The End

What a disappointing end to a disappointing blog.

Let's try this again sometime.

The King of Sand and Surf

Below the boardwalks stained with salt,

Below the windswept pier,

You'll find the King of Sand and Surf

A-grinning ear to ear.

There sits he in his arcade box,

The painted planks worn thin,

And with his crystal ball directs

The salt and spray and wind.

He smiles on the teeming shoals,

The King of Sand and Surf.

He smiles on the tide pool stones

And on the turtle's birth.

And how they celebrate their king,

And how they come to see,

How the crabs come shake his rusty locks,

How the heron bends on knee.

How sea stars pucker to his glass,

How sounds the otter's roar,

How fish gleam underneath his gaze

How gulls parade the shore!

And when one day his power fails,

The waves will sweep their king

Into the blue heart of his realm

To sleep where humpbacks sing.

There will he lie with seaweed vines

Where time won't dare to reach

Until once more his name is called

To reign over the beach.

Below the boardwalks stained with salt,

Below the windswept pier

Will rise the King of Sand and Surf

A-grinning ear to ear.

Secret Handshake

secret handshake

coming back from junkman's past a string of bars,

each wreathed in smoke that rubs its muzzle on the window-panes.

a wry refrain goes buzzing through my brain,

a trip of the tongue, the line is given,

"Heineken? Fuck that shit! Pabst Blue Ribbon!"

and yeah, big smiles, guys, i'm king

for all of nine seconds, till the next thing

hits and we go scrambling over cinder blocks.

i cock it up, go sailing to the stars.

sure, i'm okay, can't stop this thing of ours.

we bang on trash cans, own this mad mad world,

we'll tweak the ladies' ribbons from their curls,

and greater still, steal some secluded space

to string out lines, till sleep our fears displace.

how far a night of droning could we take

without the wink and secret handshake?

now watch that jigsaw falling into place

Off for a Week

I will be joining my family on a cruise next week, so I'll have to miss an update. I will try to return with something worth the break. See you on the 23rd.

Laugh Track

Laugh Track

A few months back, the local television station held an open call to all comedians to come perform at the station. They were having a special “Laugh Hour” every day that week in order to showcase the best culture in the county, and they asked people to bring in a good five minute act for the show. I must admit, I’m not much of a comedian, but sometimes I can make up really weird stories on the spot or land a good pun when I’m with the right group of friends. So I figured why the hell not and spent the next few days writing down all the funny things I could think of and putting them in an order that made sense. Then I practiced in front of a mirror until I could remember all the beats, and Michael came by and we had a few beers and joked about how I was going to be “famous” all over Akron. I laughed and asked if he’d burn a copy of the show for me.

I swung by the station on Saturday morning. It was pretty easy to find parking, which is always a good way to start the morning. We all stood in line outside the station for about twenty minutes before a woman in a bright orange sweater, face drawn back in that fakey smile people use when they’re talking to children, told us she was so glad that so many funny people turned out for the show and asked if we would please wait with the audience until our turn was called. The nine of us all took our seats and signed waivers in the too-dim light and sat through commercials for toothpaste and a small real estate firm.

Well, the first guy got up, and he does this story about how he and his buddies accidentally sunk their trailer into the lake. And it’s great. He’s screaming when his wife comes in about her brand new bed sheets and going all deadpan when he talks about the tow truck rolling backwards into the lake, too. People in this town got some crazy shit going on. The next guy took a cigar up with him on stage, and every time someone in his story said something stupid, he’d take this long drag and then drop his head to his hand. By the third time he did it, I looked over at the guy next to me, and we’ve both got tears in our eyes from laughing so much.

So there’s one more guy before I’m up, and that’s when it hit me that I’d forgotten half my act. And it’s really stupid because no one here could tell the difference between the jokes I practiced and the jokes I make up on the spot, and besides that, no one gives a flying fuck anyways, but I decided then I’m just gonna sit back here for the rest of the show. The audience is roaring, and fake smile lady calls me up, and I pretend not to hear. She doesn’t call me again but moves on to the next guy. Which is fine by me, because I’m having a ball out here on the laugh track.

And it goes on, guy after guy just killing it. One guy did this bit about “café people” and their “moleskins” that brings down the house. I squirmed in my chair a bit, but I tried not to bother the guys in front of me.

We closed out the show with another couple of commercials, and the lady thanks us all for coming and thanks us for making Summit County great, and all the comedians started hi-fiving and poking fun at each other and shouting congrats and stuff. So I got to pull out of the lot before everyone else, and I stopped by Baker’s for a chicken dinner and called it a night.

The next day I asked Michael if he still made the copy, and he said yeah, I still got it if you want it, but you’re not on it. I said I wanted to watch some of those comedians again sometime, they were pretty funny. And that was mostly true. So I got the disc, and right now, it’s sitting in my CD collection somewhere between Sugar Ray and Pearl Jam.

The Squire

The Squire

I need a light. This heat has stirred my brain

And breeds from tangled silks unquiet dreams.

The wind’s in the weeds. What fool would brave this night

Where stars in fistfuls cross a beaten sky?

What fools, it gives me jitters now to think,

Would wrap themselves in cloak-and-dagger winds

And, lamp a-flicker, stab through darkness’ realm

To carve a little sovereign for their light?

And would you join me on this balcony,

Perched low, no doubt, beneath your father’s gaze,

And send up smoke to peck his royal cheeks,

Or stay behind your curtains, soft and safe?

Your loss. This leaf is rich and sweet as sin,

A cutting from my master’s private patch,

And if the dullard’s worth a goddamn thing,

At least he showed me how to stuff a pipe.

What did your father teach you, love: your wiles?

To charm a man or girl with treacle words

And velvets, till your last decree be done,

And send the sulking suitors to the streets?

Oh hush now, princess, I’m just making light.

It’s not as if you hold much love for him,

And even less the bloody man’s campaigns,

Else why invite my armor by your bed?

Though why invite my arms, I couldn't say,

A scrappy girl indentured to a knight

Who welcomed me with rough and wandering hands

And sent me dummy spars to keep me dumb.

I’ve had to start a fight with younger boys,

Blue-blooded brats, so I could raise a sword.

Those thicks, of course, were picked to fumble flags

When King and Company went off to war.

I really can’t complain, though, can I, dear,

For all your loveliness I’ve overseen,

And all in all, it seems a marvelous trade:

That while they fumble cloths, I fumble lace.

No, not that way. It’ll pinch if it’s clamped wrong.

I swear, with all the stitched contraptions here,

The lily lacings, corsets, and brassieres,

You’d know by now how goes a simple clasp.

Now there, respectable Angel of Death you are,

Done up in frayed kerchiefs and dented plates,

A huddled mess of vengeance on the way

To regal reckoning—or to the stocks.

Shall, riding on the howls of half-starved fiefs,

You hack apart an ailing dynasty

And, as a whirlwind overtakes a field,

Allow the jubilant mob to claim the throne?

Or shall among the bulging stares they find

Two girls, one’s posture perfect (save her neck),

The other stopped stock stiff, fists drooped and twined.

How full of scorpions, darling, is my mind…

Hmm, yes? Of course. My cigarette is out.

Well, come on, now, help me into this dress.

And it will be worth more than just your kiss

If no one sees me through this paper veil.

Now, like we practiced, raise the blade and—snap!

And it goes rolling, mad-eyed, down the plate,

A feast befitting butchers, then you break

The smokescreen ball before you leave the show.

No, you’ll not swing. You’re just some scrappy girl.

I’ve paid that lecher off to speak for you.

And once you’re back to take your "rightful throne,"

My bones will grin ‘neath grit to see you come.

Laces so tight? You are a naughty girl.

But they’re expecting us, so that must wait

Until we fools have braved this battered night.

Put out the light. Farewell, love, and we go.

For Kate, with warm regards, admiration, and as much shamefacedness as I can muster

Work in Progress: The Squire

At first, I was going to try to cobble together another brief dribbling of words for this week because, again, I have not finished my entry for this week. Then a few more sensible friends suggested I post what I have written, as is, as a work-in-progress. And so, this post. I will likely finish the work for next week, so those who wish not to be spoiled or have their impressions colored by an early draft may wish to skip this week's post.

The Squire

I need a light. This heat has stirred my brain

And breeds from tangled silks unquiet dreams.

The wind's in the weeds. What fool would brave this night

Where stars in fistful cross a beaten sky?

What fools, it gives me jitters now to think,

Would wrap themselves in cloak-and-dagger winds

And, lamps a-flicker, stab through darkness' realm

To carve a little sovereign for their light?

And would you join me on the balcony,

Perched low, no doubt, beneath your father's gaze,

And send up smoke to kiss his royal schnoz,

Or stay behind your curtains, soft and safe?

Your loss. This leaf is rich and sweet as sin,

A cutting from Sir Eldon's private patch.

And if my master's worth a goddamn thing,

At least he showed me how to stuff a pipe.

What did your father teach you, love: your wiles?

To charm a man or girl with treacly words

And velvets, till your last decree be done,

And send the sulking suitors to the street?

Oh, hush now, princess, I'm just making light.

It's not as if you hold much love for him,

And even less the bloody man's campaigns,

Else why invite my armor by your bed?

Besides, how little help that I can give,

A pissant girl indentured to a knight

Who welcomed me with rough, inviting arms

And sent me dummy spars to keep me dumb.

I had to pick my fights with younger boys,

All blue-blood brats, so I could raise a sword.

Those thicks, of course, were picked to fumble flags

When King and Company went off to war.

I really can't complain, though, can I, dear,

For loveliness that I should oversee.

And all in all, it seems a marvelous trade:

That while they fumble cloths, I fumble lace...