Haiku X 4
Subscribe For FREE STUFF
Give a Buck-Help a Writer Out
Find It–Search This Site
NOVELS IN PRINT FORMAT
Holiday video 2013
I know no one knows what a WAVE AWARD is so here’s a little explanation:
The ACM WAVE AWARDS
(Western Access Video Excellence=WAVE)
The ACM West represents the regional ACM members for the six western states of Arizona, California, Colorado, Hawaii, New Mexico and Nevada.
Notable events: each year are the fall conference, which is scheduled this year for October 24-26 2013 in San Jose, CA. At the annual regional conference the WAVE awards (Western Access Video Excellence) honor the best local cable programs from the Western Region.
Little Billy-First Place: experimental-Innovative category.
Johnson is dead somebody said.
Return fire got at
least one of them.
Sgt Johnson. Dead the medic said.
There’s still more firing.
Support is ordered
it is on the way.
Master Sgt. Johnson.
Golden Valley Minnesota.
The firing has stopped.
Maybe we got them.
Maybe they are dead.
Maybe they folded back
into the population.
Maybe they are down at
the square, eating figs,
drinking coffee, laughing.
Waiting to wave at us when we walk by.
Golden Valley High School,
Master Sgt. William C. Johnson.
jargon has it, Ironically,
Was balding early.
Sven and Ollie joke.
Prairie Home Companion
when he could get it.
Sat with a self satisfied grin.
The most you can milk from the
Prairie Home Companion; a
sense of shared embarrassment
at the antiquity of the humor: a
A longing for
Johnson is dead, somebody said.
Thirteen years of service. The
First Gulf War and Gulf War Two:
Master Sgt. William Charles Johnson
The youngest son
Born of Charmaine and William Johnson
In the Red White & Blue of 1976.
Johnson is dead, someone said.
Dead young enough to be my child.
On the other hand if I were him,
shared his fate of limited longevity,
I too dead at thirty three
I now would be dead
more years than I had been alive.
Dead since before the time he was born.
Dead his entire life and half of my own.
Half of my own life reduced to eraser
Crumbs to be brushed from the surface.
A widowed wife and a couple of
Kids thrown to who knows what or where;
Better off maybe, maybe not.
the nomenclature said.
Is there a widow somewhere
drowned in worthless advice?
Call an exterminator to tent her horror
to kill the rats gnawing her insides
from morning to night.
Are there children to whom she
Is tempted to analogize the lost
Gerbils or the runned-down dog?
Anything to help them understand, to
stop from asking when he will be home?
Johnson is dead, an echo said.
If he had the added years I have had
What would he do with them?
Would they turn out like mine,
escaping memory as a wild bird
fleeing an accidental house
through an open window?
Only a feather or two left as a monument.
Which in its
simplicity marks nothing at all
and everything at once and
nothing at all?
Something to be swept and
Guano to be cleaned from
the glass front bookcases.
A story to tell over wine
hoping it will lead to something.
Inspire a listener to
take over the rein?
Let forgetfulness slip behind its
fragile veil like a prolonged blink,
the most it is capable of, the
extent of its power: a wisp of peace.
Johnson is dead.
For a moment I forget.
But there are others whose time
life’s thief will steal
who rush to
fill the void.
But not too many to count.
Not too many to name.
Not too many to wonder after
but too many.
Little Billy is Dead
His father said.
Up tree with bird
begging her to
spin me new shell of
curled in twig cup
laced with wind.
Below, faceless, nameless,
thoughtless crowd mulls in
search of me.
Look left, look right, look behind
but none look up
no matter how obvious in
otherwise vacant landscape
it does not occur to their
that I might be
up tree with bird
pleading her to
I have always been in search of that roadside attraction that claims to have the world’s largest lint sculpture, the world’s biggest spoon, plaster casts of Big Foot’s feet, the potato chip that looks like the Virgin Mary. These places are nearly always fronted by dirt or gravel parking lots, are crammed with dusty merchandise and sell soft drinks out of Styrofoam coolers behind the cash registers.
That is why I couldn’t go to New Mexico without going to Roswell. It is, as far as I know, the only roadside attraction that is not a building on the side of the road but a complete and entire town. Even the globes on the street lights are in the shape of alien heads with alien eyes etched on them. Besides, Roswell has been part of my consciousness for as long as I can remember and it has been part of the cosmic consciousness since the July 1947 crash of an alien spaceship in rancher Mack Brazel’s field 30 miles outside of town. I should say `alleged crash’, because since that innocent reporting of unidentified debris in his field the controversy has been at a simmer, occasionally coming to boil when it attracts the media in the form of a movie, story or news report, and then again stirs the public’s (and Leonard Nimoy’s) imagination. The International UFO Museum and Research Center is known throughout the world.
I was there on a Thursday and there was a steady stream of visitors. More than 150,000 people a year visit the museum. The exhibits are a collection of alcoves that contain reprinted newspaper stories and recorded interviews from the time of the landing as well as a history of UFO sightings from around the world. There are artifacts and replicas and many faked and blurry photos with captions that explain how the fakery was carried out. The photos were made before the invention of the Frisbee, which would have been a natural as a substitute for a UFO. One that used an ordinary button as a space ship was especially intriguing, and, to me, looked the most believable. Once I read the caption the fakery was obvious, but before that—
As the old jazz tune asked, Is You Is Or Is You Ain’t? It’s not for me to say. The town’s mortician at the time, a Glenn Dennis, claimed the military ordered three child sized coffins from him and when he inquired of their unusual request they offered no explanation.
There is a replica of The One Who Fell To Earth. If you’re in New Mexico, even if it’s a little out your way, it’s worth a visit. Don’t forget to look at the street lights.
5-7-5 Number of sounds per line.