the poetrysheet
whimsy, subversion, bowling
Number 481, March 26,
2004
The Big Weekend
*Correction
to #480, March 24, 2004
“Congress shall make no law
respecting an establishment of religion, or prohibiting the free exercise
thereof; or abridging the freedom of speech, or of the press; of the right of
the people peaceably to assemble, and to petition the Government for redress of
grievances.”
—First Amendment to the Constitution of the United States of
America
paragraphs,
rejected from various manuscripts, and now more interesting by themselves
In Kansas City, May promises cool breezes for at least another two
weeks. But spring was never predictable. It was a flood year—it had rained
almost every day since the middle of March. But May 9, 1995, the sun shone, and
it was comfortably cool. Once off the doorstep of the house, it was as if the
old world had been made anew.
Unlike the sedentary and comfortable who often complained of such
things, I had come to understand the necessity of prairie winter—the beauty of
bitter cold winds uninhibited by anything but the curve of a hill, of the
envelope of a snow-laden sky that seemed to reach down to my feet, and the
never-ending chill that stiffened fingers. I saw logic in burning heat, the
smell of dried grass, a dust devil driven up from sun-baked clay, and the slick
ache of humid air. I knew the loneliness of a mighty river that flowed through
his sea of grass—a fertile land once thought so dry and sterile it was known as
the Great American Desert.
I sat on a park bench and watched business people, shoppers, and
diners walk in groups of two and three in the bright sunshine. Two men in a
sleek mid-1960s Chevrolet cruised slowly down the busy block before Kelly's.
Both sat ramrod straight in the sparkling car, dressed in white T-shirts and
wearing black sunglasses. They stopped a moment next to a group of young women,
music blaring from the open windows. The passenger lowered his glasses and
smiled.
Relief from crushing sameness came only infrequently. Monday
mornings, I extracted dead spotlights from exterior fixtures with the plunger
end of a 30-foot light changer. It was a lucky break when condensation fouled
the lacquer sprayer, and I had to negotiate the pipes and boilers that sat
around air compressor. Every now and then, when the other engineers were busy,
my boss sent me to the roof to check gauges at the cooling towers. The view of
the city at 140 feet provided moments of excitement as I walked along the edge
of the building. The highpoint came when I stood on a busy streetcorner and
scrubbed the naked breasts of the voluptuous, bronze Diana that lounged over
most of a flower garden in front of the hotel.
Some
routine breakers were not so pleasant. It was my job once a month to sweep
metal shavings from the engineers' pipefitting, sawdust from furniture repair, and
little bits of black rubber from hundreds of cut hoses into a pile and out the
door. A wall of stink sliced into the room and settled—rotted grease and
garbage leaking from the truck-sized compactor, and the odious reek rising from
crushed liquor, beer, and wine bottles in the recycling bin. I pushed the pile
into the snowshovel and then, swimming through the miasma, I rolled
battleship-gray paint on the floor—over flaking layers the same color.
The backpack mystified me. It was small and compact. But why, for
instance, did everything fit one day and not the next? Was there a paper magnet
that attracted myriad detritus from tourist sites and museums? If I needed a
particular item, say a flashlight or a pen, why did the entire contents have to
come out to find it?
The
pack also was the focus of a bizarre daily ritual. Cooking and sleeping
concerned nearly everything in the pack, which, at night, hung limp on its
frame with a spray of material around it. Straightening papers seemed to be the
biggest work of packing, after which, the circle of material would grow smaller
and smaller. I worked and toiled, sweat and stuffed, folded and punched. The
circle grew ever smaller until in a blip, like a surprise ending, the pack was
packed with zippers zipped and pockets buttoned.
At
the Blue Lantern, all the extra paper went in the wastebasket. I mailed
receipts and literature from museums and attractions (for what purpose?). A
hooded sweatshirt—worn once on the road from Wilber to Friend—extra socks, and
two T-shirts went into a brown paper package with the literature and pamphlets
to mail home. In the fray, I discovered I’d lost my flashlight and would need a
new one.
"Listen, we only have two more days out," she said.
"Some of the younger kids are feeling bad, homesick. And rain's coming
again. It isn't going to do anything for them. I would be good if you could
come by the geyser on your way out and make an appearance. It'll do them
good."
Uplift associated with the caldera—basically a ring of volcanic
activity—and the Rockies and the retreat of glacial ice sheets created many of
the water eroded geological features in the park, including the canyon.
silent company
By Jerry LaMartina
there’s a place on the south side of
the house where I lived my first eight years,
in front of the French doors in the living room.
I awaken in my sleeping bag next to
my brother, John,
doors cracked open
morning June air surrounds us.
climb from my covers and walk through the house
filled with the silence of my sleeping family
that gives me the comfort of mother’s milk
warm from the breast.
climb back in my sleeping bag
let the June air surround me.
thirty-five years later
always take my sleeping bag along.
deadline day,
proofs are out,
newsroom’s hunched over red pens
eyes roam line after line in silence.
windows don’t open in here.
silence surrounds me.
Riverfront
Readings at the Writers Place, 3607 Pennsylvania, Kansas City, MO, Friday,
March 26, 8 p.m.:
Maril Crabtree
and Deborah Shouse
The Riverfront
Reading is always a good time, and afterward, there’s always fine discussion
over drinks and food at a nearby, mutually agreed upon restaurant.
Be bold. Show
up. Have a good time.
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