plastichappy

september's just a trick of the eye
and the air still makes me sweat
i've been crawling along the concrete
and all my nails are scratched

the sunlight pretened to be stars
dancing on the sad lonely river
where my toes have met the bank
and i've lost my feet under mud

smacking into walls has gotten harder
the brain that hurts is not so brave
but i've got a few surprises left
and all the colors have come to fall

talked to my girl on the fone for a moment... i like her voice

it was morning for her. it is the evening here at the outpost

in troy, michigan and i'm drinking club soda. just finished watching

the bonnie prince on youtube for about an hour. music used to be

hard to find... i liked that. but i like this better



the summer is closing and i've started production on a new play

The Pillowman with BreatheArt Theatre Project. a bold play a bold team



a few remarks about the summer outside



i spent some great time under the sun. i watched birds dance along wires

in jon's backyard while sipping mojitos and grilling meat. jon gave me a pepper

plant which is in my apartment window. no matter how much i sweet talk that

plant, it just won't give me any chilies. currently, i'm giving it the silent treatment.



i placed some found objects onto the back wall murel at the zeitgeist. the zeitgeist

now employs cats in the backyard. they don't drink as much as actors.



i went up north and shot guns with troy and jon. that's out of my system for another

year. put a line in the water but the fish are on to me so i'll leave that to the pros.

i stood under the stars and trembled at God's glory.



i've made it to comerica park several times



i floated in the waves of lake huron and watched nora jean sitting on shore

the waves sounded like laughter



i floated down the au sable river in a tube with group of tremendous friends



i slept in a tent



i trembled under the stars again... stars are bashful in the city



i looked at detroit from a foreign country... it looks pretty godd



i played badminton... with better results than i had against the thais



i sang silly songs in the car with my girl on the way to dale's house



i started reading huck finn

driving circles 'round the ren cen in my blue olds achieva...
listening to manu chau, how did i end up back here?

i'm somewhat removed now from my southeast asian getaway
and i'm collecting my thoughts. i don't really want to lay down
a play by play but perhaps some flashes of the brilliance of my
whirlwind tour. i'll say this: their thai food is spectacular!



a little lizard lived on the bathroom floor... today he is taking in a warm rainfall. i'm in the shower washing off the heat of Bangkok. we call him little lizard. sometimes Nora thinks he's hurt or missing a leg as he sits motionless for hours, even days. and just when she seems to be right, he's up on the wall all four feet gripping the slick tile. what goes through his dreams? i used to say "if i had any patience at all i'd be a buddhist." that statement is no longer true. if i had the patience i would stay under the soothing water and really observe little lizard. and just maybe, like cortazar's axolotls, we could switch places. all muscles clenched as another bout of soapy rains come in from the heavens. i like this place, regular rains in the morning and an occasional afternoon shower. the tiles are cool and inviting compared to the heavy sunshine of the massive outside world. yesterday a convoy of ants paraded right in front of me... they've got some brass. i ate seven of them before they knew the word terror. sometimes i can hear the gods talking. i have no envy that i am not like them. they loom so large as to block the sun from my skin... what would i do with such mass? what would i do with their knowledge of good and evil? i close my eyes as a wave of cleaning product washes over me. in my dream i no longer cling to tiles. i'm suspended in the air with no wings. i can sense color without having to look. i can feel love without having to hurt. i can talk to god without having to shout.




sweat rests on the back of my neck. it has all come down to this. just one more point and the Labor Day Vikings will defeat the Kansas Jews thus preserving their unblemished record in the hallowed game of Badminton. much was overcome to get to this moment: deconstruction of younger/faster opponents, the machinations of a brash line judge fresh from being ousted by the force of the LD Vikings, and the always troublesome presence of a lamp post right in the middle of our court. i'm told it is called a shuttlecock but i tossed the birdie into the air and readied my racquet.
these images raced through my skull as dizzily i stared across the court. P'George's body bent like a willow branch then snapped into action sending the shuttlecock blistering down the line for another kill. i don't think i moved. somehow the news preceded me to bangkok. You know, Joel is a member of a team called the Labor Day Vikings... he's undefeated at Badminton amongst the Detroit Theater Community. The Thais couldn't wait to get me on the court. Nora works with an incredible group of people. hard working, full of generosity and smiles, and always looking to display their english. they bestowed feasts upon me, took me on boat rides, led me before giant golden buddhas, opened their homes to me, but perhaps their gift i'll remember most fondly was when several of Nora's officemates (including P'George & P'Nui) took me to play their game. They display an incredible strength and grace on the court, switching from fast-paced smashes to lofting clear shots effortlessly. i scored two points against P'George (but that's only because he let me) Luckily for me, i didn't bring the camera along for this adventure... lessons from the zen masters rest soley in my heart. by the way, Nora is developing a mean snap on the birdie! the evening was capped by a late night visit to the noodle stand at the end of Nora's block. P'George ordered me up a spicey broth with glass noodles and fish balls...Tremendous!

P'GEORGE


P'NUI

THeY uSeD To PuT CRiMiNaLS iN SToCKS!! {part I}

it was a deep brown, like it contained all the earth... & it bubbled on the stove

permit me to talk for a while... i first landed on Sirron street in the early nineties... i remember making disjointed music long into the christmas night amidst empty jars, trinkets, boxes, and a storehouse of holiday flare. That group has separated like meat from a carcass...a gentle spreading out into the soup. i do remain... hanging on for a while longer. A thousand stories have been told since then... rivers traversed, mountains clung to, hearts broken & proximity triumphed over. I have lived inside the skin of other lives under bright lights but never wore shoes down with distance. it's 007 and the times they are a-changing.

Greedy X-mas music always starts around the end of october... but the holidays started this year when l'aro arrived at Jacquelin's and i saw him on december 21st. a roast had been prepared along with carrots and potatoes. we talked into the night on the topic of Science and Faith. it was a joy to discuss our hearts and minds. we were well met in Lankmar!

El Chivo arrived the next night with his lady friend, a turkey stew, and a large african drum. we put back a few stella artois beers (which would become the official beverage of the 006 holiday season) the 23rd came next... as it often does after the 22nd. This was to be the day of the First Annual Conference of Friars on the Subject of Topics. there was something in the air (besides the uncanny pleasant weather for a detroit december) a nerVous energy of expectations... i don't think any of us knew what was around the corner we only knew we wanted to share. this would be in the evening... during the day an away team (chivo, pirata, l'aro) was sent on a mysterious book delivery mission for people in Pittsburgh. i planted my roots in the kitchen.

there is speculation on who St. Gumbo really is... some say he was a dark cajun who turned into a wolf when his life gave way. some say he was a man like Jesus who walked on the water, and still others say he hailed from Buffalo. but i think St. Gumbo bore the name of George Todt when he walked on this earth. His son once called him the last of the gunslingers and he was a fantastic mountain of a man. he was a sponge for knowledge and soul, he took it all in. he had secrets & he taught me how to make gumbo... and as good as that is, that may be the least of his glory!

i was planted in the kitchen... the onions were chopped, as well as the peppers and celery. i stood over the bubbling cauldron like a witch. fry the chicken, add the okra, chop the sausage, dash of spice! The creole cooked and cooked and eventually the away team returned mission accomplished (they stated this from the deck of a carrier). but now something was different about the kitchen. the shiny metal shelf still bent under the weight of enough liquor to drown shane macgowan, the old window was still slightly ajar letting in the sunny air, the half smoked parliament light 100's still smoldered in the tray... what was it? there it was on the lectric burner right next to the fishy stew... a second cauldron. i peered inside. a warm dark liquid surrounded vegetables and minced leaves of spices and the torn flesh of turkey floated in the wake. i'm told it was born from giant legs of turkey procured in the markets of that distant land of Pitt. the two soups just glared at eachother like a coupla mooks at an eastside bar. (did i mention we had all gathered the night before in a seedy bar under a bowling alley which served graduation mosticholli and ultimate fighting... i don't wanna talk about it.)

a crowd formed in the soup kitchen and began ladling the thick liquids. helping after helping was downed on both sides... a feast for the senses and stomachs. in the aftermath drinks poured (already having to procure more soda) we gathered in the front room of the newly renovated Chez Jackies to commence the First Annual Conference of Friars on the Subject of Topics. El Chivo initiated the evening with a reading of a paper he wrote concerning actions between Israel and Palestine: a tremendous conversation from prisoners on different sides of the "wall." discussion followed as well as a tune penned and sung by Humanista (with the use of Pirata's guitar). i followed... i was never good with preparation... i sort of wing things but i have an irrational dislike for improv.?.? i read some poems. it did my heart good to read aloud the Waters Braid which happened earlier in 006 between myself, l'aro, and Hawk. Pirata followed with a verse from the esteemed mr. Kilpatrick (not to be confused with the mayor of the straits). Humanista sang again... a bitterly joyful jaunt about a girl and a creek... i want to hear that again. Next, l'aro spoke of perception, patterns, the brain, the heart, and all the glue which holds us together... inspiring. More drinks... More soups... More revery. enter El Pirata complete with digital vd, an easel, markers, and sticky "notes" larger than those confounded legs of pennsylvania turkey! Hawk had arrived. Pirata spoke on the life of Henry Darger... the perception of evil, of genius, of education, of catholics, of life. "what's he writing up there?"

the evening seemed to separate... just like flesh leaving a carcass... some folks had to flee some sat and chatted and the night melted into the pan.nobody really knows what happened... but in the morning, two giant jars of soup perched on the top rack of the fridge. a full to bursting drum of turkey stew & a 3/4 empty jar of gumbo with light shining through like a bloody sunset. they say that it is clear which soup was favored. but i still don't know how that turkey soup tasted so good even without the use of pepper. As it turns out, there was a little touch of St. Gumbo in the night.

-eL ViKiNGo

it's go time for the holidays again
day twenty of december
soon we'll be falling like snow into
jackie's house of christmas love
it's been a long year of joy, pain, & miss
but we've heard all that before
as zimmie would say: mixed up confusion
but i have found new strengths this year
strengths in questions without answers
strengths in friendships new and old
strengths in word orginization by both will and jason
& strengths in faith (ha ha l'aro i know it's a tricky word)

i'm also living proof of an old saying of mine
"love need not involve proximity"
i'm learning new things about myself and my gal all the time
& while i miss... i grow as well

in a world of rich angry men, horrible lack, and religious fraud
i have glimpsed the grace of god.

"sometimes i wish i were catholic... i don't know why"
--david lowry

and now a poem by li-young lee

This hour and What is Dead

Tonight my brother, in heavy boots, is walking
through bare rooms over my head,
opening and closing doors.
What could he be looking for in an empty house?
What could he possibly need there in heaven?
Does he remember his earth, his birthplace set to torches?
His love for me feels like spilled water
running back to its vessel.

At this hour, what is dead is restless
and what is living is burning.

Someone tell him he should sleep now.

My father keeps a light on by our bed
and readies for our journey.
He mends ten holes in the knees
of five pairs of boy's pants.
His love for me is like his sewing:
various colors and too much thread,
the stitching uneven. But the needle pierces
clean through with each stroke of his hand.

At this hour, what is dead is worried
and what is living is fugitive.

Someone tell him he should sleep now.

God, that old furnace, keeps talking
with his mouth of teeth,
a beard stained at feasts, and his breath
of gasoline, airplane, human ash.
His love for me feels like fire,
feels like doves, feels like river-water.

At this hour, what is dead is helpless, kind
and helpless. While the Lord lives.

Someone tell the Lord to leave me alone.
I've had enough of his love
that feels like burning and flight and running away.

some bells cannot be unrung

talking bout the scuffed up cold sun blues
round about the 11th month turning 12 &
2006 is looking scarce... had a brief r & r
in a ferndale bar while gino fanelli played
gitar in slow motion and niko frangos houled
blue noise off of every fret! pleasantly Un-
american
my brain's been made putty by night-time-
free-time-shiny-object-smokescreen-dingle-
dangle of the third degree............................
i raised my spirit two times for a total of 8
hours in the planet ant box while o'neill buzzed
all around my temples.... i took two long days
journey into night pills and called 'em in the
morning! such an honor to view it next to mr.
alting who blazed my thirst for eugene & damnit
neil the the name is still Nerwanda!
thank you mr. madlane, madame kammer, mr.
roady, mr. glasgow, ms. tayeh... and thank you
mr. HUFF
& while i'm at it a great big thanx to my dear friends
on this globe... be they in the D, be they in Chicago,
be they under the Arizona Sun, be they in that city
of martyrs NYC, be they learning to surf on the Left
Coast of reality, or be they in a newly couped city
of runaway girls! all of you comprise me
& again while i'm at it i'm thankful for foggy days,
laughter, freshly made tortilla chips, my nephews,
my amazing mother, my genius siblings, my own
fractured will, my short time riding huff's mongoose
(that sounds dirty but it's not), music, poetry, cop shows,
(not COPS), iron sharpening iron... correction, bob dylan's
moustache, joe colosi's humor & the grace of God

current reading: Essential Sufism, 3rd John, Anna Akhmatova
current listening:van morrison-astral weeks & nora's voice on the phone