tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30184770573022307402024-03-13T01:04:44.057-04:00Sun Through A Broken WindowPoems, stories and blogs from writer Jack Veasey.Jack Veaseyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05977307877931598517noreply@blogger.comBlogger76125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3018477057302230740.post-67163282591894771012011-07-13T16:27:00.003-04:002011-07-14T00:44:32.113-04:00OLYMPIAN CHESS<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6kobXihTKe456lmPgFJtgCR2seuAGX4f_4AsQmS7WJwNq3OK4o5ljYeKRPliZMgshRk8Ul6dARa0gzATSUuRLagksirHAYqLg3Go8WaRya_cAjEYA68odib8Hs2Md_Xh5IQYbcQmysHE/s1600/zeus+and+hera+jason+and+argonauts.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 228px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6kobXihTKe456lmPgFJtgCR2seuAGX4f_4AsQmS7WJwNq3OK4o5ljYeKRPliZMgshRk8Ul6dARa0gzATSUuRLagksirHAYqLg3Go8WaRya_cAjEYA68odib8Hs2Md_Xh5IQYbcQmysHE/s400/zeus+and+hera+jason+and+argonauts.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5629063913299046786" /></a><br />(screen capture from the film "Jason And The Argonauts")<br /><br />A whale is swimming<br />In the wine glass<br />On the chessboard.<br />Zeus takes a sip,<br />Puts the glass back.<br />The whale, startled,<br />Thrashes its tail,<br />Spurts a geyser of wine<br />From its blow hole.<br />Unlike Zeus, the whale<br />Is getting drunk, drunker and drunker<br />With each breath it takes.<br /><br />Elsewhere on the board,<br />The gladiator, angel, duck and frog<br />Are plotting their escape in whispers.<br />Zeus, who knows everything,<br />Finds this amusing<br />To no end. But he makes a mental note<br />Not to give the pieces<br />Consciousness next time.<br /><br />Across the board, Hera –<br />Whose mind he cannot read,<br />Since she’s a woman and his equal –<br />Cooks up her own plot,<br />And discusses it<br />With no one.<br /><br /><br />-- © 2011 by Jack Veasey<br /><br />(All rights reserved. This work may not be reproduced or duplicated in any form without the author's written permission. )Jack Veaseyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05977307877931598517noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3018477057302230740.post-54909205011121866562011-06-08T00:56:00.006-04:002011-06-08T01:38:21.712-04:00ABOUT THE ANGELS<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiv-PBrlpeFYA5O_J47w0j_Ypzyov_kgsELeCEhK1o_PC0oL8tfC7zsu9C5JWi8g7p-udKO0w0CtAsvnaoOJnFKEgclB-liNCuRUjq3zerHP-vl0JagRO0S4n8LNTprnPNgW-J_OF-JNnc/s1600/sandramat+angel+gnu+free+doc+license%252C+2006.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiv-PBrlpeFYA5O_J47w0j_Ypzyov_kgsELeCEhK1o_PC0oL8tfC7zsu9C5JWi8g7p-udKO0w0CtAsvnaoOJnFKEgclB-liNCuRUjq3zerHP-vl0JagRO0S4n8LNTprnPNgW-J_OF-JNnc/s400/sandramat+angel+gnu+free+doc+license%252C+2006.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5615708385093481890" /></a><br />(Photo: Engel auf dem Friedhot, Sandramat, Oct. 2006, GNU Free Documentation License)<br /><br />ABOUT THE ANGELS<br /><br /><br />Long ago,<br />Before the New Age vogue for them,<br />I heard a bearded poet<br />In a battered leather jacket<br />Say he “had a thing for them;”<br />He loved the marble statues of them,<br />Sad and solemn, <br />Posed forever among tombstones<br />In the old Louisiana cemeteries.<br /><br />More recently, I heard<br />The spoiled young daughter<br />Of a well-to-do churchgoer<br />Say she “hated” them;<br />Anyone who’d own an image of one<br />Had no taste. She looked smug<br />In this judgment.<br /><br />When I was younger<br />And more literal,<br />I pictured them<br />With feathers; they were men<br />Whose shoulders sprouted<br />Giant pigeon wings –- no, gull wings,<br />All white, made<br />Of bone and muscle, and yet<br />Giving off faint light.<br />I wondered if they made a sound<br />Like birds.<br /><br />Now that I have seen them,<br />I know better<br />Than to try to fit their likeness<br />Into words.<br />All I know<br />Is that you only call on them<br />When you are really desperate,<br />And that the sight of them<br />Will turn a young man grey,<br />And that the shattering vibrations<br />One feels when drenched in their presence<br />Leave you deeply shaken,<br />And forever chastened. <br /><br /><br />-- (C) 2011 by Jack Veasey<br /><br />(All rights reserved. This work may not be reproduced or duplicated in any form without the author's written permission. )Jack Veaseyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05977307877931598517noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3018477057302230740.post-10613828501728537472011-03-29T17:31:00.003-04:002011-03-29T17:36:54.759-04:00RONEE BLAKLEY<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiaUGXgzdd393wIX5JMrNWJq5fdCpSd1bJU1w46mNUmWDwzmnceztkb3wXZRfr33OhNFcVV5i6LUDqPAe4zlBT2BiFLB_PBTc347_iLDWo-NkyjVCq6gH35L9uHUfvWZ03zGG-5ZdQpNgg/s1600/ronee+in+nashville.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiaUGXgzdd393wIX5JMrNWJq5fdCpSd1bJU1w46mNUmWDwzmnceztkb3wXZRfr33OhNFcVV5i6LUDqPAe4zlBT2BiFLB_PBTc347_iLDWo-NkyjVCq6gH35L9uHUfvWZ03zGG-5ZdQpNgg/s400/ronee+in+nashville.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5589619069935492898" /></a><br /><br /><br />Her voice is low and warm and resonant.<br />She birthed her first songs during her wild youth.<br />She had a knack for showing the whole truth,<br />The edge of which is all timid souls want.<br /><br />America first saw her in a film<br />In which a lone wolf would assassinate <br />Her character. This staged death would create<br />A haunting image: a deep soul, a struggling will –<br /><br />That she’d outshine if you should meet her in<br />The flesh, but she’d still seem larger than life.<br />She might try other roles, including wife,<br />But her story would endlessly begin.<br /><br />“Who is that?” people ask, if she should pass.<br />Some stars are too bright to stay caught in glass.<br /><br /><br />-- © 2011 by Jack Veasey<br /><br />(All rights reserved. This work may not be reproduced or duplicated in any form without the author's written permission. )Jack Veaseyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05977307877931598517noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3018477057302230740.post-72573679574255858362011-01-29T17:07:00.003-05:002011-03-29T17:34:44.822-04:00…AND SOMETIMES Y<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtaG_DgLxkXMH5_I4ffExxAP_cFfTCiQYWZ2hbOFiXk-ifOyRtYhAJQLcfKZQ1pnUublXEEri38xQ1nou0W7scDyKFNIdjX0t_5Bw4zuddwCuyzCgdAxYYsReUNn1IwEHuGrUvjrY9W5Y/s1600/Yod+for+MG.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 272px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtaG_DgLxkXMH5_I4ffExxAP_cFfTCiQYWZ2hbOFiXk-ifOyRtYhAJQLcfKZQ1pnUublXEEri38xQ1nou0W7scDyKFNIdjX0t_5Bw4zuddwCuyzCgdAxYYsReUNn1IwEHuGrUvjrY9W5Y/s400/Yod+for+MG.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5567735918684367986" /></a><br /><br /><br />I am the first letter<br />In the Holy Hebrew <br />Secret name of God.<br /><br />In that ancient language,<br />I look like<br />A tongue of flame – <br /><br />The kind that hovers<br />Over someone’s head<br />Sometimes in paintings<br /><br />Of the people <br />Some call “saints”.<br />In English,<br /><br />I can be a consonant<br />Or vowel. But <br />Vowels in Hebrew<br /><br />Are not written down –<br />One has to breathe them out,<br />For they are a word’s soul.<br /><br />Consonants provide a shape, <br />Define the limits,<br />But you can’t speak out loud<br /><br />Till the Spirit moves you.<br />In practice, I am<br />As much consonant as vowel,<br /><br />Shaping the fire that<br />Springs from my own<br />Spark, and then<br /><br />Descending like<br />Hands into wet clay<br />As it spins. Open<br /><br />Your arms to the sky<br />And feel my energy<br />Come down, infusing<br />Everything <br />With both its start<br />And ending.<br /><br />The question “Why”<br />Contains me as<br />Both breath, and answer.<br /><br /><br />-- © 2011 by Jack Veasey<br /><br />(All rights reserved. This work may not be reproduced or duplicated in any form without the author's written permission. )Jack Veaseyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05977307877931598517noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3018477057302230740.post-73052219948741170242011-01-22T14:07:00.002-05:002011-01-22T14:10:06.692-05:00WINTER INSIGHTA fly on the lip of the glass,<br />A drink that the room has turned cold;<br />There’s some contradiction in this.<br />This season indoors breaks the mold.<br /><br />You take an intoxicant sip<br />Of brew grown belatedly strong.<br />You let the nip soothe your cold throat<br />And find your voice, but not for long.<br /><br />The drunken fly’s small life expires.<br />The flush in your skin will not last.<br />You sing about seasonal fires<br />And stay inside, dreaming the past.<br /><br />The summer to come is far off;<br />The previous one, just a blur.<br />Your song terminates in a cough,<br />And you feel worse off than you were.<br /><br />You know no other moment will provide<br />Relief that – though you can’t reach it – you crave.<br />It’s more than a dark lull in the year’s ride.<br />This quick flash of the wings is all we have.<br /><br /><br />-- © 2011 by Jack Veasey<br /><br />(All rights reserved. This work may not be reproduced or duplicated in any form without the author's written permission. )Jack Veaseyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05977307877931598517noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3018477057302230740.post-86361362854722929922010-12-10T23:48:00.002-05:002010-12-18T14:21:01.517-05:00A BALMY NIGHT IN WINTER<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGVXrCx5gCA5vg0m2KtSKI-F0LoiFe5qIgrH5CCHvSUGc9zRBuRCXpbamlLoyMyC8LRMd2i9bgfkh0Wr2Zgq-YzWTulsRQVNwc5ZSntEQ7xIN_Fm23M_UaFfZmZzpczH7thqSN_B3sdJo/s1600/Thermometer_CF.svg+wikimedia+pd.png"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 242px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGVXrCx5gCA5vg0m2KtSKI-F0LoiFe5qIgrH5CCHvSUGc9zRBuRCXpbamlLoyMyC8LRMd2i9bgfkh0Wr2Zgq-YzWTulsRQVNwc5ZSntEQ7xIN_Fm23M_UaFfZmZzpczH7thqSN_B3sdJo/s400/Thermometer_CF.svg+wikimedia+pd.png" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5549283978655874290" /></a><br /><br /><br />Warning: this story uses crude language, discusses private body parts, and is likely to upset prudes and the humor-impaired.<br /><br />*** <br /><br />I had an adventure last night. You might not think the bathroom is a likely setting for an adventure, but as they say, shit happens.<br /><br />When I got home, I was troubled by two distinct discomforts.<br /><br />First, I felt like I had hemorrhoids. You know -- that itch, that feeling unclean down there, that need to give yourself a good wipe.<br /><br />I also had pain in my lower back.<br /><br />I was tired from sitting all day, which I’m sure had everything to do with both kinds of discomfort. <br /><br />So I headed for the bathroom to get some relief.<br /><br />First, I gave myself a good, cleansing, cool, wet wipe. Ahhhhhhhh.<br /><br />Then, I grabbed a tube of Icy Hot and squirted some on the two middle fingers of my left hand.<br /><br />Then, fatigue affected my brain. Instead of switching to low back mode, my brain remained in asshole mode.<br /><br />I didn’t realize until after I’d done it that I had mistakenly wiped the Icy Hot on my tender asshole. I didn’t realize it, in other words, until my tender asshole was on fire.<br /><br />Calling 911 is no help when your asshole is on fire. First of all, they’d just laugh at you. Plus, you’d need a very small fire truck that could climb stairs, and firemen and hoses as proportionately small in relation to you as, say, Tokyo is to Godzilla. So much for my fantasies of being rescued by a firefighter with a huge hose.<br /><br />I grabbed another cool wet wipe and tried to clean off the blazing ointment. However, being wet, the wipe caused the ointment still on my hands to immediately soak through and, so to speak, fan the flames. So I tried using yet another wipe to get the ointment off of my hand.<br /><br />Then, still burning, I pulled up my pants and went downstairs, where my partner was watching YouTube choral videos under headphones. I was now falling apart laughing, and it suddenly seemed more important to share this experience than to stop it. <br /><br />Soon we were both helplessly cracking up as puffs of smoke rose from my incandescent bottom like signals designed to send a message to the Indian in the Village People.<br /><br />“How,” you may ask, did we solve this problem?<br /><br />We didn’t. In about another minute, the sensation calmed down to a not unpleasant warmth – or I got used to it, I’m not sure which. It was at worst a curious distraction from the Buffy reruns with which I spent the rest of the evening. Somebody kinky might even develop a taste for the sensation.<br /><br />I think it’ll take awhile, though, before I can convince my partner to try it as a lubricant.<br /><br /><br />-- © 2010 by Jack Veasey<br /><br />(All rights reserved. This work may not be reproduced or duplicated in any form without the author's written permission. )Jack Veaseyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05977307877931598517noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3018477057302230740.post-69455368952645907542010-11-16T13:57:00.008-05:002011-06-08T01:35:29.863-04:00AT LAND<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4d-ofC9HYXUMA0m4ZGc6l66wGMxRWPPm_b1DOHgfi-HuebWNlV6TvwsX59xKNwluYEOYfCb3BEcs3F1x1KX0Ta3_Qag-FF5VZ60_VBKyuDTNbpOXh8BoTt1MggowEkLRqz_fbxj9v3PE/s1600/maya+deren.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 340px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4d-ofC9HYXUMA0m4ZGc6l66wGMxRWPPm_b1DOHgfi-HuebWNlV6TvwsX59xKNwluYEOYfCb3BEcs3F1x1KX0Ta3_Qag-FF5VZ60_VBKyuDTNbpOXh8BoTt1MggowEkLRqz_fbxj9v3PE/s400/maya+deren.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5540225458316985538" /></a><br />(Maya Deren)<br /><br /><br />AT LAND <br /><br /> <span style="font-style:italic;">The 1944 film by Maya Deren<br /></span><br />The title<br />Is a gag, of course.<br />When someone says<br />That he’s “at sea,”<br />He means that he’s<br />Not in his element. <br />What if you were <span style="font-style:italic;">of</span> sea, but <br /><span style="font-style:italic;">At</span> land?<br /><br />We begin with waves,<br />Then we see the woman <br />Washed up,<br />Coughed out of the sea<br />Onto the sand; <br />On her back, wide-eyed,<br />She watches gulls<br />Wheel overhead<br />Like buzzards.<br /><br />She hoists herself up<br />On a ladder of<br />Driftwood, as if<br />Climbing a dead tree --<br />Not trying<br />To reach for the sky, but just<br />Peering through leaves.<br /><br />She sees<br />A long banquet table.<br />Men and women seated<br />All along both sides of it,<br />Talking, laughing, <br />And smoking. <br />She crawls up<br />On the white tablecloth,<br />Slithers among them.<br />They don’t see her.<br />They keep up<br />Their conversation.<br />She crawls on.<br />Somehow she doesn’t<br />Spill their glasses. <br /><br />At the far end of the table<br />Lies a chessboard.<br />Just before she reaches it,<br />The man using it rises,<br />Leaves his place. <br />She looks at it<br />As if not comprehending<br />What a chessboard<br />Might be for.<br />Didn’t they have chess<br />Undersea? The pieces<br />Now move by<br />Themselves;<br />Her eyes follow their sliding.<br />One knocks another<br />Off of the board,<br />Off of the table; it falls through a hole<br />In the rock below<br />Into the sea.<br /><br />She follows it down,<br />Her bare feet finding<br />Stone<br />Heated by sun,<br />Moistened by waves.<br />She probably <br />Is not aware<br />That what she follows <br />Would be called <br />“A pawn,” or of anything<br />That the word “pawn” implies --<br />This mermaid we’ve mistaken<br />For a woman.<br /><br />The story will go on,<br />Such as it is.<br />Witnesses will argue later<br />Over what it meant.<br />The wiser ones will see<br />The beauty in it.<br /><br /><br />-- © 2010 by Jack Veasey<br /><br />(All rights reserved. This work may not be reproduced or duplicated in any form without the author's written permission. )<br /><br />I'm eternally grateful to my late teacher, Alexandra Grilikhes, for introducing me to Maya Deren's work many years ago (among other things).<br /><br />For more information about the brilliant filmmaker/actress/dancer/theorist Maya Deren, read her Wikipedia entry:<br />http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Maya_Deren<br /><br />For those who haven't seen the film, here it is, as generously posted on Google Video. It's about 15 minutes long, and well worth the investment of time. It's absolutely beautiful.<br /><br /><embed id=VideoPlayback src=http://video.google.com/googleplayer.swf?docid=5538020029280685931&hl=en&fs=true style=width:400px;height:326px allowFullScreen=true allowScriptAccess=always type=application/x-shockwave-flash> </embed>Jack Veaseyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05977307877931598517noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3018477057302230740.post-81933525085435470042010-11-04T16:47:00.003-04:002010-11-04T17:02:04.641-04:00DEMOCRACY HANGOVER<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpKjDBQR3q2w6X_XstglP0zIs_uHhzYbG6kxxG1t2UX-tDTdYUniSyVNHKUf2v0REm137L0P8cU7EbLvHPWqPwehxtrtD5mxagKfYjsyWuXtwFvRVBmzgY62gHHNIuT0lO_DOGsn-MTWg/s1600/Booths.gif"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpKjDBQR3q2w6X_XstglP0zIs_uHhzYbG6kxxG1t2UX-tDTdYUniSyVNHKUf2v0REm137L0P8cU7EbLvHPWqPwehxtrtD5mxagKfYjsyWuXtwFvRVBmzgY62gHHNIuT0lO_DOGsn-MTWg/s400/Booths.gif" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5535802616237586930" /></a><br />(PD photo from Wikimedia Commons)<br /><br /><br />Well, one more election<br />Didn’t go the way I wanted.<br /><br />A friend posts,<br />“Well, I voted.<br />That did a lot of good.”<br /><br />I get the sarcasm,<br />But I’m still glad<br />I voted; spared myself<br />A share of guilt.<br /><br />Yes, I knew the folks <br />Who checked out my identity<br />When I went to enter the booth<br />Were enemies, despite<br />The smiles they wore.<br /><br />The booth received me<br />Like the Catholic confessionals<br />Of youth, though all I had <br />To hide my secret<br />Was a curtain. At least Catholics<br />Get a door.<br /><br />I felt more like I was taking<br />A quick shower. And yes,<br />I thought of Janet Leigh<br />In “Psycho.”<br /><br />Unlike her, I wouldn’t feel the stabs<br />Till morning.<br /><br /><br />-- © 2010 by Jack Veasey<br /><br /><br />(All rights reserved. This work may not be reproduced or duplicated in any form without the author's written permission. )Jack Veaseyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05977307877931598517noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3018477057302230740.post-52523167771546932402010-10-27T16:51:00.003-04:002010-10-27T16:57:25.387-04:00ONE WORD, MANY TEETH<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJTcPmjB7myN1SpBywIg2cwrr9oxQWMWu5rnJkCfN0kVboxL2iH9TTS0BbJ-YWODRRO0OBiImAJxDLLt7nn5u613kHIuNP2hAqImVXmoNZOk541Y7OH0-X0i4xY13QcAXlExECZLbbTO0/s1600/werewolf+18th+century+engraving.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 251px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJTcPmjB7myN1SpBywIg2cwrr9oxQWMWu5rnJkCfN0kVboxL2iH9TTS0BbJ-YWODRRO0OBiImAJxDLLt7nn5u613kHIuNP2hAqImVXmoNZOk541Y7OH0-X0i4xY13QcAXlExECZLbbTO0/s400/werewolf+18th+century+engraving.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5532831869166181666" /></a><br />(18th century engraving)<br /><br /><br />“Run.”<br />He felt himself <br />Losing control, and told me to,<br />Before the change <br />Took hold of him –<br />With rage,<br />The moon did not need<br />To be full.<br />For <span style="font-style:italic;">he</span> was full –<br />Full of betrayal,<br />Full of boiling blood<br />Spilled over boundaries.<br />He could roll back his clock<br />Before civilization<br />Rounded off his jagged edges,<br />But he could not<br />Keep himself<br />Buttoned in calm.<br /><br />And I could not decide<br />What the word meant.<br />His voice, so hoarse and low,<br />Sandpaper scraped across<br />Steel cords. <br />Too tired and yet<br />On fire, “going again”<br />Although we’d pushed <br />Long past exhaustion.<br />Should I<br />Run on empty, <br />As they say?<br />Should I run a scam,<br />Fake my reaction?<br />Run my gesticulations<br />Up the flagpole,<br />And hope he salutes?<br /><br />His beard<br />Begins to spread<br />Over his cheeks,<br />His throat; <br />His brow,<br />To overrun<br />His forehead.<br /><br /><br />I realize<br />The word was<br />Literal, <br />But he is gripping<br />My wrist now,<br />His long sharp nails<br />Digging their trenches <br />In my flesh,<br />His palm ablaze<br />With more hair<br />Than my arm,<br />His hot breath<br />Close now to my throat.<br /><br />My last thought:<br />Ginsberg never<br />Howled like this.<br /><br /><br />-- © 2010 by Jack Veasey<br /><br /><br />(All rights reserved. This work may not be reproduced or duplicated in any form without the author's written permission. )Jack Veaseyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05977307877931598517noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3018477057302230740.post-43719086051051696822010-10-21T13:21:00.003-04:002010-10-21T14:32:00.894-04:00THE RATIONALE<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgE9gby7sRa-IgRoJEbMakpyzGcc4BIaQGCCQ2qCcqKe4nxTquELtm9n2vNzpgTOve4kWizxT4c6puStXjF_ui0eVqnsqpihk2_vyWjvV7GRwKoVGSG3HiNv21jurIa4ed4WD_Va48L2lA/s1600/Bullies+PD+image+from+Wikimedia.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 218px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgE9gby7sRa-IgRoJEbMakpyzGcc4BIaQGCCQ2qCcqKe4nxTquELtm9n2vNzpgTOve4kWizxT4c6puStXjF_ui0eVqnsqpihk2_vyWjvV7GRwKoVGSG3HiNv21jurIa4ed4WD_Va48L2lA/s400/Bullies+PD+image+from+Wikimedia.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5530568743004789170" /></a><br />(PD photo from Wikimedia)<br /><br /><br /><em>Deliberate cruelty…is the one unforgivable thing.<br /><br />Blanche Dubois in Tennessee Williams’s “A Streetcar Named Desire”</em><br /><br />Some say that bullying is good for you –<br />Toughens you to face life’s many trials.<br />But those who don’t survive, and those who knew<br />And loved them, find this argument beguiles<br /><br />Only the guilty who’ve gone free. Broken<br />Beyond repair, the absent spirit haunts<br />The family it left behind. But when<br />The guilty look back on the blows and taunts,<br /><br />They see foundations of a cool career.<br />Their future is a long one, well-insured<br />Against the treatment even they must fear.<br />Strike first. Pain is for others to endure.<br /><br />Though nobody will miss them when they’re dead,<br />They die thinking they stayed “one step ahead.”<br /><br /><br />-- © 2010 by Jack Veasey<br /><br /><br />(All rights reserved. This work may not be reproduced or duplicated in any form without the author's written permission. )Jack Veaseyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05977307877931598517noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3018477057302230740.post-57990080755379073482010-10-16T11:19:00.001-04:002010-10-16T11:22:51.824-04:00ANOTHER MOTHER DREAMDream: I’m going to stay overnight at my mother’s house, after a period of estrangement. (Actually, the house in the dream is my grandmother’s, two doors down, but it’s my mom inside).<br /><br />It’s getting dark out. The lights in the house are on. <br /><br />Someone (Leroy?) is letting himself in to the Hocker house next door. I wave hello to him. He waves back. I’m waiting on the opposite side of Allen Street for traffic to subside, so I can cross to my destination.<br /><br />The Hodgnoski house, to my left, is overflowing with pink roses. I can see them over the wood fence around the small triangular yard. I know the yard is all paved over with concrete, but that doesn’t occur to me in the dream. I feel a covetous pang. It would be nice to live with roses.<br /><br />I finally cross. My mom is standing at the window, watching me intently through half-shut blinds. She is till angry.<br /><br />I’m carrying a briefcase full of work. I realize that I’ve forgotten to bring any clothes, toothbrush, etc.<br /><br />I climb the three stone steps, reach into my pants pocket for the key. It’s on a ring with many others, noticeably smaller than the rest. When I turn it in the lock, the end of it mostly breaks off, but I can both get the lock open and pull the damaged key back out.<br /><br />My mother does not move from her spot at the window. I stand there on the step, not going in, staring at the broken key in my hand.<br /><br /><br />-- © 2010 by Jack Veasey<br /><br />(All rights reserved. This work may not be reproduced or duplicated in any form without the author's written permission. )Jack Veaseyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05977307877931598517noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3018477057302230740.post-90404715520649464682010-10-07T13:33:00.002-04:002010-10-07T13:54:37.944-04:00DOCUMENTARY<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHx2OmqHAUUOg5y4PMAN2aC6pirCVZk0nIdkXJstTcJOeFQH9FOfqvbKXKKmQ1SGGxl6OtU9OQIXNjsnNUlqA2WCcxKX5xTgCqDfXCHb-hRT2U0x9Mpfw21nG7a65OglmyrVeXQuvu2Fo/s1600/valve+caps+ad+SchraderAp1921.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 267px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHx2OmqHAUUOg5y4PMAN2aC6pirCVZk0nIdkXJstTcJOeFQH9FOfqvbKXKKmQ1SGGxl6OtU9OQIXNjsnNUlqA2WCcxKX5xTgCqDfXCHb-hRT2U0x9Mpfw21nG7a65OglmyrVeXQuvu2Fo/s400/valve+caps+ad+SchraderAp1921.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5525363973892905122" /></a><br />(1921 Schrader ad)<br /><br /><br />“Other men can’t begin<br />To compare to them,” she said.<br />The interviewer had removed<br />Him-or-herself, so she was<br />Talking to thin air.<br />She meant<br />The bikers<br />She revolved around <br />As if she were a moon<br />Caught in their orbit.<br /><br />She belonged to the club<br />As a whole, and could be<br />Passed around. She’d do<br />What she was told, <br />Cook or clean,<br />Strip to earn money<br />To support them.<br />It was their job<br />To concentrate on<br />Big criminal business.<br /><br />The “property of …” patch,<br />She said,<br />Was a sign of respect.<br />It would tell a passing stranger<br />Who she was. <br />I thought, <em>but what about the stranger<br />In the mirror?</em><br /><br />-- © 2010 by Jack Veasey<br /><br /><br />(All rights reserved. This work may not be reproduced or duplicated in any form without the author's written permission. )Jack Veaseyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05977307877931598517noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3018477057302230740.post-14578106640455647882010-09-30T14:27:00.003-04:002010-09-30T14:33:01.737-04:00UNPROVEN IDENTITY<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUoCtte9vKOMsUwWvBkfm_HmhHp-ga2mupctGyaXHygYpFNbpjtxOEDjxLh5xxVAe-nEwqzqu5uqkwlC-fxH3BWhXIpTziv6iexLhspcULvaQzashWs5KDSosJhUU_ePEvZiahC8ZlMKQ/s1600/me.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 306px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUoCtte9vKOMsUwWvBkfm_HmhHp-ga2mupctGyaXHygYpFNbpjtxOEDjxLh5xxVAe-nEwqzqu5uqkwlC-fxH3BWhXIpTziv6iexLhspcULvaQzashWs5KDSosJhUU_ePEvZiahC8ZlMKQ/s400/me.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5522775452443863938" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br />At the bank<br />On which the check was drawn,<br />I was forced to open an account<br />To cash the check.<br />According to society,<br />I don’t exist,<br />Although I had<br />My state photo ID.<br /><br />I couldn’t demonstrate<br />That I was real –<br />My mere flesh<br />Was not enough;<br />My blood, not<br />Visible. Perhaps I should <br />Have cut myself.<br /><br />But then, the hospital<br />Might not have treated me…<br /><br /><br />-- © 2010 by Jack Veasey<br /><br /><br />(All rights reserved. This work may not be reproduced or duplicated in any form without the author's written permission. )Jack Veaseyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05977307877931598517noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3018477057302230740.post-50326665236715110882010-09-24T12:18:00.003-04:002010-09-24T12:24:40.712-04:00THE MOMENT CAPTURES US<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4cfX7DPc9hYNm4UKtcZAJ5jxZWla_B3vjQ9UMxqB77PupddYZbTCstiB4WG5VYQAkA3n-6IIm6wM-ewrsfV9ITtjRER4P61gn6mkBbfJF7bGQXZ-Lt2P5TgOLEJr8gijpWCJLTX6bno8/s1600/alligators+Old_Deccan_Days+HIndoo+Fairy+Tales+1898.png"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 364px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4cfX7DPc9hYNm4UKtcZAJ5jxZWla_B3vjQ9UMxqB77PupddYZbTCstiB4WG5VYQAkA3n-6IIm6wM-ewrsfV9ITtjRER4P61gn6mkBbfJF7bGQXZ-Lt2P5TgOLEJr8gijpWCJLTX6bno8/s400/alligators+Old_Deccan_Days+HIndoo+Fairy+Tales+1898.png" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5520516046571783122" /></a><br />(Illustration from "Old Deccan Days: Hindoo Fairy Tales, 1888)<br /><br /><br /><br />You lost control <br />of the kayak,<br />Trying to turn it around.<br /><br />I wanted a snapshot <br />Of the alligator,<br />Lounging on the log<br />Stuck in the center<br />Of the river.<br /><br />The current <br />Was stronger<br />Than you were,<br />Which shouldn’t<br />Have been<br />A surprise.<br /><br />The 8-foot gator<br />Turned his head,<br />Eyes on the camera,<br />Then dived<br />Across my lap<br />Into the water,<br />As the boat<br />And log<br />Connected. Had he lashed<br />His tail, he might<br />Have broken my neck,<br />The way I know<br />You wanted to.<br /><br />The camera<br />Was too cheap<br />To catch the moment;<br /><br />All I have left<br />Is a blur.<br /><br /><br />-- © 2010 by Jack Veasey<br /><br />(All rights reserved. This work may not be reproduced or duplicated in any form without the author's written permission. )Jack Veaseyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05977307877931598517noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3018477057302230740.post-32682466938005743542010-09-15T12:10:00.003-04:002010-09-15T12:22:27.213-04:00“BIG” JACK<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirL99qlQTsjYUTXN5HsGVDofralqd-_VNMPTAIvvb7JyTeUUzpTettxepJhdPOwzWVvGydaUqt0pBoOmalmg_RRqi10DuXo8P15wERc7mKPZ3MP8qWSycH44EdPCEg9U3kSUTr2A89hKg/s1600/cigarettes+anna+cervova+PD.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirL99qlQTsjYUTXN5HsGVDofralqd-_VNMPTAIvvb7JyTeUUzpTettxepJhdPOwzWVvGydaUqt0pBoOmalmg_RRqi10DuXo8P15wERc7mKPZ3MP8qWSycH44EdPCEg9U3kSUTr2A89hKg/s400/cigarettes+anna+cervova+PD.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5517175940763777570" /></a><br />(Public domain photograph by Anna Cervova)<br /><br /><br />His eyes are watery.<br />Not such a surprise <br />Since they’re blue,<br />But they’re also red<br />At the corners,<br />Behind the thick glasses<br />With broken brown frames<br />Held together at one side<br />By bunched Scotch tape.<br />His V-necked t-shirt<br />Shows a chest <br />From which all hair<br />Has disappeared.<br />His guard uniform,<br />Long unworn,<br />Hangs cattycorner from him<br />On the outside <br />Of the closet door.<br /><br />He sits sunken<br />In his yellow-green<br />Stuffed chair,<br />His black and white cat<br />Sacked out<br />On the back of it,<br />Fretfully drowsing in<br />A twitchy dream.<br />Old books line the shelves<br />Built in the wall beside him,<br />An assortment of odd titles:<br />Ancient “Advice From Heloise,”<br />“Word War II Chronicles.”<br />Collected crossword puzzles,<br />And “Essays of Bishop Sheen.”<br />From the left arm of his chair<br />There hangs the cord,<br />With red light, of<br />A heating pad. His wife<br />Will have to watch in case<br />It starts to smoke, or so<br />She likes to say.<br />Him, she no longer watches,<br />Though he smokes a lot<br />These days; the doctor says,<br />“just let him go. It’s too late now.”<br /><br /><br />He looks at, and past,<br />The TV where the blurry picture rolls,<br />For scenes he remembers<br />More vividly than the last hour.<br />His cousin the priest<br />Will come later<br />To hear his confession.<br /><br />His son, who towers over him,<br />Now knows<br />That hanging on<br />Will hold him here;<br />He overheard<br />The hospice lady<br />Tell him so.<br />He suspects this time will be<br />Their final visit.<br /><br />Like the doctor said,<br />“just let him go.”<br /><br />-- © 2010 by Jack Veasey<br /><br /><br /><br />(All rights reserved. This work may not be reproduced or duplicated in any form without the author's written permission. )Jack Veaseyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05977307877931598517noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3018477057302230740.post-24016277794723537982010-09-08T13:05:00.004-04:002010-09-15T12:25:24.040-04:00QUALIFIED<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikYcXpTfIuMkCgVmWNWWqAV8wt1-yZxin8qvGNPpaweL9TvMLxTYI230_Ym371pabH4dVrwaiRfJ2R_DJOx8sPgeVx38cQ2mymHUDcE0TcHriCDEeObRPrYjt0dkkuLbsHxqAvH9zP0I4/s1600/smiley+devil+from+Tango+Desktop+project+released+as+PD.png"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikYcXpTfIuMkCgVmWNWWqAV8wt1-yZxin8qvGNPpaweL9TvMLxTYI230_Ym371pabH4dVrwaiRfJ2R_DJOx8sPgeVx38cQ2mymHUDcE0TcHriCDEeObRPrYjt0dkkuLbsHxqAvH9zP0I4/s400/smiley+devil+from+Tango+Desktop+project+released+as+PD.png" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5514590809954592562" /></a><br />(Public domain image from Tango Desktop project)<br /><br /><br /><br />Your sneer<br />Lights up the room.<br />Sadly, nobody<br />Knew to wear sunscreen.<br />It would have helped<br />Had someone cried,<br />“Hey, here comes<br />Cancer.”<br /><br />You take a situation over<br />Without notice, or perhaps I should say<br />“Warning.” Nobody else could speak<br />Without some haughty <br />Comment from the stolen seat<br />Where you roost<br />Near the front of the room.<br /><br />Now the rest of the game –<br />For you it is a game, if not<br />For anybody else –<br />Will be your turn.<br />All other turns<br />Were cancelled <br />At the moment you arrived.<br /><br />Your rant is full of references<br />To the Old Testament.<br />You talk about it<br />Like it’s history;<br />You cite deeds of its characters<br />As if they’re facts<br />We share as common knowledge.<br />You offer no proof<br />Of your contentions;<br />You act like<br />No proof is needed. <br />All anyone should need<br />Is your pronouncement;<br />Your pronouncement<br />Makes things so.<br />How like the God of the Old Testament!<br /><br />Somebody with eyes to see<br />Catches the rest of what goes on,<br />The subtler part<br />That many people miss (though<br />Everybody<br />Feels affected by it).<br />The dark and boiling cloud<br />That gathers just above your head,<br />The little lightning bolts<br />That strike at members<br />Of the audience.<br />A person with a nose for news<br />Can sense a tang<br />Of sulfur in the air.<br /><br />Your intention is<br />To shrink the rest of us,<br />Leave us diminished <br />In the presence of<br />Your vast hostility.<br />But you’d snicker<br />Should somebody point this out.<br />That is the hidden center<br />Of your message:<br />That you’re so much better than the rest of us.<br /><br />Hell would be an eternity<br />Of lectures<br />Like this one.<br /><br /><br />-- © 2010 by Jack Veasey<br /><br />(All rights reserved. This work may not be reproduced or duplicated in any form without the author's written permission. )Jack Veaseyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05977307877931598517noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3018477057302230740.post-20833003048597041192010-08-31T14:56:00.005-04:002010-08-31T15:13:55.478-04:00NYC SUBWAY VIGNETTE<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRK030PGCikA3RKIjcGKj6GfzT1LdQT2VkXHh4oZ6miGg2tdMDx0yNz8I8be9HmfxUrzO7yeg9sGhOVIYn7PoJNdzFkfUm6WhSKTDOJR7id7LPN-niCKm_YEarM45mGJyoWEi4VnvZjas/s1600/nightstick+wikipedia.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 257px; height: 281px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRK030PGCikA3RKIjcGKj6GfzT1LdQT2VkXHh4oZ6miGg2tdMDx0yNz8I8be9HmfxUrzO7yeg9sGhOVIYn7PoJNdzFkfUm6WhSKTDOJR7id7LPN-niCKm_YEarM45mGJyoWEi4VnvZjas/s400/nightstick+wikipedia.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5511650426317420482" /></a><br />(Public domain photo from Wikipedia)<br /><br /><br /><br />Freezing February night. Switching trains.<br />Manhattan subway stop – wish I could remember<br />The street number. Near a college, the sign said.<br />Been about 25 years,<br />But I’ll never forget<br />What I saw there:<br /><br />Long, narrow platform; no one on it<br />Standing up<br />But me and a beat cop in uniform. <br />Station deserted except for him, me<br />And a couple of homeless guys<br />Passed out on two of the benches. <br />I didn’t care, being<br />Too nervous to sit.<br /><br />Anyway, this cop strolls up to one,<br />Twirling his nightstick<br />As if it were a baton. Suddenly<br />He grips it by the handle,<br />Slaps it hard<br />Against the soles of the guy’s feet.<br />I thank God he’s wearing shoes.<br />The loud crack makes me jump,<br />Although I saw it coming.<br />The guy barely revives, looking up<br />Puzzled, luckily<br />Anesthetized on something.<br /><br />The cop says, voice ringing out<br />Off of concrete, “Those benches<br />Are for PEOPLE, <br />Not you guys.” Then he looks back,<br />Flashes me a smile, white <br />as a blackboard soul drawn by a nun<br />under his little Hitler moustache.<br />He expects to see<br />Approval.<br />I feel sick, look <br />Down. <br />I worked late.<br />I’m just trying to get<br />Home. <br /><br /><br /><br /> – © 2010 by Jack Veasey<br /><br />(All rights reserved. This work may not be reproduced or duplicated in any form without the author's written permission. )<br /><br />NOTE: "Baton" is actually now a common name for a police officer's club, but when I refer to the word here, I mean the kind marchers twirl in parades.Jack Veaseyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05977307877931598517noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3018477057302230740.post-50533258986303424872010-08-27T12:52:00.004-04:002010-08-27T12:58:13.023-04:00GRYPHON<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglFJiCF3SI_hEb7Tyxgm9Oz6dIOTvG_cIhI0ziy16A4QL-d8mUC8oJt8ZJIAzyPveTfsX4rQ6QFyffAdN0s4NsLVFMPSXDqaW46cKhRiD69W8Shdm7Zraki8MilKI8haBiBAGnUakjoms/s1600/Griffin,+Bevan_Crest,+1892.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 359px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglFJiCF3SI_hEb7Tyxgm9Oz6dIOTvG_cIhI0ziy16A4QL-d8mUC8oJt8ZJIAzyPveTfsX4rQ6QFyffAdN0s4NsLVFMPSXDqaW46cKhRiD69W8Shdm7Zraki8MilKI8haBiBAGnUakjoms/s400/Griffin,+Bevan_Crest,+1892.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5510133825508283346" /></a><br />(Bevan crest, 1892)<br /><br /><br /><br />Your family crest <br />Frightens me.<br /><br />Why the winged lion?<br /><br />Are you trying <br />To lay claim<br />To some nobility or courage<br />Nature didn’t quite provide?<br />This symbol<br />Just says<br />“Predatory power,”<br />Boasting <br />That it can<br />Swoop down, <br />Not merely<br />Pounce.<br /><br />Why would a normal lion<br />Be inadequate<br />For carrying the colors<br />Of your clan? <br /><br />It might make more sense if your name<br />Were “Griffin.” Even then,<br />I’d wonder whether<br />You really intended<br />Irony.<br /><br />The ability to make most creatures<br />Prey does not <br />Encourage us<br />To trust; it triggers<br />The impulse to run,<br />Futile as that tactic might be.<br /><br />-- © 2010 by Jack Veasey<br /><br /><br />(All rights reserved. This work may not be reproduced or duplicated in any form without the author's written permission. )Jack Veaseyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05977307877931598517noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3018477057302230740.post-37132765753013891612010-08-20T13:09:00.005-04:002010-08-27T12:58:52.206-04:00HOOT<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFwyj73kdl3W4TGP-b50DO_uD95A-2kY3OJfHB0M79cfIXmc46uqYTWtD3pdKfK_5ZhttjdepE937u8zcR-xvUZ0DOWzKxB7n9SaF7QAqlY2Qn2hGLsn6qThkBWRI7mhJHmOAHH8rYjC8/s1600/concertina_cropped+Wade+1886.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 250px; height: 199px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFwyj73kdl3W4TGP-b50DO_uD95A-2kY3OJfHB0M79cfIXmc46uqYTWtD3pdKfK_5ZhttjdepE937u8zcR-xvUZ0DOWzKxB7n9SaF7QAqlY2Qn2hGLsn6qThkBWRI7mhJHmOAHH8rYjC8/s400/concertina_cropped+Wade+1886.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5507540876723108098" /></a><br />(Wade concertina, 1886)<br /><br /><br />The old man<br />Pushes buttons<br />To play music.<br />Tourists passing<br />Donate to his hat, while<br />He sits<br />Bald<br />To the elements.<br />The songs are<br />Traditional, so old<br />That no one knows<br />Their authors<br />Anymore, telling stories<br />Of a life no one alive<br />Remembers. His low voice<br />Cracks like paint.<br /><br />Passersby usually assume<br />That he’s gone blind,<br />But he just keeps his lids <br />Closed tight, so he can look<br />Back<br />Farther than the eye can see.<br /><br /><br />-- © 2010 by Jack Veasey<br /><br />(All rights reserved. This work may not be reproduced or duplicated in any form without the author's written permission. )Jack Veaseyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05977307877931598517noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3018477057302230740.post-63912543031174276852010-08-13T14:06:00.006-04:002010-08-27T12:59:15.577-04:00CLOWN<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEwVqc9MdkYEYQyh-rBre7lTYSB-nhEGvw5E-i7mZ5MP5XbyM22yshi2_TsxL-AMeJJ40X8a4yEyYOSRO5IP3e8c7hvKxqn5CP7bKXhknGv5gqG1lH92AUR5y7kRk2uKOPWjwDWHPcc10/s1600/clown+drawing+w+headlines+John_Wayne_Gacy.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 313px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEwVqc9MdkYEYQyh-rBre7lTYSB-nhEGvw5E-i7mZ5MP5XbyM22yshi2_TsxL-AMeJJ40X8a4yEyYOSRO5IP3e8c7hvKxqn5CP7bKXhknGv5gqG1lH92AUR5y7kRk2uKOPWjwDWHPcc10/s400/clown+drawing+w+headlines+John_Wayne_Gacy.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5504964612432782466" /></a><br />(Photo from The Orchid Club photostream on Flickr; reproduced under Creative Commons License.)<br /><br /><br /><br />Naked, he is<br />Not very impressive.<br />He looks in the mirror <br />Only to apply his makeup,<br />To check details of disguise.<br /><br />His clothing hides <br />His shape, skinny<br />And haired in odd patches.<br />It also hides his scars<br />From surgeries, supposed to<br />Fix his damaged heart.<br /><br />The cushion that covers<br />His belly and crotch<br />Helps to fill out the plaid pants<br />that hang suspended from his shoulders,<br />A tight pull he always feels<br />And must ignore. After the pants,<br />He puts on the huge shoes, supposedly<br />Foreshadowing his phallus<br />In old wives’ tales <br />He knows nobody believes. <br />Another constriction, a bowtie,<br />Guards his vulnerable throat,<br />And looks absurd against his flannel shirt.<br /><br />His face, he paints white as a mime’s,<br />Though any gestures he’ll make<br />Will be broader. His eyes, he paints <br />the way he thinks a woman would. <br />His smile, he conjures slowest --<br />It’s his favorite effect – it doesn’t change<br />No matter how he feels.<br /><br />The crowning touch?<br />A worn fedora hat, a bit<br />Of Indiana Jones, though<br />They won’t let him hold a whip –<br />One time he did,<br />And got carried away. Last,<br />He puts on the bulbous rubber nose,<br />Which doesn’t help his cigarette-distorted breathing.<br />It’s red, to imply<br />He drinks;<br />One truthful note<br />Stuck on a symphony<br />Of lies.<br /><br />When he appears, <br />Nobody laughs.<br />The children’s eyes only grow wide<br />Because they’re frightened.<br />So he humiliates himself<br />With falls and such,<br />Until he has them howling<br />Like a pack of little wolves.<br /><br />Oh, well. At least<br />He doesn’t pose for velvet paintings.<br /><br />He puts on his public persona <br />A piece at a time,<br />Like so many of us,<br />And, like us, <br />He draw’s work’s energy<br />From anger.<br /><br /> -- © 2009 by Jack Veasey<br /><br /><br />(All rights reserved. This work may not be reproduced or duplicated in any form without the author's written permission. )Jack Veaseyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05977307877931598517noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3018477057302230740.post-26854214697070706032010-08-07T13:19:00.003-04:002010-08-27T12:59:47.532-04:00DESK JOB<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyPO3ciNsW8DZQxfW94lpvyq1tUZY6v0SyFKRVVkGQPNBAiLgO5uq2TI8iIg3kZweJ2Bmgr9Fj8kytCM216LuX8oagoDIyk3inVvmKnopZLk2xgUzgqw1QLZG83P4HJI4oIYdRYXSzAKA/s1600/cubicleSouth20050109+wikipedia.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyPO3ciNsW8DZQxfW94lpvyq1tUZY6v0SyFKRVVkGQPNBAiLgO5uq2TI8iIg3kZweJ2Bmgr9Fj8kytCM216LuX8oagoDIyk3inVvmKnopZLk2xgUzgqw1QLZG83P4HJI4oIYdRYXSzAKA/s400/cubicleSouth20050109+wikipedia.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5502721775278994306" /></a><br />(Public Domain photo from Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia)<br /><br />Fluorescent lights make everyone look ill,<br />And all are chained, though these chains can’t be seen.<br />The hardest work is waiting, waiting till<br />The stroke of five disarms the time machine.<br /><br />And all are chained, though these chains can’t be seen;<br />Each link’s a payment pressing to be made.<br />The stroke of five disarms the time machine,<br />But bills and bills and bills wait to be paid.<br /><br />Each link’s a payment pressing to be made,<br />Each moment mortgaged till some future moment comes.<br />Bills and bills and bills wait to be paid,<br />As – between computers – conversation hums.<br /><br />Each moment mortgaged till some future moment comes,<br />More and more paperwork piled softly in the bin.<br />As – between computers – conversation hums,<br />Forbidden music mustn’t complicate the din. <br /><br />More and more paperwork piles softly in the bin, <br />In cubicles the gods insist must look the same.<br />Forbidden music mustn’t complicate the din, <br />and no framed photos. Just a plate that says your name. <br /><br />In cubicles the gods insist must look the same,<br />Where light that’s natural must never penetrate,<br />Are no framed photos. Just a plate that says your name.<br />And where your heart should be, a leaden paperweight.<br /><br />Where light that’s natural may never penetrate,<br />Year after year of furtive search will only find<br />Where your heart should be, a leaden paperweight,<br />And no song but the drone of the dulled mind.<br /><br />Year after year of furtive search will only find <br />That what we see remains all that we will,<br />And no song but the drone of the dulled mind<br />Can ease the ache from all this sitting still.<br /><br />What we see remains all that we will.<br />The hardest work is waiting, waiting till<br />Retirement blunts the ache from all this sitting still.<br />Fluorescent lights make everyone look ill. <br /><br /><br /> – © 1995 by Jack Veasey<br /><br />(All rights reserved. This work may not be reproduced or duplicated in any form without the author's written permission. )Jack Veaseyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05977307877931598517noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3018477057302230740.post-9372066939771455432010-07-30T14:07:00.007-04:002010-08-27T13:00:10.959-04:00ALIEN HOSPITAL ROOMMATE (Or, THE LIMITS OF TOLERANCE)<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8IGCvPngACx4mUL2soOq35LCpJ2ZDyaEZ-oklFep-YhbBdgECqgiPeF3DEGuqzzxHumlxAY_nr1r-xKVo4OYd0B20VJlEKnFAwDUU35qFs18JlfG3BCXdRnFubrz1bfxl-zW3Azyf_N0/s1600/squid_Nautilus_stairs.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 282px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8IGCvPngACx4mUL2soOq35LCpJ2ZDyaEZ-oklFep-YhbBdgECqgiPeF3DEGuqzzxHumlxAY_nr1r-xKVo4OYd0B20VJlEKnFAwDUU35qFs18JlfG3BCXdRnFubrz1bfxl-zW3Azyf_N0/s400/squid_Nautilus_stairs.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5499768558227965346" /></a><br />(Hey, I had to show you <em>how</em> he ended up in the hospital, didn't I?)<br /><br /><br />ALIEN HOSPITAL ROOMMATE <br />(Or, THE LIMITS OF TOLERANCE)<br /><br /><br /><br />I suppose it’s a good thing that we’re trying to get along with them. It’s certainly not fair to deny them anything just because of where they’re from. They should be able to use the pool at the hotel, of course. If everyone else gets out of the pool when one gets in, that can’t be helped. You can’t control everybody, now can you?<br /><br />But let’s face it – if given a choice, would you share a hospital room with one? <br /><br />We have one TV between us. True, we each have a remote. But it doesn’t matter which button I push, when he can just flick out one of those tentacles of his, without getting out of bed, and change the channel back. So he picks all the programs. Ten hours a day of nature shows about squids and octopi gets old fast, let me tell you – and what do I care how homesick he is for a world where everyone has tentacles?<br /><br />And the first time the doc needed to check his private parts, what does he do -- have the doc just drag the curtain around, like anyone else would? Oh no, he has to eject this cloud of noxious-smelling black fumes for camouflage! The staff were quick to point out that it’s harmless, that it doesn’t pollute the air anymore than an octopus pollutes the water with its ink. But they don’t have to lie here and smell it all afternoon. I don’t care how much Glade the nurses spray in here, I can still smell it. And I don’t care if he just did it by instinct – what it means to me is that <em>in here, it stinks</em>.<br /><br />Then his squeeze comes to visit him, and they do pull the curtain around. If I wasn’t hooked up to all these tubes, I woulda been outta here. I know they were just kissing hello, but I never heard such a disgusting sound of slurping and gurgling and smacking in all my life. And the flashing red lights! You’d think he just pulled in his own private ambulance over there! <br /><br />I used to be a lot more liberal, but now that I’ve had to live with this for five days, I think we need to ship them all back to Venus where they came from.<br /><br /><br />-- © 2010 by Jack Veasey<br /><br /><br />(All rights reserved. This work may not be reproduced or duplicated in any way without the author's written permission.)Jack Veaseyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05977307877931598517noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3018477057302230740.post-48147370690237794962010-07-23T12:11:00.002-04:002010-07-23T13:06:55.160-04:00CHANCE LINEAGE<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRoYkkcXfcoCqlDUGCJAZv-QIo0zpRCJMHzMdCZyU26IBOKD9QhKwihSkntAe7H93X0CxQJS8RDxHdMlW1_dQ5QtoA9VSDdvbyGaJvfLwJ9Bg9jkzg_z6kdpz-WIcIuS6GlIyq9nMtgpM/s1600/family+tree+dimaro+released+PD+wikipedia.png"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 314px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRoYkkcXfcoCqlDUGCJAZv-QIo0zpRCJMHzMdCZyU26IBOKD9QhKwihSkntAe7H93X0CxQJS8RDxHdMlW1_dQ5QtoA9VSDdvbyGaJvfLwJ9Bg9jkzg_z6kdpz-WIcIuS6GlIyq9nMtgpM/s400/family+tree+dimaro+released+PD+wikipedia.png" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5497135321248656898" /></a><br />(Family tree illsutration by Dimaro, released to Public Domain on Wikipedia)<br /><br /><br />My Mom and Dad<br />Both married other people<br />Briefly. In 1950,<br />Five years before I was born,<br />They both got divorced.<br />Rose had deserted my father;<br />Walter subjected my mother <br />To “indignities against her person,” <br />As Court put it. Walter took exception<br />To Mom’s claims,<br />Which didn’t get him anywhere. <br /><br />Mom and Dad married each other<br />That same year. I wonder<br />If their exes have outlived them.<br /><br />I wish I could talk<br />To Mom’s first husband. <br />I suspect she learned<br />A lot of moves from him<br />That she would later use on me.<br />“I don’t blame you,’” I’d say.<br />“If it had been possible,<br />I would have divorced her myself.”<br /><br />But I guess I’m glad<br />That Walter drove my mom away;<br />Their breakup spared me<br />From a guttural last name<br />It would have choked me to pronounce.<br />And the personal indignities<br />That Mom would rain on me<br />Gave me a lot in common<br />With my harried father.<br />As for Rose, I guess she wanted<br />Someone stronger.<br /><br />None of us can know<br />Just what has vanished <br />In the gap between<br />The things we want<br />And what we end up getting.<br /><br /> -- © 2010 by Jack Veasey<br /><br /><br />(All rights reserved. This work may not be reproduced or duplicated in any way without the author's written permission.)Jack Veaseyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05977307877931598517noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3018477057302230740.post-69520066846723980012010-07-15T01:25:00.007-04:002010-07-23T13:07:27.970-04:00LAST GOOD RUN<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQsIvACrQpejFHat2-aIhqzzN7WO6MtlYrKT_IPYx__Msakv1Glf4WSfB5IkVmqzmVkGS1feVEcl2kN270gVI0UYcvd4QfjMDgmS4D2Kz33CYloSCjze88_c66n2WdCrcy1LyX1GoXKsY/s1600/Needle+exchange+Who_needs_a_virtual_world_.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 266px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQsIvACrQpejFHat2-aIhqzzN7WO6MtlYrKT_IPYx__Msakv1Glf4WSfB5IkVmqzmVkGS1feVEcl2kN270gVI0UYcvd4QfjMDgmS4D2Kz33CYloSCjze88_c66n2WdCrcy1LyX1GoXKsY/s400/Needle+exchange+Who_needs_a_virtual_world_.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5494000670139728770" /></a><br />(photo, <em>Who Needs A Virtual World</em>, by Todd Huffman for Needle Exchange; from Wikimedia Commons)<br /><br /><br />For some folks, the biggest and best gamble<br />Is a hot vein full of snow. <br /><br />Pull the tube tight. Smack the spot.<br />Ah, there’s that glimpse of red. Then<br />The blue bubble penetrated by a needle<br />Pops and lets out<br />This exhilaration sweeping you<br />Beyond all inhibition, this last <br />Reckless test of manhood.<br />Purple marks maybe remain, but soon<br />They’ll fade. <br /><br />The storm<br />Slams into your brain<br />And cracks it open like an egg,<br />Your skin lights up; sparks<br />Crowd the corners of your eyes.<br />Impossible fullness overflows<br />All inner dams. Shafts of piercing cold <br />Poke up amid the heat blast<br />Rising through your throat,<br />Then slice between the thin walls<br />Of your pulsing skull. <br />You drop to your knees, <br />Embrace your optimism -–<br />Since, if anything goes wrong<br />While you’re in this state,<br />It’s too late for playing savior.<br /><br />Then comes the sudden surreal <br />S l o w d o w n ; wait,<br />Where are you rushing off to?<br />Your heart hits the wall.<br /><br /><em>I wonder whether I’ve got<br />One more good run<br />Left in me</em>, Shawn told his brother.<br />Those would be the last words<br />Anyone could quote.<br /><br /><br />-- © 2010 by Jack Veasey<br /><br />(All rights reserved. This work may not be reproduced or duplicated in any way without the author's written permission.)Jack Veaseyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05977307877931598517noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3018477057302230740.post-60086856646198594572010-07-09T13:18:00.005-04:002010-07-23T12:28:25.640-04:00PICKUP<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifvnBnPYor971-_sSNajH6vet63sQNvPL9UkDov1EfAyBQYE1haq8BoQ4xKiv4xbgquo0e36OkGF-iVk9aR-ukNMRwnSD-yXizp2h9e5cHmuuARPZObFsg4k4P8dBw5SkIcXLnC6Y-QhQ/s1600/RedneckRepairsPart1.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifvnBnPYor971-_sSNajH6vet63sQNvPL9UkDov1EfAyBQYE1haq8BoQ4xKiv4xbgquo0e36OkGF-iVk9aR-ukNMRwnSD-yXizp2h9e5cHmuuARPZObFsg4k4P8dBw5SkIcXLnC6Y-QhQ/s400/RedneckRepairsPart1.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5491960413590005954" /></a><br />(Photo, <em>Redneck Repairs Part 1</em>, by Dave 7, from Wikipedia)<br /><br /><em>It’d be nice <br />To meet a nice guy</em>,<br />She thought, wandering<br />Down the hill to the dirt road <br />That passed her parents’ property.<br /><em>Or just to get stoned</em>,<br />Added the devil<br />On her shoulder.<br />She thought she was smart.<br />She thought she knew<br />The way the whole world worked,<br />Although she hadn’t seen<br />That much of it.<br />She thought she was tough --<br />Defying her father, <br />Wearing tube tops,<br />Smoking cigarettes.<br /><br />The pick-up<br />Had no license plate,<br />But she could only see it<br />From the front.<br />The driver wore<br />A baseball cap,<br />Like everybody else.<br />His windows were rolled down,<br />But she could smell<br />The sweetrot odor <br />Of the smoke.<br />He leaned over,<br />Popped open the door<br />On the passenger side.<br />She caught his smirk at her<br />And glanced uphill<br />At the old house, feeling<br />A fleeting spooky twinge,<br />But never dreamed<br />That this would be<br />Her last look at her home.<br /><br />It would be about a week<br />Before the local paper noted<br />That she’d vanished,<br />And a dozen men<br />In baseball caps <br />Would fan out through the woods<br />In search of her,<br />Half of whom<br />Had picked her up<br />On the same spot, <br />Though only one<br />Had done more than just flirt. <br />All of them knew<br />The girl was jailbait.<br /><br /><br /> --© 2009 by Jack Veasey<br /><br />(All rights reserved. This work may not be reproduced or duplicated in any way without the author's written permission.)Jack Veaseyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05977307877931598517noreply@blogger.com2