It’s time for a commercial break.
The news-if you can call it news-will be right back.
Poem for DW
it takes the resolve of a salmon
to board a train built for one
decorate it with ornate art
and lacquered head shots
with the phrase
KING OF THE WORLD!
outlined in neon
on the front engine
then sit down and make the movies
you know are perfect
because you've dreamed them
over and over
until there's not a fluffed line
or a shot-gone-wrong
occasionally you stop the train
when there's a famous director
and you just know
he or she will eventually see
there's a way
for you to be a perfect-fit tile
in his/her cinema mosaic
For Our Cat Sinead in Tustin Tonight
you won't be there forever
though you now believe otherwise
Mama Valarie and Daddy Terry
will be back in your life
once you're removed from
the feline recovery room
and have your radiation levels checked
so that you can make the long trip
(I know how much you hate car rides)
from the OC to the Westside
and we won't be afraid of tears
as you take only one more journey
back to the home
where you'll always belong
I Didn’t Find It
ONE
In 1976, the message was everywhere in Texas.
The words I FOUND IT!
appeared in black letters on a yellow background
on either billboards or bumper stickers.
Commercials on AM radio
featured an announcer with a reassuring voice
telling the audience:
“If you find it, you’ll know it!”
TWO
The commercials, the billboards and the bumper stickers
were soft-sell recruiting tools
for the Southern Baptist interpretation of Christianity—
dramatizing the concept of a Search for Answers.
In the Southern Baptist world,
Jesus also played the role of Mister Manners:
No smoking,
No drinking,
No dancing,
No premarital sex,
No to anything the church found “satanic.”
I remember the First Baptist Church
in downtown Wichita Falls, Texas.
It was a very large building.
I never went inside,
but I was told the church had its own bowling alley.
I pondered this question:
Would Jesus want His followers
to bowl only by themselves?
So I never “found it.”
And I don’t think Jesus will penalize me
for not joining that particular search.
Folk Music as Wooly Mammoth Preserved in Ice
(inspired by the PBS fund-raising special
JOHN SEBASTIAN'S FOLK MUSIC REWIND)
Did you see old man John Sebastian
on the Public Broadcasting System?
He now looks a little like George Segal
and sounds a lot like Peter Coyote.
Did you see old man Barry McGuire
singing EVE OF DESTRUCTION?
He now looks like a retired WWE wrestler
and wears NYPD patches on his black T-shirt.
Did you watch this tribute to old folk music
in the comfort of your home
as people protest and die in far-off lands
and American media propagandizes
about the evils of WikiLeaks
and the perfidy of Julian Assange
(the timing of the latter is rather convenient)?
Did you once gather for communal singing
and peaceful demonstration
until you "grew out of it"
because too many people told you
that standing up for the rights of others
was passe and not likely to lead to good job offers?
Of course you did.
And I did too.
Found Poem from Blurbs
on Back of Brendan Constantine
Poetry Book
the jagged mountain
exploded impeccably and
cracked wide open,
creating a beautiful view
and now,
we can see there is a brain
that is incessantly inventive
hotwired to a delicious mouth
with lyrics caught between his teeth,
on his tongue,
lodged in his throat
look how
he opens his mouth
to sing
Poem for Scott Wannberg
you were blessed
with a light inside you
that converted everywhere you traveled
into a warm, inviting living room
where we could gather
and hear you in poem, story and song
the cattle rustler,
the snake oil salesman,
the purveyors of matters trivial and supercilious,
the holy pretenders who sold
zircon-coated unthinking obedience as Truth--
you let none of them disturb/distress you
as you traveled through this life
when it's time to pass into the Afterlife,
I can't wait to see you in its living room,
faithful, truth-loving canine companion Sparky by your side,
with more poems, stories and songs
about what was,
what is,
and what will be
Extras on the Beach
It was a summer night in 1990.
We had just finished work
on the feature film version
of CAPTAIN AMERICA
starring J.D. Salinger's son
Matt the actor.
(Guessing you haven't seen it either.)
There were five of us.
I was thirty-one.
Two other men in attendance:
one was older, the other younger.
And two young women
in their late teens.
Nothing too scandalous to report.