves together, some boldly, some in jest and some almost in fear: and of the number of these latter, the reluctant Indians who were afraid to seem studious or lacking in robustness, I was one. The adventures related in the literature of the Wild West were remote from my nature but, at least, they opened doors of escape. I liked better some American detective stories which were traversed from time to time by unkempt fierce and beautiful girls. Though there was nothing wrong in these stories and though their intention was sometimes literary they were circulated secretly at school. One day when Father Butler was hearing the four pages of Roman History clumsy Leo Dillon was discovered with a copy of The Halfpenny Marvel.

“This page or this page? This page Now, Dillon, up! ‘Hardly had the day’ … Go on! What day? ‘Hardly had the day dawned’ … Have you studied it? What have you there in your pocket?”

Everyone’s heart palpitated as Leo Dillon handed up the paper and everyone assumed an innocent face. Father Butler turned over the pages, frowning.

“What is this rubbish?” he said. “The Apache Chief! Is this what you read instead of studying your Roman History? Let me not find any more of this wretched stuff in this college. The man who wrote it, I suppose, was some wretched fellow who writes these things for a drink. I’m surprised at boys like you, educated, reading such stuff. I could understand it if you were … National School boys. Now, Dillon, I advise you strongly, get at your work or…”

This rebuke during the sober hours of school paled much of the glory of the Wild West for me and the confused puffy face of Leo Dillon awakened one of my consciences. But when the restraining influence of the school was at a distance I began to hunger again for wild sensations, for the escape which those chronicles of disorder alone seemed to offer me. The mimic warfare of the evening became at last as wearisome to me as the routine of school in the morning because I wanted real adventures to happen to myself. But real adventures, I reflected, do not happen to people who remain at home: they must be sought abroad.

The summer holidays were near at hand when I made up my mind to break out of the weariness of schoollife for one day at least. With Leo Dillon and a boy named Mahony I planned a day’s miching. Each of us saved up sixpence. We were to meet at ten in the morning on the Canal Bridge. Mahony’s big sister was to write an excuse for him and Leo Dillon was to tell his brother to say he was sick. We arranged to go along the Wharf Road until we came to the ships, then to cross in the ferryboat and walk out to see the Pigeon House. Leo Dillon was afraid we might meet Father Butler or someone out of the college; but Mahony asked, very sensibly, what would Father Butler be doing out at the Pigeon House. We were reassured: and I brought the first stage of the plot to an end by collecting sixpence from the other two, at the same time showing them my own sixpence. When we were making the last arrangements on the eve we were all vaguely excited. We shook hands, laughing, and Mahony said:

“Till tomorrow, mates!”

That night I slept badly. In the morning I was firstcomer to the bridge as I lived nearest. I hid my books in the long grass near the ashpit at the end of the garden where nobody ever came and hurried along the canal bank. It was a mild sunny morning in the first week of June. I sat up on the coping of the bridge admiring my frail canvas shoes which I had diligently pipeclayed overnight and watching the docile horses pulling a tramload of business people up the hill. All the branches of the tall trees which lined the mall were gay with little light green leaves and the sunlight slanted through them on to the water. The granite stone of the bridge was beginning to be warm and I began to pat it with my hands in time to an air in my head. I was very happy.

When I had been sitting there for five or ten minutes I saw Mahony’s grey suit approaching. He came up the hill, smiling, and clambered up beside me on the bridge. While we were waiting he brought out the catapult which bulged from his inner pocket and explained some improvements which he had made in it. I asked him why he had brought it and he told me he had brought it to have some gas with the birds. Mahony used slang freely, and spoke of Father Butler as Old Bunser. We waited on for a quarter of an hour more but still there was no sign of Leo Dillon. Mahony, at last, jumped down and said:

“Come along. I knew Fatty’d funk it.”

“And his sixpence…?” I said.

“That’s forfeit,” said Mahony. “And so much the better for us — a bob and a tanner instead of a bob.”

We walked along the North Strand Road till we came to the Vitriol Works and then turned to the right along the Wharf Road. Mahony began to play the Indian as soon as we were out of public sight. He chased a crowd of ragged girls, brandishing his unloaded catapult and, when two ragged boys began, out of chivalry, to fling stones at us, he proposed that we should charge them. I objected that the boys were too small and so we walked on, the ragged troop screaming after us: “Swaddlers! Swaddlers!” thinking that we were Protestants because Mahony, who was dark-complexioned, wore the silver badge of a cricket club in his cap. When we came to the Smoothing Iron we arranged a siege; but it was a failure because you must have at least three. We revenged ourselves on Leo Dillon by saying what a funk he was and guessing how many he would get at three o’clock from Mr. Ryan.

We came then near the river. We spent a long time walking about the noisy streets flanked by high stone walls, watching the working of cranes and engines and often being shouted at for our immobility by the drivers of groaning carts. It was noon when we reached the quays and as all the labourers seemed to be eating their lunches, we bought two big currant buns and sat down to eat them on some metal piping beside the river We pleased ourselves with the spectacle of Dublin’s commerce — the barges signalled from far away by their curls of woolly smoke, the brown fishing fleet beyond Ringsend, the big white sailingvessel which was being discharged on the opposite quay. Mahony said it would be right skit to run away to sea on one of those big ships and even I, looking at the high masts, saw, or imagined, the geography which had been scantily dosed to me at school gradually taking substance under my eyes. School and home seemed to recede from us and their influences upon us seemed to wane.

We crossed the Liffey in the ferryboat, paying our toll to be transported in the company of two labourers and a little Jew with a bag. We were
serious to the point of solemnity, but once during the short voyage our eyes met and we laughed. When we landed we watched the discharging of the graceful threemaster which we had observed from the other quay. Some bystander said that she was a Norwegian vessel. I went to the stern and tried to decipher the legend upon it but, failing to do so, I came back and examined the foreign sailors to see had any of them green eyes for I had some confused notion…. The sailors’ eyes were blue and grey and even black. The only sailor whose eyes could have been called green was a tall man who amused the crowd on the quay by calling out cheerfully every time the planks fell:

“All right! All right!”

When we were tired of this sight we wandered slowly into Ringsend. The day had grown sultry, and in the windows of the grocers’ shops musty biscuits lay bleaching. We bought some biscuits and chocolate which we ate sedulously as we wandered through the squalid streets where the families of the fishermen live. We could find no dairy and so we went into a huckster’s shop and bought a bottle of raspberry lemonade each. Refreshed by this, Mahony chased a cat down a lane, but the cat escaped into a wide field. We both felt rather tired and when we reached the field we made at once for a sloping bank over the ridge of which we could see the Dodder.

It was too late and we were too tired to carry out our project of visiting the Pigeon House. We had to be home before four o’clock lest our adventure should be discovered. Mahony looked regretfully at his catapult and I had to suggest going home by train before he regained any cheerfulness. The sun went in behind some clouds and left us to our jaded thoughts and the crumbs of our provisions.

There was nobody but ourselves in the field. When we had lain on the bank for some time without speaking I saw a man approaching from the far end of the field. I watched him lazily as I chewed one of those green stems on which girls tell fortunes. He came along by the bank slowly. He walked with one hand upon his hip and in the other hand he held a stick with which he tapped the turf lightly. He was shabbily dressed in a suit of greenish-black and wore what we used to call a jerry hat with a high crown. He seemed to be fairly old for his moustache was ashen-grey. When he passed at our feet he glanced up at us quickly and then continued his way. We followed him with our eyes and saw that when he had gone on for perhaps fifty paces he turned about and began to retrace his steps. He walked towards us very slowly, always tapping the ground with his stick, so slowly that I thought he was looking for something in the grass.

He stopped when he came level with us and bade us goodday. We answered him and he sat down beside us on the slope slowly and with great care. He began to talk of the weather, saying that it would be a very hot summer and adding that the seasons had changed gready since he was a boy — a long time ago. He said that the happiest time of one’s life was undoubtedly one’s schoolboy days and that he would give anything to be young again. While he expressed these sentiments which bored us a little we kept silent. Then he began to talk of school and of books. He asked us whether we had read the poetry of Thomas Moore or the works of Sir Walter Scott and Lord Lytton. I pretended that I had read every book he mentioned so that in the end he said:

“Ah, I can see you are a bookworm like myself. Now,” he added, pointing to Mahony who was regarding us with open eyes, “he is different; he goes in for games.”

He said he had all Sir Walter Scott’s works and all Lord Lytton’s works at home and never tired of reading them. “Of course,” he said, “there were some of Lord Lytton’s works which boys couldn’t read.” Mahony asked why couldn’t boys read them — a question which agitated and pained me because I was afraid the man would think I was as stupid as Mahony. The man, however, only smiled. I saw that he had great gaps in his mouth between his yellow teeth. Then he asked us which of us had the most sweethearts. Mahony mentioned lightly that he had three totties. The man asked me how many I had. I answered that I had none. He did not believe me and said he was sure I must have one. I was silent.

“Tell us,” said Mahony pertly to the man, “how many have you yourself?”

The man smiled as before and said that when he was our age he had lots of sweethearts.

“Every boy,” he said, “has a little sweetheart.”

His attitude on this point struck me as strangely liberal in a man of his age. In my heart I thought that what he said about boys and sweethearts was reasonable. But I disliked the words in his mouth and I wondered why he shivered once or twice as if he feared something or felt a sudden chill. As he proceeded I noticed that his accent was good. He began to speak to us about girls, saying what nice soft hair they had and how soft their hands were and how all girls were not so good as they seemed to be if one only knew. There was nothing he liked, he said, so much as looking at a nice young girl, at her nice white hands and her beautiful soft hair. He gave me the impression that he was repeating something which he had learned by heart or that, magnetised by some words of his own speech, his mind was slowly circling round and round in the same orbit. At times he spoke as if he were simply alluding to some fact that everybody knew, and at times he lowered his voice and spoke mysteriously as if he were telling us something secret which he did not wish others to overhear. He repeated his phrases over and over again, varying them and surrounding them with his monotonous voice. I continued to gaze towards the foot of the slope, listening to him.

After a long while his monologue paused. He stood up slowly, saying that he had to leave us for a minute or so, a few minutes, and, without changing the direction of my gaze, I saw him walking slowly away from us towards the near end of the field. We remained silent when he had gone. After a silence of a few minutes I heard Mahony exclaim:

“I say! Look what he’s doing!”

As I neither answered nor raised my eyes Mahony exclaimed again:

“I say… He’s a queer old josser!”

In case he asks us for our names,” I said “let you be Murphy and I’ll be Smith.”

We said nothing further to each other. I was still considering whether I would go away or not when the man came back and sat down beside us again. Hardly had he sat down when Mahony, catching sight of the cat which had escaped him, sprang up and pursued her across the field. The man and I watched the chase. The cat escaped once more and Mahony began to throw stones at the wall she had escaladed. Desisting from this, he began to wander about the far end of the field, aimlessly.

After an interval the man spoke to me. He said that my friend was a very rough boy and asked did he get whipped often at school. I was going to reply indignantly that we were not National School boys to be whipped, as he called it; but I remained silent. He began to speak on the subject of chastising boys. His mind, as if magnetised again by his speech, seemed to circle slowly round and round its new centre. He said that when boys were that kind they ought to be whipped and well whipped. When a boy was rough and unruly there was nothing would do him any good but a good sound whipping. A slap on the hand or a box on the ear was no good: what he wanted was to get a nice warm whipping. I was surprised at this sentiment and involuntarily glanced up at his face. As I did so I met the gaze of a pair of bottle-green eyes peering at me from under a twitching forehead. I turned my eyes away again.

The man continued his monologue. He seemed to have forgotten his recent liberalism. He said that if ever he found a boy talking to girls or having a girl for a sweetheart he would whip him and whip him; and that would teach him not to be talking to girls. And if a boy had a girl for a sweetheart and told lies about it then he would give him such a whipping as no boy ever got
in this world. He said that there was nothing in this world he would like so well as that. He described to me how he would whip such a boy as if he were unfolding some elaborate mystery. He would love that, he said, better than anything in this world; and his voice, as he led me monotonously through the mystery, grew almost affectionate and seemed to plead with me that I should understand him.

I waited till his monologue paused again. Then I stood up abruptly. Lest I should betray my agitation I delayed a few moments pretending to fix my shoe properly and then, saying that I was obliged to go, I bade him good-day. I went up the slope calmly but my heart was beating quickly with fear that he would seize me by the ankles. When I reached the top of the slope I turned round and, without looking at him, called loudly across the field:

“Murphy!”

My voice had an accent of forced bravery in it and I was ashamed of my paltry stratagem. I had to call the name again before Mahony saw me and hallooed in answer. How my heart beat as he came running across the field to me! He ran as if to bring me aid. And I was penitent; for in my heart I had always despised him a little.




     

A&P (by John Updike)

27 Tuesday Jan 2009

Posted by Crisis Chronicles Press in 2000s, American, Short Stories, Updike (John)

≈ Leave a comment



John Updike
John Updike
3/18/1932 – 1/27/2009


In walks these three girls in nothing but bathing suits. I’m in the third check-out slot, with my back to the door, so I don’t see them until they’re over by the bread. The one that caught my eye first was the one in the plaid green two-piece. She was a chunky kid, with a good tan and a sweet broad soft-looking can with those two crescents of white just under it, where the sun never seems to hit, at the top of the backs of her legs. I stood there with my hand on a box of HiHo crackers trying to remember if I rang it up or not. I ring it up again and the customer starts giving me hell. She’s one of these cash-register-watchers, a witch about fifty with rouge on her cheekbones and no eyebrows, and I knowit made her day to trip me up. She’d been watching cash registers forty years and probably never seen a mistake before.

By the time I got her feathers smoothed and her goodies into a bag — she gives me alittle snort in passing, if she’d been born at the right time they would have burned her over in Salem — by the time I get her on her way the girls had circled around the bread and were coming back, without a pushcart, back my way along the counters, in the aisle between the check-outs and the Special bins. They didn’t even have shoes on. There was this chunky one, with the two-piece — it was bright green and the seams on the bra were still sharp and her belly was still pretty pale so I guessed she just got it (the suit) — there was this one, with one of those chubby berry-faces, the lips all bunched together under her nose, this one, and a tall one, with black hair that hadn’t quite frizzed right, and one of these sunburns right across under the eyes, and a chin that was too long — you know, the kind of girl other girls think is very “striking” and “attractive” but never quite makes it, as they very well know, which is why they like her so much — and then the third one, that wasn’t quite so tall. She was the queen. She kind of led them, the other two peeking around and making their shoulders round. She didn’t look around, not this queen, she just walked straight on slowly, on these long white prima donna legs. She came down a little hard on her heels, as if she didn’t walk in her bare feet that much, putting down her heels and then letting the weight move along to her toes as if she was testing the floor with every step, putting a little deliberate extra action into it. You never know for sure how girls’ minds work (do you really think it’s a mind in there or just a little buzz like a bee in a glassjar?) but you got the idea she had talked the other two into coming in here with her, and now she was showing them how to do it, walk slow and hold yourself straight.

She had on a kind of dirty-pink – – beige maybe, I don’t know — bathing suit with a little nubble all over it and, what got me, the straps were down. They were off her shoulders looped loose around the cool tops of her arms, and I guess as a result the suit had slipped a little on her, so all around the top of the cloth there was this shining rim. If it hadn’t been there you wouldn’t have known there could have been anything whiter than those shoulders. With the straps pushed off, there was nothing between the top of the suit and the top of her head except just her, this clean bare plane of the top of her chest down from the shoulder bones like a dented sheet of metal tilted in the light. I mean, it was more than pretty.

She had sort of oaky hair that the sun and salt had bleached, done up in a bun that was unravelling, and a kind of prim face. Walking into the A & P with your straps down, I suppose it’s the only kind of face you can have. She held her head so high her neck, coming up out o fthose white shoulders, looked kind of stretched, but I didn’t mind. The longer her neck was, the more of her there was.

She must have felt in the corner of her eye me and over my shoulder Stokesie in the second slot watching, but she didn’t tip. Not this queen. She kept her eyes moving across the racks, and stopped, and turned so slow it made my stomach rub the inside of my apron, and buzzed to the other two, who kind of huddled against her for relief, and they all three of them went up the cat-and-dog-food-breakfast-cereal-macaroni-ri ce-raisins-seasonings-spreads-spaghetti-soft drinks- rackers-and- cookies aisle. From the third slot I look straight up this aisle to the meat counter, and I watched them all the way. The fat one with the tan sort of fumbled with the cookies, but on second thought she put the packages back. The sheep pushing their carts down the aisle — the girls were walking against the usual traffic (not that we have one-way signs or anything) — were pretty hilarious. You could see them, when Queenie’s white shoulders dawned on them, kind of jerk, or hop, or hiccup, but their eyes snapped back to their own baskets and on they pushed. I bet you could set off dynamite in an A & P and the people would by and large keep reaching and checking oatmeal off their lists and muttering “Let me see, there was a third thing, began with A, asparagus, no, ah, yes, applesauce!” or whatever it is they do mutter. But there was no doubt, this jiggled them. A few house-slaves in pin curlers even looked around after pushing their carts past to make sure what they had seen was correct.

You know, it’s one thing to have a girl in a bathing suit down on the beach, where what with the glare nobody can look at each other much anyway, and another thing in the cool of the A & P, under the fluorescent lights, against all those stacked packages, with her feet paddling along naked over our checkerboard green-and-cream rubber-tile floor.

“Oh Daddy,” Stokesie said beside me. “I feel so faint.”

“Darling,” I said. “Hold me tight.” Stokesie’s married, with two babies chalked up on his fuselage already, but as far as I can tell that’s the only difference. He’s twenty-two, and I was nineteen this April.

“Is it done?” he asks, the responsible married man finding his voice. I forgot to say he thinks he’s going to be manager some sunny day, maybe in 1990 when it’s called the Great Alexandrov and Petrooshki Tea Company or something.

What he meant was, our town is five miles from a beach, with a big summer colony out on the Point, but we’re right in the middle of town, and the women generally put on a shirt or shorts or something before they get out of the car into the street. And anyway these are usually women with six children and varicose veins mapping their legs and nobody, including them, could care less. As I say, we’re right in the middle of town, and if you stand at our front doors you can see two banks and the Congregational church and the newspaper store and three real-estate offices and about twenty-seven old free-loaders tearing up Central Street because the sewer broke again. It’s not as if we’re on the Cape; we’re north of Boston and there’s people in this town haven’t seen the ocean for twenty years.

The girls had reached the meat counter and were asking McMahon something. He pointed, they pointed, and they shuffled out of sight behind a pyramid of Diet Delight peaches. All that was left for us to see was old McMahon patting his mouth and looking after them sizing up their joints. Poor kids, I began to feel sorry for them, they couldn’t help it.

Now here comes the sad part of the story, at:least my family says it’s sad but I don’t think it’s sad myself. The store’s pretty empty, it being Thursday afternoon, so there was nothing much to do except lean on the register and wait for the girls to show up again. The whole store was like a pinball machine and I didn’t know which tunnel they’d come out of. After a while they come around out of the far aisle, around the light bulbs, records at discount of the Caribbean Six or Tony Martin Sings or some such gunk you wonder they waste the wax on, sixpacks of candy bars, and plastic toys done up in cellophane that faIl apart when a kid looks at them anyway. Around they come, Queenie still leading the way, and holding a little gray jar in her hand. Slots Three through Seven are unmanned and I could see her wondering between Stokes and me, but Stokesie with his usual luck draws an old party in baggy gray pants who stumbles up with four giant cans of pineapple juice (what do these bums do with all that pineapple juice’ I’ve often asked myself) so the girls come to me. Queenie puts down the jar and I take it into my fingers icy cold. Kingfish Fancy Herring Snacks in Pure Sour Cream: 49¢. Now her hands are empty, not a ring or a bracelet, bare as God made them, and I wonder where the money’s coming from. Still with that prim look she lifts a folded dollar bill out of the hollow at the center of her nubbled pink top. The jar went heavy in my hand. Really, I thought that was so cute.

Then everybody’s luck begins to run out. Lengel comes in from haggling with a truck full of cabbages on the lot and is about to scuttle into that door marked MANAGER behind which he hides all day when the girls touch his eye. Lengel’s pretty dreary, teaches Sunday school and the rest, but he doesn’t miss that much. He comes over and says, “Girls, this isn’t the beach.”

Queenie blushes, though maybe it’s just a brush of sunburn I was noticing for the first time, now that she was so close. “My mother asked me to pick up a jar of herring snacks.” Her voice kind of startled me, the way voices do when you see the people first, coming out so flat and dumb yet kind of tony, too, the way it ticked over “pick up” and “snacks.” All of a sudden I slid right down her voice into her living room. Her father and the other men were standing around in ice-cream coats and bow ties and the women were in sandals picking up herring snacks on toothpicks off a big plate and they were all holding drinks the color of water with olives and sprigs of mint in them. When my parents have somebody over they get lemonade and if it’s a real racy affair Schlitz in tall glasses with “They’ll Do It Every Time” cartoons stencilled on.

“That’s all right,” Lengel said. “But this isn’t the beach.” His repeating this struck me as funny, as if it hadjust occurred to him, and he had been thinking all these years the A & P was a great big dune and he was the head lifeguard. He didn’t like my smiling — -as I say he doesn’t miss much — but he concentrates on giving the girls that sad Sunday- school-superintendent stare.

Queenie’s blush is no sunburn now, and the plump one in plaid, that I liked better from the back — a really sweet can — pipes up, “We weren’t doing any shopping. We just came in for the one thing.”

“That makes no difference,” Lengel tells her, and I could see from the way his eyes went that he hadn’t noticed she was wearing a two-piece before. “We want you decently dressed when you come in here.”

“We are decent,” Queenie says suddenly, her lower lip pushing, getting sore now that she remembers her place, a place from which the crowd that runs the A & P must look pretty crummy. Fancy Herring Snacks flashed in her very blue eyes.

“Girls, I don’t want to argue with you. After this come in here with your shoulders covered. It’s our policy.” He turns his back. That’s policy for you. Policy is what the kingpins want. What the others want is juvenile delinquency.

All this while, the customers had been showing up with their carts but, you know, sheep, seeing a scene, they had all bunched up on Stokesie, who shook open a paper bag as gently as peeling a peach, not wanting to miss a word. I could feel in the silence everybody getting nervous, most of all Lengel, who asks me, “Sammy, have you rung up this purchase?”

I thought and said “No” but it wasn’t about that I was thinking. I go through the punches, 4, 9, GROC, TOT — it’s more complicated than you think, and after you do it often enough, it begins to make a lttle song, that you hear words to, in my case “Hello (bing) there, you (gung) hap-py pee-pul (splat)“-the splat being the drawer flying out. I uncrease the bill, tenderly as you may imagine, it just having come from between the two smoothest scoops of vanilla I had ever known were there, and pass a half and a penny into her narrow pink palm, and nestle the herrings in a bag and twist its neck and hand it over, all the time thinking.

The girls, and who’d blame them, are in a hurry to get out, so I say “I quit” to Lengel quick enough for them to hear, hoping they’ll stop and watch me, their unsuspected hero. They keep right on going, into the electric eye; the door flies open and they flicker across the lot to their car, Queenie and Plaid and Big Tall Goony-Goony (not that as raw material she was so bad), leaving me with Lengel and a kink in his eyebrow.

“Did you say something, Sammy?”

“I said I quit.”

“I thought you did.”

“You didn’t have to embarrass them.”

“It was they who were embarrassing us.”

I started to say something that came out “Fiddle-de-doo.” It’s a saying of my grand- mother’s, and I know she would have been pleased.

“I don’t think you know what you’re saying,” Lengel said.

“I know you don’t,” I said. “But I do.” I pull the bow at the back of my apron and start shrugging it off my shoulders. A couple customers that had been heading for my slot begin to knock against each other, like scared pigs in a chute.

Lengel sighs and begins to look very patient and old and gray. He’s been a friend of my parents for years. “Sammy, you don’t want to do this to your Mom and Dad,” he tells me. It’s true, I don’t. But it seems to me that once you begin a gesture it’s fatal not to go through with it. I fold the apron, “Sammy” stitched in red on the pocket, and put it on the counter, and drop the bow tie on top of it. The bow tie is theirs, if you’ve ever wondered. “You’ll feel this for the rest of your life,” Lengel says, and I know that’s true, too, but remembering how he made that pretty girl blush makes me so scrunchy inside I punch the No Sale tab and the machine whirs “pee-pul” and the drawer splats out. One advantage to this scene taking place in summer, I can follow this up with a clean exit, there’s no fumbling around getting your coat and galoshes, I just saunter into the electric eye in my white shirt that my mother ironed the night before, and the door heaves itself open, and outside the sunshine is skating around on the asphalt.

I look around for my girls, but they’re gone, of course. There wasn’t anybody but some young married screaming with her children about some candy they didn’t get by the door of a powder-blue Falcon station wagon. Looking back in the big windows, over the bags of peat moss and aluminum lawn furniture stacked on the pavement, I could see Lengel in my place in the slot, checking the sheep through. His face was dark gray and his back stiff, as if he’djust had an injection of iron, and my stomach kind of fell as I felt how hard the world was going to be to me hereafter.


[John Updike 1961, first published in The New Yorker]


* * *

For more by John Updike, please check out these volumes:


     

Song of Prudence (by Walt Whitman)

27 Tuesday Jan 2009

Posted by Crisis Chronicles Press in 1800s, American, Whitman (Walt), Writing

≈ 2 Comments


Please click here for more Walt Whitman

Song of Prudence
by Walt Whitman


Manhattan’s streets I saunter’d pondering,
On Time, Space, Reality–on such as these, and abreast with them Prudence.
The last explanation always remains to be made about prudence,
Little and large alike drop quietly aside from the prudence that suits immortality.
The soul is of itself,
All verges to it, all has reference to what ensues,
All that a person does, says, thinks, is of consequence,
Not a move can a man or woman make, that affects him or her in a day, month, any part of the 
    direct lifetime, or the hour of death,
But the same affects him or her onward afterward through the indirect lifetime.
The indirect is just as much as the direct,
The spirit receives from the body just as much as it gives to the body, if not more.
Not one word or deed, not venereal sore, discoloration, privacy of the onanist,
Putridity of gluttons or rum-drinkers, peculation, cunning, betrayal, murder, seduction, prostitution,
But has results beyond death as really as before death.
Charity and personal force are the only investments worth any thing.
No specification is necessary, all that a male or female does, that is vigorous, benevolent, clean, 
    is so much profit to him or her,
In the unshakable order of the universe and through the whole scope of it forever.
Who has been wise receives interest,
Savage, felon, President, judge, farmer, sailor, mechanic, literat, young, old, it is the same,
The interest will come round–all will come round.
Singly, wholly, to affect now, affected their time, will forever affect, all of the past and all of the 
    present and all of the future,
All the brave actions of war and peace,
All help given to relatives, strangers, the poor, old, sorrowful, young children, widows, the sick, 
    and to shunn’d persons,
All self-denial that stood steady and aloof on wrecks, and saw others fill the seats of the boats,
All offering of substance or life for the good old cause, or for a friend’s sake, or opinion’s sake,
All pains of enthusiasts scoff’d at by their neighbors,
All the limitless sweet love and precious suffering of mothers,
All honest men baffled in strifes recorded or unrecorded,
All the grandeur and good of ancient nations whose fragments we inherit,
All the good of the dozens of ancient nations unknown to us by name, date, location,
All that was ever manfully begun, whether it succeeded or no,
All suggestions of the divine mind of man or the divinity of his mouth, or the shaping of his great 
    hands,
All that is well thought or said this day on any part of the globe, or on any of the wandering stars, 
    or on any of the fix’d stars, by those there as we are here,
All that is henceforth to be thought or done by you whoever you are, or by any one,
These inure, have inured, shall inure, to the identities from which they sprang, or shall spring.
Did you guess any thing lived only its moment?
The world does not so exist, no parts palpable or impalpable so exist,
No consummation exists without being from some long previous consummation, and that from some 
    other,
Without the farthest conceivable one coming a bit nearer the beginning than any.
Whatever satisfies souls is true;
Prudence entirely satisfies the craving and glut of souls,
Itself only finally satisfies the soul,
The soul has that measureless pride which revolts from every lesson but its own.
Now I breathe the word of the prudence that walks abreast with time, space, reality,
That answers the pride which refuses every lesson but its own.
What is prudence is indivisible,
Declines to separate one part of life from every part,
Divides not the righteous from the unrighteous or the living from the dead,
Matches every thought or act by its correlative,
Knows no possible forgiveness or deputed atonement,
Knows that the young man who composedly peril’d his life and lost it has done exceedingly well for 
    himself without doubt,
That he who never peril’d his life, but retains it to old age in riches and ease, has probably achiev’d 
    nothing for himself worth mentioning,
Knows that only that person has really learn’d who has learn’d to prefer results,
Who favors body and soul the same,
Who perceives the indirect assuredly following the direct,
Who in his spirit in any emergency whatever neither hurries nor avoids death.



* * *

[from the 1881 edition of Leaves of Grass]

To read other Whitman selections in the Crisis Chronicles Online LIbrary, click here.


  

 

IF WE ARE ALL IN THIS TOGETHER (by Bree)

26 Monday Jan 2009

Posted by Crisis Chronicles Press in 2000s, American, Bree, Cleveland, Writing

≈ 2 Comments


Bree at Sudanese Lost Boys benefit

Bree at a poetry benefit for the Sudanese Lost Boys of Cleveland
23 November 2008 – photo by Jesus Crisis
 


IF WE ARE ALL IN THIS TOGETHER
               for George Salomonoff             

if we are all in this together
then our friend done you some
service, reaching in a breast pocket
for a memo book to scratch Live
lines liked at poetry readings, story times.


if we’re in this together, then we too fought with
our friend on lines where war is like pudding,
softening wax papers as it cools either side,
also like lava, thick and red hot as friendship.         


if we are not all in this together
then you musn’t worry that a good
man is down
or that we lost one, to the minions,
you may’s well tell them. tell anyone.
(if we are not in this together).


and at once, the sky breaks forth! having been
wrested in chill damp now tricklings of light on.
new clouds showing themselves, no shoes brave.


you’ve gotta hope. just be down where you’re in
the numbers. more voices at once, always.
more, and they shout! and they sing!
a storm passes. a friend you live to imitate leaves.
a new note. on a scratch pad for eternity’s sake.
not now. another moment passes.
there are teams, pick a side!
your bleachers are to the west.
your sneakers are not worth alot.

tromp over, through mud and in weakness
as if you were the triumphant,
as if the game had been played and done.
if we all are in this together, everybody waves
a salutory YES! for all man. RIGHT NOW.


* * *


“IF WE ARE ALL IN THIS TOGETHER” included in the Crisis Chronicles Online Library with Bree’s permission

Bree = Green Panda Press publishes must-read poetry

http://greenpandapress.blogspot.com and http://www.myspace.com/verysharp

See also http://www.agentofchaos.com/bree/bree05.html


Green Panda Press (Cleveland, OH) is teaming up with Temple Books (Walla Walla, WA) to put on three days of poetry and music May 8th-10th, 2009.  Tres Versing the Panda will (tentatively) include acts by George Wallace (NYC), Angela Jaeger (MA), Wesley Eisold (MA), Jeremy Gaulke (WA), Charles Potts (WA), Alex Gildzen (NM), and Cleveland area poets Maj Ragain, Jim Lang, Adam Brodsky, Bree, Ben Gulyas, Jim Lang, Russ Vidrick, Wendy Shaffer, Phil Metres, Kisha Foster, Matt Wascovich, and more.  Stay tuned to Green Panda’s blog for the latest.

Think fondly of Eachother (by Bree)

25 Sunday Jan 2009

Posted by Crisis Chronicles Press in 2000s, American, Bree, Cleveland, Writing

≈ 2 Comments



Bree at Sudanese Lost Boys benefit

Bree at a poetry benefit for the Sudanese Lost Boys of Cleveland
23 November 2008 – photo by Jesus Crisis
 


Think fondly of Eachother

Think fondly of eachother,
This is what we are
 
Eachother


Also know we are alone together
And will die the same


Alone


Madness:
in the cooler
          of the mind,
the elevators
       corridors and yes the
                             sole stairwalker
               even now he whistles
                             thinking fondly of eachother


A leaf drags along the ground for miles
 
(eachother)


A cricket intermittently makes an
                announcement


Eachother


What it is we share
    When we mow each our own


When we type for one


                 When we meet the mailman
At the door it is in unison
 
Turn madness into roars
            Of joking with eachother
                         Tears paper thin the walls of
                                    Anger at eachother like
                             Birthday cakes and chicken
                       With butter for eachother
               For this is all we are



* * *


“Think fondly of Eachother” included in the Crisis Chronicles Online Library with Bree’s permission

Bree = Green Panda Press publishes must-read poetry

http://greenpandapress.blogspot.com and http://www.myspace.com/verysharp

See also http://www.agentofchaos.com/bree/bree05.html


Green Panda Press (Cleveland, OH) is teaming up with Temple Books (Walla Walla, WA) to put on three days of poetry and music May 8th-10th, 2009.  Tres Versing the Panda will (tentatively) include acts by George Wallace (NYC), Angela Jaeger (MA), Wesley Eisold (MA), Jeremy Gaulke (WA), Charles Potts (WA), Alex Gildzen (NM), and Cleveland area poets Maj Ragain, Jim Lang, Adam Brodsky, Bree, Ben Gulyas, Jim Lang, Russ Vidrick, Wendy Shaffer, Phil Metres, Kisha Foster, Matt Wascovich, and more.  Stay tuned to Green Panda’s blog for the latest.

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