|
|
Whatever that's supposed to mean. This is
what you may call, free association, although I'm not sure what its associated
with, something about a keyboard and being kind of, what's that commercial,
too much granola. Anyway, you've come across issue number 7 of the
alternative poetry/litzine "Avant
Garde Times" my effort to bring a medium
for the publication of poetry that is of an avant garde style. As
you may recall reading, the guidelines are now wide open, so get experimenting
and writing.
You will note there are
a good number of new, at least to this ezine, poets. Thank you all
for stopping and sending me your work. You'll read a number of examples
of the styles and works being developed today. Some very interesting
themes is coming across my computer and its worth reading. Also,
you'll notice that a number of them have both web pages, CD-ROMS and books
of their work. If these interest you, follow up and learn more about
their work. If you are a poet, I'll be glad to include information
about any and all projects you're involved with, its part of my personal
mandate, to give poets an avenue for publicity.
As this is October, you even have a Hallowe'en
story, which also contains some poetry, a mixing of writing.
Poetry
You talk but i don't have to listen to you.
Your therapist says that breaking (up with) me
Was a good idea, but i wonder how many
Angles on THAT story he got, or if what he got
Even resembled the truth in its outward shape.
I guess it doesn't matter now; you're with
Someone new, you're safe, i can't
Hurt you; and me, i'm just
Caught here in this
Thirsty earth you
Transplanted from, feeling
My flowers swiftly
Withering, and
Dreaming about
Elementary rain.
Enough to wash the stains from the pavement,
Green blood that sighs like the milk of my body
Crying out from the ground at you, too confused
To be a cry for help. No, something more
Gutteral and honest rises there:
The history of aliens jade-eyed wondering
Among you, ones who can't be touched
(Makes them heal too quickly when)
All you want to do is look at their pretty wounds.
8/17/00
SCIENCE
FICTION
for Michael Waldecki
Another fine Keatsian morning
Unravels in the industrial park.
The petting zoo for plastic
Injection machines has just opened,
And lines form from around the block.
Children play with themselves
In the expensive powder, dreaming up
New parents, good-looking
Ones, ones like the ones on TV.
Eventually, they too will be
Nothing but screens. One little boy
Shrugs into a red cape, suddenly becomes
Notorious and feared, but dearly beloved for
His brute philanthropy. He'll rescue no-one
Unless it's easy. One little girl
Has slipped on an old man's suit, tight enough
To fit her, and imagines herself
A queen of serious empires, complete with
A cigar in her mouth to think with.
The little boy
Pushes her down, won't let her up.
John Keats' body is located somewhere
Beneath the smoldering slag; recovered,
Upgraded, it's set to watch by dimly concious
Managers as the little boy finds out the
Hard way just what he can take from this
Little girl. The plastic injection machines
Have been switched on, and they wake
By grinding the morning to extenuating dust.
8/29/00
from SONNETS ON THE OUTSIDE
II
for Eileen
Women are craters in
The ocean's pavement.
No. Women carry worlds
That exfoliate when you add
Milk (one whose shoulders
Are imaginatively lying back
In motion like the hills
Of West Virginia has a sky
Saturated with her arms).
I write a letter to Eileen Marie.
I'm building a fountain, Eileen Marie,
That sounds like sleep getting buried
And composed of daily things.
We could hide forever in its womb
7/10/00
from LIGHT (2000)
Slips me a little pack for a favor tastes weedy like
you sinned
somewhere shorter with my name engorged within but
flexible like
a kissed-up wreck of womanfailure that smokes and
smokes and will
not playfully game girls in dirty jeans with smudged
lips snakes
for eyes when you use that lower tone with me that
comes from
your hips taste dewy like morning got here too soon
enough for
languages already long past parole of expiration date
you and you
and you even without this I am even or without this I
am but you
who have someone at home like guys with a little meat
touching my
knee where it hangs or doesn't hang near you casually
insane I
think they should medicate me too and I've been here
longer
pressing my face against your hair unpoliced to shoot
air to my
eyes testing pressure at points your thunderhead
bruise I could
teleport outta here slanted by this magnet you are for
my stem's
uncreased and outward on end on end over heels sober
healing
while I'm stoned and afloat in a town called time
where enough of
us live to polish fairytales back up in the toilet
maybe there's
a structure behind the messiness of relations here
that includes
me without a shirt unsettled click of dumbbells tendril
lyrics
mute on the subject of returning to you hollow hole
sucked
possible outcomes from my straining forward and
slapping back a
little pack to ease my head out from between your
pages so I
sleep here guessing ants on the walkman pissing rap
off enough to
anger innercities from the Reagan era back when I
couldn't vote
or understatement hands swish kiddiebook dream-o-rama
martian as
your sexual flavors of war.
****
Sometimes I dream of erasing all the records of myself
that other
people have kept. I stand at a bustop in a piercing
rain and
everyone has to squint to see me. I smile to remind
them of how
harmless I must be, but the whole time they glare,
poke me in the
shoulder with hard fingers, demanding, "You? You?"
****
Summer is a set of lenses kept strictly to fry. Who
holds them
over us?
When I cut myself away from the herd, drawing
tighter around
my body and my mind the surety of empty space
undisturbed by
opinions, everyone thinks something's wrong with me.
"Calm down, " Christie says, forgetting that
as
her hair
grows she too softens to the mild ache of beauty I
missed.
But I don't want to sit around talking TV
all day
long.
Spacegirl writes me a letter across aimless oil
figures of time.
She can't remember ever being less than an exquisite
input/output
device. It doesn't work without the hot pink font.
I want to ask her, "What do you do with sick
children like
me?" but she's too busy miming rockets that have
plumeted back to
ground.
****
After that it gets weighed down in philosophy. That
dark corner
of all American Rock in the 1950s, the switchblade
hinge. Such
that sex sank through our pores at your touch.
My waking is paradoxical in that, as daily
conciousness
trickles back to me, it nudges the edges of my lips up
to smile,
wider and wider, but if I have to speak or do anything
I get
bitchy.
She chooses to lay in the sun in her brown
swimsuit, to swim
the balcony through its rays all the way across to
health. Do Not
Disturb.
She's got a book up there, The Encyclopedia
Of
Human
Adventure, opened to chapter 2112, "Watch me get sick
of all
these sluggish people."
A stray huskie blend smiles on our doorstep;
with
a belt
looped into its color you take it house to house to
find its
family. Wind in the trees is also the sound of waves
pushing to
the shore, and despite all this sunshine and gregarity
you can be
sure I'm under water, slurring my neighborhood as
Brian too
flips on his machine to write. We're not trying to
capture
anything here, only whistle back at the winds that
torment us,
rend them screamingly with our smiles.
I think that dog lives next door.
Andrew, on the contrary, must walk into reams
of
attention
without abating for other egos, especially in song. He
uses two
chords, maybe three, and Lora brings him over with her
fishbowl
lips. Andrew's songs are foul to make us laugh, but he
insists
that he's a sap nonetheless, and addicted to tender
xanax. Black
dress slacks and bulky black shoes, double-stitched.
"We're talking about the Happy Mondays," he
tells
her. "If I
ever get that album again I'll have to let you hear
it." As far
as I go, I've got synthesized notes faster and more
accurate than
anyone here, so I must be a virtuoso, like Gerry
thinks so. I
pick my way carefully through the knots of trance that
the
television peppers Dana's laughter with.
"You should just let them live in their cartoon,
still tied
down to the world instead of patched in, because you
know the
rhythm of scarification you bear is different for each
and every
one of us, and one can watch the shadows wither on the
walls
while Jarred claims expertise over everything." Why
does everyone
have to be so self-effacing with you? Where is the
glory in being
right all the time? "A full room lights in long
strands passages
of milk looping through the trees. Over and over, the
word 'fire'
is invented to cover a hole in the blue night we
didn't shiver
but instead floated through Steve's outdoor altar,
altered to the
histories whittled like Tlingit masks that pacifies
the history
of painting as shown to Bob Wood. I wish I could see
it." You
want, above all, to live in your conception of the
world, chinese-
eyed without the difficulty Sheila sees in an
important machine
for work.
When I light the lighter flame shivers from
it
like an
excrement of data oozed out the head of a pin while I
dance in
this garden that clings to me, refracting all that
happens to
shine near me into odd carvings that years later will
only ripple
without an impact.
In fact, we called someone about the dog.
A
longhair
shoulderlengthed from Ravenna clear out to Kent with
tattoes on
his upper arms, his son just losing the fat of comic
books but
then saw the eyes, one crystalblue one poolingblack,
and had to
admit that this one just wasn't the one they were
looking for. He
needed heartworm medication.
"Everything has finally become so loose without
suffering."
A ninety-four-year-old woman talks about a
fiveyear coma in
what must be the increasing loudness of old age, which
I imagined
to be in that enclosed porch the same sound stuck in
the ultimate
curls of a seashell, the drone of the ocean as it
drags over the
roof of our room: trails of milk. Limped across an
arrow heart of
winnowed bark until I came to the shore, throwing off
and groping
back again its water blanket. Tawny and pedicured
cider decides
to hallucinate all over your shoes.
That's what it means to be nudged in the middle
of the night
by a dog with no eyes.
Which is why I went back.
"The moon there is the screen nailed between
askew
rust/smear crosses."
There are certain threads of smell meant to
go
unfollowed
when you're waking to the heat of mid-July. Dana has
her own halo
that puts you to sleep. First a fit of my mother's
sneezing means
either the early cigarettes have lodged in my breath
or that it's
time to dust, eyes watering. "I must be allergic to
waking up."
You must be allergic to good hard work, on the World
Wide Web. I
suddenly realize, standing before the sliding doors to
the
balcony rattle open to a sun-and-air-stuffed lack of
walls (like
floating, it denies the ground in favor of rooted more
subtle)
that I now posess a specialized body of knowledge,
which I'll
undress for you like any metropolitan whore with a
habit to feed.
It would seem we've passed through the straits of
childhood more
or less safely, with a few dead and many simply
estranged, but
more or less intact, and master of your domain. If
Dana wants her
pills, or her chips, while she's fighting for good in
the
universe on the small screen completely colored in, I
dash
upstairs to get them for her.
I grumble at first because I'm frightened
of what
I've
become, and realize what this hinge in my guts means
to the
others who have gathered 'round.
Feeling good is not always so artificial,
nor so
reasoned. I
hope. The methods I've accrued for winding through a
bag of
marijuana are simple and prudent: shake first, tiny
loose buds,
then gradually bigger and bigger chunks, until the
last of the
stash is always the largest piece there is. Tom's
memoir is
signed and I love him for it, I've found a brother
there;
housepainter cocksman now ripened and gazing over a
low valley of
deserted verbiage, with which we've assembled the
myth of our
living in. Joe Dunnigan's "Sexplosion," nonetheless.
The time has come to sit as far back in the
theater as
possible and make blanket statements about the age.
"Drinking
Steve's wine and talking about the virtual
wrap-around, in which
we'll make new worlds to alternate with our own, but
no-one
catches my comment on a new physics, or a new
cosmology, because
the idea that this digital production will not
reproduce reality
is absurd to them." Or simply unrecognized. The trend
is to be
offensive because vulgar humor slits a slice in our
psyche to
bleed the pressure into shooting steam. It's a little
like
trepannation for the soul. A small incision in the
blooming dark,
the moon's dewed glide across the head of my cock.
I'm swimming in so much, all the time, wading
through world
that clings to my limbs and slicks my vision glossy
and halfway
laughing, sinking through the infrastructure of
gammarays all my
feverish children cough up to clog the maze, these
blundering
teeth of the dead that go numb under course of living
vein. When
I close the door there is a private music going on, as
if alone
each previous day's melody can be mapped out and tried
again,
pushed further toward virtuosity until there is no
wall between
song and living, except it's fevered and blanching and
ivoryknuckled in its seat. I'm seared by the heart of
it by the
shape of other bodies in the dark fumbling under the
blanket for
these small blissful deaths of babyteeth.
Hers hooked around her lower jaw, almost like
vampire teeth,
they're very long and send a silent cacaphony to
venus,
regressing from longing to hull.
The outer layer eventually flakes off, but
that's
nothing to
worry about: your body has been busy building new
crusts so
quickly that you don't even have the time to notice
your
replacement supplementing you so slowly from the
inside out it's
like the breath of codeine sighing your skin apart. "I
want to
talk about baseball now," she says; the moon trills
around her
silhouette. The waves have been known to drag children
under,
that there is this distant familiarity to brown eyes
that makes
them statuesque. Her hips call you beneath the stones
of the
balcony floating on nothing; no strings to prick your
phases of
gardening for dances out into plain sight, so that
this coolness
in the background lingers much sooner than expected,
but weaker,
lighting rod instead of the void.
What to do, what to do.
Well, first of all, it's not like every
contortion you make
against a blue screen need hollow its niche in black
matter. One
sentence at a time will fuzz with the most reasonable
expectations deliberate starvation can tackle; the
fish in the
breeze that settle on the hills exploding into angry
flowers may
be some sort of spore for robes and such. Sunday night
I inched
out these little bridges to your body, washing off in
the moon
what I've cleared for hungering kiss. Integers are
given values
by varying the scale; combs bleach hatheads into the
sidewalks
for swaying weeds to bow down to, their over-serious
hinge
enacted like a eucharist of phlox.
But if you DON'T floss, your teeth will smear.
Everyone gets
mail at some point in their lives, and sometimes books
float
through, like the time I threw you out of my bed
reading The
Encyclopedia of Human Emotion, Chapter 1786, "I Get
Vicious
Drills." Well, everyone gets mad at some point in
their lives.
And if Marxism's just another Christianity, but
material, but
historical, once removed you should martyr the
ignorance by being
quietly efficient. Or not. If chaos could revolve in a
chortle
lazed out, how many crystals must I swallow to make
you love me?
I can't.
Lookin' at this not ya' sent
I can see
Freedom ain't yo' bag, baby
So pick it up, and
Move on down the road
While I fly freedom's flag
Carry yo' self right back
To Birmingham's
Baptist bouffant
Bygone high society
Of darling debutantes
Comforted by
Your maidenform estates,
And the warmth of the cross
Burnin' on yo' lawn
Radiate yo' hate
Kneel humbly by
Yo' silken beautyrest
And pray that those 40 years
Of plastic spray
Don't give you
The fallout blooz!
BUILDING
Lady soft, with your
Haphazard hardnose
Helmet set-of-mind
You tender touch
My trepidation, and
Engineer
Another monumental
Flesh-direction
To remember me...
Bye!
JUST DESERTS
Now following the flow
A winding, random road
I'm turning, rather slow
Up, around, and through
These rolling wooded greenscapes
That hang above my mind, to
Spread the velvet beauty
Of natural communion,
O'er what would surely be
Had I not reached this plane,
My personal Sahara!
Lastly, I have an online 'zine myself, IMPROVIJAZZATION
NATION,
up on the
WWW at http://users.tm.net/rotcod (about halfway down
the page is where
you'll find the current issues.
Rotcod Zzaj, aka Dick Metcalf
Perpetrator & Instigator, Zzaj Productions
532 Yorkshire, # 66
Rochester Hills, MI 48307
http://users.tm.net/rotcod/cds.htm
rotcod@tm.net
Tricky Dick was
right
about the silent
majority.
We only elect
ourselves.
This is why you
must forgive
me my trespasses
and admire my sins
for I am you
americathebeautiful
come to you from
the southern land
of shame and desire.
I am the mouth of
your id bleeding
from the pages of
your history books--
a thousand points
of darkness delivered
upon this continent.
I smile at you over
morning coffee
caveat emptor--
be careful what
you wish for
I will inhale the
secret smoke from
your dreams
but, of course, I feel
your pain
even though I've
never worked a day in
one of your
slaughterhouses.
I want to be the
god that you worship
the face on your
t.v. screen
blahblah blahblah....
MANIFESTO
want to enter your
virgin brain like
a bridegroom after
the wedding feast
swim through your
unconscious mind
until your neurons
squeal
then dig down deeper
still, bite down hard
tear the euphemisms
and innuendo from
your language
strip it down to
the naked bone
until your face
falls off.
GOD IS
DEAD; I HAVE HIM STUFFED
AND MOUNTED
IN MY BASEMENT
It happened in the summertime-
I called on Jesus to have a last
supper with me.
I prepared a nice steak dinner
with onion rings and corn -on-
the- cob
and of course he showed-up
afterall, he hadn't eaten in
2,000 years.
"Glorious, glorious!" he proclaimed.
"And, wherever did you get this wine?"
" I got it at the liquor store up the road.
Romanian, $3.00 a bottle."
He had no table manners, but
who was I to judge. His breath
smelled of the grave.
His halo no longer glowed.
"It's time," I said.
"I know," he said and
turned the other cheek
as I raised my steak knife.
They say he died for other
men's sin,
but I say a man can only
answer for his own
so now I have His head
hanging in the basement
looking rather pale, tired
and puffy-eyed like a
junky
the perfect deity for
our time.
SLAM
No one comes to a
coffee house for the poetry
they come for the music or
the gourmet coffee
But you stand there with
visions of Ginsberg in jazz
Beat heaven reading
like you're a tall green
flame burning up the side
of the mic stand.
I was a fool like you once.
I believed in the power of my
words, my voice to move
galaxies, that the muse would
wipe my tears, gently caress my
face and I'd be loved like a
sweepstakes winner.
I know better now.
Strike a pose
Strike a match.
It's all the same.
Warhol said it best:
Everyone gets his
fifteen minutes
Now, you've had
yours
so
SIT DOWN, SHUT UP
AND DRINK YOUR
FUCKING COFFEE!
WHAT I
KNOW OF HELL
It is the blood
poisoned by sarcasm
the smoking bits
of shrapnel in
the brain
It is the murderous
grind of the
wheel the back
is broken on
It is the clock
on the wall tick-
tocking away in
eons instead of
minutes
and it is, finally,
the plaid suit grinning
before you like that
cat from Wonderland:
"Boy, if they was
giving out awards
for slow, you'd
take the prize!"
TOURETTE'S
In a dark movie theater,
I could hear him-- the
chants, grunts and
snorts, the thumping of
his heavy back pounding
into his seat screeching
as if he were being
picked apart by
tigers.
He was much more
interesting than the
movie which I couldn't
concentrate on anyway.
Still,
I kept waiting for an
involuntary fart or
a curse word,
maybe even a belch
or someone ignorant
enough to tell him
to shut the
hell up.
A MINIMALIST'S LOVE POEM
I've tasted
ice cream
I've tasted
you
is self perfection attainable in your lifetime
/she opened up the door. it’s handle was burning her skin the
lock was childproof but unused. day becomes night in two seconds
when the shadows of the hills slip over the city. I looked at my
watch.
it was 2:30
you could almost feel the radio/cellular waves on the surface of your
skin.
the wind sapped away the heat from the sun.
>I’m freezing
>do you want to come inside and have a coffee
that wasn’t a question but a statement
walking away in the silence
i remember
nothing
Slips
nothing ever goes according to anyone's plan, guilt is a weapon she uses it to take me apart, I love her so much and to hear tears in her voice and not knowing why it tears me up, pleasure and pain, hacking at each other like siamese twins with chainsaws. it's easier to take the guilt than start an argument fuck you I want to say but my excuses didn't cut it and she won't call me till later but I can't relax as all I want all I've ever wanted is her in my arms, laughing in the rain after the storm has passed, saying her name and love in the same sentence, whole futures are determined by slips of tongue
In the corner
sitting on my bed
I feel the thread
which binds me to this reality
Become taut
Soon
this world
will be far behind
vaguely remembered in my mind
The thread snaps
And on my lap
is a mucous green cat
with the face
of a rat
As in a dream
I throw the horror away
but what next greets my eyes
shall remain with me till my dying day
Over there
a tittering bat
perched upon a human head
Here beside me
a monstrous dwarf
fondling himself lewdly
Smells assail me now
First, the stench of brimstone
now, decaying animals
fish I think
2
Much as I smelled along the shore
before I was banished forevermore
to this shadowy world of evil
What is this world I have fallen into?
Surely that child with the dull gray eyes
cannot mean to pierce me
with that dripping lance
I think it best not to take that chance
This corridor
with it’s toxic smell
and greenish light
is the way to direct my flight
These carven figures down this hall
what sordid sights
figures of the night
and so lifelike
A young girl
decapitated
Here an old man has defecated
and eats it with a spoon
I remember my room
But that was long ago
far away
I must be insane
As the sickening visions rain
I feel no fear
Can it be that in hell all feeling is lost?
3
Then what the purpose?
Here the corridor divides
I must make up my mind
which path is best?
What a strange thought…
which path is best in hell?
Oh well, let’s take the left
A short way down the hall
I see crimson stairs
Looking up them I meet the stare
of a pair of lambent green eyes
The light is uncertain
yet I glimpse thighs
Naked and female
A delicate musk smell
fills my nostrils
Much as I smell when I visit the brothels
of my nebulous memory life
Perhaps she knows why I’m here?
Up the stairs I step
one by one
till at the top
I see a huge cave
4
The light is more shadowy than before
it first shows less and then shows more
so I know not what is in store
as I silently enter the cave
Eyes red and staring
burn holes in me
the occasional bodies that I see
are mottled, misshapen, deformed
Sill, I feel no dread
as if my spirit itself were wed
to the darkness and evil
Suddenly green eyes flicker
and there she rests
in a wicker chair
Long black hair caresses her shoulders
and through a scintillate creme robe
her body shows
Full and alluring
For the first time
I feel passion!
Consumed by lust and not rational
I boldly approach the girl
The musk smell fills the air
She rises from the wicker chair
left arm beckoning
Her smile is viciously evil
and full lips cannot conceal
5
Razor sharp incisors
Do I dare venture closer?
Does the moth flee the flame?
I am filled with shame
yet cannot resist
So consumed with lust am I
before I desist I would rather die
Something I may have already done
We fall together as one
As full lips envelop mine
marble hands search and find my scepter
No I am no specter
For these feelings of pleasure
are no delusion
On this glossed stone floor
we reach the conclusion
While the gibbering creatures
come close as they dare
And burn my back
with their stares
She whispers seductively for the first time
and her words come out as a rhyme
“Now you taste forbidden fruit
you stab me with your lustful spear
6
and evil has it’s first root
as my master seeks to draw you near
if one more time our bodies entwine
before you can find the thread
when you awaken you shall be mine
and become his when you are dead!”
For a fateful moment memory returns
And though my lust burns brightly
I know I must strive mightily
To find the thread
which snapped as I sat upon my bed
I run back down the crimson stairs!
Hearing evil laughter I do not dare
to look back for an instant!
Now I’m in the long corridor
and though my lust calls for more
I realize my only hope is to run on
while my mind can see
What my world
used to be
The end of the hall is in my sight
and there in the corner to my right
Is the cat
with the face of a rat
7
My eyes strive to pierce the uncertain light
for if I am to end my flight
I must find the thread!
There!
Above the strange child that bears the lance
That tiny string
my only chance!
I run to it and grab it
while the child seeks to stab at my thigh!
I sit alone
upon my bed
In my hand
a silken thread
What a dream I just had
and I pray to god on high
I soon let out a fearful scream
for there upon my thigh
Is a bloody rip
as from the tip
Of a lance which resides
In hell!
A TEAR
The endless beauty
of the stars
makes you feel
as if you are
meaningless
Still
for all it’s majesty
a star can only GIVE beauty
for it has no eyes to see
The birth of a brother star
which can be likened
unto the birth of a child
and should be accompanied by joy
but he others just
BURN!
A supernova
marks the end
of a light that shone
before mortal ken
And watched unknowing
as men struggled
and died
in time that seemed
a blink of the eye
2
Though that beauty
is now dead
not a single tear is shed
to mark it’s passing
Envy not
the endless stars
Rejoice in being
who you are
and allow your love
to touch others lives
so when your time has come
to die
you receive a gift
everlasting
A tear
to mark your passing
By Halloween of that year, fat little Will Hersch's
dreams were perpetually
populated by images of thickset women with ghastly warts, despicable
drawls,
screechy laughs, and cone shaped caps, hags leering over man sized
pots,
stewing their brew, preparing to boil Will for his sweet eating evils.
In one
dream, Cantor Wartman dragged Will downstairs into the synagogue's
boiler
room to meet Tammy Hershkowitz the temple's owner and witch. Will's
punishment: stealing all the Saturday cookies from the Sabbath table…
Halloween was half
over when he left school that day. He ran home as
fast as he could, lumbering like a giant on the moon. His pal Little
Richie
usually walked home with him, but not today. Final arrangements were
being
made for tonight's big event. Will had a responsibility: bring the
lighter.
Once the plan was revealed at the lunch table, he froze in place, dropped
his
fork and said-No way, count me out. Don't worry, Little Richie said,
Smitty
here is schooled in ancient Irish rituals. I don't know, Will said,
the
witches will find a way to get you guys too, it's me against them.
Things
aren't so bad.
But they were bad.
Night after night his little sister heard him
pacing around his room, exhorting the gods to help him. We're coming
to get
you, were no longer the words that scared him-If you try to prevent
us from
coming and taking you, we won't even spare you, were the ones that
made him
shiver. If the ghouls were going to get him, he figured he could have
some
sweets, at the least. But in his dreams when Will urged the witch to
let him
eat what he pleased in return for his services, whatever they might
be, she
snorted and said, We'll see, Will, if you're good to me, maybe you'll
have
some once every fifty years.
Little Richie and
Smitty suspected something was seriously wrong.
Hersch wasn't at the arcade or the comic book store anymore. In the
cafeteria, sights of wrappers of sweets and sweets didn't especially
excite
him. When they visited him at his home, Hersch's old horror posters
and
memorabilia were gone, the wax figurines of Frankenstein, Dracula,
and the
Werewolf had disappeared. His gum ball machine was shattered. When
the boys
questioned him, Hersch said his interests were leaning elsewhere. I'm
thinking about going more to temple, speaking to my rabbi. The boys
were
confused: rabbis and the like were supposed to be their worst enemies,
the
villains their horror movie heroes smashed and chewed the heads off
of.
Literature about the
after life littered his rug. Smitty thumbed a
few pages of a black book, and saw passages underlined and highlighted
in
yellow and pink. Hersch tried to take the book away from Smitty but
was
pushed away by Little Richie. After considering what he read, Smitty
solemnly
said, Hersch thinks he's going to die. Little Richie and Smitty glanced
at
him then, as if to say, Time to start talking, man, right away. Hersch
told
his tale. But the boys didn't believe him, they thought he was going
crazy.
When he got home, Hersch
walked from corner to corner in his room,
munching on a Hershey bar, the last he was sure he'd ever have again.
He told
himself: everybody's always got to pick on the fat kid. His dream today
during history was the worst to date. The witch turned him into a ghoul
and
ordered him to go find his little sister and bring her back to the
cave. He
did. They put her in a pot. The witch cooked her, and sang:
Hush little Hersch, Don't say a word,
Nanny's going to chop up a little bird,
Hush little Hersch, Don't say a word,
Halloween's going to be hell on earth…
The moon was out, a
half crescent, like a cat's eye. Darkness fell.
Tombstones were more visible. Graveyards seemed busier. The taller
Smitty
wore a top hat. Little Richie wore bunny flaps. On their way to the
park,
they spoke.
So is he definitely
going to be there?
Hersch or the Cad?
Hersch-the Cad'll
be there for sure.
I spoke to Hersch
an hour ago, he sounded nervous.
I told him this morning
I'd bring a box of chocolate Hersheys.
And?
He didn't say a thing.
He'll be there.
How will the Cad be
dressed?
Guess.
I don't know. Cowboy
vest, fangs, wormy tresses?
Close. Like a witch.
And he's bringing his cat.
I didn't know he had
a cat.
It's a rough cat.
Cuts up local cats.
Smitty, the Cad can
be bad news.
He'll be under control.
I gave him an offer he couldn't refuse.
What?
The keys, Richie,
the keys to the girl's locker room.
Sly bastard, how'd
you pull that one off?
Marcy Wallnut the
gym leader's got a crush on me.
Lucky, lucky bastard,
she's damn fine.
She told me she'd
do anything if I took her to a movie.
Smitty for class president,
my vote is cast.
Yours and the Cad's,
and Hersch's. I lose.
We'll devise a system,
and cast our votes a hundred times.
Right, he said.
And the Cad, you two
come up with a signal?
Yep, after the prayer,
during the dance.
During the dance?
After the prayer,
when Hersch will be real eager.
Where will he come
from?
From inside the park
bathroom, and then-Surprise!
Hersch will realize
what a sissy he's been!
Yeah.
Lighters-check. Bible
and chocolate bars-check.
Upon leaving home,
Hersch left a note for his sister on her cabinet,
revealing the whereabouts and object of his present journey. If she
never saw
him again after that night it was because his dreams finally had come
alive
and taken him hostage. He wrote that he warned Little Richie and Smitty
that
his witches had no pity, and that they were in just as much peril as
he for
wanting to help him. If he was a goner, at the very least, he hoped
his
sister would see him in her dreams skinnier, not as a pig on the couch,
feasting all day each day on junk. Something more picturesque: a dancing
boy
in a silk suit, a boy into athletics, mountain climbing, or practicing
his
tennis strokes. A boy in front of class giving a demonstration in algebra,
playing his fiddle at school, working religiously on his Hebrew homework.
He
wrote the letter as if his fate was sealed. His last words in the note
sounded odious to her: Sis, remember to visit the synagogue.
It was time to leave.
He sighed deeply, and went downstairs, out the
front door. He expected a witch to be waiting, perched upon a rooftop
of an
apartment building, preparing to swoop down on her broom to drop a
deadly
potion on the trio. Up above, the wind wailed and sounded like a frosty
tune.
Icicles pitter-pattered. Coyotes howled at the moon. Ghosts were hidden
in
whitewash walls. Hersch took slow, slow steps, grasping his chocolate
bars
like guns and his bible like a bulletproof vest. Only the strong survive
among spirits of the dead...
The gates of hell
opened up. Hersch entered the park. The bathroom
stalls were closed. Suddenly the bunny and the gentleman with the top
hat
emerged: Little Richie and Smitty. Bowels of concealed laughter bubbled
to
the surface. Let us both now take you by the arms, Hersch, and let
us both
now escort you to your funeral, and let us all make a prayer to heaven,
and
let us all now say amen, and kick each other in the asses.
Where you been, the
boy with the top hat said.
What's with the outfits?
Forget that it's Halloween,
Hersch?
I wasn't sure whether
to come, Will said, but let's get it on.
Brave camper, said
Smitty. You must've eaten your can of spinach.
Yeah, and a big bowl
of Wheaties with chocolate milk.
And funny, too, from
the bunny boy, what's with you?
Seeing you two dressed
like this, I'd laugh if we were at a funeral.
With a flashlight,
Smitty lit the back of the park. There stood a
small hill with a pile of broken branches atop it. The trio proceeded.
Smitty
had a black book. Looked like a diary, the pages were yellow and crusty.
Through a chink in the wall of the women's stall, the Cad and his cat
observed. The hag suit he wore made him sweat. Uncomfortable and embarrassed,
he said to himself, Hope no sees me dressed like my granny at a devil's
meeting. The cat meowed. Quiet down, he said. Don't want Hersch getting
any
ideas.
They surrounded the
pile of branches.
Smitty the gentleman
began, from his book:
Today we celebrate
Halloween, lads, or as my grandparents and great
grandparents observed it, the Celtic festival of Sambian. Hersch, our
good
friend, has been attacked from all angles by the monsters of this holiday.
Lighter, now, Hersch.
Hersch passed the
flame. Smitty lit the branches until there were
flames.
Newspapers, now, Richie.
Richie passed the
newspapers. Smitty rigorously fanned the flames
until they reached bonfire status. Smitty the gentleman continued,
from his
book:
And as it is Halloween,
the souls of the dead are revisiting their
homes, and ghouls, ghosts, goblins, black cats, witches, and the like,
are
loose and roaming…
From the bathroom:
Ha-ha-ha-haaaaaaaaa.
A laugh, a sinister
laugh, over there, Will said, pointong at the
stall. A witch's screech, he said. He ran frantically for the exit,
farting
amidst all the excitement. Smitty and Richie chased him down before
he
escaped. Control yourself, Smitty said, by the bonfire we're safe.
He turned
to Richie and winked. They walked back and smack, smack, smack: a hundred
or
so candy bars rained to the ground. Richie let out a gallon of laughter,
almost giving himself away. Hersch's cheeks flushed. Sorry, he said,
I'm just
taking extra baggage, in case. Richie ran his hands over Will's raincoat.
What else you got? Stop fooling around you two, said Smitty, let's
move it,
before our bonfire is gone.
Again, Smitty began,
from his book, this time much louder:
And as the souls of
the dead hovering and unseen are revisiting
their homes, we have lit this bonfire to offer us, and especially Hersch,
protection, and to scare away the monsters…And
now for the prayers, boys. Are
you okay, Hersch?
Fine, Smitty, never
been more scared.
Don't worry, man,
once this is all over, he said, you'll be the
bravest and brashest kid Bay Terrace has ever bred.
Smitty said a prayer.
Repeat after him. They did. God is with them,
he said. The witches and hobgoblins are almost dead.
And now for the dance,
boys, and the final offering. Smitty said,
Each one of us must take turns lying on the ground beside the bonfire.
While
one is lying, the other two will run through the smoke and jump over
the
prostrate one. And the prostrate one can't move, no matter the urge,
until
the other two are done. Otherwise the ritual won't work. Hersch, you
must go
first.
I don't know about
this, he said.
Silence, from Smitty,
there's no other way. Lie down if you want to
live, Will, and close your eyes if you're scared.
He lay down by the
fire and closed his eyes. The two other boys
danced around him and leapt through the smoke, singing and cooing,
humming
and droning out loud. Before the dance was through, these words were
heard:
1,2 Witches ain't coming for you,
3,4 Best unlock your door,
5,6 Drop your crucifix,
7,8 Don't have to stay up late,
9,10 Breathe deep again…
Will's eyes were closed.
The song was soothing. His mind opened up.
Thoughts streamed in by the dozens. Black cats carried their tales
in their
paws. Bats crashed into mountains, or exploded in holy water. Spirits
of the
dead returned to tombstones. Witches plunged from rooftops. Cantor
Wartman
grabbed Will and brought him downstairs to the synagogue's boiler room
where
Tammy Hershkowitz the temple's owner and witch waited with an array
of
chocolate bars to serve Will. His sister burst out a door to kiss him.
He
felt a great chill. Everything was lucid again, like winter in the
morning…
Open your eyes, Will,
open your eyes now, Smitty commanded. The cat
was
nearby and meowed loudly: Meeeeeoow. The Cad screeched: Ya-ha-hahahaha.
Will's pleasant thoughts a moment ago now gave way to the image of
the witch
and her cat. Noooooooooooooooooo, Will screamed. He didn't dare move.
The Cad
told him to thank his friends. Never listen to a bunny and a gentleman
with a
top hat on Halloween, he said, Ya-ha-hahahahaha. Will got up, finally,
more
mad than scared. You stupid assholes, he yelled, how could you set
me up for
the hag! He spat at them but they just laughed, made faces, and said
to him,
Have your last words, chicken, before the witch takes you to her den
and
boils your skin. Will pulled out his bible and turned to the passage
on
Detestable Practices. Then he cried out these words, with the boys
laughing:
Let no one be found among you,
Who practices divination or sorcery,
Engages in witchcraft, or who consults the dead.
Anyone who does these things is detestable
To the Lord, and because of these detestable practices
The Lord your God will drive you out.
While Will preached
and the boys laughed, the bonfire behind them
escalated to such heights that certain residents from the building
overlooking the park phoned 911 and the fire trucks and cops presently
arrived. Only Little Richie, Smitty, and the Cad heard the sirens.
As Hersch
said, with thunderous finality, I hope you rot with the hag you summoned,
the
cops entered the park, the three lads screamed, Run or we're dead,
and scaled
the gate. The cat escaped. Hersch was amazed. He looked at the book,
smiled,
then looked at the ground, picked up a candy bar, peeled the wrapper,
and
chewed heartily. A moment later a cop tapped him on the arm and said,
What do
you think you're doing?
What about the theme for this issue,
music? Poetry? Mp3? How is this all connected? In a couple of ways,
I suppose. For the second year in a row the whole topic of digital
music and its availablity on the internet has been topic number one.
All polls I've seen indicate that places where a person can download music
are some of the busiest places on the 'Net. It was reported last
year that "mp3" beat out "sex" as the most type in word on the various
search engines. Why, because we all like to listen to music.
If last year was the introduction
to it all, then the last few months has been the backlash. Seems
everybody connect with the music industry is suing someone. They
claim not to like the fact that people can download music at will-no kidding.
The issue has become one of copyright and whether or not this law can stand
the crunch of new media. Its also got a lot to do with money.
The recording industry, as many have pointed out has been screwing the
consumer for years, with overpriced cd's and pushing generic acts- just
look at what's popular on music television- they are all looking alike
and what's even scarier they are all beginning to look like GAP commercials.
If you're a music lover, the internet becomes a godsend, doesn't it.
You are not dependent on the recording business machine, but you have a
medium in which to sample some ecletic bands and singers. You can
surf and learn about artists you've never heard of and can have your musical
tastes stretched.
The cover features a number
of artists I've been following by using mp3, each one is different and
has a unique style. I will say, though, the majority might be classified
under the term 'alternative', because they aren't mainstream. They
feature sounds and themes which are foreign to the tastes of most labels,
because they are. The singers are; Alexandra Scott- a singer from
Virginia, with interesting songs and vocals. She has been a long
favourite of mine. I'm hard pressed to remember how I found her,
but I'm glad I did. One of the songs available is "April Fool".
Two singers which have
been featured much on the hard drive lately is Regan and Anet. The
latter is an alternative singer from Vancouver BC-you can read more about
her later on in the ezine. Anet has produced some incredible work,
and if you visit her web site, you can download music and watch some of
her videos. I recommend her song "Tortured". As for Regan, she's
another musician I 'found', she's more folk, but still alternative. She
has a video out and its available at her mp3 site.
Another announcement is
that I have set up a station at "my Mp3". Its a compilation of songs
and artists I enjoy listening to, so if you look up "Avant Garde Times",
you can see the music of the ezine.
Let me add a few other
things. As I wrote this, a judge found mp3.com guilty of willfully
violating copyright laws. The settle was $25,000/copied CD.
This may ruin mp3, or it may not. I just want to make mention, that
while the recording industry is celebrating this victory, 28 states plus
the US Justice Department has indited them with collusion and, basically,
racketeering- demanding stores sell CD's at a set price, or threatening
them. So, with all the millions they seem to be making on one hand,
may eventually be going to lawyer fees and penalties. Who may end
up the short end of the stick. Have a nice day Universal, see your
ass in court.
Alexandra started her musical career pre-driver's license, which meant
that her mother hauled her around Charlottesville for gigs. Alexandra got
to play with such folks as Dave Matthews, and made up her mind that music
was her calling (around the time some girl told Alexandra that her songs
moved her like nobody since Motley Crue).
So after a couple of years Mom packed Alexandra
off to Vassar, where music studies intensified to include classical guitar
performance, singing opera and an internship at Woodstock's Bearsville
Studios. Young Miss Scott also performed jazz standards in NY bars, and
Alexandra's demo caught the ear of Guy Eckstine (Herbie Hancock's "The
New Standard"). Eckstine subsequently produced Alexandra's "Styrofoam"
at David Lowery's (Cracker, Camper van Beethoven) Sound Of Music Studio
down in Richmond.
Of course, "Styrofoam" doesn't sound anything like jazz or Cracker:
as the Creative Loafing article suggests, "Styrofoam" sounds like female-fronted,
electrified singer/songwriter music in an angular, sparse trio form, with
a subtle, dream-like quality. "Styrofoam" is what you get when you combine
Bjork’s passionate exploration, the blunt, raw style of Neil Young, and
Alexandra’s particular slant on life, the universe, and everything.
Anyway, this recording happened after Alexandra
graduated from college, at which point she had moved back to Charlottesville
to live by a river, where she discovered the many joys of the electric
guitar. Her Mom still comes to gigs (but Alexandra can drive herself now)
and Alexandra's career has begun to take off, with recent reviews in Creative
Loafing and Punchline and a devout following via MP3.com, where as many
as 4000 downloads a day, Featured Artist/Featured Song, and 
Number
One-in-the-Top-10-Alternative-Chart type things have happened. Alexandra
has been performing up and down the East Coast (both solo and with her
band), and recent highlights include a show in Charlotte where the waitress
was so mesmerized by Alexandra's music that she discontinued service to
her customers so she could draw a picture of Alexandra. The kids are clearly
getting into Alexandra's music, and Mom's real proud.
"The only big new fact is that my band, The DBC,
has a record coming out soon and our website will be up and running any
day now, and it's www.dbcmusic.com"
Let me introduce
you to: Anet
Award winning Singer/Songwriter Anet has finally landed in the spotlight
with her hit song "Tortured", featured in the smash Summer film, "Urban
Legend". But then again, many of Anet's songs have found their way into
various films and tv series as well as major label artist catalogues.A
Diamond Award Winning Singer/Songwriter of "Sinking Like a Sunset", from
Tom Cochrane's multi platinum selling album "Mad Mad World" and a two time
winner of the Socan Songwriter award for Song of the Year, Anet has also
been nominated for a "Juno" (Canada's version of a Grammy) in addition
to various awards and accolades throughout the world. She has a huge following,
including fans like 
Amanda
Marshall (whom she's written with), Steven Tyler and John Lee Hooker.Anet
commutes 3000 miles from Vancouver to Toronto to work with her band comprising
Stu Fazekas, Ken Corke, Jamie Lizmore and Vince Sciara. Anet's new song
"Flowers in the Concrete" will begin it's push on major market (US) radio
this winter. Anet and her band are currently in the studio recording her
forth album which is due for world wide release in Spring, 2000.
As always its been a pleasure
to read your messages and submissions. I know I say it all the time
but without you, this doesn't exist. So, read, listen, mediate and
getting writing. Go beyond the conventional and the proper, say it
and express it. You will lose nothing and gain a voice. You
are not a part of the flock, you are unique.
All work is copyrighted by
the various authors, please respect their work. ©2000.
E-mail me at: avantgarde@angelfire.com
The home page is located at:
https://www.angelfire.com/on2/AGT.
All contributions accepted,
so experiment. Next issue - January 2001.
voice mail- 1-888-Excite-2 ext. 905-254-2557.