cherry whisky
one of ann's bosses
gifts us with this
bottle of cherry whisky.
way too sweet for ann's
taste, & weaker than
whisky, just 30 proof.
the canadians love
this stuff, ann repeats
what linda tells her.
it is very delectable.
i'm gulping
from a frosted franconia
new hampshire
glass
smacking my lips.
guess this isn't
sold in the
states -- preposterous --
i think
linda smuggled
the bottle
back over
our border --
it isn't right
if amerika
bans the
sale of cherry whisky.
it's
like
candy -- a chocolate
covered cherry
with
kick -- but not medicinal,
i originally formulated
a cough-syrup
taste,
but
no,
no. it's very good.
if this rain never stops
nobody has a stranger
sleep schedule than i do
so at some point in night
i close our open windows
because rain, & wind,
wake me back to sleep.
i'm really up now after
two cups of java
& it's still steady rain
but one of the livingroom
windows is open
to let smoke out from
lamb patties
ann's cooking
in a small pan
on the stove.
rain wets
the window-sill.
i feel myself
leaning forward
& to
the
right
sitting here
inside
this rain-
drop
poem, this
closed
bud
of
a flowering life.
unending insane rain.
infinite gray manes of rain.
rain is the skin around our globe.
i love rain.
lamb patties
ground lamb. we
never purchased it before,
but $3.00 for about a
pound in a package, we experiment.
ann scans google for recipes,
ideas, anything.
"look," she
huffs, "lamb patties
with salt &
pepper are the
easiest to
make." we taste
the first
small round
flat sphere
of beef-looking
meat &
i agree.
she's cooking
them now, lamb patties,
& it's raining out,
it's an all-day rain.
the apartment
is smoky,
& strange drums
& voodoo whistles play
on our
stereo. something
hartenbach
sent:
the david
murray quartet.
ann's hair
is still wet
from her
shower.
my stomach
growls for food.
working still
going thru the search archives
cutting & pasting
into a wordpad document
400-some poems so far
at times i just skip
whole sections of
time
figuring i'll
come back later
i think
how insane
i might appear
if this project
becomes
paper -- i want
to eventually
print it all out
& decide on
an ordering
& edit
it
down -- ann
is behind me
doing it
too
the initial
phase
but how
insane
i will be
a red folder
full of 3 years
of poems
you try
reliving
the past
3 years
it's like
we've been thrown
from the hands of
a long, long tango
& we're still spinning
albeit slower
& in the dark
maybe this
poem is a dream
this voice speaking
it out at the edges
of yr
head
is
insane
days i want to fall
swooning batman groupies
who all resemble gidget
(sally fields, 1965)
jabber into cellphones
in a massive exchange of
batman conversations
& dreams. oh adam west,
if only one vocal chord
is snipped like a rubber
band & you go hernia
falsetto,
that's what
i want to hear &
see. gidget is never
gorgeous.
in fact she grows
ugly as a middle-aged
nut -- buncha middle-aged
nuts on cellphones
all over amerika.
i suppose
summer is coming.
i still have to lug
up our 2 air-conditioners
into the windows,
it's a matter of days
& i'll be forced
to manage the yearly
task, the spike
of our electricity
use, pushing my
sweating face
at cool technology breeze
from the recliner
in the livingroom.
air-conditioners.
how in all hell
did humans manage
for the previous
thousands of years
without air-conditioning?
without refrigeration --
blocks of ice
in jackie gleason days --
men sweat then
& we had less
medicine to postpone
death --
less operational
procedures with
minimal risks.
ray carver's birthday
was a few days ago,
& jeff filipski's too.
gabriele turned 50
& cheryl maintains
a steady 39 this
july. ray carver
lived the last
11 years of life
sober -- no booze --
i suppose
he needed
that for an increase
in happiness.
ray died at 50.
odd he shld go.
odder yet,
we're all
still here
just waiting
death out.
read up
in touch with ron androla
...and john hennessey
click to view movie/poem - eggs