369. Poetic Justice

Well, he was a pretty good imitation of the kid Anthony in the famous Twilight Zone episode called It’s a good life. Only he had orange hair for some reason. It was going to be a long morning. As the sky lightened, I thought of all the sunrise services that folks were attending this Easter morning, at least the true believers among the Christians. But I had to deal with Anthony, or C.W. if you prefer.

He was reading from a book and taking notes. Oh, and he was muttering to himself. He looked up as I walked in, pointed his pen at me, and said, “I don’t like poetry. Poetry is a bad thing and I don’t like it.”

“Oh,” I said. “What don’t you like about it?”

”I don’t like things that make no sense to me.” He pointed to a section of his book. “What does this mean when it says, ‘April is the cruelest month, breeding lilacs out of the barren sterile land,’ for goodness sake?”

“I think it says breeding lilacs out of the dead land.”

“That’s what I said. I don’t like it when people disagree with me. I can read for myself.”

I started to say something catty in return but a feeling came over me. “It’s good,” I said, “that you can read for yourself.”

“So, tell me what it means.”

“I think,” I said, “the author is referring to the ancient belief that the earth died in the winter, and had to be coaxed back to life in order to be reborn in the spring, reborn by the shedding of blood, human sacrifices in fact, hence the reference to cruelty. The poem was also written not long after a world war in which over 17 million people died. Quite a shedding of blood in order to renew the earth.”

“I don’t like it when your species sheds blood for no reason,” he said.

“It’s good that you don’t like it,” I said.

“How did they do it? This shedding of blood to make the earth come alive?” He paused. “That’s a pretty silly idea, isn’t it?”

“Very,” I said. “It probably seemed less silly to those who weren’t shedding the blood. But, to answer your question, there were countless ways. Sometimes they sacrificed a beautiful young virgin girl, sometimes a virile, handsome young man. Sometimes they had men fight to the death, and the winner was king until a younger man came along and dispatched him.”

“That’s stupid,” he said. “I don’t like that at all.”

“It’s good that you don’t like it,” I said.

“Are you making fun of me? I don’t like it when people make fun of me.” He pointed a small finger at me. “You’re a bad man, a very bad man, and your species is very bad.”

Seeking to divert his attention, I said, “Well, we don’t sacrifice virgins these days. We’re much too sophisticated for that. We don’t make men fight to the death, either. Why don’t you quit reading poetry for a while? Go talk to my wife about something.”

“She won’t talk to me,” he said. “She’s watching something on her television set about very young girls in something called a ‘beauty pageant,’ and she’s upset and angry. She said something about sending me to a place called 'the cornfield' if I bothered her.”

 

People who enjoy killing other
people are bad, very bad. - C.W.

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“Oh,” I said. “Then maybe you can watch the one in here.”

“Good,” he said, “Let’s watch that show about wrestling.”

“I don’t like shows about wrestling.”

He turned on me and pointed. “I don’t like it when you won’t watch wrestling with me.”

“It’s good that we watch wrestling,” I said.

343. Literature

I couldn’t believe my ears, but there it was, unmistakable. C.W. was singing again. Not only singing, he had one of my guitars and was pounding away in near-rhythm. What the…?

I stepped through the door and stared. It was C.W. in what is his current favorite form, the Galilean. He didn’t see me at first so I watched as he wailed,

“I was lost, my life was murky,

You come along, lookin’ cute and perky,

I snatched a grab and you just melted,

Like Joan of Arc, so I knew you felt it,

Love, love, like a sweet rain fallin’”

I must have gasped, for he stopped and looked up. “Hey Big Dope, what’s up?” Then he appeared to have an inspiration and started singing again.

“You walked in and I was singing,

Words of praise, your ears was ringing,

So I sang loud and the world stopped turning,

Paris fell, and Rome was burning,

Love, love like a kitten purrin,’”

He stopped. “What do you think?”

I didn’t answer. I couldn’t. I think maybe I nodded but I’m not sure.

“Don’t talk to me about great literature,” he said. He gathered his white robe beneath him and reached for a pitcher of, I learned later, frozen margaritas. He filled a glass and sipped. Then he seemed to notice me again. He nodded toward the pitcher. “Want one?”

I still couldn’t find my voice, so I just shook my head. “My second batch,” he said. “I heard that songwriters must get stoned.” He stopped, “Hey,” he said, grabbing pen and scribbling like a maniac. “Songwriters must get stoned … no, lonely people must get stoned … no, crazy people must get stone … no, poets and prophets must … oh Me... who the hell must get stoned? Oh well. I’ll think of it later.” He put the pen aside and sipped his drink. “Must be one too many mornings,” he said, then stopped and grabbed the pen again. “… and a thousand steps, no, drinks, no, smiles, no, something something something … a thousand somethings behind.” He resumed his drinking.

I found my voice at last. “Would you mind telling me what you are doing?”

“Just hanging out on Desolation Street,” he said. “Street, road, trail, Desolation Something.” He forgot me again and started writing.

“Doing what?”

“Gonna be a poet,” he said. “A singing poet. Maybe be one of them laurellets some day.”

“So you mean laureates?”

“Ain’t that what I just said? Geez. You walk into the room, with your uh, hmmm … briefcase, yeah, briefcase … in your hand.” He froze and grabbed the pen. “Wait one,” he said as he began to scribble.

“Have you gone mad?”

“They say all us poets are mad,” he said. “And you know you have to have a news man to know which way the vote goes.” He stopped and looked up. He nodded and smiled. “Listen to this.” He started to sing.

“I met you in the cornfield, right around Christmas time,

I liked the way you jiggled, so I thought I might drop a dime,

You ran off and left me, for a holy-roller preacher man,

Then I knew that I would find you, sittin’ in a witness stand.”

He looked a me and smiled. “What do you think?”

It can't be hard. It looks so easy
when this man does it. - C.W.

“I think maybe you mixed your metaphors.”

“My whatafors?”

“Never mind,” I said. “Are you going to be a while?”

“Yeah,” he said. “Ain’t you going to stay and listen?”

“I’d rather shoot myself,” I said.

For a moment he looked hurt. Then he smiled, cocked his head to one side, looked down and started writing.

“Yonder stands old Big Dope with his gun … no … yonder stands your landlord with … no … yonder stands your best friend … no … mentor … no … brother … cousin … hus …”

I quietly slipped away. Later I walked by the door and heard him still at it. “Stuck inside of Pittsburgh …no … stuck inside of Dallas … no … stuck inside of Cleveland … Tucson … no … oh crap!”

This time I didn’t stop. They were announcing the Nobel Prize winners and I wanted to see if there were any surprises. Probably not, but who could tell?

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184. Reviews

Poor C.W. I almost had to feel sorry for him. In fact, I had never seen him like this. “Crestfallen” would best describe it.

Here is what happened.

I found him at the computer desk in the form of a young man in grey, loose-fitting sweater, baggy pants, and black, lace-up tennis shoes. His hair was rumpled and he was going through a pile of papers he had printed. He seemed on the verge of tears.

“What the …?” I said.

“Failure,” he said and began to explain.

It seems that, unbeknownst to me, C.W. had written a poem and posted it on a website for aspiring writers. It was called, “Soaring Silently Through Stars in Splendor,” and you don’t want to read it. What he was holding were some reviews posted by others. With tears in his eyes, he began to hand me samples, such as

“Your poem saved my life. I had been on the verge of suicide when I read it. Now, I resolve to live in the hopes that I may yet read of the self-immolation of someone who would have the (censored) lack of taste to write such drivel. – Angstyinaustin.”

“Before reading your (censored) drivel, I had imagined that the worst fate in life would be to have a root canal performed without the benefits of Novocain while sitting on a pile of flesh eating maggots and listening to “Jennifer Hudson’s Greatest Hits.” Now I know there are worst things. – Puttermouth”

“I read your (censored) entry after attending my weekly Bible study. What a (censored) piece of (censored). I hope you choke when your severed (censored) is crammed down your (censored) throat. –Hedied4me”

“To Hedied4me: Why don’t you die for us, you (censored) moran? –Agapeluv

“I would like more information on your writing habits. In particular, I would like to know where you go to be alone and write. I would like to sell the exact coordinates to the next terrorist bomber I meet. –Right2me”

“Thank you so much for your work. My English teacher assigned us the job of reading a poem in class. When I read yours, she grabbed her throat and collapsed. After they took her to the hospital, I began trying it on other people I hate. You have been so helpful. –Angelofvengeance”

“Saying your poem sucks would be like saying that (censored) into an electrical outlet is a bad idea. –Puppykillr”

“Where did you get the idea you can write? Did Satan himself ‘soar silently’ through the filth and ooze that is life on earth and plant the idea in your (censored) empty brain? -Luvoflife”

“To Agapeluv: If Jesus had ever met you he would have made Charles Manson look like a Sunday School teacher you (censored) imbicell. – Hedied4me”

And, finally:

“Here’s a suggestion for your next poem: ‘Thoughts soaring silently through my brain just before I blow it away.’ The world awaits it eagerly.” –Luvangudness”

I think I can get this poetry stuff down
if I can just get a better computer.- C.W.

“What now?” I said.

“I don’t know,” he said, stopping as another message began appearing on the computer screen.

“To: Hedied4me,” it began. “you make my (censored) crave applesauce. And …”

C.W. switched off the computer and we sat in silence, our thoughts soaring.

37. Dancing

Received the strangest invitation this morning I’ve had in a long time. C.W. knocked on the door well before daylight while I was enjoying coffee alone. Of all things, he was dressed as a modern dancer and looked a lot like, as I remember, Rudolph Nureyev. Yes, it was a bit of a strong sight for 5:30 a.m.

“Come go with me,” he said. “I’m going to welcome the sunrise with a special dance in Riverfront Park. I call it ‘Sprites in the Garden.’”

I stood there.

“Well, come on,” he said. “Daylight defers to no mortal plans.”

I think I must have looked a little confused.

“May I come in?”

“Please do.” The last thing on earth I wanted was for a neighbor to see him standing in the hall.

“Oh thanks,” he said, lighting in a chair with a flourish and graceful hand gesture.

“Oh Christ,” I said, returning to the coffee pot and wishing I had some brandy to stiffen it with.

“Know what?” he said.

I just looked at him.

“The concept of dancing on your planet is simply marvelous.” He made another sweep of his hand as if my living room encompassed the entire store of humankind’s accomplishments over the 150,000 or so years of its existence.

“It is a little all-encompassing, though,” he said, lowering his chin to his head and peering up at me. “I mean it includes everything from the most sublime movements imaginable to what appears, to me, to be young boys lying on their backs and wiggling their legs.” He sighed. “But, overall—fascinating. Simply fascinating.”

“C.W.” I said. “What the hell are you doing?”

“Celebrating the joy of life through dance,” he said. “Hurry up and let us go then, you and I.”

I groaned.

“Come on,” he said. “The fecund stirrings of Mother Earth shall spread exaltation through the very soles of your feet. In short, you shall be unafraid and happy.”

“I have never socked an alien—or a ballet dancer—in my life, but I am very close.” I said.

“Oh, you who spurn the soothing catalyst of dance are the saddest of souls,” he said.

“You’re probably not going to leave until I agree to go with you, are you?”

“You got that right,” he said, settling back in this chair with a gesture of finality. “How did all this dancing stuff get started anyway?”

“I dunno. Maybe it was some effort at imitative magic, as Frazier phrased it: efforts to make the earth bloom again in the spring.”

“Well then,” he said. Seeming to think it over for a minute, he looked up. “It certainly seems to work. Hmm. Let’s see. ‘April is the happiest month, filling life into slumbering feet.’ Hey, maybe I’ll take up poetry next.”

“Oh Christ,” I said, heading, back to get dressed.