Contraption

Design & Intent

2011-11-03T18:33:00.001-05:00

Worth trying but still dubious
Not a searing burn
And arguably easier, too
The idea appealed to us, nonetheless
Some are good and some are not

Haiku

2011-10-23T03:10:00.003-05:00

How can "tears" be one
syllable fucking up my
beautiful haiku?

Public Service Announcement: "Drip the Rag" Accepting Submissions

2011-09-22T17:50:00.000-05:00

"Send driptherag@gmail.com a text document with the title of the piece, your name, and the poem itself, formatted as you'd like it to appear in print.

"Any and all previously unpublished poetry will be published.

"No editing, no censorship, no questions asked."

Black Diamond Detective Agency, Part 3

2011-09-16T08:35:00.002-05:00

The World Mystery Convention, Bouchercon, is in St. Louis this weekend, September 15-18, and that seems like a great time to re-post these excerpts from a short story.

Way back in 1980 I took a fiction writing class at Southern Illinois University at Edwardsville taught by Lloyd Kropp, and my final project was a short story that, frankly, doesn't live up the the promise of it's first two and a half pages. Those first pages, though, are worth posting here.

It was 10:30 by the time I felt sufficiently revived to venture out of the office into the streets. The first place I went was to the bank where I cashed a check for $100. From there I made my way to a barber shop where a saint with scissors managed to get me looking somewhat respectable.

The next stop was a Goodwill resale store where I picked out a sort of cliche movie detective outfit: dark suit, tan overcoat, and a battered but not beaten fedora. I was hoping that Curt would get the joke. I returned to the office where I changed into my getup. Things had been going well and showed every sign of continuing that way.

When I called the public library to ask for information about Ramiland, I was connected to a very friendly and helpful librarian who sounded like she'd be a lot of fun when she wasn't being a librarian. She didn't know anything off hand about Ramiland but told me that she could locate some sources for me if I wanted to come by and pick them up. I told her that was fine and told myself not to get too excited about the librarian. She was probably about 70-years-old and most likely had a figure like a baby elephant.

She wasn't and she didn't, I found out when I got over to the library. We had a pretty good time talking and she thought my detective outfit was as amusing as it was supposed to be. We exchanged phone numbers and promised to make it out to a club sometime in the very near future. The only sources she had been able to find were articles in two magazines, which she handed over to me with a wink.

And here, dear reader, my story grinds to an expository halt never to recover, except for this brief passage:

It was around 2:00 when I finished reading. The librarian I took the magazines back to was 70-years-old and did have the figure of a baby elephant. She had a pretty voice and I was in a good mood so I flirted with her for a little bit. We didn't exchange phone numbers, though, and I didn't even get a wink.

Black Diamond Detective Agency, Part 2

2011-09-15T08:34:00.000-05:00

Black Diamond Detective Agency, Part 1

2011-09-14T10:31:00.000-05:00

The World Mystery Convention, Bouchercon, is in St. Louis this weekend, September 15-18, and that seems like a great time to re-post these excerpts from a short story.

Way back in 1980 I took a fiction writing class at Southern Illinois University at Edwardsville taught by Lloyd Kropp, and my final project was a short story that, frankly, doesn't live up the the promise of it's first two and a half pages. Those first pages, though, are worth posting here.

It was 9:45 in the morning when the ringing of the telephone ended my sweet dreams. I know it was exactly 9:45 in the morning when the telephone rang because I'm a detective and I get paid to remember little details like that. It had been a long time since I'd been paid for remembering little details, though, so I did a fairly good imitation of a man leaping out of bed to answer the phone. The imitation was flawed because I was sleeping on the floor of my office and only had to roll over on my side to answer the phone. As far as I was concerned, I was leaping out of bed and it's the thought that counts.

"Uh, yeah, what do you want?" I inquired of my caller.

"This is Black Diamond Detective Agency, isn't it?" I allowed that it was and further admitted that I was George Blake, head honcho. "George," the caller continued in much happier and excited tones, "this is Curt Simonson. I just got into town a couple of days ago and I thought I'd give you a call to invite you over."

"Oh, hello, Curt. It's been a long time. You've been off in Africa or someplace, right?"

"That's right. I've been doing fieldwork in Ramiland in eastern Africa. The political situation got pretty hot so I decided it was about time to come home to the family for awhile."

"So you're back at "the Mansion," eh? I think I can still remember how to get there. What time do you want me?"

"Around 3:30, if you can make it. And, George, I may have to ask you to mix a little business with pleasure."

"That's fine with me. Lord knows I could do with a little of both. I'll see you at 3:30, then. 'Bye." I hung up and began getting ready for the upcoming reunion. The first thing I needed, I saw when I finally located a mirror under a pile of old newspapers on my desk, was a shave and possibly a haircut. A haircut soon became a necessity when it became obvious that no amount of combing was going to produce any style other than grubby. It'd been a long time since I'd dealt with anyone who would mind hiring a detective whose hair was grubby.

(To Be Continued)

Reading at "Poems, Prose, and Pints" at Dressel's on Tuesday, September 6

2011-09-06T07:00:00.000-05:00

I will be reading on Tuesday, September 6, at "Poems, Prose, and Pints" held at Dressel's, 419 North Euclid, in the Central West End. Reading begins at 7:00 p.m., and admission is free. Other schedules readers are Billy Foster, Pat Piety, Jason Dockery, Dawn Dupler, Sarah Kuntz Jones, and Stef Russell. Music by Kevin Renick.

Camera Obscura

You make a pin-hole camera
from an old cardboard box
with film stuck inside at one end
and a hole pricked in the other

You uncover the hole and
light streams in exposing
the film and then magic
and science work it out
and a picture is made

Exposure of the film to light
can be minutes
not even seconds or
fractions of seconds
time enough

The still is captured sharply
but the moving
blurs and becomes
indistinct

After you make your camera
someone says
hey, let’s make a picture of us
fucking

And so you do and the picture
shows skin on skin, yes
but neither bulging veins
nor butterfly labia
nor, clearly, is any
penetration revealed

On the periphery but not out of sight
captured in their quotidian glory are
a broom and a dustpan full
it is true

Published on Troubadour 21 on September 7, 2010.

Reading at "Poems, Prose, and Pints" at Dressel's on Tuesday, September 6

2011-09-05T07:45:00.004-05:00

Reading at "Poems, Prose, and Pints" at Dressel's on Tuesday, September 6

2011-09-04T07:57:00.001-05:00

Reading at "Poems, Prose, and Pints" at Dressel's on Tuesday, September 6

2011-09-03T07:45:00.001-05:00

Reading at "Poems, Prose, and Pints" at Dressel's on Monday, September 6

2011-09-02T07:56:00.000-05:00

Reading at "Poems, Prose, and Pints" at Dressel's on Tuesday, September 6

2011-09-01T07:54:00.002-05:00

I will be reading on Tuesday, September 6, at "Poems, Prose, and Pints" held at Dressel's, 419 North Euclid, in the Central West End. Reading begins at 7:00 p.m., and admission is free. Other schedules readers are Billy Foster, Pat Piety, Jason Dockery, Dawn Dupler, Sarah Kuntz Jones, and Stef Russell. Music by Kevin Renick.

On Continuing

One day she realized she had
failed -- there was no use
worrying. She didn't know how
little they had advanced. For
some time their recent relations
had been neither this nor that.

He seemed to think she should
know something. She smiled faintly,
"before you go." That startled him.
Then there was a touch.

Swift strokes, then the thickening,
the stiffening, the electric rise
in her hand. On the brink of it,
he had to turn to watch, her
hand straight ahead across.

Finally he came, falling gently to
her naked. There was nothing they
could not see: the sky, the early
spring snow, the nature of continuing.

A House But Not A Home

2011-08-26T08:05:00.001-05:00

I will be reading tonight as part the second installment of the Readings at La Mancha series. La Mancha is located at 2815 North 14th Street, right behind Crown Candy Kitchen in Old North St. Louis. The reading begins at at 7 p.m. Along with me will be St. Louis poet Treasure Shields Redmond. This will also be your last chance to see the work of local photographer, Sylvester Jacob.

A House But Not A Home

The process of bringing the

house up to the standards of

Jean Harlow's ghost was

difficult, to say the least.

[Originally posted March 20, 2009. Written circa 1979.]

Summer, Washington University in Saint Louis

2011-08-24T19:47:00.002-05:00

And He Fell

2011-08-23T07:37:00.002-05:00

he remembered where he was and

then he had to open the door again
and he heard her kisses and a high, thin

laugh for a space into which he had
fallen into morning and now,
no, more then than now, he was

doubtful of the night, of the sound,
of the fashion, big and visible

then he saw it and he fell

Roldo the Fish-Headed Boy

2011-08-22T07:27:00.002-05:00

I will be reading this Friday, August 26, as part the second installment of the Readings at La Mancha series. La Mancha is located at 2815 North 14th Street, right behind Crown Candy Kitchen in Old North St. Louis. The reading begins at at 7 p.m. Along with me will be St. Louis poet Treasure Shields Redmond. This will also be your last chance to see the work of local photographer, Sylvester Jacob.

Roldo the Fish-headed Boy

Roldo was a boy
(that is, he was a young human
with a penis)
who differed from the rest of his society
in that he had the head of a fish

Roldo was a bright boy
he was good at math
and at reading and writing
and he could ride a bicycle like
nothing
but, still, he had the head of a fish

Other boys were often cruel to Roldo
girls, (young humans with vaginas)
were also cruel to him
they (the boys and girls) made up a song

The song was about Roldo
when he would ride by on his bicycle
they would sing:
Roldo the fish-headed boy
he’s so ugly we want to cry
he’s a fish and he should fry
and then they would laugh

The singing and laughing hurt Roldo
but he loved riding his bike too much to
stop

Roldo would often ride blocks
and blocks out of his way to avoid
other children and thus was sometimes
late in arriving at home
where he mother and father would be
anxiously awaiting his return

Mother and Father were worried about Roldo
they felt guilty about inflicting a fish-headed child
on the world and the world
on a fish-headed child
and they were afraid that something would
happen to him and somehow their guilt would be
revealed

But, still, they loved Roldo and when he would
return in tears they would hug and kiss him
and tell him that everything would be alright
and though they hadn’t really believed it
as the years passed things did begin to get better

Roldo’s fish-headedness became less and less
Until one day Roldo was just an average
boy
and went out riding his bike
and no one laughed or sang

The Red Drapes

2011-08-21T10:23:00.002-05:00

What Remains of the Day

2011-08-20T22:22:00.002-05:00

Times Square, 1973

2011-08-19T22:13:00.001-05:00

I will be reading on Friday, August 26, as part the second installment of the Readings at La Mancha series. La Mancha is located at 2815 North 14th Street, right behind Crown Candy Kitchen in Old North St. Louis. The reading begins at at 7 p.m. Along with me will be St. Louis poet Treasure Shields Redmond. This will also be your last chance to see the work of local photographer, Sylvester Jacob.

Times Square, 1973

A smell barely remembered reminds her
of the day when the two of them met
and went to a Times Square hotel. She
should have known better than to skip
lunch and pick him up. He sometimes
complained when she did. But the fashion
has changed, she said. In the room,
she imagined rather than felt
the breeze from the open window
that he gazed out, humming quietly.
She asked him to come nearer and like
a long fall slowed she reached out
and touched him and it stood up and
went hard into the pink and together
they moved rhythmically. He could not
stay with it long but he could move
as she moved and then he shivered slightly
and with delight shuddered. They turned
aside and she stared at the lights beyond
as if awakening on the other side.

A Slow Twist

2011-08-16T09:51:00.000-05:00

he's being carried past us.
it is, as a thing, a new way of looking,
a slow twist,
a kind of indignation.
we still feel it, though,
but not as much as before,
this emptiness in the middle.

(for Elvis Presley)

Wikipedia says:

Elvis Aaron Presley (January 8, 1935 – August 16, 1977) was one of the most popular American singers of the 20th century. A cultural icon, he is widely known by the single name Elvis

Found Poem

2011-07-31T04:17:00.001-05:00

Hark, could this be the poetry
of which I have heard the praises
sung? 'Tis like the gibberish of babes.
(Exit, pursued by a bear).

Found

2011-06-19T00:55:00.000-05:00

The Saint Louis Evening Standard 5 Star Summer Special
Hello Saint Louisians everywhere. Today the Evening Standard of greater St. Louis
Declares that this newsletter is the prince and pauper of the publication world.
Larger publications such as The Post Dispatch, The Globe Democrat, The Argus,
The Saint Louis American, The City Journal of Saint Louis all live on creating job
Opportunities and raising publication dollars by providing advertisements for
Customers in print. The Evening Standard is a document that only exist to create
An interesting muse for our fan base.
Grammatical Mistakes are common place and our conversations are many.
Job Opportunities and providing Advertisements is not, I repeat is not, the purpose
Of this publication at this stage of the Evening Standard.
We really only concern ourselves with amazing bylines and keeping a story out there.
That being said, Our major headlines in this issue declare a circulation war with all
News outlets in the country. The Evening Standard will achieve Supremacy nationwide.
Horace Greeley the patron saint of the evening standard calls out to old and new readers
Of the Evening Standard. Grab your copy because it is better than any New York Paper
Ever was. To Quote T.E. Lawrence, the will of the evening standard is written in the
stars.
This statement is derived from the seven pillars of wisdom.
Now the covenant of sports! Anyone who reads the Evening Standard knows that this
Publication only covers Washington Baseball. It probably is our most interesting of
Features because we are a Saint Louis paper and only cover the toy soldiers of D.C.
From a Historical Perspective Washington Baseball is 8 and one half games out of first
Place. Philadelphia and Atlanta lose out to west point on the final week of the season.
How about that folks ! It's raining! Root Beer Floats.
Boston verses Washington in the Fall Classic. October 18,2011. Don't forget your
Peanuts and beer.
Weather for Mid Summer in Saint Louis is Hot, Hot, Hot, and humidity out of this world.
Winds bring jet stream from west to east this cooler air is in contrast with winds from the
south, sending the Canadian Geese further north to say the likes of Northern Prairies of
South Dakota. Menu Suggestions for summer anything cold and yummy.
For more information concerning this publication send a post card to P.O. box 190162
Mackenzie Point Post Office Affton MO. 63119. William T. Rogers Editor in Chief.

Found Poem

2011-05-22T23:29:00.000-05:00

What is with that crazy tropical-sounding bird in your back yard?

It messes with my naps.

i don't know. it seems angry at
the pig

and it has a slingshot

On Continuing

2011-04-30T19:53:00.002-05:00

One day she realized she had
failed -- there was no use
worrying. She didn't know how
little they had advanced. For
some time their recent relations
had been neither this nor that.

He seemed to think she should
know something. She smiled faintly,
"before you go." That startled him.
Then there was a touch.

Swift strokes, then the thickening,
the stiffening, the electric rise
in her hand. On the brink of it,
he had to turn to watch, her
hand straight ahead across.

Finally he came, falling gently to
her naked. There was nothing they
could not see: the sky, the early
spring snow, the nature of continuing.

The Dangerous Point

2011-04-29T09:22:00.005-05:00

This was where he crossed his fingers. "Today,"
he said as he anticipated her next move.

Make of it what you will.
"That was like some kind of book," she said
after they had passed the dangerous point.