By Jo MacDougall
Awake while you sleep,
I tie and untie the strings of what went wrong:
the farm auctioned, my father buried in Minnesota,
you and I alone
in a rented room.
I remember my father when I was six
pushing open a gate on the farm road,
stirring the dust of August.
The locusts sizzling in the grass,
a hum of dragonflies hanging sleepy above us.
Barn: Maine USA. June 2007.
5/16/2008
Homeplace
5/13/2008
5/10/2008
5/09/2008
5/08/2008
5/07/2008
un monde perdu
Whilst walking in the woods one gray day—a deep woods with a heavy deciduous canopy, carpeted with nearly impregnable vancis priet and wilted duck thorn, the sharp odor of rockthrip unholy and pervasive in my whiskey blistered frappe-nasáal, a woods which men of statures superior even to mine own would happily avoid—I came upon a tethered white balloon, abandoned there like some apostolic schnelkuhn. I marveled at its immaculate condition, its ivory vrit-comun, and its lengthy entang stupís, all of it superficially unscathed. Oh! the chills that coursed through my copage-dit as I pondered the tantalizing enigma of its journey: whence it had come, and whither lay its ultimate becaz. I might mention too that it was raining—just a drizz, you see, but enough to elicit in me a sense of the object’s inner schtreck, its badréz bassó, if you will, perhaps born of falling, perhaps born of its loathsome return to earth after the joie fauntille of riding the clitorum punctus of helium-inspired buoyánce. I thought (profoundly, of course): Is not this viz miraculoze before me actually each of us in body and in spirit: aloft and flying fancy-free one moment, then, in a wink, earth-bound hausnegers-cum-dongknockers to the Fud Lugubrioso the next? I made up my mind to liberate that erstwhile sidekick of the untamed, unbridled Zefuros (Toots Reydevents himself), and did what had to be done: I slid my Swiss slicér aguté from my còrduroys, severed the insufferable twit de bondage (in one stroke imbuing it with all the pudgéé of recalcitrant metaphor), and gave out with an emphatic “Huzzah!” so as to urge the nascent aeronaut aloft. Alas, that dim bag went nowhere. It simply hung lethargically in the oppressive air, indifferent to the idea of flight. Out of gas, the fragile luftflutta had lost its espirit cockoso. So I did the only humane thing left. I murdered it. In a single, well-aimed espadanza vireé, I ran it through with seven grams of stainless steel. And I shuttered at its last gasp: an anemic pop that resounded weakly through the woodland, a sound reminiscent of an aging cudge-rouge self-destructing in its obscene orgasmulosco finalto. I turned then and retraced my steps, leaving the limp rubber carcass drooping from a lentine poplar branch, abandoned forever in the fundo erasmo of that dismal Arschlochwelt. By the time I reached my car I was sobbing. I poured myself a stiff Schlopzein from the ancient Persian donku in the glove box and drove home, drunk and teary-eyed, yet despairing not a whit for the carnage plastique of this unhappy, unpredictable monde perdu.
Pic: The White Balloon. Maine USA. April, 2008.
5/02/2008
5/01/2008
4/30/2008
4/28/2008
The Fud Lugubrioso
Well, what do you want for Big Chuck's first video effort? Does it not evoke a twinge of the teary dismal. Of the fud lugubrioso? Of the wet and wanton? No? Well then, can we not at least expect improvement?
Vid: Rain on vernal pool. Maine, USA. April, 2008
4/27/2008
Note to Self
~~~
calm down
what you think is coming
isn’t coming
relax
what you think you need
you don’t need
sit still
what you think you want
you don’t need
look around
everything you need
is right in front of you
and no one is trying
to take it away from you
~~~
calm down
what you think is coming
isn’t coming
relax
what you think you need
you don’t need
sit still
what you think you want
you don’t need
look around
everything you need
is right in front of you
and no one is trying
to take it away from you
~~~
Photo: Exploding star. June 2004.
4/26/2008
4/25/2008
4/24/2008
Triptych: Whistling Back the Bowwows
Movie poster: NY, NY. USA. February 2007.
News clipping: found among my deceased uncle's few worldly possessions. February 1998.
TV image: January 2005.
4/22/2008
4/21/2008
Why Bother?
Here’s AN EXCELLENT ARTICLE by Michael Pollan (The Omnivore’s Dilemma, In Defense of Food: An Eater’s Manifesto). It’s for those of us who want to do something about climate change (besides dealing in carbon credits) but find the whole thing overwhelming.
Photo: Ken Lockwood Gorge. High Bridge, New Jersey. USA. April 2008
4/20/2008
City-Toilet
Be sure pants are up and belt is fastened before calling 911.
Can also be used as a short-term hotel room.
City-Toilet: Boyleston Street. Boston, MA. USA. April, 2008
Unembraceable You: U-Rite-It---Still Going
U-Rite-It
"Have yourself a shitty day," said Clarkie to the cashier as he walked out of the Hot Pot Café with a mocha tall in one hand and a copy of the Weekly Whistle in the other. He was late for work, but he’d never make it through the morning without his big joe. Besides, he was always late for work, and it would ruin his carefully cultivated reputation as office rebel if he were actually to arrive on time. Clarkie’s co-workers respected his refusal to bow to many of the office’s conventions, and they shook their heads in amazement when month after month he remained on the payroll despite multitudinous infractions, any one of which would have earned them an immediate one-way ticket out the front door. The secret, of course, was known to one and all, though few dared voice it in public: Clarkie, that coffee-swilling, foul-mouthed, evil-smelling slacker, was the passionate and ever-attentive lover of beautiful Tess, the boss’s limbless daughter.
4/19/2008
Close Encounter
Janice was sitting at the kitchen counter eating a grape Pop-Tart when the fridge began to shake. A voice from inside kept repeating: “Janice. In here. In here.” She threw open the door and the room was flooded with a heavenly luminescence. She knew immediately—this was a close encounter of the kitchen kind, and it was her job to connect with the source. She ripped shelves and drawers from the fridge with abandon, grunting with the unfamiliar effort of pursuing the unknown. She was frantic, expecting on one hand to be sucked into an icy arctic vortex, worrying on the other that she’d spill the maple syrup. Then, suddenly, as quickly as it appeared, the light was gone, leaving Janice spent and dejected in the dim glow of the 25-watt refrigerator bulb. Sighing, she climbed down to the floor and returned to her Pop-Tart. “Wow.” she muttered. “That’s enough excitement for one day.” And her thoughts turned to the laundry waiting to be hung out and to the fish sticks Ernie had ordered for dinner.
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That was two months ago and since then they'd seen each other almost every day. And been seen all around town, much to the dismay of Tess's father, the indomitable, abominable Max Macahado.
Max, a hard nose Portuguese immigrant set in the old world ways, much preferred to keep his daughter's embarrasing condition out of the public eye.
Clarkie however, saw things differently.
April 17, 2008
Clarkie saw Tess as a tidy package. No fluttering hands or stubby toes. Just her heart and fast brain. Her eyes were there too. Green like marsh grass in summer. And there was no denying those breasts.
April 17, 2008
The thought of Clarkie caressing those milky whites drove Max mad. Like most fathers, the picture of a young man intimately touching his daughter made him nuts. He'd had thoughts of contacting Alfonse Spinoza, his enforcer from bygone days, to do a number on Clarkie. He figured Clarkie would take the next stage west after a little chat with the Spinner.
But he had to be careful. Spinoza had bedded his wife a few years back and he knew from the phone records that they still talked now and then. He allowed her this little secret because he knew they no longer had their weekly rendezvous at the Notell Motel. Besides, it somehow freed him of his guilt when he met clandestinely with his current lover, the sanguine Ms Sally Klampus.
So when Clarkie strolled into work that day, late as usual, he was unprepared for what awaited him.
April 18, 2008
"Well," she thought, "he's got at least one friend." Nancy had just brought a huge ham sandwich to Clarkie's desk. A tall man wearing a diamond ring had delivered it. He asked Nancy to give it to Mr. Clarkie Muldoon. The tall man didn't leave his name.
When Clarkie arrived at work he passed Nancy sitting down and chewing on pencils. He flashed her a sly grin and disappeared into his cubicle.
April 18, 2008
"That friggin Renaldo," muttered Clarkie when he spied the attractive hemp bag tied with orange raffia cord. He couldn't believe that his sweet lover boy had shown up at work yet again. He knew there would be a sumptous lunch within the bag and although he tried to maintain his aggravation he could not. Renaldo was damn thoughtful, and he was an amazing cook. Not only was there a ham sandwich (and tassia ham not that rubbery gelatinous shit) but the bread was home made, spread with unsalted Irish butter and the finest French mustard. There were cheese straws, radish roses and tiny gerkins. A porcelain dish covered with plastic wrap held fresh strawberries and champagne grapes. Finally there was a perfect dark chocolate truffle with the scent of cinnamon and chipolte pepper. Oh my God how he loved that man, talented beyond belief in the kitchen and the bedroom.