literophanes.com

Photo: Minnesota Summer Storm

atop the roof at the back of my childhood home

I sat, facing southwest

in the summer night the crickets hesitated

the lightning bugs dimmed their tails –

perhaps the sky’s lightning rendered them with feelings of inadequacy

or perhaps nature instilled in them a sense of respect

for the largeness of night

for life’s rhythm

what did the insects understand that I didn’t

with another sequence of flashes

I awaited the delayed rumble of thunder –

the delay that the movies could never get right

even the closest flash of lightning

was followed by some pause before thunder

never thunder at the same time

and never thunder before lightning

in the rumbling a slight breeze scurried over my anxious forearms

a few houses down Mrs. Thurman hummed

as she washed the evening’s dishes

like the crickets

she understood the rhythm of the sky

her hums soothed my skin ahead of the storm

a carp splashed in the river behind my house

then a raccoon trilled cautiously to her young

she’d pulled a fresh clam onto the rocks of the river bank

and wanted them to eat it before the storm arrived

hurry up  hurry up

her babies scooped up every last bit in the flashes of lightning

they waddled back along the bank

the young stood on their hind legs and sniffed the portentous night air

when the sky paused

the crickets stopped chirping

the lightning bugs disappeared

clean dishes were left to dry in the Thurman’s empty kitchen

carp whispered beneath the currents

echoes sounded from empty clam shells

from beyond the lines of tall oaks in the distance

the lightning illuminated bulbous shapes of rolling clouds

that were moving toward my neighborhood

a muffled hum pushed itself northeastward

it grew louder and clearer as it passed through each tree

each leaf was a cymbal against which the wind tapped its rhythm

I heard my dad in the driveway

slam the doors of the car after he rolled up the windows

more lightning flashes came in quicker succession

a neighbor’s restless dog whimpered in a backyard

the rumbles of thunder were quicker and louder

nervous children giggled

their bare feet slapped along the warm sidewalk in front of another house

the approaching wind became a symphony

growing larger

a crescendo

from my crouched position

I stood as large raindrops pelted the rooftop

I pointed my curious nose in the air to sniff at the immensity of moments

and smelled the last moment possible

at the highest sense of elation

before I forced myself back through my bedroom window

attuned to a sublime rhythm

Photo: Creative Commons

When Jesse found me sitting on the curb, she plopped her chubby body beside me.

I asked her what was wrong –

Elvis died today.

She couldn’t say much more except that it happened at Graceland.

As far as I could figure, Graceland was an amusement park, like Six Flags. Jesse was from West Virginia. So Graceland couldn’t have been far from where she used to live.

I could see her watered eyes underneath her oversized glasses. I looked away at the sky so I didn’t have to fake cry in front of her.

The overcast, damp August day was conducive to other sorts of cries. Summer itself was dying and I knew that soon I’d be starting fifth grade. I held on to that thought as Jesse moaned to herself.

Like Jesse’s face, the day was sullen. I could see it in the way birds sat in the maples in front yards with their wings dangling, in the way the utilitarian houses on my street sighed in the mist, in the way Jesse’s hair clung flat and greasy to her head, in the way that made Graceland sound like a happy word.

I wondered if this was what the sky was like in Graceland. Was it raining and humid and were the dirt roads in West Virginia muddy today for all the people waiting in line for amusement rides?

Jesse said something about seeing Elvis at a concert once.

As far as I could figure, Elvis had become a parody of himself. Up to then, whenever Way Down was on the radio, my friends and I stuffed our shirts and imitated the Vegas Elvis, you know, Pelvis Elvis. Now that he was dead, the uneventful triviality of the song had new meaning.

None of us could make fun of it anymore in the way that we did, especially in front of Jesse.

All this occurred to me when I looked back at her. I looked at her wandering left eye to avoid seeing the dirt smudges on her cheeks.

He died of sleeping pills.

As far as I could figure, somebody was going to be in trouble if he was able to open one of those bottles to take more than he should have, or for having the dose information on the label all wrong.

Jesse pulled out her transistor radio from the pocket of her plastic orange jacket checking for more news. All I could hear was static and broken lyrics of a Loretta Lynn song. Jesse listened intently hoping that somewhere in Loretta’s voice was truth, that the news wasn’t true, that Elvis was alive and that he would wake up from sleep, or if he was dead, it was from something more profound than sleeping pills.

Jesse sighed against the newsless soundwaves and flat sky. Time slowed and sat on the curb next to us.

As far as I could figure, Jesse knew the truth. Her world was changing, growing duller. I could see it before time exhaled, stood and walked away. I couldn’t make time stay nor could I sit on the curb with her forever.

I just hoped that the rain would end by tomorrow so I could have summer back, so my brother and I could follow time to The Capitol Theater to see Star Wars,

and so with the clear sky, Jesse could stay back and listen to fuzzy Elvis songs by herself all day on her transistor radio.

Photo: Nat’l Archives and Records Admin

Contains explicit language

When the force was airborne, we fled to our hideouts. My brother and I huddled under a neighbor’s porch. Our friends found similar strategic vantage points in trees, under cars, behind shrubs – points from which we could all see the freak show.

Frankie was a thin-framed man with an oversized head. Several years of excessive alcohol consumption squeezed the proteins from every fiber of his body, reducing him to a man too old to be twenty-nine.

On those nights when listening to one too many Johnny Cash songs, when consuming one too many Pabst Blue Ribbons, the flashbacks too would excrete themselves in sweat when Frankie stumbled into the middle of the street.

In such a state he was Frankenstein, the Boris Karloff type – a protruding eyebrow, blunt greasy bang stuck to his forehead, and his skin was a peculiar, alcohol-induced green hue under the streetlight.

Stuck in 1969, he uttered to a lieutenant 8639.5 miles away: Yes sir!

No sir!

Shoot the fuckers, yes sir!

I heard the other boys laugh. They darted in the shadows, deepening Frankie’s paranoia. Fire in the hole! He tossed a grenade in their direction with his free hand while he gripped his beer bottle with the other watching the memory explode against the inside of his skull.

One of the boys threw rocks back. Another yelled Baby killer. Frankie was too wasted to react.

I was too scared to run but my brother wasn’t. He left me alone under the porch. Frankie fixed his eyes on the spot where I was. It was dark but I knew he could see me. He staggered closer. I was scared.

He dropped his empty beer bottle in the grass and pointed his machine gun toward me. I saw the fear in his eyes. Tatta tatta tatta tatta tatta! He shouted, spraying syllabic bullets all around me.

Perhaps I reminded him of the children in Vietnam.

His fear changed to satisfaction.

An empty beer can hit him in the shin. He heard the boys laughing. His eyes went vacant.

1975 – regret.

He turned away crouching on the grass. He crawled to the curb where he sat, curled up. I saw his shoulders shaking slightly as he tore at his hair and face.

As he mumbled, I saw his profile against the light – the cowlick on the crown of his head never tamed by service, the way his upper lip curled like a two-year old’s, his long eyelashes like brushes painting a different reality in front of his eyes, his involuntarily clenched fists.

He beat his fists into the grass in an attempt to shape a grave of sorrow like the inside of his skull.

I found the right time to run from underneath the porch. I didn’t look back. I was heading home. Alive. From behind me I could hear Frankie yell, The force is airborne!

As I reached my backyard, I caught my breath. The dog down the street was barking.

It was 1975. I couldn’t understand his pain. How bad could the war have been on the guys in my neighborhood? The bad stuff only happened on tv shows like MASH.

Again, I heard him. He was yelling at the sky, The force is airborne!

The phrase echoed in my mind until my middle-aged neighbor with the sideburns yelled at Frankie Hey, shut the hell up!

Photo: Creative Commons

Jens, the solitary man next door

Spot, his spotted Chihuahua

they kept each other alive

into old age

every morning they took their walk

Spot leading ahead slightly on a leash as thin as thread

Jens shuffling in his boots

Spot waddling in cadence

every time they passed me, Jens would nod expressionlessly and Spot would growl

two angry souls made for each other

they were happy with each other and no one else

Spot was a cocky bastard around his master

one day I was in my driveway after my mother grounded me

next door Spot was watching me from the bottom of the porch stairs

I looked him in the eye, hopeful that he would throw me a little sympathy

but all he did was yap constantly

Spot’s barking angered me

as if reinforcing my mother’s scolding

I yelled back

he moved toward me, his bark now raspy

I grabbed a nearby twig and ran at him

I was going to call this little bastard’s bluff

he barked louder running to the sidewalk

in my fury I didn’t realize he was without leash

I ran after him; he kept running

in the confusion so did I

he ran faster to stay ahead of the monster that was chasing him

at the end of the street his bark faded as quickly as he

I ran back into my house before Jens could see me

I checked the window all afternoon expecting to see Jens and Spot on their walk

I only saw Jens; he was Spot-less

I remembered Spot’s terrified, bulging eyes glancing back at me as he reached the end of the street

the next morning I saw Jens walking

he was alone

I tipped back behind the shrub along my driveway before he could see me

he reached his porch and sat on the stairs

he had the same stern face as always

but his eyes were different

needed

was this how mortality might feel

I wanted to run to him to explain

but I was scared

what if Spot never came back

and Jens died

Jens sat on the stairs for hours

anxiety rode me all day

until I had to go in for dinner

I was still grounded

I ate little thinking about Jens’ eyes and Spot’s eyes

I expected the police to knock on our door at any minute

learning that my snoopy neighbor Miss Jones ratted me out

I couldn’t spend the rest of my life in jail

after dinner I sat on my porch

staring at the vacant stairs next door

from a distance I heard the familiar shuffling boots

I turned to see Jens – Spot was waddling beside him

life was good

Spot was alive

Jens wasn’t going to die

I wasn’t going to jail

as they passed I waived

Jens nodded back

Spot the bastard barked at me

we were all alive again

~

A cold egg rubbed all over my fevered body as spiritual words floated around me

Tortilla dough slapping hands and its sweet burning smell on the comal

Water in the kitchen sink at just the right warmth for my bath

An ankle clicking with every footstep around the house

The curse to my abuelo the day my abuelita died

~

The thread sewn into my homemade jacket

Every starchy potato in my meatless soup

Each paycheck earned away from home

Traditions and unconventionalities

Remind me of my mother

~

Photo: Creative Commons

To see my father age before my eyes

Inherited eyes keen to recognize the insensitivity of a barren, West Texas landscape in the heat of summer

A once stoic, authoritative, swaggering rock was now crumbling soil

When winds slowly picked away layer after layer of his countenance

I ran with cupped hands to retrieve what the wind stole – if only to delay the inevitable a little while longer

In a geology of generations, machismo, traditions, ideas born to the uneducated child of an overbearing mother, each brittle layer was stolen by a new wind while escaping grains nestled themselves between the needles of saguaros

As shadows encircled above, his stride was slow, his posture hunched

Every windward step taxed his body

The protector who once held my hand to cross the creek bed, I now protected him

The provider who was always there for me, I was now there for him

I turned to block him from the wind and sky and looked into his surrendering eyes

He looked back into mine

Just then I felt the wind penetrate my enlarging pores

Before we turned our eyes into the wind

I grabbed at that moment anticipating the indifferent gust that would diminish it to dust

Photo: Creative Commons

Beat Girl, you lived in the flat above me

I knew you from how much you said you hated your mom, and your unfair life

Beat Girl, you woke me up one morning

You were yelling again at your mom

At first I thought you a disrespectful, adolescent brat

Your friends must have hated their mothers too

Your screams at the top of your lungs were plain intolerable

I heard stomping and noises and then your defensive screams

You were hitting your mother – your mother was hitting you back

A mother, unable to lose her Korean accent, lost you with each translated hit

Though she feared failing her generation

like every generation angry at the next

She still had control over you because you weren’t ready

You could do nothing but cry, and yell, and wait a little longer

An hour later your mother must have watched you run out the door to school

Her fists still clenched with expectation like her mother and all mothers before her

Beat Girl, I waited for you to come home that day

The next morning I expected to hear you fight again for your future

While I waited, I decided to call you Beat Girl

I wasn’t sure if you were finally beat or if you were a girl anymore, but it was how I remembered you

It must have been how your mom remembered you every time she looked at her hands

I never heard you fight again with your mother

Did you find your future Beat Girl?

If nothing else, writing now is practice for the good stuff later.   –  Literophanes

Photo: Urban Sunset, Christine Matthews

–

there’s a moment late in the day when I stop to look at the Western horizon

the eyes of daylight droop letting shadows inform my conscience

in the filtered light my mind contemplates assumptions of reality

opening itself to the turning

reflecting on time passed on home on growing up

–

dying shadows reach beyond daytime borders

beyond sustained secrets of the trees and houses and telephone wires and garbage cans

I feel my father reach for my hand as I hear the ice cream truck coming

I see the fireflies dance around the souls of my dead grandparents

I hear bangs of a can kicked down the street and feet of scurrying boys who will never return

–

at that moment birds settle while bats hover over the neighborhood

these feared mousy creatures are my confidants who know the nature of fleeting time

in still air only they can hear me whisper back an adolescent poem about a boy I love

they grasp my temporary words in their talons

and urge me into night

–

sunlight disappears behind oaks and hills and neighborhoods to the West

the bats follow feeding on other boys’ words

as my voice matures with the sky

I return to the present and see nightfall on the Western horizon

beyond which my whispers have long passed with the bats and shadows

–

Photo: Double Dutch, Brian Plonka

Double Dutch don’t mean much

Jumping rope cla-clack clu-clutch

The sistahs smacking gum and such

To pass the summer heat’s wry touch.

The metronomic rhythm rides

The inner city’s fateful tides

As the Double Dutch ropes fly

See which sistah bids her byes

Jump in jump out the timing goes

Like so many of her urban woes

The brothas say they work they hoes

They aint be frontin I suppose

Two ropes determine who can stay

That’s how the Double gets his way

The Dutch alliteration play

Means sistahs let chance have its say

The game of risk is what’s at stake

In sex and love that lovers make

The girl’s virginity he take

It flares on concrete watch it bake

She falls into the playah’s trap

The ropes collide and sting and wrap

She aint about to take this crap

When he stops her with a slap

The next girl pauses before jump

Will she avoid the natal bump

That threatens from the double hump

Will Double Dutch ropes make her gump

And from my flat I watch it all

One rope of pride, one rope of fall

The ritual of summer’s call

Still preys upon young sistahs y’all

See DD is a brother’s game

The sistahs chide that it’s to blame

Both sexes playin all the same

Like timebombs bout to trip