Welcome to The Kitchen Sink!

Hi there. This blog is devoted to all manner of creative writing and is updated daily. This means investigations and analyses; poetry and prose; reviews of film, literature, and music. This means dramatic writing, introspective writing, unique and original writing. This means politics and passions, hobbies and recommendations.

I invite each of you to provide comments or criticism, suggestions and feedback at any time. I would also like to invite you all to submit your own original content. Simply e-mail me or insert your copy as a comment. Please include your own ‘byline’ information, copyright information and/or author’s note so you can be credited for your own work. More voices mean more variety. Let’s fill this Kitchen Sink with all the beauty and originality it can handle.

Sincerely,
Chris Hibbard
chris.hibbard@uleth.ca

Can I Get A Witness?

A short story
by Chris Hibbard
Written August 10, 2011
Begun at 11:15 p.m., finished at 12:45 a.m.
MST time, Canada

Can I Get A Witness?

"Can I Get A Witness?"

Charles was a short man. His father was short, just like his grandfathers on both sides. For all he knew, his ancestors were short on all sides, going all the way back to the 16th century. He had been told there was some Scottish in there, mixed with some Danish blood – but what does that all really matter anyway.

With a job in the print shop at the city newspaper, Charles lived comfortably; though sometimes he’d come home stinking of ink, his clothes stained beyond repair. As his calico cat named Chun-Li never seemed to give two shits about anything but the sound of Friskies, any dirty laundry was of little consequence. He’d wrapped up a big four-day project at work today, and was feeling good about the world, looking forward to nursing a few cold Pilsners this evening while watching tonight’s hockey game on his big screen. Charles’ life was literally floating by him quite effortlessly, with nary a care in the world. That is, until the drive home, when it all went south thanks to some bad frickin’ driver.

Gorgeous

A short story
by Chris Hibbard
Written August 5, 2011
Begun 9:45 PM- Completed 11:05 PM
MST time, Canada

Gorgeous

Timothy Squire hadn’t been out much lately. He’d been spending a lot of time with his big screens and online multi-player roleplaying games, and thereby engaged in all sorts of imaginary mischief. In fact, Timothy couldn’t remember the last time he’d touched a real human being.

This issue did not affect the young man much however, as he’d become quite comfortable in solitude. He’s gotten used to the individual sounds created by his furnace and water heater and become accustomed to the ‘chick-chick’ background motions of cheap venetian blinds rubbing together. This affinity for isolation was what caused Timothy to jump; (nearly out of his skin as the expression goes), when there came a knock on his front door at 2:00 AM, one average Tuesday morning.

Timothy was deeply involved in the latest Playstation sensation, re-enacting the adventures of a Greek god who was taking revenge on all other gods who had wronged him. His last combination attack had decapitated a hydra and disemboweled a gorgon.
He’d called into work this morning, pretending to have a stomach condition in order to take down that giant freakin’ Minotaur that was guarding Pandora’s box of evil. Timothy couldn’t get over how the game included the newest in high quality sound effects, with huge DTI, 300 per-cent stereo sound-surround vibrations. But now this frickin’ knock… Taking one more medium swipe with his axe-chain, Timothy hit the Pause button.

A Whole New Leaf?

A reflection
by Chris Hibbard
(Lethbridge, Alberta, Canada
August 2011)

A Whole New Leaf?

* * * * *

Call it a flash of enlightenment or a stroke of genius, heck, I’ll even take temporary insanity. Call it what you will. The fact is, I’ve given up on the Poem a Day facade. I can’t update-slash-dedicate a new posting on a regular basis, though I pretended I could for two full years now. The fact is, everyday constant communication is just not my style, and I’m really only kidding myself. So, in exchange for this admission of weakness and confession re: my lack of motivation – I propose a whole new challenge.

We should think of it as Round 2 of a whole new Kitchen Sink blog page. If all goes according to plan, every week I’ll be composing a new short story; one that is somewhat engaging if not inspiring to the Nth degree. (I think that’s the first time I’ve very typed the Nth Degree, and now I’m wasting time pondering what the expression means exactly). But I digress.

If all goes according to my typically flawed creative nature, you’ll all be reading a new short story that’s been written by me four times per year. If all goes according to the rhythm through which I am typing at this very minute, you could very well be reading the first chapters of some novel I’ve completed by the end of the week; some Giller Prize-cum-Pulitzer masterpiece which is only officially published years after my demise; after some scrappy offspring of my now-mature nieces come across some old files and documents while re-booting some handheld hard drive device.

So in honour of this newfound commitment; this moment of renewed valour and honest (and sorely outdated) blog communication; Tonight Is The Night. In an hour or so, the first of many short stories will appear. I hope you enjoy them, for they will each be completely improvised; enjoyable bouts of civilized rambling.

Yours,

Chris Hibbard
The Kitchen Sink
Lethbridge, AB

If Silence Is Golden…. I Want No Part Of It

If Silence Is Golden…. I Want No Part Of It

A rant
by Chris Hibbard
Music Lover
(Originally written for www.labeat.ca)

If Silence Is Golden... I Want No Part Of It

This week something happened to me that has impacted my life in ways I never imagined. It has changed my perceptions regarding people, habits, justice and driving. This incident occurred on Wednesday, in the wee small hours of the morning. At some time between midnight and eight a.m., some knucklehead took advantage of my leaving a car door unlocked – opened the door and removed my stereo.

Now, to a music lover like myself – this was a serious blow. Opening the door to my car to head off to work on Wednesday, I think I went into shock. Nothing else was missing – spare change was left behind, my registration and insurance was there. The only thing missing was the faceplate for my stereo. That’s right – get that – they didn’t actually take the whole deck itself, they merely took the faceplate. A faceplate made specifically to fit that one JVC model car stereo. This means that this bloody thief; this scandalous vulture of entertainment; this diabolical mischief maker – has merely managed to piss me off, and has gained nothing. He can’t listen to my stereo, and neither can I. It’s almost like he or she broke into my house and stole the sofa cushions, leaving the sofa behind.

I’ve contacted the police, and have notified my neighbours that there is trouble afoot. The police recommended that I wait a few days before replacing the sound system, as there’s a chance they may find it and return it to me. In the meantime, driving around has never been so dry. I find myself shaking, going into withdrawals and nibbling on my bottom lip when I’m behind the wheel.

This is because my stereo makes me happy. I always have a CD in the player, with another one or two loose somewhere as backup discs. I always have the radio tuner set and pre-programmed for my favourite AM and FM stations. I even had the equalizer set up the way I wanted it, with the best sonic acoustics while, pleasant for both myself and any passengers in the vehicle, even while driving a high-speed with the sunroof open.

I used to get in the car, settle in my seat, start the engine and get the music going. I would get it all cued up at the right volume, the right song, hell, with the right energy for my mood – before I ever shifted into gear. I’d blast out of the neighbourhood bopping to jazz music, tappin’ to the rock and roll, or groovin’ to some electro-beats. No matter where I drove, there was some appropriate music or spoken word radio program to accompany me. Now there is silence. Silence and wind and the noise of a 4-litre Honda engine. Now there is an empty spot staring at me from the front of the dashboard, with the shiny lip of a CD glaring at me from the CD player’s mouth itself – the newest album from Newfoundland indie rockers Hey Rosetta – stuck in the player, and I have no means of removing it. Because I have no eject button, thanks to some moron and his sticky fingers.

I believe in karma, so I know this chump (or chumpette, no assumptions here) will get his or her just desserts. Someone will break into their room and steal their pillow, leaving them with just an empty pillowcase. Someone will invade their privacy, break into their refrigerator and steal all the oranges – leaving only orange peels. Someone will break into their car and steal their ashtray, leaving all the butts on their seat. Someone will….. do something…. won’t they? Won’t they? They must… For I’ve gotta head out now. I’ve gotta hop in the car and cruise. But I don’t like driving anymore. Not like I did last week. Now, driving feels more like a chore; like the tedium of waiting in an airport or standing in line at a government agency – except at least then I’d have Muzak. Damn you thieves. Whoever you are.

For Shame, Crow Hater!

A Letter to the Editor
by C.E. Hibbard
Written for the Lethbridge Herald
June 24th, 2011

In response to Lethbridge Herald letter: “nature’s ‘serial killer”; published June 21st, 2011 – as seen here:

http://www.lethbridgeherald.com/letters-to-the-editor/no-reason-to-celebrate-natures-serial-killer-62311.html

For Shame, Crow Hater!

Dear local crow-hater: You have once again roused me from an otherwise comfortable existence to come to the defence of the innocent.

Your most recent letter somehow inferred three things: since A) crows and magpies will dine on other bird’s eggs and B) do not have a pleasant singing voice; they are C) annoying and should all be exterminated.

Your letter essentially called out the entire Corvidae genus as being the lowliest of birds; unworthy of the same respect that we prescribe to the robins and geese in our fair city.

The creative writer side of me wishes to roast your letter, and I imagine ‘murders’ of crows and magpies setting up observation posts in your cul-de-sac, pooping on your car whenever you appear outdoors, and cawing at you from distant treetops to wake you up early in the morning.

More rationally, I simply feel obliged to write some form of letter to protect our lovely blackbirds. As an “avid birder”, I would think you could appreciate crows as the intricate machines they are. They are devoted family members; problem solvers, and yes – omnivorous eaters of eggs, meat and well…. everything.

Intelligent beings found on all major continents, crows live wherever people do. Tests have revealed that they are as smart – if not smarter – than other creatures we admire such as chimpanzees, dolphins and golden retrievers. If you don’t believe me, ask David Suzuki!

Birds such as magpies, jays, ravens and crows have inspired hundreds of works of art. We drive daily on the Crowsnest Trail and Red Crow Boulevard. We have co-opted expressions like ‘crow’s feet’ and ‘eating crow’ to represent human conditions. I won’t even begin to list the songs, sports teams, and even entire aboriginal cultures – that have been inspired by these “cunning marauders”. Like it or not, crows and their kind have become iconic metaphors in our culture due to their very nature – which you seem to despise. They are crafty, selfish and, well — a lot like us.

Until crows learn to write (and one day they just might, being the ‘smartest of all birds’ after all) I will gladly turn over the responsibilities of penning letters like these to my fine feathered friends themselves. In the meantime, I feel obliged to protest your somewhat genocidal attitude regarding our Corvidae cousins and encourage you to be a bit more Canadian about it: assimilating and accepting of all our birds – chickadees, geese and magpies alike.

Sincerely,
C.E. Hibbard

See chapter one of this ongoing editorial battle here:

http://chrishibbard.wordpress.com/2010/06/09/let-them-eat-crow-i-say/

Failure Is Not An Option

A poem
by C.E. Hibbard

Failure Is Not An Option

Somebody told me it couldn’t be done
and with a chuckle I replied,
‘So maybe it couldn’t, but I would be one
Who wouldn’t agree ’til I’d tried.’
Then I buckled right in with a grin on my face
And if I was worried, I hid it.
I started to sing as I tackled this thing
That couldn’t be done, and I did it.
Somebody scoffed: “Oh, you’ll never do that;
or somebody else would have done it”
So I took off my coat and I took off my hat
And the first thing you know, I’d begun it.
With the lift of my chin and that silly little grin,
and without any doubting or limit,
I started to sing as I tackled this thing
that had never been done, and I did it.
There are thousands that tell me it cannot be done,
There are hundreds that expect me to fail;
There are dozens who point out, one by one,
All the obstacles meant to derail;
But I buckle right in, with a determined grin,
I just shrug off that coat and go to it;
Once I’ve started to sing as I tackle each thing
If it cannot be done, I will do it.

It’s The End Of The World As We Know It… But I Feel Fine.

An editorial
By Chris Hibbard
(Originally written for www.lethbridgeliving.com June 2011)

It's The End of The World As We Know It...

Much has been made this year about catastrophic climate change, cataclysmic events, manic reverends predicting the end of the world, and other Armageddon promotion. I’m not a particularly religious man, nor am I a huge conspiracy theorist. So I must admit to finding all of this hullaballoo to be quite hilarious.

Every century has had it’s doom & gloom soothsayers, from Nostradamus and the Book of Revelations, through Mayan Calendars and Milleniasts. The world was supposed to end 400 years ago, then 300 years ago, then at the year 2000, until most recently – two weeks ago. And guess what? Lo and behold, we’re all still here – like little ants crawling over a big blue stone in the universe.

For Whom the Bell Tolls

An editorial
by Chris Hibbard
Music Lover
originally written for www.labeat.ca

For Whom the Bell Tolls

Several years ago, Lethbridge lost it’s A & B Sound. A few months later, we lost our Music World. During this same period, Calgary’s long-time standing A&B sound locations shut their doors. Even the legendary Sam the Record Man on Queen St. in Toronto closed up shop. This slow, dwindling extinction of options for shopping for CDs was all indicative of a quantum shift into the digital age, and was all about the resulting changes in the way music lover’s like me acquire their music. Between Itunes and satellite radio networks, Napsters and Limewires, LastFMs and bittorrent sites, CDs just aren’t profitable anymore it would seem.

Now, if you enter the last remaining non-independent ‘music’ shop in Lethbridge, i.e. HMV, the CD section only takes up one tenth of the store’s floor space. The rest is filled with video games, Ipods, headsets, cell phone cases, DVDs and box sets of television seasons. Alas, two recent articles I came across would indicate that even this last-standing reminder of the 80′s and 90′s listening trend is headed the way of the buffalo as well – i.e. dying.

The first was a short blog posting on the Maclean’s magazine website. The article detailed how it was recently announced that the huge, multi-level HMV store on the corner of Robson street in Vancouver will be shutting down this year. The second item I found was a press release released last month by HMV’s U.K.-based parent company, the HMV Group, who have announced they are considering selling off all 123 of their Canadian HMV outlets.

The company is facing a great amount of debt, thanks to the slow decline of album sales in this new age of streaming video clips and single song sales. The president of HMV’s Canadian operations is a man named Nick Williams. Ironically, Mr. Williams said in the prepared statement that while the company is contemplating the closures, the HMV Group has “no intention of withdrawing from its position as the number one entertainment retailer in the country,” and it continues to work on an overhaul focused more heavily on “digital downloads, technology and related entertainment products.”

That’s right – in case you didn’t catch the irony in this, I wonder how this company can still consider themselves the number one entertainment retailer in the country when they don’t have enough sales to merit staying open. Moreso, in the future, how can they possibly claim to be the #1 retailer when they have no retail outlets at all? Now, I don’t often shop for CDs at HMV for a number of reasons, the main one being I just typically avoid the mall completely. Yet Mr. Williams, the big man on campus for HMV Canada, said that the company has plans to evolve its business, so that any changes moving forward will have a positive impact on the Canadian retail operation.

I’m happy that they intend on moving forward with revised business models and new growth plans, but I wonder what this all means? Are we going to see little HMV vending machines on street corners, from which you punch in the code for the new Foo Fighters album and it drops down by your feet? Will there be HMV kiosks in the mall where you walk up, place an order for the item you want, and then wait a few days for it to arrive in the mail? Perhaps there will be one giant HMV warehouse that only deals in online sales. Or maybe they’ll keep the stores open, they just won’t sell CDs anymore. For shame.

When some of the latest figures report that HMV is essentially $200 million in the hole, that’s an awful lot of product that needs to jump off the shelves. And how exactly will it start jumping, when there seems to be fewer and fewer people even shopping for music these days. I honestly just do not know how they can survive, now that everyone else is dead.

Sometimes I miss the good old days. The sad truth is that the CD market has been evaporating faster and faster since the late 90′s. As a collector of CDs, I hate to admit that the writing seems to be on the wall. For I really hope you can make it HMV – I really do. There are a ton of recording artists out there who spend big money to make new albums, and there are less and less places for these to then be sold. So if HMV kicks the bucket, I hope they have a big public funeral, for there go the last of the giants. And know this – if they do have a funeral – I’ll be there to play Taps on a trumpet; after first taking advantage of any major going out of business sales of course.

Your favourite holiday is back!

By Chris Hibbard
Originally written for www.labeat.ca

Your favourite holiday is back!

Collectors and fans of vinyl records and LPs are going to want to know all about this! (Though most likely, many of them already do.)

Next Saturday, April 16th, is the fourth annual international Record Store Day. This special holiday, celebrated the third Saturday of each April, was founded in 2007. It is a celebration of the unique culture that surrounds vinyl, as well as the nearly 1000 independently owned record stores around the world that satisfy the needs of vinyl collectors. This one day sees record store owners, customers and musicians gathering together to rejoice in commemoration of what is still considered to be the finest sounding medium for appreciating music.
As part of the annual celebration, hundreds of artists make special promotional products and appearances, exclusively for this occasion. Last year’s Official Ambassador was Josh Homme from the Queens of the Stone Age, while this year it is the Prince of Darkness himself, Ozzy Osbourne, that champions this unique occasion. All of the stores that participate in Record Store Day are real, physical, ‘indie’ record stores – not those online retailers or corporate mega-chains that sell individual tracks or big, major label Top 40 artists only.
In Lethbridge, there is only one such store – our very own Blueprint Entertainment. As the only store in Southern Alberta that receives and sells the exclusive Record Store Day content, for record collectors and vinyl buffs, Blueprint is the place to be on Saturday. Located next to the Red Dog Diner downtown, Blueprint is owned and operated by Mike Molloy.
“I was fortunate enough to born in an era where vinyl was still a go-to source for quality music,” Molloy said. “I remember being about eight years old in Calgary, and finding a small record store in the mall near my house. I’d go and hang out with Bob, the owner, and it was like finding the holy grail – it was the be-all and end-all. Bob introduced me to some of the greats, like the Stones and CCR, and those memories have stayed with me throughout the years.”
A big music collector himself, Molloy’s passion for independent record shops led him to find outlets like Calgary’s Sloth Records and Megatunes, not to mention road trips to Seattle and more. To this day, he has yet to visit a city in which he doesn’t stop for a while to seek out the local record store. “From a personal level,” Molloy said, “it’s all about that idea of the hunt being more important than the find – it’s about the enjoyment I get from sifting through piles and stacks of records and CDs, just staring at their covers and jackets, and soaking it all in.”
As the owner of a record store for the past five years, Molloy finds himself in an interesting position – essentially he is a re-incarnation of Bob, that store owner who influenced his life so many years ago.
“Unlike some of the big box and mall stores, I can come in to work each day and be turned on to new artists and musicians by other music collectors like myself,” Molloy said. “I never would have found out about so much of the music that I carry in here today had I relied on the Internet and chain stores. That passion for collecting and love of the more obscure or independent artists can only be found behind the counter of an independent record shop, and I’m always happy to try and pass that passion along.”
For Mike and Blueprint, the annual Record Store Day is truly a day worth celebrating. While from a sales perspective it’s a good day for the store, Molloy says the best part involves having fun. To this end, Blueprint brings in live musicians who play in-store throughout the day, and customers mix and mingle while drinking coffee and juice. This year’s performers include Jesse Northey, Fist City, DJ Pez and Picture Postcard.
It is Record Store Day’s exclusive releases that make it a huge draw for vinyl aficionados though. While Blueprint can’t guarantee they’ll be selling every exclusive title, as many of them are limited editions only, the items that do come in are very special indeed. This year’s list of Record Store Day-only releases includes over 150 exclusives from a wide variety of artists. Exclusive singles are available by big name acts like Kings of Leon and the Foo Fighters, while special 7″ and 10″ records are released by more obscure indie favourites like Fleet Foxes and Blitzen Trapper. A full list of participating artists and exclusive RSD titles can be viewed at www.recordstoreday.com.

As a self-admitted music geek, I know where I’m going to be on Saturday afternoon… so how about you?

If you’re still not convinced, check out what these guys have to say…

Nick Cave; Nick Cave & the Bad Seeds, Grinderman:

“Do yourself a tremendous favour and go to a record store today. The relatively mild exertion of getting off your fat, computer-shackled ass and venturing out to find the object of your desire, the thrill of moving through actual space and time, through row upon row of records, and the tactile ecstasy of fondling the quested treasure—all this will augment and enrich the mental associations the music invokes in you for the rest of your life.”

BT; DJ:

“A long time ago, people that made music meant it; people that bought it cared and celebrated the listening to it as an activity unto itself. They read the liner notes like a sacred text and conversed for hours on the intricacies of a band, a sound, a producer, a label, the artwork, a movement. Oh yes, in a store, face to face. Uphold that tradition. Honor our stores that still exist that cater to people making music that still care, and fans that do too.”

Henry Rollins; Black Flag & Rollins Band:

“I have watched independent record stores evaporate all over America and Europe. That’s why I go into as many as I can and buy records whenever possible. If we lose the independent record store, we lose big. Every time you buy your records at one of these places, it’s a blow to the empire.”

Ziggy Marley; Ziggy Marley & the Melody Makers:

“Record stores keep the human social contact alive it brings people together. Without the independent record stores the community breaks down with everyone sitting in front of their computers.”

Fat Mike; NOFX:

“If it wasn’t for independent record stores, I would be a San Fernando valley real estate agent.”

A daily poem #358– March 29, 2011

A poem
by Edgar Allan Poe

Imitation

A dark unfathomed tide
Of interminable pride -
A mystery, and a dream,
Should my early life seem;
I say that dream was fraught
With a wild and waking thought
Of beings that have been,
Which my spirit hath not seen,
Had I let them pass me by,
With a dreaming eye!
Let none of earth inherit
That vision of my spirit;
Those thoughts I would control,
As a spell upon his soul:
For that bright hope at last
And that light time have past,
And my worldly rest hath gone
With a sigh as it passed on:
I care not though it perish
With a thought I then did cherish.

A daily poem #357– March 27, 2011

A poem
by William Blake

My Spectre Around Me

My spectre around me night and day
Like a wild beast guards my way.
My emanation far within
Weeps incessantly for my sin.

A fathomless and boundless deep,
There we wander, there we weep;
On the hungry craving wind
My spectre follows thee behind.

He scents thy footsteps in the snow,
Wheresoever thou dost go
Through the wintry hail and rain.
When wilt thou return again?

Dost thou not in pride and scorn
Fill with tempests all my morn,
And with jealousies and fears
Fill my pleasant nights with tears?

Seven of my sweet loves thy knife
Has bereaved of their life.
Their marble tombs I built with tears
And with cold and shuddering fears.

Seven more loves weep night and day
Round the tombs where my loves lay,
And seven more loves attend each night
Around my couch with torches bright.

And seven more loves in my bed
Crown with wine my mournful head,
Pitying and forgiving all
Thy transgressions, great and small.

A daily poem #356– March 25, 2011

A poem
by William Wordsworth

Rural Architecture

There’s George Fisher, Charles Fleming, and Reginald Shore,
Three rosy-cheeked school-boys, the highest not more
Than the height of a counsellor’s bag;
To the top of great how did it please them to climb:
And there they built up, without mortar or lime,
A Man on the peak of the crag.

They built him of stones gathered up as they lay:
They built him and christened him all in one day,
An urchin both vigorous and hale;
And so without scruple they called him Ralph Jones.
Now Ralph is renowned for the length of his bones;
The Magog of Legberthwaite dale.

Just half a week after, the wind sallied forth,
And, in anger or merriment, out of the north,
Coming on with a terrible pother,
From the peak of the crag blew the giant away.
And what did these school-boys? — The very next day
They went and they built up another.

– Some little I’ve seen of blind boisterous works
By Christian disturbers more savage than Turks,
Spirits busy to do and undo:
At remembrance whereof my blood sometimes will flag;
Then, light-hearted Boys, to the top of the crag!
And I’ll build up giant with you.

A daily poem #355– March 23, 2011

A poem
by William Blake

The Schoolboy

I love to rise in a summer morn
When the birds sing on every tree;
The distant huntsman winds his horn,
And the skylark sings with me.
O! what sweet company!

But to go to school on a summer morn,
O! it drives all joy away;
Under a cruel eye outworn,
The little ones spend the day
In sighing and dismay.

Ah! then at times I drooping sit,
And spend many an anxious hour,
Nor in my book can I take delight,
Nor sit in learning’s bower,
Worn thro’ with the dreary shower.

How can the bird that is born for joy
Sit in a cage and sing?
How can a child, when fears annoy,
But droop his tender wing,
And forget his youthful spring?

O! father and mother, if buds are nipped
And blossoms blown away,
And if the tender plants are stripped
Of their joy in the springing day,
By sorrow and care’s dismay,

How shall the summer arise in joy,
Or the summer’s fruits appear?
Or how shall we gather what griefs destroy,
Or bless the mellowing year,
When the blasts of winter appear?

A daily poem #354 – March 21, 2011

A poem
by Sandra Beasley

Vocation

For six months I dealt Baccarat in a casino.
For six months I played Brahms in a mall.
For six months I arranged museum dioramas;
my hands were too small for the Paleolithic
and when they reassigned me to lichens, I quit.
I type ninety-one words per minute, all of them Help.
Yes, I speak Dewey Decimal.
I speak Russian, Latin, a smattering of Tlingit.
I can balance seven dinner plates on my arm.
All I want to do is sit on a veranda
while a hard rain falls around me.
I’ll file your 1099s.
I’ll make love to strangers of your choice.
I’ll do whatever you want,
as long as I can do it on that veranda.
If it calls you, it’s your calling, right?
Once I asked a broker what he loved about his job,
and he said Making a killing.
Once I asked a serial killer what made him get up in the morning,
and he said The people.

A daily poem #353 – March 19, 2011

A poem
by Michael Cirelli

Birthplace

Deep in the Boogie Down—
the bassinet of the boom bap
where the trinity is The Treacherous Three,

English is the third language
behind Bronx and Puerto Rican,
and I was nervous

because I only speak Catholic school
and I’m a Red Sox fan.

I’m just a student of KRS-1, not a son,

on a train fourteen stops beyond my comfort
zone hiding behind headphones coughing
bass, and a backpack full of lyrics:

Notorious B.I.G., Rakim, Perdomo,
Run DMC, Brooks, wanting to be real cool,

wanting to be their “dawg”—
but feeling like a mailman,
another Elvis

to the students I will lead
through a workshop in a language

I itch to get my rusted cavities around.

A daily poem #352 – March 17, 2011

A poem
by Sarah Teasdale

Only in Sleep

Only in sleep I see their faces,
Children I played with when I was a child,
Louise comes back with her brown hair braided,
Annie with ringlets warm and wild.

Only in sleep Time is forgotten –
What may have come to them, who can know?
Yet we played last night as long ago,
And the doll-house stood at the turn of the stair.

The years had not sharpened their smooth round faces,
I met their eyes and found them mild –
Do they, too, dream of me, I wonder,
And for them am I too a child?

A daily poem #351 – March 15, 2011

A poem
by Julie Sheehan

Cracked Ice

When I return, I’ll come in clapboard, stained
chestnut, with lead-based paint on radiators,
old-fashioned, and a little bit insane

but sturdy to a fault. A spalting grain
on punky myrtle and no refrigerator
when I return. I’ll come in clapboard, stained

shake shingles skittering on skewed roof planes
that snarl the corner lot like unpaid panders,
old-fashioned and a little bitten, saying,

“Leave our sightlines sharp. Let dormers train
what angles water sheds.” They congregate for
when I return. I’ll come in clapboard, stained

with varnished truth: you ran me down. You caned
old rockers with prefab splints, hack renovator
refashioning me bit by bit, insane

to strip as spilth fine bulrush. I’ll maintain
myself, then. There will be no mediators
when I return. I’ll come in clapboard. Stained,
old-fashioned, I’ll come a little bit insane.

A daily poem #350 – March 13, 2011

A poem
by Emily Dickinson

“Arcturus” is his other name

“Arcturus” is his other name—
I’d rather call him “Star.”
It’s very mean of Science
To go and interfere!

I slew a worm the other day—
A “Savant” passing by
Murmured “Resurgam”—”Centipede”!
“Oh Lord—how frail are we”!

I pull a flower from the woods—
A monster with a glass
Computes the stamens in a breath—
And has her in a “class”!

Whereas I took the Butterfly
Aforetime in my hat—
He sits erect in “Cabinets”—
The Clover bells forgot.

What once was “Heaven”
Is “Zenith” now—
Where I proposed to go
When Time’s brief masquerade was done
Is mapped and charted too.

What if the poles should frisk about
And stand upon their heads!
I hope I’m ready for “the worst”—
Whatever prank betides!

Perhaps the “Kingdom of Heaven’s” changed—
I hope the “Children” there Won’t be “new fashioned” when I come—
And laugh at me—and stare—

I hope the Father in the skies
Will lift his little girl—
Old fashioned—naught—everything—
Over the stile of “Pearl.”

A daily poem #349 – March 11, 2011

A poem
by Ghirmai Yohannes

Unjust Praise
(translated from the Tigriny by Charles Cantalupo and Ghirmai Negash)

In the beginning
The spirit moving
Upon the face of the waters
And in the breaking waves
Tasted salt

And I see fields of it
Drying on the shore.
We let in shallow lakes of sea
To evaporate,
And the salt

Accumulates along their edge
Thanks to the sunlight:
Crystal white,
Enough for everyone,
Harvested and sold

In every shop and on the roads:
Salt!—
In proper measure
Bringing out the taste,
The flavor and spirit

Of our food, hot or cold.
Why should pepper get
So much admiration
When salt does all the work?

A daily poem #348 – March 9, 2011

A poem
by John Gay

Fable L: The Hare and Many Friends

Friendship, like love, is but a name,
Unless to one you stint the flame.
The child, whom many fathers share,
Hath seldom known a father’s care;
‘Tis thus in friendships; who depend
On many, rarely find a friend.

A hare, who, in a civil way,
Complied with ev’ry thing, like Gay,
Was known by all the bestial train,
Who haunt the wood, or graze the plain:
Her care was, never to offend,
And ev’ry creature was her friend.

As forth she went at early dawn
To taste the dew-besprinkled lawn,
Behind she hears the hunter’s cries,
And from the deep-mouth’d thunder flies;
She starts, she stops, she pants for breath,
She hears the near advance of death,
She doubles, to mis-lead the hound,
And measures back her mazy round;
‘Till, fainting in the public way,
Half dead with fear she gasping lay.

What transport in her bosom grew,
When first the horse appear’d in view!

‘Let me,’ says she, ‘your back ascend,
And owe my safety to a friend,
You know my feet betray my flight,
To friendship ev’ry burthen’s light.’

The horse replied, ‘Poor honest puss,
It grieves my heart to see thee thus;
Be comforted, relief is near;
For all your friends are in the rear.’

She next the stately bull implor’d;
And thus reply’d the mighty lord.
‘Since ev’ry beast alive can tell
That I sincerely wish you well,
I may, without offence, pretend
To take the freedom of a friend;
Love calls me hence; a fav’rite cow
Expects me near yon barley mow:
And when a lady’s in the case,
You know, all other things give place.
To leave you thus might seem unkind;
But see, the goat is just behind.’

The goat remark’d her pulse was high,
Her languid head, her heavy eye;
‘My back,’ says he, ‘may do you harm;
The sheep’s at hand, and wool is warm.’

The sheep was feeble, and complain’d,
His sides a load of wool sustain’d,
Said he was slow, confess’d his fears;
For hounds eat sheep as well as hares.
She now the trotting calf addrest,
To save from death a friend distrest.

‘Shall I, says he, of tender age,
In this important care engage?
Older and abler pass’d you by;
How strong are those! how weak am I!
Should I presume to bear you hence,
Those friends of mine may take offence.
Excuse me then. You know my heart,
But dearest friends, alas, must part!
How shall we all lament! Adieu.
For see the hounds are just in view.’