Another

Photo by RP Thomas

Lust

Big Mike left Tex’s

that night the proud

owner of a ’58 Harvester bus,

but oblivious to the lust

that had swelled up in Lizzie.

She seemed dizzy and loud,

though he did like her drawl,

and the way she squeezed

lemons and swirled her straws,

and pawed his money with long

Fingers painted red at their tips,

and moved her hips when she

dipped at a table to deliver fish &

chips before moving on, laughing.

Driving to the wrecking yard

That night, Big Mike was lost.

O he was very aware of the cost

of doing business with Tex, he

knew that much at least, for his

beloved Chevy was gone; in its

Place was an old bus that had

ceased to run and a woman named

Lizzie who liked to cuss and have fun,

and wear red in a crossroads town;

It would all soon wear Big Mike down.

TS

Four More

Photo by RP Thomas

Gone

Big Mike, late of Talent, disappeared one day.

A mechanic by trade, a “gentle bear,” he was

Last seen at the edge of town by Lizzie DeLay,

Who said Mike looked somewhat out of place.

Lizzie lived out that way and knew his face,

Had once told the mechanic to go get "fugged."

He blocked out the sun when he walked past,

Lizzie embellished in her indomitable way.

Mike was headed, as far as she could tell, fast

For the mountains and the “vast, blue horizon.”

She said, if you wanted her opinion, 

He had gone away to stay—Lizzie shrugged.

  

Big Mike

Big Mike loved Rolo,

Lizzie DeLay and the

Smell of gasoline—in no

particular order.

He ran the wrecking yard

just off Pacific Highway

Outside of Talent,

though he wasn’t the boss.

He was too mean

for that beneath his

Quiet, “gentle” demeanor,

as Lizzie and a few

Others knew quite well.

He’s “bent,” Lizzie once said.

But then Lizzie, Tex’s bartender,

wasn’t known as a saint, either,

Dead-right as she often

was.  Thence

Something happened

as it usually will,

When love and gasoline

are mixed like cheap swill.

Junkyard Dog

Big Mike’s dog Rolo was

no friend of Lizzie DeLay,

and that was okay with Mike.

A good old Boxer who

barked and barked again

at the smallest slight,

Rolo was proof certain

that a man’s best

friend is a good old dog.

So when Rolo bit Lizzie

early in the game,

the day after that first night

In Tex’s Tavern, the whole

town heard about it and

played along.  A literary

Wag quoted Bukowski:

“Love is a dog from hell.”

Though somewhat easy it was

Good enough for a few rounds

in Tex’s Tavern, Talent’s

accidental breeding ground.

The wag stayed

drunk for a week, which was

not uncommon nor profound.

Tex’s Tavern

Had Lizzie DeLay been working

the night the wag took the stage

and made fun of her, she’d have

smacked him on his kisser.

But Tex was working his bar,

“to watch the front door,” and to

guarantee at least three “profit

nights;” Lizzie worked the other four.

Tex, a big-city boy, had always

said he wanted a place out West

in a crossroads town busy enough

to make a buck, but unknown

to strangers down on their luck.

Passing through Talent in an old

Harvester bus, Tex spotted the bar on

Main Street and cried out, “The hunt

is done!”  “Hon?” Lizzie fussed, for

she was unhappy and given to doubt.

In the bar’s dim light, Lizzie saw Big

Mike when he came to inquire about

the bus, but things started slow. As Tex

parlayed the bus for a Chevrolet, Lizzie

began to sway, and soon enough, glow.

from the Talent poems

TS

Tough Road

Oregon hosts Arizona State tonight with it's five-game winning streak and a March Madness berth on the line.

Oregon needs one of the final two against the Arizona schools to at least get a shot.  Win them both and the Ducks are likely in.  Lose them both and they're definitely out unless they win the PAC tourney, which is about as likely as me winning a Pulitzer.

TS

Beyond Detritus

I've started a cycle of poems about small-town life--a fiction that is tugging me in the direction of a narrative form.  Slice of life stuff.

This is pretty exciting, and I think I can keep it going from start to finish, which isn't always the case I've discovered.  I have a notebook of fragments, or detritus, that haunts me.  I made do with some of it once, collected in Dooley's book, People, Polemics & Pooh-Pah, and I'll likely attempt something like that again.

But man, it would be nice to finish a project again whole.  It's been a while since I've done that.

So the grind begins.


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Value Plus

Well, that took too long--a month short of four years to finally achieve 100,171 page views here at Round Bend Press Detritus (formerly just RBP).

But it's okay, if I hadn't been doing this I'd have been doing something else to create trouble--that's just my nature.  Hell, I'd probably be in prison or dead by now.

You know, there are site analyzers out there who quote your value in dollar terms as a blogger.  I looked this one up a couple of months ago.

This blog is worth $87.50 according the experts.

That's capital, baby.  We're on a roll.


TS

Poem

Photo by RP Thomas

Old Fury

One exterior wall covered with license

plates from at least 27

states was the old woman’s idea—stolen

from a photo she’d seen in an old magazine.

Not a garage at all, but a bare and unsecured

portage of recycled planks, the structure

and the ‘57 Fury somehow gave the old woman

stature among her curious friends along Colver Road.

A vintage Plymouth with enormous fins,

the car was the same color as the woman’s fine,

flushed jowls when she drank her gin, and the

neighbors always wondered if it be by design—

The old man’s idea of a prank—for unlike his wife

he was much loathed in Talent and along Colver Road.

The car sat there day after day for years, undriven,

until the old woman died of cancer in ‘97. 

The old man, who died in ’88 and preferred his

Chevy pickup and his whiskey straight, never bothered to 

teach his wife how to drive, which explains why the 

Fury is so pristine and Colver Road is filled with such life.

TS

Poem

Photo by RP Thomas

Uncertain Forms

A vague and incomplete lettering

on a wooden fruit box demonstrates that

work both nourishes and tames the soul.

A journey has come to pass and

the flatbed’s driver is at rest, perhaps

drinking coffee in a roadside café,

Where he talks to friends about gasoline

prices and the death of another man

from a nearby town, whose

Life had taken a downturn when he

lost his second son in an accident that

winter, and a pall settles along the

Counter next to the sugar dispensers

and napkin holders—all of this before

the waitress cries out.

A kid has stolen a white five-gallon

fuel container from the flatbed parked

in the lot and is running  away now,

Away from the law. Running in the direction

of Talent, and someone says the kid is a football

star and headed for big trouble.


TS

Canned Soup

I should watch my salt intake more closely, but I must confess the bowl of Campbell's Chicken Noodle soup I just ate tasted really good.

Or maybe I was just really hungry.

'Twas the first can of Campbell's soup I've eaten in a long time.

Lunch is over.  Now what?


TS

Songs for Drella

These two couldn't get along, but what the hell...


TS

Bingo, Bango, Bongo

This is what I'm talkin' about.


TS

Enough Time?

My God!

I have at least five unfinished projects in mind and at various stages of development, and now we're once again sitting at the edge of total war.

Fuck these people!



TS

Oregon Wins!!!

A fifteen-point win over USC. Oregon dominated over the final ten minutes.

20-8 now, the Duckies need two more wins.

Hoo hay, they're still alive!


TS

Booze and Violins

I signed up for a month trial at Netflix and watched two movies last night.

Flight, with Denzel Washington, was mediocre at best, saying all the right things about the booze life, but I really enjoyed A Late Quartet.  For all the great work Philip Seymour Hoffman did in the latter, I thought Christopher Walken was the big show stopper with his turn as a Parkinson's-afflicted cellist.

PSH didn't quite master the physicality of a violinist when he moved and set up to "play."  He was much better when he got pissed off and punched out the first violinist.  It was as if he had too much respect for the instrument, handling it like a precious goblet.  I wonder if his contract stipulated that if he dropped the thing and broke it he'd buy it?

In reality the producers likely didn't let him touch a 25K Stradivarius.

Hell man, grab that sucker and play it--like someone who has played for decades.

Ironically, that was one of the themes of the story as well--artistic expression can at times be too delicate. Anything close to being real is going to involve risk and have a messy side.


TS  

Same Old Song

TS

Last Gasp

After trying to give away Thursday night's game at UCLA, Oregon is back at it this afternoon in a contest with USC (1 p.m PT).

This is another must-win scenario for my Mighty Ducks, who are apparently not as mighty as one supposed they were before conference play started. Their lofty no. 10 ranking had everybody fooled, though a rational observer might have noted they have no inside game.

With three games to play, Oregon probably needs to win two and then two more  in the conference tourney to get into March Madness.

Oregon could win all three--or lose them all.

Thursday's double-overtime win drove me up a wall.  The Ducks have been so inconsistent all season that they are at times unwatchable.

I'm like a kid at a horror flick when they play, covering my eyes whenever something bad happens, which is frequently.


TS