May The Daily (W)Rite wk 2

wk o2

 Thursday, May o8, 2o14

   Having a three day old panic attack. I can't write. I never could write. Three nights ago I was shaken awake by an earthquake. Not being able to sleep, I decided to look over some poetry that I had planned to publish on Facebook. And I'm drinking coffee and reading and  . . . I realize all of a sudden that this poem sucks! Not sure why (all of a sudden) I had that realization, but I most surely did. It was horrible writing. That's when the panic began. I opened up my flash drive, looked at every poem I had ever written . . . and yes . . . it was true . . . All of it, every poem . . . sucked. I was screwed! How could I have been so stupid as to think I could write poetry that was worth a damn?!
  

Of  course my Facebook friends tried to console me:
"Oh, your poetry isn't THAT bad."
"Maybe you just need to do a little more rewriting."
"There wasn't an earthquake in Oklahoma last night. You must be delusional."
I'm not sure how the last one was suppose to make me feel better . . . but the others didn't help either, so . . .  As David and I had dinner I told him about my sudden epiphany, "I suck as a poet." He just laughed saying that that happens all the time to writers. It's growth. It means you are strengthening your art, your craft . . . you're becoming a real artist. Well, his words were a bit more comforting than my other friends' assessments. Even though I'm still not sure if I can write anymore, or if I ever COULD write.

   So what do I do? Do I continue to write this crap in hopes that I'll find my way to "the good stuff" ? Should I just quit, give up, go sit on a park bench somewhere and feed the birds and shout at the kids when they pass by, "Turn that damn music down, you punks!" Well, I can't do that. They have i-pods now.

3:30 P.M.

   Forcing myself to sit down at the computer and write. Write what? Hmmm. That's the haunting

question. I'm taking a step back and looking at my intentions. I mean, I know I want to be a writer, but I'm not all that sure I have anything to write about! Or at the least, anything that people want to hear. I guess that's the my problem. I'm trying t write for an audience instead of writing for myself. But then, I'm back at the same place with, "what do I want to write about?" I feel like I'm lost in an imagination blackout. I'm not finding anything interesting to write about. Oh, it's there, I know its there . . . I just can't see it. So, I'm reading some other poets. Mostly famous poets to sort of get my observation skills back. No, I don't want to "copy" some famous writer. I just want to me inspired.

   Here's a writer that I truly admire. His skill and his artistic thought process is something I feel like I lack:

Cuttings (later)

This urge, wrestle, resurrection of dry sticks,

Cut stems struggling to put down feet,
What saint strained so much,
Rose on such lopped limbs to a new life?
I can hear, underground, that sucking and sobbing,
In my veins, in my bones I feel it --
The small waters seeping upward,
The tight grains parting at last.
When sprouts break out,
Slippery as fish,
I quail, lean to beginnings, sheath-wet.       
-Theodore Roethke

  Roethke does so much with this piece, he sees and expresses so much  . . . and that's the problem with me lately. I can't see it, the art, and I have no craft to express it. I can't see and I can't express.
So, the journey begins. Reboot my creative self. Start over, or at least, move in a different way, see the world in a different way and improve my skills. Learn to crawl before I can walk or run or . . . write.

Saturday, May 1o, 2o14

Driving down Boyd, crossing the tracks, the car in front of us stops flipping on it's left turn signal.
And there we are, David and me, in his little car, on the railroad tracks.
"What the fuck are you doing, David?! Get of the fucking tracks!"

"There's no trains coming!"

"Get off the tracks!" 

 Yeah, I was having a panic attack. David didn't appreciate it at all, pretty pissed at me for the rest of the Art Walk we were driving to.

 

  As we were walking along on Main St. looking for a place to eat, we started to cross the tracks and I stopped to take a picture. Well, David really let me have it! "Hey! Get off the tracks! A train might hit you!" We both laughed and I apologized for being such an old lady about it.

   I have had them all the time, through out my little life. Panic, I mean, real run for your life panic. It happens any time that I feel unable to control my life. I don't think about it, it's not a conscious choice, it's primal, I guess. And, be as truthful ass I can, it has fucked my life. I've lost friends, lovers, hell, even jobs over this manic state I get into anytime I feel threatened.

   Other than me almost destroying the only friendship I have . . . the Art Walk was extremely relaxing and fun. Took quite a few pictures, and David walked around for a few good hours before his body started to tire out. But he's getting better. The physical therapy seems to be helping a lot. He needs to exercise after the therapy is over or his body will probably go back to it's original daily pain. Hell, I need to exercise too. "Use it or lose it."
   Oh, the animation above depicts one of the many street musicians you can find on Main Street during the Art Walk. Particularly interesting about this animation is the reflection of the traffic passing by the big bay window behind the guitarist.

 

Monday, May 12, 2o14

   Yesterday. Mother's Day. Most of my Facebook friends paid tribute to their moms yesterday. Some showed old photos back when mom was a kid, or mom as a very young mother with her children hanging off of her like leaves on a tree. Some pictures showed mom today. Much older, fragile but smiling, though. My friends love their moms. They all testify to the good nature, the caring nature of their individual mothers. A few years back I wrote a poem about my mother. . .  sort of:

 

My Mother’s Day

Sundays were always lazy days

around our house. Dad would lie

on the couch drinking beer, watching

the Figure Eight races on TV, nodding

off every now and then. A single snort

from his open mouth would wake

him with a start. He’d take another

sip of beer, wipe his eyes and fall

right back into whatever dream he was dreaming

without even noticing that car 56 had just been

rammed into oblivion by a Plymouth Fury.

Mom busied herself in the kitchen. Doing what?

I don't know.  Motherly things.

She scurries about all daylong from the kitchen sink

to the  refrigerator. Always looking for something

but never finding whatever it was she kept looking for.


Me and Brother Dennis would sit on

the back-porch listening to Mother

banging around in the kitchen

and mumbling to herself.

 

We never talked my brother and me.

We just sat digging at the dirt with

the heels of our tennis shoes quietly

dreading school on Monday. We hated school

almost as much as we hated each other.

And my sister? She moved out ‘long ago

to our Aunt Ella and Uncle Ace's ranch  

in the high desert. I never knew exactly

what she was doing up there so far away

from her family, her real family. I never

understood my sister or her moods.

Come to think of it, I never understood

any of the women in my life. That’s

probably the reason why I live alone.

Anyways,

it’s Sunday, Mother’s Day. As I write

this poem, I wonder what my mother’s doing . . .

probably walking to the refrigerator, to the kitchen sink,

stopping to fold and refold the dish towels, the cloth napkins

her mother had willed to her two years ago. She searches still,

I suppose, for that something she could never find.

—rrw o5-13-12 (rewrites o5-11-14)

Wednesday, May 14, 2o14
Watching the news this morning, I got a bit of a start when they said, "If you are lethargic, it might be a symptom of early dementia." Well, that's me for the last year. Don't feel like doing anything other than laying on the couch and watching TV. What the hell, man, I don't want dementia! I'm forcing myself to do things write, damn it! I know. If I have the big D, me writing everyday probably won't do anything. But I've got to try. I will not:

Do Not Go Gentle into That Good Night

-By  Dylan Thomas  

Do not go gentle into that good night,

Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Though wise men at their end know dark is right,

Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright

Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,

And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight

Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,  
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

And you, my father, there on the sad height,

Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Damn, here it is nine days before my birthday and I haven't even started on my annual birthday poem! I've been writing one every year since I turned 55 (or so), and don't want to stop now. So, the business of the next nine days is . . . write that damn POEM!

3:13 P.M.

David didn't pick me up when he went to his physical therapy. I feel jilted! Hope he's not mad at me. I was looking forward to going down to the PT gym and watching all the old people and the young jocks on crutches and in wheelchairs struggling to get inside. I can't help but try to figure out what happened to them. Was it a car accident, a football or soccer injury? Was there a fight? The old people, well, you can figure out pretty fast their reasons for being there . . . they're old. I also miss reading my book. I know, I could just as easily read it here at home, but there was just something about going to that comfortable chair I claimed as my own in the waiting room, sitting in it and reading until, that is, my eyes began to close . . . reading makes me tired these days. A lot of things make me tired. I wake up ready to go back to bed.

Still haven't come up with my birthday poem . . . yet. A few ideas pop into my head, but I dismissed most of them. I am a bit worried that I won't find an idea. I need an idea . . . NOW!

 

  

May The Daily (W)Rite wk1

The New Daily (W)Rite

wk o1

Thursday,

"The month May was named for the Greek goddess Maia, who was identified with the
 Roman era goddess of fertility, Bona Dea, whose festival was held in May. Conversely, the
Roman poet Ovid provides a second etymology, in which he says that the month of May is named for  the maiores, Latin for "elders," and that the following month (June) is named for the uniores, or "young people" (Fasti VI.88)." -Wikipedia

   Yes, it is May 1st, May Day! honestly, I had forgotten all about it being a "holiday!" I remember celebrating May Day in elementary school, though. The school erected this giant May pole in the middle of the play ground and the WHOLE school came out and dance around it. The WHOLE SCHOOL. We never knew as a kid why we were doing it. We just knew it was fun.

 But May is most important to me because my birthday is in MAY! Yeah, hitting the big six-six this month, 66 years old! Yeah, I'm not quite the Beast (666). However, a few old girlfriends might say, "Close enough for us!" I think birthdays are important. It is the ONE time of year when we celebrate the individual. One day a year it is all about that one person you know who was born on a certain date. It's a good thing to celebrate the birth of a person. For one day they are celebrities, people recognize their existence. Yeah, a very good thing. And mine is coming up! I always do something special for my birthday. I take myself to a movie, maybe dinner, or to the zoo or something. Yeah, sometimes I share my birthday with others but . . . I always like one day for me to just celebrate  . . . me. The biggest thing I do on my birthday is write myself a birthday poem. I've been writing the poems for ten years (or more)! Here's the one I wrote last year:

… At 65

I count the change inside my pocket with my left hand,

my fingers know instinctively the weight and size            
of quarters, nickels, dimes… a delinquent penny
that tries so hard to mask its absolute unworthiness.
But it can’t fool me; Lincoln’s beard is far too prominent.

With eyes half closed I watch the sparrows picking

through the spring-green lawns outside the window.
An extended winter for them; famine and cold,
a darkness so thick the barn owl refused
to hunt at night. Even the sturdy crow refused—

Well, that’s not quite right, no, not true at all.

Crows would never miss an opportunity to stir-up trouble,
taking what they want without a thought for
self-inflicted harms, surviving one worm at a time.
But they hope, crows do, and they pray and so
often they sing when they  really shouldn’t… off key,
most times… boy, how we wish that they wouldn’t.

I once believed myself a crow. A dark, black creature with

enormous kite like wings, sculpting brutal midnight
from the skin of the sky with my ferocious Ginsu beak.
All the while Her Moon-ship screamed at me, “Stop that!”
But I ignored her, didn’t care to hear, never notice all the tears
forming on her cratered face, dissolving into desperate stars.
Selfish little girls are crows, oh, yes, that’s what we are.

According to my fingers there’s exactly sixty-five cents lost somewhere

within the gravitational folds of my black-hole pocket. Should I take
their word for it or count it myself? No. Not once have they lied to me.
Well… Except that one time when I desperately begged them to do so.

Written for Robert R. Woods

on his 65th birthday

May 23rd, 2013

Friday, May o2, 2o14

 

  

  

   Did this interview for a blogger a few weeks ago. He was doing all kinds of interviews with Vietnam Vets for VV Day, which I wasn't even aware existed. Anyway, He wanted a picture of me and we went outside, I stood against a brick wall, and snap, snap! See ya later. I posted a copy of the picture on my Facebook page and David commented that " Man, it looks like the same pose you used in the poster for Cuckoo's Nest!" And he was right! It was almost the same pose! The Nest poster was around thirty-eight years ago. I guess it goes to show that some things don't always change that much, maybe physically, maybe, but thoughts, attitude, dreams, they take longer to dissolve . . . yeah, the memory holds on for most of us. Not sure that's always a good thing. There's a lot of things I've done or have had done to me that I wish I could forget, like that time the drunken stepfather stuck a shotgun in my gut, or the time me and Adcock broke up, her leaving me all alone in L. A. where I didn't want to be in the first place. Yeah, shit like that. I could do without the memory. You know that "wise" saying, "Those who do not learn history are doomed to repeat it."? Well, when it comes to bad things in one's life, I don't think it holds true. I think the MORE we remember, the MORE likely we are to repeat the same mistakes over and over again in an attempt, I guess, to get it right. That's a laugh.

   Went with David to his physical therapy today. Not sure what's wrong with him, and it's none of my business anyway. As the physical therapist took him to the exercise room, I said, "I expect you to

come back 20 years younger." Everybody in the waiting room laughed. Most of them were even older than me and David so I guess they kind of related to the idea, at least. It's not fun to sit in a physical therapy waiting room because a lot of seriously fucked up people come in there. This one kid, who looked like a high school football player, was all hunched over, clinging to one of this four pronged canes, and, brother, every move he made just trying to get into the building HURT! And day before yesterday this really, REALLY old guy came in for a massage and he had to have three caregivers to walk him in. I was wondering why they didn't just roll him in, in a wheelchair. I guess, he needed to keep walking even though it took three people to help him walk AND sit down. I think I fear that most about getting old. Can't move around, do my thing. Mind going? That's bad too, but not as bad as not being able to go anywhere, do anything without all kinds of folks to help you.



Saturday, May o3, 2o14

 

  It's a beautiful Saturday afternoon outside my window. But for me it's still morning. I didn't even open my eyes until 11:30 AM.  I gotta get out of this habit of staying up until five or so in the A M. Not sure how I got into it in the first place. Maybe because when I was working, I always had to jump out of bed by six every morning. Now I don't have to. But I should. I need to get up early, jump in the shower, get dressed and head out to The Gray Owl and WRITE. I'm getting back to the idea of writing . . . but not enough. Why am I so lethargic? Am I sick? Yeah, you start worrying about things like that when you get older. Normal aches and pains, normal when you younger, start taking on symptoms of something more serious like the dreaded (wait for it) CANCER! Yeah, I try NOT to worry about that too much, however, I am well aware that it is possible. So, the big plan is to start getting up in the mornings and . . .  WRITE, DAMN IT! Write anything, anywhere! Just friggin' WRITE! Coffee, nicotine gum, paper and pen (or computer). I haven't really written much lately using the ancient tools of our ancestors . . . pen and paper. Hell, I am as addicted to using the computer as I am to nicotine and caffeine. I'm a computer junky, I'm mainlining the internet, YouTube, Facebook, Wikipedia! Thank God I can't afford Netflix!

Sunday, May o4, 2o14



   Yes, May The 4th Be With You. I learned awhile back that there is a "holiday" for just about everything, and, yes, a holiday for every day of the year . . . Yep, pretty much. Most of these "holidays" are obscure and not actually "sanctioned" but who cares. Holidays are fun! And to think of each day as a holiday, a day for celebration . . . well, there are worse ways to live one's life. Some of my hardcore Star War fan friends are spending the day watching ALL the Star War movies. Some, less hardcore, are watching only their favorite SW movie. I myself . . . Well, I watched Jaws last night. I know, sacrilege. Although I do appreciate the Star Wars series . . . I only liked the first movie. I know, I'll burn in hell. However, I do  sincerely wish my SW friends a wonderful 4th Be With You Day!

   I was suppose to go do laundry today. I got up at 8:30, YES! I actually got up before

noon, and I had plan to go to the laundry, got all my dirty clothes (well, not all because I don't have a big enough bag to put them all in AND be able to carry it slung over my shoulder . . on my bicycle.), my laundry detergent, my Clorox, quarters already to go the night before . . . and then I just decided not to.  I know. I SHOULD do laundry . . . and clean the house . . . and shower more often. But I'm comfortable with my rather slovenly life style. Not sure I'm using the word "slovenly" right . . . but bad vocabulary works well with my way of living. The good thing is, as I said above, I got up at 8:30 in the morning! Now maybe I can get some order back in my life and do all those boring chores I need to do in order to be accepted into society.

Tuesday, May o6, 2o14

Yesterday, David and I went to see THE AMAZING SPIDER-MAN which wasn't quite as amazing as the director and Sony Pictures probably wished it was going to be.

But then again, the box office take will be outrageous enough that they (probably) don't care if it's a good flick. I got friends who don't care. They're "happy" with the film! In fact, I got a bit chewed by one of my pals because I didn't like it. Yes, I'm a "hater." That's very true. I HATE movies that aren't good, that aren't well produced, movies directed by hacks who don't yet have the skills to direct a major motion picture. And the primary problem with this film is the director, and, of course, Sony Pictures, the company that HAD to get something out there (good or bad) because they were about to lose their lease on the franchise. Can't let a chance to make money go by. Hurry up! Throw SOMETHING out there!

   As grumpy as I sound I do like going to the movies. I like "planning' the outing to the Warren:
Me: Okay, David I'll wake you up at 9:30 am. That'll give you enough time to shower, drink

coffee.

David: What time you want me to pick you up?

Me: Hmm, well, the movie starts at 11 am. 10:30 should be good . . .

David: But what if it's crowed?

Me: On a Monday morning? No, there probably won't be anyone there but you and me.

   And I love haggling with the ticket girl: "Got any discounts for old people?" "No, sir. Only at night. But we do have a matinee discount, $7.50." "Yeah! Two at $7.50, please."

 Getting popcorn and a large ice tea is also fun, and going into the huge, dark auditorium, waiting for our eyes to adjust and meticulously picking our seats for optimum viewing pleasure. AND previews! Love to see what's coming up and discussing with my viewing partner which movie to come looks good, and which do NOT! It's all fun!
And it's particularly fun if the movie is really good. Not so much fun when it sucks. But even that has an enjoyment factor. At least I can bitch about how BAD it was and complain on Facebook and my blog about it! (smile)

 

 





 

 

 

 

  

   

   

 

 

 

 

 

The New Daily (W)Rite April wk 1

The New Daily (W)Rite

wko1

Thursday,  April 3, 2o14

 

So March 29th was Vietnam Veteran's Day. I have to be honest and say . . . I didn't know we had a Vietnam Veteran's Day! It may be a new thing. Anyway, a Facebook friend (Rustin Sparks) writes this page, Oklahoma, The Way I See It, and he decided to do this Vietnam Veteran Day special where he interviews vets. And I got in touch with him and we had lunch, well, HE had lunch. I just sipped on an ice tea. And we talked a long time about Oklahoma and Norman Town . . . and when we finished he took my picture . . . and we never got around to talking about Vietnam! However, when I got home, I received an IM from him asking me to write down some stuff about my experiences. He asked me some specific questions, and I wrote a LOT! When I get talking about 'Nam, I write a BIG LOT! He only published a bit of what I wrote. So, I thought I'd share the pic he took AND the stories I told him on my blog.

Marine Corps Cooks

In Vietnam
(Semper Fi, Stir and Fry)

 

1. How old were you when you went to Vietnam?
I was 19 years when I hit Vietnam. When I got to the staging area to catch a convoy to whatever unit I was assigned, I saw a couple of black Marines sitting in the dirt listening intently to a portable radio that was broadcasting the news: “Dr. King has been assassinated.” So, that was either the 4^th or maybe the 5^th of April of 1968. I would turn 20 years old in May.

2. What did you do in the war?

I was a Marine Corps cook assigned to a headquarters unit at Camp Carroll. Yeah, being a cook was not very glamorous. In Nam people respected us okay because you don’t fuck with the guy who cooks your food, but stateside? We were the lowest of the low. I wrote this monologue about being a cook in Vietnam. Most of it is true:

Nam ‘69

What you see before you is a United States Marine,

the finest fighting man in the entire world today!For a cost of three hundred fifty-two dollars and… thirty-two cents

my Marine Corps gave to me this fine

M-16 rifle. For an additional cost of

eight hundred and forty-seven dollars

my Marine Corps taught me to fire this fine M-16 rifle

with such speed and accuracy that I’m capable of knocking

a fly off a shit wagon at about’a thousand meters.

For a total expenditure of three thousand, eight hundred,

ninety-nine dollars and… thirty-two cents

My Marine Corps successfully transformed me

from a puky civilian… like you…

into a lean, mean, fighting machine!

And then do you know what my Marine Corps

in its infinite wisdom did? It sent me to Vietnam

as a goddamn cook! This was embarrassing.

When I came home from Vietnam and

I would walk down the street in my fine,

Marine green uniform, people would stop me

and ask, “Hey, man, are you a Marine?!”

And I would answer, “Sir, yes, sir!”

And they would say, “Hey, man, were you

in the Nam?’

And I would answer, “Sir, yes, sir!”

And they would say, “Hey, man,

what did you do in the Nam?”

And I would answer, “Sir, I was a cook, sir!”

“A cook?! Why, boy, you ain’t shit!”

If you are a cook in the Nam… no one will write to you.

Your mama and daddy will not write to you.

Your mama and your daddy if asked by a neighbor,

“Hey, man, where is your son?” would rather say,

“ Oh, he’s a draft dodger up in Canada…”

Than admit that you’re a cook in the Nam

‘cause they are embarrassed!

The only people who will write you

are the ugly girls who advertise

for pen pals in the Stars and Stripes.

Still you do not tell them you are a cook

for they are ugly  and have enough

to be embarrassed about already.

There is a brother in the Nam

from San Francisco and of Oriental descent.

For the price of five American dollars

he will dress up in black pajamas and

you can have your picture taken capturing

a genuine Viet Cong  to send

to the ugly girls who advertise

for pen pals in the Stars and Stripes.

Sooner or later they will send you

pictures of themselves…

And if they are too ugly,

there’s another brother  in the Nam

who will write them back and say,

“Dear Suzy Q, Joe Blow will not

be writing you anymore for he has stepped

on a landmine and killed himself.”

Now, this may sound cruel to a civilian… like you,

but as all good Marines know, war is… embarrassing!

 

3. Give me two or three of your most prominent memories of the war.

   a. Once I was in the mess hall storage area stacking some C Ration cases when an enemy rocket landed just outside the mess hall. Damn thing hit so close it knocked me off my feet. I lay on my belly with my arms wrapped around my head. I could hear the shrapnel flying right above me. I waited for the sound to stop, got up and ran for the nearest bunker.

 

   b. As I said before, I worked for a Headquarters unit which was made up of a bunch office pogues. I don’t know what they did. Just a lot of paper pushing, sort of Marine Corps accounts, I guess. Anyway, the pogues hated it when the grunt units would roll into town and wanted to use “their” mess hall. And the grunts hated the pogues because they acted all high and mighty. It was sort of like the Sharks and the Jets except with bigger guns and not much ballet dancing (hee!). Anyway, I was chief cook this one time, and one of the pot shed grunts told me there was a problem in the mess tent

where the pogues and grunts sat to eat chow. So, I go rushing in there, and sure enough there’s this grunt on top a picnic table yelling at some office pogues, "I’m gonna kill you motherfuckers!” He pulls a grenade off his flak jacket and pulls the pin! Fortunately, his buddies talked him down, got the pin back into the grenade and quickly got the fuck out of there. I went over to the pogues (they were all cowering in a corner of the tent) and asked what the hell happened. Well, turns out they were all pissed ‘cause the grunts were there, and they started picking on this one kid saying stuff like, “Boy, you smell. Don’t you ever take a bath?” This pissed me off and I told them that if they wanted to use my mess hall again (it wasn’t MY mess hall, but what the hell) they better not fuck with anybody anymore!

c. Cooks got along with the grunts. We respected them. One time me and this other cook were shutting down the mess for the night when this group of nine grunts came out of the jungle! They must have been on some kind of patrol. This one grunt asked if they could still get chow. We couldn’t heat anything up because the stoves were all off, but we could get them some peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and some milk. They said that was fine, so we feed them and then we finished shutting down the mess for the night.  An hour later, me and that other cook go to the club for a beer and there are the grunts we fed sitting at a table. The head grunt motioned us over. Him and his pals wanted to buy us a beer for feeding them. Well, you learn real fast to NEVER turn down a free beer. So we sat and that head grunt pushed his chair real close to us and thank us again for feeding them. And then he said, “Is there anybody giving you any trouble?” And me and the other guy laughed and said, “Yeah, our Staff Sergeant is a real pain in the ass.” AND then the grunt got even closer and said, "Tell me where his hooch is. He won’t bother you again." And it dawned on us that this cat was serious. We said it was okay. We didn’t want that kind of thing. And that grunt just looked at me and said real soft and gentle like, "Are you sure? ‘Cause I’d do it, man. I got nothing to lose. I’m not gonna make it out of this country alive, anyway.”

4. When did you come home, and what was your transition back to civilian life like?

Well, I left Nam on April 18^th, 1969. But I didn’t get out of the Corps until ’71. I did get a 30 day leave that I got to spend with my parents. And I learned that in civilian life, at the dinner table, you shouldn’t say, “Pass the motherfucking mashed potatoes, please.” I did go on a blind date with some girl that an old friend of mine had set up for me. We were walking down the street, a car backfired and I jumped down into the gutter with my hands over my head. The Girl didn’t know what to make of that. Needless to say . . .  no goodnight  kiss. In the 80s I was working at the Library Bar washing dishes on a Saturday afternoon, and it was hot, and the kitchen reminded me of the mess hall at Camp Carroll, and there was 60s music playing, and one of the cooks threw an ice cream scoop into the empty metal sink next to me as he yelled, “INCOMING!” and the sound that scoop made when it hit the sink? Well, it sounded like a rocket hitting so I hit the ground. I thought it was so funny that so many years later my body had not forgotten what to do when the rockets come. 

5. What is your favorite thing to do now, and why?

Well, take pictures, write poetry and watch TV. Sometimes I write about Vietnam. Not much though. I did write a play about Marine Corps cooks in Vietnam. Actually, I got it produced through the Street Players Theatre back in the 90s. It went over pretty good, I think.
 
4:56 PM

Believe it or not, David and I were out of our respective holes by 9 AM! Yes, it's true. He called about 8:30 saying he had some "chores" to do around town. I'm not sure if he was still up or if he had gone to sleep for a few hours . . . but I jumped at the chance. I shaved fast, brushed the old teeth and was waiting for him to call me on the phone.

First stop was the library. We just walked in the doors and BAM! The lights in the library went out! No big thing 'cause the library has BIG windows. The cute librarian told us about a sort of contest they were having. Each library worker picked 5 (?) books and created a short poem from the titles they selected. And the library users were voting on which poem they like the best.

Next stop . . . the tag agency. He needed to get his tags for the car renewed. I went in and the girl doing the picture taking for the licenses asked if I need any help. I said, "Naw, just waiting on this guy." "Were you in the military?" she asked. I'm sure she was reading my blue jean jacket with all my Marine Corps patches on it. I was waiting for the "thank you for your service" cliché that folks like to say to anyone they suspect was in the military. "The reason I asked," she continued, "is that if your driver's license has a "Veteran" tag on it, you can get free stuff around town. You can get the tag for free." So, I took her up on it and then she added, "Oh! I need proof that you were really in the military . . . " I showed her the "war wound" I had on my finger. Not enough to get the vet. tag. She needed something in writing. Oh, well.

And then it was coffee time. Lights were out in the Gray Owl . . . but again, not too much problem they had the BIG windows too. And fortunately, they had coffee already brewed. We both got iced coffee to make sure. While we were there an old friend of mine, Norman Hammon, came in. "Hi, guys," he said to me and David. Norman was once a really good friend of mine. But that was way back in time. These days, we just give each other a friendly, "hi" and a fast handshake. Too much bullshit had happen for us to call ourselves friends anymore, I guess.

So, after coffee, we went out to the car and David had a ticket for expired tags. Hee! Turned out he should have put the tags on the car right after he got them. And that was our day. Tomorrow we are heading to the  Medieval Fair. Lots of picture taking tomorrow! :)
 



 

March The Daily (W)Rite March wk 4

The New Daily (W)Rite

wk o4

Sunday, March 23, 2o14

March 23, 2o14

Afternoon sits on the windowsill
along with Dead Elvis,
Dexter and the other guys.
I'm sure the spring sun's surprised
to see the plastic snowman smile
as he dances on the window ledge
in greetings to the spring ahead.
My Peeps won't last the summer
if I leave them there and the window ledge,
and that's somewhat of a bummer.
I want the world, the trees
in the Energy Center parking lot,
the gray squirrels that will spend
their warm summer days
eating nuts and things beneath
the shade of those wonderful trees,
yes, I want them ALL to see
the tiny creatures that haunt my apartment.
rrw o3-23-14

Yes, it certainly is spring! However, it is a bit chilly and rainy. Folks are still out on the streets in their stocking caps and heavy winter coats, and the trees haven't begun to give birth to their lovely green children. But the birds know it's spring. I know it's spring by the winds breath. Yeah, still a bit cool but there's something gentle to the touch of it on my cheek, in my hair. No doubt . . . it's spring!

Tuesday, March 25, 2o14



March 24, 2o14 (Spring Poem No. 5)

"May I climb on top of you?
I'm very hot . . ." she said.
David just finished brushing
the toast crumbs from his beard,
I stared like a dead eagle at her tattoos:
A wild stallion outlined in black
galloping up a green, bicep hill side,
a drunken Donald Duck
posed for a fight
on her muscular, bare shoulder.
Caption: WHAT the FU***
you lookin at!
"Sure." I'm sure I said sure.
I know I was smiling.
She leaps up, no
flies like Superman,
up, up, and away
onto the booth seat,
one hand playfully, skillfully
turns the thermostat knob down
to sixty-five degrees.
"Ah, that's better."
She then waddles past us
to the table that needed clearing
leaving David and me admiring
the heroic acts
of the tip driven waitress
who served us spring breakfast
this lovely afternoon.

 

Yep! Yesterday I did get David up and out of his apartment just in time for breakfast at The Diner. He ate pretty light, bird like. I, of course, scarfed down a plate full of scrambled eggs wrapped in a hot flower tortilla and home-fries (back in NM we called them papitas!).  Bette Maffucci was there. We said hi as she passed our booth. We didn't notice until we were finished eating that she was sitting alone right behind us! So, we went over and apologized for not inviting her to sit with us, and we sit down to chat with her. Bette owned and ran the old Town Tavern back when I worked here. She's the one who gave me my first job in Norman Town. A feisty woman even now with lots of opinions. VERY disappointed in me when I told her we were getting ready to go to Wal-Mart for groceries. She doesn't like Wal-Mart. She thinks you should buy only local. It was great to see her. It was great just to get out of the apartment and visit with the world . . . even if it was only for a little while.

Thursday, March 27, 2014

March 26, 2o14 (Spring Poem No. 6)
 
Spring rain brings hope.
You can see it on the sidewalks,
in the leisurely stroll
of those passing by.
No hurry in a spring's rain.
Even the cars that usually rush
passed my window . . .
patiently gliding along,
their engines sigh like . . .
like a newborn waking up
after a midmorning nap.
The sparrows too
seem somewhat subdued
when a clean spring rain
comes calling.
No yelling, no screaming,
no honking of horns.
We humans . . . a strange species.
Quite gentle we can be at times.
rrw o3-26-14

Sorry. Got busy doing . . . well . . . nothing actually. I just missed a day. It's late. Very late. I'll write something tomorrow.