January 10, 2019

Jack Grapes

THE RIME OF THE ANCIENT MINOTAUR

I haven’t written anything in months.
Sunshine, sunshine everywhere.
I hate the sun, its constancy, its persistence in the face of misery.
I need rain, that hard, dark, pounding-on-the-windows rain.
I want it filling the gutters, splashing knee-high off the sidewalks.
How the hell am I supposed to write anything in all this sunshine.
Driving back from the airport, I take La Cienega through the Baldwin Hills.
Above the horizon, storm clouds belly over the setting sun.
I reach the top of the hill. In the distance, through a gray, misting rain,
I see the Emerald City, looking now like the tarnished pieces of an erector set.
By the time I get home, the rain’s making noise on the roof of the car.
Lori and Josh and I drive over to Borders.
Lori takes Josh off to the kids’ books, I decide to write a poem.
I go upstairs and get a bowl of soup and a book of poetry.
I set my journal to the side and read until something hooks me,
plucks some chord inside my body. A poem by Amazawa Taijirô that begins:

A man walking along the dawn highway
realizes suddenly
the back of his skull’s transparent
like a river of black lead.
In that instant unhesitating
he starts to walk backwards to the harbor.

Then I open the journal to a blank page and write a line.

Here comes the rain …

This is it, I can feel it. I’m gonna get that poem I’ve been waiting months for.
Suddenly, Josh comes running up and drops a book on the table,
almost knocking over the bowl of soup. “Hey, Dad. Look what I got.”
It’s a book called Monster Mazes, and he wants me to do one.
I don’t want to lose the poem I’m about to write.
I think to tell him I’ll be with him in a minute, but look into his face and decide against it.
We negotiate the hardest maze in the book, which takes nearly twenty minutes,
then he decides to go look for another book.
When he’s gone, I open the journal again. But the maze has exhausted me. There’s nothing left.
I look at the line I wrote—“Here comes the rain”—but the poem I had inside my throat is gone.
I see Josh over by the bookcase, his face luminous and open.
I begin to write a different poem, instead. Afterwards, I title it “Monster Maze.”

 

MONSTER MAZE

Here comes the rain (I write),
and my son Josh comes running up and plops a book on the table,
Monster Maze in bold letters on the cover.
He’s got me trying one on the first level of difficulty, where you can perish
if you stumble into a chamber of fire, or fall into a pit of snakes.
Other dangers lurk if you take the wrong path: I could become a welcome feast for rats,
“If you run into them,” he says.
Giant spiders might drink my “last drop of blood,”
and pit vipers will strike with poison fangs the moment I enter their lair.
Every path I take leads to a horrible death.
Josh assures me. “These are really complicated mazes Dad, but you can back up and try again.”
He takes my pen and shows me. “Oh, I get it,” I say, and persevere.
But it’s no use. He watches me, anticipating every wrong turn,
whistling his little whistle when I seem to be on the right path.
But it’s tiring. I just want to go home and watch the Barrera-Morales fight on TV.
“You’re doing good, Dad,” Josh says. He can tell I’m faltering.
The lines of the maze begin to blur. I’ll never get to the finish.
I decide to cheat.
I move the pencil just enough to make it look like I’m concentrating on the path.
With my other eye, I focus on the finish line
and begin to trace the path backward toward the start.
Josh is watching like a hawk now, hunched over the table, his head down just above the page.
He warns me about the Kraken, a terrible monster of the deep seas trapped eons ago
when an earthquake split the ocean floor.
Now the Kraken feeds on stray goblins and other hapless creatures.
That’s me, a hapless creature with bad eyesight and a shaky hand.
The lines blur even more. I feel a sense of despair, some great tugging at my heart.
What am I doing in this maze? Where’s the poem I was going to write about the rain?
It’s gone, and here I am in this stupid maze with nothing but the rapid pounding of the feet
of the terrible Minotaur who detests humans because they remind him
that he was once human, too. But it’s hopeless.
I decide to cheat again. I cross one of the lines and go directly to the path
I know will take me to the finish, but Josh is right there and catches me.
“Hey, you can’t cross the lines,” he says.
“Oh, yeah,” I say, feigning surprise, “ I didn’t notice.”
“That’s okay,” he says, helpful, optimistic, riding the back of my pencil toward certain victory.
It’s taking so long. I plod along, past The Giant Worm, and The Pit of Doom,
until suddenly I’ve reached the level where only the bravest dare go.
“You’re in Level Four,” Josh shouts.
“I can’t finish this,” I tell him.
I’m tired of the whole preposterous journey.
I look at him, hoping for permission to quit.
He tilts his head to one side and gives me that look, his blue eyes full of confidence in me.
“You’re almost there,” he whispers, soothing my frustration and despair,
his face luminous and mysterious.
I have no idea who he is.
He’s a light in the distance toward which I move, every day, closer and closer.
When I finally get there, he’ll be gone, I know.
“You’re almost there,” he croons.
So we’re in this together, my son and I.
I decide to trust in blind luck.
In a final chamber rests the fire-breathing dragon. He is old and his hide is thick.
His only comfort is to rest on the huge treasure he collected in his younger years.
If we defeat this dragon, the book says, the gods will transport us by magic
to the land of mortals, all our treasures in hand.
I look outside for a second and watch the cars on La Ciénega creep forward in the rain,
the rain coming down now even harder.
A hard, heavy, dark rain.

from Rattle #15, Summer 2001
Tribute to the Underground Press

__________

Jack Grapes: “I moved to Los Angeles from New Orleans in the winter of 1969, looking out of my unfurnished apartment at the rain that lasted for weeks. Welcome to sunny California, I thought. I came west because my comedy partner and I were selected to star in a Saturday morning TV series, but familiar story … it didn’t pan out. But I stayed, working as an actor. For about three years, I was still a New Orleans poet. The humidity was in my bones, and I had trouble writing during the day. Too much sunshine. But gradually the city took me over. I fell in love with the freeways. Ask me how to get anywhere, I knew the route. My friends called me Freeway Man. I drove everywhere. Loved the sense of freedom, the feeling I could be everywhere at once, and nowhere. That’s Elay. I’ve been an Elay boy for over 45 years. From Pico and Sepulveda to Western and Olympic. Don’t fence me in.” (web)

Rattle Logo

January 4, 2018

Hugh Fox

EDGES

She wants to keep walking, “Look at that maple,”
wind rising, as red as a coxcomb, like it’s bleeding
all over the ground, forest first, then the houses,
“I hate Sunday nights, weekends are so ‘us.’”
what I get for marrying a woman sixteen years
younger than myself, if I’d married Pat I’d be
out in California retired, walking on the beach,
seven days a week together facing the death of her
two (slightly older than her) sisters, waiting for the
Great Dark to descend on us both, instead of still
teaching, going down to the hospital every day
with my wife for lunch, her invariably inviting
me into her office to see some particularly
interesting cancer slide. I call Marcella in
Portugal, six our time, eleven there,
“You ought to come over here for the winter,
pasamos o dia tudo na praia, we spent
the whole day at the beach,” or my wife’s
brother in Brazil asking us when we’re coming
to visit again, “Estamos commuito saudade,
we miss you a lot,” some migratory bird
blood in me wanting out now while the
snowman parts hold on and want to stay and freeze.

from Rattle #15, Summer 2001
Tribute to the Underground Press

__________

Hugh Fox: “As a 68-year-old transsexual who, instead of transsexualizing, got married three times and fathered six children, I am now trying to find publishers for my 30 novels, collected poetry, and books about my discovery that Mochica Indian pots from ancient Peru are all filled with Phoenician words, and that the hundreds of drawings on the pots all portray scenes from Hercules mythology.”

Rattle Logo

November 2, 2017

Bob Branaman

LOVE LETTER TO POSCO (SHIRI)

The way you Smile and jump
And Your HAIR!
One could get lost in the black flowing midnight
Filled with curling stars, your hair
Endless flowing blue-black river of lava soft as scented hummingbirds’ wings.
Your fiery eyes like the Minean maidens
On Greek vases
Alive sparkling pools of mysterious Secrets.
Yes
I Love
The way you walk
And Hop and Skip
And sometimes give
A kung fu kick
Of your lips I’m afraid to talk
Lest you think I just want to kiss them
Bright quivering enigmas
Made of pink Carmine Flower Petals like a
Soft changing Dawn.
Your smile
Like the brilliant gold sun coming out
And your spirit (that thing within you)
Is like a freewheeling whirlwind of beauty
A tornado of holy energy
Spinning unnamable and Glorious!
Yes
These are some small attempts
At reasons of why “you are Loved by me.”
My meditation book suggests we write more and more love letters
That we sleep with them. That we write them on sheets with
Colored markers, etc, etc.
Well, this is the first love letter I’ve written in years and I hope
I will write More
We need love letters for everyone to run on and on like a beautiful brook
Or river bubbling and singing through our lives and dreams
Forever moving like a
Gold
Light
Song.

from Rattle #15, Summer 2001
Tribute to the Underground Press

__________

Bob Branaman: “I believe love is the only thing that matters.”

Rattle Logo

October 25, 2016

John Bennett

PLAYING THE GAME

Nine-eleven-96-hike the ball to the split-end the tight-end to the
end of the known world fling the fucker between your legs
and prepare to meet your maker as an army of 300-pounders beefed
up on steroids and quarter-pounders comes rolling over
you but what the fuck what the hell let the thunder die in your ears
as they go on their merry way in hot pursuit and then pick
yourself up and limp over to the sidelines where the coach will slap
you on the ass and the waterboy will slap you on the ass
and all the guys on the bench jump up and slap you on the ass you
did your job you set the ball in motion and even tho
you’re no 6-digit superstar you’re essential to the game and people
speak of you fondly if they speak of you at all which they
really don’t that much and ten years down the line maybe less
probably more like five when you’re drunk on a stool in the
last of the skidrow bars even the bartender won’t know your name
and he’s been a sports fan since before he could walk
which you can barely manage yourself drunk all the time on cheap
wine and one day you can’t even go in there you’re on a
park bench in a big overcoat with no pants underneath not pants and
a ridiculous pajama top and no you’re no pervert this is
just what it’s come down to and here comes that cop on a horse again
twirling his billy move on move on the words echoing
in your confusion you look around but there’s no place left to go and
then you look up and there is this world of winter
branches latticed against a blue sky. Something lifts something lifts
big time go there you think go there and you do.

from Rattle #15, Summer 2001
Tribute to the Underground Press

__________

John Bennett: “I am an iconoclast to the point that I don’t trust the word iconoclast. I’m big on elasticity and spontaneity and—more than anything—motion.” (website)

Rattle Logo

October 6, 2016

Art Beck

THERE’S SOMETHING UNEXPLAINABLY OPPRESSIVE ABOUT

this speechlessness, as if it weren’t enough
for me to keep quiet, as if I’ve been assigned
nasty keepers—a persecutor
who strolls into my cell
four or five times a day
to remind me in his memorized English—
“No talk. No words. No speaking
allowed.” But as he leaves the cell-block, the steel

doors ringing in the air, the guards’ fear
lingers like cologne as if they know
the simplest language can destroy these walls.
Know, even if they were to tear out
my tongue, shatter my cellmates’ ears,
our fingertips dancing in code
would recite the story of the resurrection
and the life. It’s the inexplicable
illusion of solitude that keeps me silent.

from Rattle #15, Summer 2001
Tribute to the Underground Press

Rattle Logo