December 31st, 2010
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Manuel Paul López
THE SCALES
She dyes my hair black on Tuesday nights.
I think she wants me to look like Trent Reznor.
Or like that long-haired guy from AFI. Or like Nobukata Kawai,
the guitarist from her favorite Japanese band, Envy.
I believe this though my brother says I look like Janet Wood from
Three’s Company,
and that makes us both laugh.
She says my face is too oily.
My mother says, She’s the one. Isn’t she?
I nod obediently and remain silent.
I can’t stand the way she bites her fingernails.
She likes to butter my toast, but instead of butter, she uses bacon grease,
and I hate it when people touch my food!
She plays my bass guitar in my spare room.
Her timing is impeccable, but I’m too scared to ask her to play in my band.
She even knows all of her scales.
I don’t want to be overshadowed. Besides, she’s too pretty
to be in a rock band.
I shouldn’t think this way because she’s awesome sometimes.
My friends think so, too, though I think they secretly want her
to front our band.
This all sadly reminds me of that heartbreaker of a movie, Rock Star,
the film where Marky Mark’s character is secretly nudged out of the band
he helped create.
I barely own any gear.
My days in the band are numbered—I can feel it.
Actually, my bandmates told me my days in the band are numbered.
I suppose everyone’s days are numbered,
so that’s why I want her to have our babies! Three of them!
Since we both eat fast and really really like energy drinks.
We’ll name them The Pointer Sisters even if we have three boys!
But she’s a smoker and I don’t think she’ll ever stop.
I can’t help but imagine ourselves in a delivery room.
Some day waiting in some hospital in some Boll Weevil’s kind of town,
waiting for our little bambino’s arrival.
For godsakes, our first child is going to be a large Humphrey Bogart
Bobblehead:
squinty eyes, fedora, a Lucky Strike in its mouth for her to pluck from
its lips and say:
Share with mommy…shaaaare…shaaaare…
A real bonding experience between mommy and newborn Humphrey Bogart
Bobblehead.
I can already read the Tweets, Facebook, and Myspace posts as I stand
there with my hands on hips
in total disbelief, asking our doctor for some kind of
guidance, wisdom,
for godsakes in this strange David Lynch movie moment—
But she doesn’t want kids, anyway.
She says she only pets them if they can spell Mississippi,
if they can refrain from shitting in their pants.
She likes the Cars but hates Ric Ocasek.
She keeps the exact amount of change in her pocket at all times and
she insists that I do the same.
So what do I do? Naturally, I do. She tests me. Sometimes
when I least expect it. One day we were swimming at the Plunge.
She reached into my bathing suit pocket and grabbed my scrotum really hard
and said, Nope, no bones here.
Everyone laughed.
She grinned then dove back into the deep end without ever making a splash.
She always tests me. I always fail. She says it’s bad luck to always fail.
I say No shit. So that means I must be the unluckiest bastard that ever existed.
She rolls her eyes then plays Manaqui Lazer songs on her iPod,
her thumb and fingers plucking bass lines across her thigh.
I can’t stand people who read cereal boxes.
I especially can’t stand people who read cereal boxes when they should be
reading Baudelaire, she says.
I can’t stand Baudelaire, but I’ll never admit this,
because if I do, she’ll insist that I articulate this judgment (most likely
in front of others),
and will prod me until something foolish escapes from my mouth.
She’ll call my analysis childish, naïve, and grossly insufficient for
a guy my age—
especially for having such a large head.
And don’t think I mean that figuratively, she’ll say, you are, after all,
the jackass who can never find a baseball cap that fits.
She rubs black dye in my hair while she restates all of this.
I convince myself that she does all of this because she cares about me,
though never of love (I can feel it in her fingertips).
I reassess this relationship most days while staring at the sun:
Is Ric Ocasek really worth fighting for?
Only to nod
and only to remain silent
obediently.
–from Rattle #33, Summer 2010
December 30th, 2010
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Review by Howard Rosenberg
BY LEAPS AND BOUNDS:
VOLUME TWO OF THE SEASONS OF YOUTH
by Louis Daniel Brodsky
Time Being Books
10411 Clayton Road
St. Louis, MS 63151
ISBN 978-1-56809-131-0
2010, 69 pp., $15.95
www.timebeing.com
The front cover of Louis Daniel Brodsky’s sixty-third poetry book caught my attention. A child’s crayon drawing fills most of it. As I began reading the poems in By Leaps and Bounds: Volume Two of The Seasons of Youth, I realized how well its cover fit its content, for the poems are about Brodsky’s daughter, Trilogy, during her second and third years. Brodsky’s poems reflect both his joy in being a father and his insight into what its like being his daughter’s age. They also offer glimpses in Trilogy’s encounters with a pet, a playmate, a great-grandmother, and illness.
In the first volume in the series, A Gleam in the Eye, Brodsky celebrates his daughter’s life from its beginning through her first year.
In By Leaps and Bounds, Brodsky reveals his devotion to his daughter: “I sit here, in the kitchen, this snowy morning / Alone with nineteen months of Trilogy, / Watching her out of my mind’s quiet corner” (“Daddy’s Turn”). Instead of just stating his daughter’s age, he expresses it in a way that shares that they’ve been together for nineteen months, a deeper communication. Even when his eyes aren’t upon her, his mind is.
Later in the same poem are my favorite lines, which show his skill in integrating metaphor: “She opens a miniature lunchpail, without fuss, / as though it were a Chinese puzzle / Whose maze of interlocking planes she’s memorized.” According to dictionary.com, a Chinese puzzle is “anything very complicated or perplexing.” By comparing her ability to open a lunch pail to being able to solve a Chinese puzzle, Brodsky’s making a statement about his pride in his daughter’s achievement without boasting about it. It’s an approach that works.
In another poem, “Learning Languages,” he follows her verbal development. He describes her words as “inchoate crystals / Waiting for time to cast its light / On her mind’s slowly forming diamonds.” I hadn’t thought of words as diamonds; however, they have value and can increase our personal power. Words are bridges: the stronger our vocabulary, the more bridges we can build and the better we can connect with others.
I also enjoy the way he weaves words into images, as he did with this line in “Still Crawling”: “Still Trilogy moves, overland, on driving knees.” It reflects the attention he gives to her and the pleasure he gets from her.
One of the more challenging tasks for a poet is to create first lines that engage readers, that motivate them to move further along. Brodsky achieves that with opening lines such as these:
“Time is the lake in which I bathe.”
“All week, she toiled at a machine.”
“We hold hands, as the world below diminishes.”
“Alone, this Sunday morning.”
These are not first-draft lines written within brief sittings, but lines that reveal time spent on revision. They remind me of those in Robert Bly’s writings. They work because Brodsky worked on them.
The book’s final poem, “Full Circle,” was well chosen for that location. This stanza, near the poem’s end, shares his thoughts about having to reveal to Trilogy that she will no longer be the only child while revealing the difficulty he will also face:
Soon, I’ll give her the explanation
(“Mommy has a new baby in her tummy”),
But I’ll never bring myself to describe
The vast sea change coming in October,
When nothing will be the same —
Though his poems center on his daughter, they reveal much about him both as a person and a poet. He’s a person I’d like to meet, a person who evokes a sense of trust. He’s succeeded in placing fatherhood in the limelight in an era when motherhood and its joys gather much more public attention.
When my daughter was Trilogy’s age in the book, I too witnessed many of her achievements and took pride in them; however, I lacked the skill to communicate my observations as elegantly as Brodsky has. What he has done is quite an accomplishment. It not only effected my recall of my daughter’s early years, but also how those years strengthened our relationship. For his act of kindness in writing this book, I am grateful.
____________
Howard Rosenberg has written articles for both magazines and newspapers, including the Philadelphia Daily News. My poem, “Stetter to Sheffield to Matcovich,” was selected by Spitball: The Literary Baseball Magazine as its “Baseball Poem of the Month” for July 2010. I’ve also written a book, Tai Chi Ch’uan 24 Forms for Curious Learners, still in print. Besides writing for publication, I teach writing at a two-year college in New Jersey.
December 29th, 2010
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Lola Haskins
THE FRUIT DETECTIVE
On the table, there are traces of orange blood. There is also a
straight mark, probably made by some kind of knife. The
detective suspects that by now the orange has been sectioned,
but there is always hope until you’re sure. He takes samples.
Valencia. This year’s crop. Dum-de-dum-dum.
The detective puts out an APB. Someone with a grudge
against fruit. Suspect is armed and should be considered
dangerous. He cruises the orchards. Nothing turns up except a
few bruised individuals, probably died of falls.
A week passes. There are front page pictures of the orange.
No one has seen it. They try putting up posters around town.
Still nothing. The detective’s phone rings. Yes, he says. And Yes,
thanks. I’ll be right over. Another orange. This time they find
the peel. It was brutally torn and tossed in a wastebasket.
Probably never knew what hit it, says the detective, looking
sadly at the remains.
There is a third killing and a fourth. People are keeping
their oranges indoors. There is fear about, that with oranges
off the streets the killer may turn to apples or bananas. The
detective needs a breakthrough. The phone rings. If you want
to know who killed the oranges, come to the phone booth at the
corner of 4th and Market, says the voice.
The detective hurries on his coat. When he gets to the
booth, the phone is already ringing. It is the egg. I did it, says
the egg, and I’ll do it again. The detective is not surprised. No
one else could have been so hard-boiled.
–from Rattle #33, Summer 2010
Tribute to Humor
December 28th, 2010
David LaBounty
21-GUN SALUTE
we started
talking about it
the way
one talks
about how
they’re
someday
going to
go to
heaven
or maybe
Costa Rica
we talked
about plans
for the
kids just
in case
the worst
should ever
happen, we
talked about
death & burials
& I said
I’m a veteran
I might
as well
take what
the government
will give me
even if
it’s nothing
more than
a burial in
a plain
pinewood box,
even if
it’s nothing
more than
an origami
flag & a
matter-of-fact
21-gun salute,
the shells
discharged
on the grass
barely
fertilized
by the
state w/ the
sergeant-at-arms
yelling “next”
I failed to
mention
what
happened
to me
yesterday
while
stopped
at a light,
how I
fell in
love w/
another
pretty girl
driving
another
beat-up car
just as I failed
to mention
the beautiful
simplicity
of a beat-up
car, how it
serves a purpose
just like
a plain
pinewood box
–from Rattle #33, Summer 2010
December 27th, 2010
Marianne Kunkel
A SLOTH FIRST HEARS ITS NAME
But why should it care? It munches
a cecropia leaf. It probes the air
with its blunt snout, detecting
a waft of sour coconut. It lumbers to a branch,
grabs hold with its claws, drops,
dangling upside down like a knapsack.
It doesn’t know to feel ashamed
that its name means lazy and sinful.
Like my little sister
after her abortion, when our father
changed her name from Molly to Molly.
–from Rattle #33, Summer 2010
