Saturday, August 17, 2013

These eyes; May you grow and bloom forever;.....Firebird

These eyes





The Death of Santa Claus

He's had the chest pains for weeks,
but doctors don't make house
calls to the North Pole,

he's let his Blue Cross lapse,
blood tests make him faint,
hospital gown always flap

open, waiting rooms upset
his stomach, and it's only
indigestion anyway, he thinks,

until, feeding the reindeer,
he feels as if a monster fist
has grabbed his heart and won't

stop squeezing. He can't
breathe, and the beautiful white
world he loves goes black,

and he drops on his jelly belly
in the snow and Mrs. Claus
tears out of the toy factory

wailing, and the elves wring
their little hands, and Rudolph's
nose blinks like a sad ambulance

light, and in a tract house
in Houston, Texas, I'm 8,
telling my mom that stupid

kids at school say Santa's a big
fake, and she sits with me
on our purple-flowered couch,

and takes my hand, tears
in her throat, the terrible
news rising in her eyes.

The Death of Santa Claus" by Charles Harper Webb, from Reading the Water. © Northeastern University Press, 1997

(Thanks once again, once again, to Bonnie Camp for introducing me
way back when to the G. Keillor WRITERS ALMANAC)




Airship race around the world
May pass over Alaska or Hawaii
Details forthcoming,0,3187084.story?track=rss

The doctor says he sees a dark mass on the X-ray
Could it be........
a zeppelin?

Trouble in River City US of A?
'Z' and that rhymes with P
and that stands for POOL!

Ya Got Trouble by 
Well, either you're closing your eyes 
To a situation you do now wish to acknowledge
Or you are not aware of the caliber of disaster indicated
By the presence of a pool table in your community.
Ya got trouble, my friend, right here, 
I say, trouble right here in River City. 
Why sure I'm a billiard player,
Certainly mighty proud I say 
I'm always mighty proud to say it. 
I consider that the hours I spend 
With a cue in my hand are golden. 
Help you cultivate horse sense
And a cool head and a keen eye. 
Never take and try to give
An iron-clad leave to yourself 
From a three-reail billiard shot?
But just as I say, 
It takes judgement, brains, and maturity to score
In a balkline game, 
I say that any boob kin take
And shove a ball in a pocket. 
And they call that sloth. 
The first big step on the road
To the depths of deg-ra-Day--
I say, first, medicinal wine from a teaspoon,
Then beer from a bottle. 
An' the next thing ya know, 
Your son is playin' for money
In a pinch-back suit. 
And list'nin to some big out-a-town Jasper
Hearin' him tell about horse-race gamblin'. 
Not a wholesome trottin' race, no!
But a race where they set down right on the horse! 
Like to see some stuck-up jockey'boy 
Sittin' on Dan Patch? Make your blood boil? 
Well, I should say. 
Friends, lemme tell you what I mean.
Ya got one, two, three, four, five, six pockets in a table. 
Pockets that mark the diff'rence
Between a gentlemen and a bum, 
With a capital "B," 
And that rhymes with "P" and that stands for pool! 
And all week long your River City
Youth'll be frittern away, 
I say your young men'll be frittern!
Frittern away their noontime, suppertime, choretime too!
Get the ball in the pocket,
Never mind gittin' Dandelions pulled
Or the screen door patched or the beefsteak pounded.
Never mind pumpin' any water 
'Til your parents are caught with the Cistern empty
On a Saturday night and that's trouble,
Oh, yes we got lots and lots a' trouble.
I'm thinkin' of the kids in the knickerbockers, 
Shirt-tail young ones, peekin' in the pool 
Hall window after school, look, folks! 
Right here in River City. 
Trouble with a capital "T"
And that rhymes with "P" and that stands for pool!
Now, I know all you folks are the right kinda parents. 
I'm gonna be perfectly frank.
Would ya like to know what kinda conversation goes
On while they're loafin' around that Hall? 
They're tryin' out Bevo, tryin' out cubebs,
Tryin' out Tailor Mades like Cigarette Feends!
And braggin' all about
How they're gonna cover up a tell-tale breath with Sen-Sen.
One fine night, they leave the pool hall,
Headin' for the dance at the Arm'ry!
Libertine men and Scarlet women! 
And Rag-time, shameless music
That'll grab your son and your daughter
With the arms of a jungle animal instink!
Friends, the idle brain is the devil's playground!

Trouble, oh we got trouble, 
Right here in River City! 
With a capital "T" 
That rhymes with "P"
And that stands for Pool,
That stands for pool.
We've surely got trouble!
Right here in River City, 
Right here!
Gotta figger out a way
To keep the young ones moral after school!
Trouble, trouble, trouble, trouble, trouble...

Mothers of River City!
Heed the warning before it's too late!
Watch for the tell-tale sign of corruption!
The moment your son leaves the house,
Does he rebuckle his knickerbockers below the knee? 
Is there a nicotine stain on his index finger?
A dime novel hidden in the corn crib?
Is he starting to memorize jokes from Capt.
Billy's Whiz Bang?
Are certain words creeping into his conversation?
Words like 'swell?"
And 'so's your old man?" 
Well, if so my friends,
Ya got trouble,
Right here in River city!
With a capital "T"
And that rhymes with "P"
And that stands for Pool.
We've surely got trouble!
Right here in River City!
Remember the Maine, Plymouth Rock and the Golden Rule!
Oh, we've got trouble. 
We're in terrible, terrible trouble. 
That game with the fifteen numbered balls is a devil's tool! 
Oh yes we got trouble, trouble, trouble!
With a "T"! Gotta rhyme it with "P"! 
And that stands for Pool!!!


'Z' and that rhymes with T
and that stands for pool



Morning pills on the day
Of my daughter’s 53rd birthday
Rest on a crumby napkin
But not just any crumbs
Were they today.  And never are.

They were crumbs of home-made
Granola pancakes served
By a wife not this daughter’s mother
With blackberry sauce
From Mike and Bonnie Camp’s patch.

Then Dee ate her own pancakes
then she asked if I’d taken my pills.
I plopped them on the crumbed napkin
In a rainbow array; all was good.

DZD 8-13-13 @ de septics


Igor Stravinsky 
directs his own Firebird Suite
at age 82, in 1965

he urges emphases
with only his turned wrists
and the knowing musicians respond.
He is read like a favorite book.

When, at 26 minutes and 34 seconds in,
Stravinsky points at his French hornman
to begin the concluding phrases
it is ecstasy for the listener.


If this were to be the last entry
in a Sewer Raccoon News
it would be alright.