As a published writer, from time to time you have to do a vanity search on Google to see if your work is being posted on the Web anywhere. As long as the poems are properly attributed I generally don't have a problem with folk posting them to blogs or websites. Once I did find one of my poems plagiarized on MySpace, but a simple comment fixed that. I was searching Youtube and I came across the above video which I had somehow missed until now. It appears that a student at the University of New Haven had to present one of my poems as part of a class he was taking from his professor Randall Horton (The Lingua Franca of Ninth Street). It's always weird to hear someone else reading one of your poems, but it does help to see how the language rolls or doesn't off an unfamiliar tongue. This particular poem is a riff off of a Picasso painting titled 'The Old Guitarist' from his Blue period and a poem by Wallace Stevens titled "The Man with the Blue Guitar"  It's part of a series of poems I have that are in conversation with some of Stevens work (and by 'in conversation with' I mean 'outright refutations'.)

I haven't been writing much lately for various reasons, hadn't even been doing much revising. Then I saw a Tweet that announced that NPR was once again doing their Twitter poetry contest for National Poetry Month. This is the third year that they've done it and last year (on April 24th) I was lucky enough to have a poem selected to be read on the air during their program Tell Me More. Since there is a 140 character limit on the length of the poems, I had submitted all Haiku, Senryu and Six or Seven Word poems. But after reading through many of the other entries, this year I decided to try a different strategy, mainly excerpting lines from existing poems that I thought could stand alone. For example;


BECAUSE OF

The arch of a foot,
the tender architecture
of its bridge.
The slope of a nose
above the X-Y coordinates
of a kiss. #tmmpoetry


Tonight
is a monk,
kneeling
in the dark cave
of the heart,
chanting
your name
until light.
#tmmpoetry

But because of the 140 character limit I had to edit some of the lines and a funny thing happened. Some of them got better, much better. For example, in the second Tweet above the original read " Tonight, I am a monk kneeling . . . ", but to get it under the limit I cut out the pronoun. This changes the poem slightly without really changing the meaning and (in my opinion) making it stronger. In fact, most of the changes I made for the Tweets found their way back into the original poems. We'll see if I'm lucky enough to get a poem selected to be read on the air this year. I plan on submitting some haiku/senryu later this week. One poem in particular wound up with some pretty major revisions sparked by the initial edits needed for the Tweet.

SPLITTING MY TONGUE

I always loved
to say 'acetaminophen.'
A wizened woman
once said
that some words
are Almighty
in the mouth.
Can be held
on the tongue
like a nib of licorice.
Some words
are roots
that can be chewed
for medicinal value.
Some stain
the tongue.
Some raise
the blood pressure
or relax the hard muscles
of the heart.
Like 'acetaminophen,'
some cause bleeding.
Your name is a word
in a language
I cannot yet speak.
a yearning
of the tongue.
Hope is
habit forming.
I lick it
from stained lips.
A rare sweet root,
added
to certain sentences
it masks bitterness.
The chemist says
boiled into an extract,
it could alleviate
even the barking cough
of loneliness.
Your name rhymes
with acetaminophen,
Bright syllables
spill from my mouth,
cloak me
in a crimson robe.
Tonight,
is a monk,
kneeling
in the dark cave
of the heart,
chanting
your name
until light.

I feel like it's much improved over the previous versions, especially the ending. Maybe this is the kick in the pants I needed to get me back in a good writing groove. NaPoMo is coming up and I'll be doing my usual 30 Haiku/Senryu, so we'll see. 

I was hoping to post a Trip Report about my recent sojourn to the Oregon Shakespeare Festival to feature and kick off their Spoken Word Series they do on Monday nights, but I'm waiting on the video of the event to be uploaded so I can link to it.

Until next we meet, may all your potatoes be sweet (and dusted with cinnamon.)

On Bended Knee

It was the Revel Casino's poker room on a Friday night, I had just bought chips and was heading to my seat when I passed Evgeniya, a gorgeous Russian poker dealer sitting at an empty table. When I say 'gorgeous' I am not engaging in hyperbole, my personal taste is that I prefer black hair to blonde, brown eyes to blue and medium caramel or dark chocolate skin tones to lighter ones, but Eve is ridiculously fine by pretty much any standard. My table was next to her's, so I passed close enough to say Hi and mention that last weekend when I was at the University of Missouri teaching a class, I encountered a young black poet who had taken three years of Russian language classes so that she could read Pushkin in the original Russian. Eve, like most Russians loves her Pushkin, even if she didn't know until I told her that he was in fact, black. I get dealt in and start scoping out the players at my table, it's a mix of regulars with a few new faces, none of whom seem to play particularly well. I get no hands to play and so I settle back for a long night of folding, I need to play for thirteen more hours to qualify for a promotional drawing on Sunday and I'd like to accrue at least seven of them tonight. I sat down at about 7:20PM and figure I'll be here until about 2AM. At 7:30 the dealers change, since the practice in poker rooms is to rotate the dealers every thirty minutes. This is done to lessen the impact of any player and dealer teaming up to cheat the other players. Our new Dealer immediately begins to distribute the cards and I look up to see who has tapped out Eve and to my surprise she's still sitting there. The whole string of Dealers has now rotated, but she's still there at the table next to the podium, twirling her hair through her fingers, which she is wont to do when she's bored. Dealers work for tips and obviously a Dealer with no players is making no money, something which causes the house to try to keep dealers from sitting on too many dead tables. I fold for twenty more minutes, then pick up AK suited in Spades. I raise to $12 and everyone folds. I collect my tiny pot and the dealers begin their rotations again. And once again, once they are finished, Eve is still sitting there by her lonesome. Now, I'm perplexed, she doesn't look nearly as unhappy as I'd expect her to after sitting on a dead table for almost an hour. Something isn't right, but it isn't my problem. A few minutes pass and I see a player sit at her table, the isn't unusual because fine as she is, guys will sit and try to talk to her all the time. This guy though, usually comes with his girlfriend. I look around and she's nowhere to be seen. Then Frank, the Room Manager comes and joins them, this too is fairly normal, as the staff will often send someone to rescue Eve if they feel they guy is bothering her. The three of them though seem to be having an amiable conversation which lasts maybe fifteen minutes. Frank and the guy both get up and leave and Eve is once again alone. I pick up pocket Queens, raise and get two callers. The Flop comes Ten high,I bet $25 and they both fold. I start watching the Knicks and the Rockets on the big screen TV. The new Dealer taps in, a woman named Susan who is one of my favorite dealers. Not only is she an excellent dealer (which means I don't have to double-check all her actions for accuracy) but she is extremely literate and capable of holding an intellectual conversation while running the game. I look up and poor Eve is still stuck there. I've been playing poker in AC for fifteen years and never seen a dealer stuck on a dead spread for one and a half hours. It just doesn't happen. And my OCD doesn't like it at all, because things are supposed to work according to the rules, to the routine. Now this guy John comes and sits next to her and begins chatting her up. One of the guys in my game notices and remarks that everytime he sees John, John seems to spend more time talking to Eve than he does actually playing poker. I ask him if he's jealous and he pipes down for a second, then continues. John is a Dominican from NYC who is a regular weekend player in AC, both at the Borgata and here at Revel. he likes to make big bets and bluff a lot. I was actually hoping to see him tonight because I have a picture to show him. John is a dead ringer for the poet Willie Perdomo or rather for how Willie looked twenty years ago. I had mentioned to John that he was Willie's doppelgänger, but he didn't know who Willie was. So I found a picture on the internet of a young Willie and bookmarked it. There's an empty seat in our game which I assume is John's, but he's currently preoccupied. After ten minutes he brings his chips over and takes the seat and plays a hand, but then goes right back to Eve's otherwise empty table. By now it is bugging me to no end that she's been sitting there for almost two hours with no relief, Something isn't right, I can feel it. A half an hour passes, we get another dealer and John is still putting in his bid with the Princess of Moscow when the Floorman calls a new game. In fact, he calls it for Eve's table which means that John gets up and returns to our table. After  the next hand I bring up our previous conversation and show him the picture, He's stunned, not only does he look exactly like Willie, but they both wear their beards trimmed exactly the same way. I show him a current picture of Willie and he says "I guess now I know what I'll look like in twenty years." I look up and the players are being seated at the new game, I see the guy from earlier, only now his girl is with him. He takes the two seat and she takes the four seat. I scan the room and notice that at the five tables running there are six open seats, and yet the Floor man is starting this new game with only six players. That's unusual as they would normally fill the empty seats before starting a new game. The players are all seated and Eve puts the deck in the shuffler, but then quickly takes it back out. The same deck. I cock my head in surprise, but she starts pitching the cards. I look down at my own hand I've just been dealt and it's pocket sixes, a hand I'll have to play for this $7 raise that's just been made by the player ahead of me. The Flop comes King high, he bets and I fold and suddenly there's a shriek from the table across from us. Eve's table. I look up and the woman in the four seat is holding her face in her hands and staring at the community cards on the table as if they're dismembered body parts, she's now speechless, gasping and trembling. I stand up to get a better view, thinking maybe they hit the Bad Beat Jackpot and can now see that there are words written on the cards. One word on each card to be exact. The cards themselves are the Ace through the Five of Hearts, a Straight flush on board!! But it's the words on the cards that are causing all the commotion; they read "Eden will you marry me?" The guy has now risen from the two seat and has a ring in his hand, she looks up and goes "Are you serious, are you serious?" He gets down on one knee and nods yes. She breaks out shaking and is now in tears, "Yes! Yes! Yes!" I look up and the waitress is standing behind them with six Champagne flutes on her tray. Everyone applauds, Eve wipes a tear from the corner of her eye and Frank comes over and announces that she has in fact said yes. I sit back down, I've seen a lot of crazy things in poker rooms, but never this. The dealer calls me, "Hey Pittsburgh, you got cards, the action's on you Buddy."

And until next we meet, may all your potatoes be sweet ( and dusted with cinnamon).

Next Big Thing

I got tagged by Remica Bingham so I'll be participating in Next Big Thing Blog Hop. Hit me up in the comments if you want to be tagged.

What is the working title of your book (or story)? Among the Sounds

What genre does your book fall under? Whatever genre looks most like a King-sized bed.

What songs would be in the soundtrack for your book? I listen to a broad range of music so this is just a partial list:

Ain't No Sunshine -- Grover Washington, Jr.
Ain't No Sunshine -- Once Through
Ain't No Sunshine -- Bill Withers
Is it a Crime -- Sade
Adore -- Prince
She's Gone--Hall and Oates
Hope She'll be Happier -- Sweetback
Blue in Green--Miles Davis
Concierto De Aranjuez--Jim Hall
Your Song--Elton John
Sodade--Cesaria Evora
Um Paixaõ-- Tito Paris
Na Ri Na--Lura
Penny For your Thoughts--Tavares
I Write a Song--Earth, Wind and Fire
Palonkon-- Mendes Bros.
Love is Blindness -- Cassandra Wilson
Death Letter Blues -- Cassandra Wilson
Round Midnight -- Miles Davis
Wave--Ahmad Jamal
Love Ballade--Oscar Peterson
Lonnie's Lament--John Coltrane
Petrified to Be Godlike -- Suzie Suh
Thank You -- Lizz Wright
No Ordinary Love -- Sade
Be Good -- Gregory Porter

What is the one-sentence synopsis of your book? This a detailed list of all the charges that desire (both requited and unrequited) have rung up in my ledger over the years.

Will your book be self-published or represented by an agency? I'm looking to find it a press.

How long did it take you to write the first draft of your manuscript? Ten years and counting

Who or what inspired you to write this book? Powdered mini donuts, strawberry moons, scare cards on the River, my son's dimples and the wry smile of a certain young lady (cubed)

What else about your book might pique a reader’s interest? It's the most fun you can have with a book of poems (while remaining fully clothed)

And until next we meet, may all your potatoes be sweet (and dusted with cinnamon.)

Where We Go

ROOM SERVICE SONNET

Maybe it was a sermon the inkjet night printed on our faces,
Maybe it was the psalm that fell from the radio like rain,
Maybe it was the trail of wine you traced on a stunned tongue
Maybe the way fingers browsed your moles like a Braille bible,
Maybe the way your hair preached the soft insistence of curls,
Maybe the nouns our falling clothes didn't know how to spell,
Maybe the adverbs the flick in our lips unveiled,
Maybe the way our fingers interlaced like cotton fibers,
Maybe the way my tongue warned of its warmth before moistening your pores,
Maybe the way the mirror steamed as we exercised our sighs,
Maybe it was the awkward face your hallelujah made,
Maybe the way my mouth stretched your name into a plea,
Maybe the way a fingertip quoted the length of a lobe
Maybe the way a glow sated our skin like a robe.

And until next we meet, may all your potatoes be sweet (and dusted with cinnamon.)

Because

OF HER MIDNIGHT HAIR

Once while counting sheep
I got caught in 
the downpour of a dream
about the titanium needle 
of a woman's tongue
circling the groove of my ear.
Such is the melted logic of
moans, they kaleidoscope 
the conversation into
conch-like aphrodisiacs, 
places to sail off a cliff,
suspending the gravity of ecstacy.
Your voice felt woolly, not 
ashamed to be a sheep.
I thought I loved ewe,
but maybe I'm just a heroine addict.

And until next we meet, may all your potatoes be sweet (and dusted with cinnamon.)

What we asked for

RIP Jack McCarthy-

If there was ever a poet who carried themselves with more class and grace, I never met them. You were the change you wanted to see in the world. Thank you. Peace and light on your journey. We will wrap your tightly knitted words around us like scarves on a snowy day.


Jack McCarthy: May 23, 1939 - January 17, 2013

"It hurts
when love dies.
When love is deep,
it hurts deeply—
more deeply maybe than you thought
anything would ever hurt
again.

But with time,
the spaces between the moments when it hurts
get longer,
the moments themselves become
less devastating,
till eventually you come to associate them
with a sad sweetness
that has as much in common
with love
as it does with grief.

I wish you long
spaces in between,
and may you carry into them
all of that sweetness,
and only enough sadness to attest
the risk that’s being taken
by everyone who loves you. "

from “The Spaces Between” by Jack McCarthy —


And until next we meet, may all your potatoes be sweet (and dusted with cinnamon.)

Happy Birthday

"The sweetest taboo"-
Your bare back whipped by
that ponytail.

And until next we meet, may all your potatoes be sweet (and dusted with cinnamon.)

Haunt Me

And from Virginia Ave.
(as far as Chelsea)
you want to be deaf
because as long
as your ears open
you might hear
in the shifting
of the dunes,
in the swaying
bayside marshes,
her melancholy
murmurings in Spring.
Even in Brigantine
the tsunami
of her voice
darkens the beach.
All stock in any love
still funds obsession.
So, with piles
of gray ash
you’ll draw the petunias
and all those fragrances,
which aren't your cologne.
Greenhead flies
bite exclamation points
into your ankles.
And in Ventnor
Mini cars are parked,
and the lights caution
that lips the color
of ripe cayenne
stain forever.
Your lips part
so ribbons of wind
can tongue their thin edges.
Seabirds
fold their wings
and caw mono-eyed,
you can't miss
their beaks of asphalt
and feathers of chalk,
claws of dusk and gloaming.
But here your myths
have no merge.

And your hands
are sweet with sweat,
unlike your boots
which are dotted
by questions.
Why is her voice
full of moons
whose shimmer
never quarters,
never wanes?

And until next we meet, may all your potatoes be sweet (and dusted with cinnamon.)

A Very Good Year

SUPPOSE

a sunny,
almost winter day.
Overhead, the easy grace
of thirty-six geese,
as slender and swayed
by the supple breeze
as marsh grass rising
like the last note
of "Is it a Crime."
And isn't it the sixiest of numbers,
its square root
equally sixy in jeans or
a cocktail dress?
Lips full and shining
as the moon after
the last hurricane.
Thirty-six is a leg length
that fits me almost perfectly.
I set my Earl Grey tea
down on the flat top of the three,
place my breakfast sandwich
in the hungry hollow below,
wishing to pick up
the six and trill it like a whistle.
On the jitney journey here
there were three people in the first row,
six scattered in the back.
In the Starbucks
there is a woman in front of me.
Her choice of earrings says
that she is a fashionista
of her wants,
but that she cannot work
a map well enough
to find the North of her needs.
I know too,
that there are 360 degrees
in every circle and that she
has more than 180
degrees of vision.
She is almost as slick
as she thinks she is
as she pretends not to notice me.
I pretend not to notice her
pretending not to notice me.
We both enjoy this game,
two schoolkids at Recess.
Her smile
is thirty-six diamonds
set in sunlight,
6 x 6 candles
on a gourmet cake.
The sommeliers all say
1976 was a very good year.
I know nothing of wine,
but can admire the curve
of a well crafted bottle.
My eyes linger on
every letter on the label.
Have I forgotten
a card for a friend
whose birthday approaches?
In the Gift Shop
I eye a box of thirty-six
dark chocolates,
imagine a certain one
melting slowly
on the heat of my tongue.

And until next we meet, may all your potatoes be sweet (and dusted with cinnaomon.)

Seven Bean Salad

Following, find a Crown of seven word poems. This form has the brevity and economy of haiku, but allows a little more freedom. A few of these probably also qualify as Haiku or Senryu, but who's counting?

SEVEN BEAN SALAD

Her arms
pinned tight- my
tongue attacks.

How hot
her hands have
suddenly become.

So soft
in my mouth-
Her gasp.

Half moon-
Marked in my
shoulder blade.

Curling hard
for a moment-
Her toes.

Her snores
fall softly, turning-
Autumn leaves.

A scent
still sleeps here-
Coconut oil.

And until next we meet, may all your potatoes be sweet (and dusted with cinnamon.)

Kissing the Sky (For Jimi on his birthday)

How Jimi
spangled our banner-
Star crossed eyes.

Reading Francis Scott Key
(through Jimi’s eyes)

Today, let's examine the most infamous performance of what is probably the most famous political poem in the USA, ‘The Defence of Fort McHenry’. Written in 1814 by a lawyer and amateur poet on a sloop outside of Baltimore Harbor during a naval bombardment of Fort McHenry, the poem was published widely in American newspapers in the days and weeks after the battle. It became famous as a poem but became immortal when re-published by a Baltimore sheet music publisher as a song, under the name ‘The Star Spangled Banner.’ It has always struck me as curious that discussions of ‘Political Poetry’ (by ‘Political Poetry’ I mean poems with socio-political import or concern) seldom mention this poem, despite the fact that its prevalence in American culture is at least a tacit admission of the power of poems to speak to ideas and concepts of deep socio-political impact. Perhaps this is simply due to the fact that people most commonly encounter the poem as a song, and therefore think of it as only such. It was however, conceived, written and originally published as a poem, and the fact that it could be sung to the tune of ‘To Anacreon in Heaven Forever’ (an English drinking song) had to be pointed out the poet by his brother-in-law Judge Joseph Nicholson. (This is not a unique feature of this poem. Metrical poems with a verse and chorus structure are often set to music, or sung to preexisting melodies. Some poems without such a structure share this feature, such as the poems of Emily Dickinson which can almost all be sung to the tune of “The Yellow Rose of Texas’).

Many people think of ‘The Star Spangled Banner’ as political only because it is the National Anthem, failing to realize that it became so (in 1931) because of its popularity resulting from its nationalistic political overtones. It would be almost impossible for a poem to have as its central image the national flag, depicted surviving an invasion of the country by a foreign power and for that poem not to be political. Written right after the British had captured Washington, DC and burned the (not yet) White House, the poem was published and re-published because it encapsulated a moment in the battle that could stand as symbolic of the entire young nation in its moment of crisis. That is, that like the battle-scarred flag that remained after the fierce bombardment, the nation would persevere and remain intact and free after winning the war with the British. But, the song became and remained popular (it was commonly sung at the beginnings of baseball games during WW1, before it became the national anthem) because it symbolized something important about the ideals on which the country was founded. That those ideals had to be fiercely fought for, and that the battle for them is ongoing (as the passage of the insidiously named Patriot Act reminds us) and never ending. An assertion of the poem’s fourth stanza that “this be our motto ‘in God is our trust’, is the source of the National Motto “In God we trust” adopted in 1954. This epitomizes the power of poetry to utilize images to communicate with readers in a deeply emotional and powerful manner. The poem has an interesting structure, each of the firs three stanzas opens with a question, and these questions are answered in the fourth stanza. The first stanza, which is the only one most Americans know (if they know it at all) is normally the only one sung, and is itself composed of three questions. Each line ranges from 11 to 13 syllables and overall average about 12 to a line.

O say, can you see, by the dawn's early light,
What so proudly we hail'd at the twilight's last gleaming?
Whose broad stripes and bright stars, thro' the perilous fight,
O'er the ramparts we watch'd, were so gallantly streaming?
And the rockets' red glare, the bombs bursting in air,
Gave proof thro' the night that our flag was still there.
O say, does that star-spangled banner yet wave
O'er the land of the free and the home of the brave?

The first verse is capable of standing alone as a complete poem or song, which is probably one of the reasons that the others are rarely sung. The fact that the third question of the first verse “O Say, does that star-spangled banner yet wave . . .” is left unanswered at the end gives the song its timeless quality. It also does not hurt that it can be interpreted as two different questions:

1. Does the flag still wave, as in Did it survive the battle ? (Key’s original intent)
2. Does the flag still wave over a free independent country?

The second question can continually be asked in times of crisis, which would explain its rise in popularity during WW1. In fact, in 1916 President Wilson ordered that the song be played on military occasions. Key’s use of a question as a rhetorical device, and use of a central concrete image “the star-spangled banner” as a symbol gives the poem its power. And allows (the first verse at least) to ‘show’ and not ‘tell’ and leave it open to some interpretation thereby avoiding the two most common pitfalls that plague the majority of poorly written political poems. However, as the National Anthem the song has also become a magnet for political protest, particularly by African-Americans who feel that the third. erase supports slaveholding and white supremacy in a country which might not be achieving the ideals espoused in the poem. The most world renowned of these protests occurred in 1968 during the Olympic games in Mexico City. Two US sprinters, Tommy Smith and John Carlos, winners of the 200 meter dash stood barefoot on the medal podium and during the customary playing of the national anthem of the gold medallist, each lowered their head and simultaneously raised a single black-gloved fist. This silent act of rebellion so enraged IOC and US Olympic officials, that Carlos and John were immediately withdrawn from the upcoming relays, stripped of their medals, barred from the Olympic Village and ordered to leave Mexico City.

Coming, as it did in the summer of ’68 it is entirely possible that this protest inspired Jimi Hendrix to begin playing the “Star-Spangled Banner” during his concerts the following year. Early in ’69 Hendrix played the song first in Stockholm, Sweden and then in Los Angeles, CA. It was however, his performance of the song on the last day of Woodstock that was captured on film and quickly became the most infamous instrumental performance in the song’s history. Hendrix’s brilliant use of the song to protest the expanded bombing (now including Cambodia and Laos) of the ongoing Viet Nam war sears into the senses like an aural burning of the flag. To many conservatives it sounds like a simple-minded desecration of the song by a guitarist in the midst of an LSD-induced rage. A careful and close reader however, cannot help but acknowledge it as pure genius. Hendrix’s particular genius lay in his use of the guitar to play not only music (melodies and harmonies), but also to create sound effects that illustrate the actions depicted by certain lyrics. Jimi’s use of the poem’s words, although never actually spoken may be the most remarkable thing about the entire performance. The key is to recite the lyrics as Jimi plays them. He opens with a bluesy but otherwise straightforward rendition of the song up until the words ‘the rocket’s red glare’, at this point he stops playing the melody and reproduces the sound of an incoming rocket and its explosion and resulting chaos. Another incoming rocket, a second explosion, and then screams and wails of anguish follow this. There is a third incoming rocket and explosion and then from amidst the roar of distorted feedback emerges a single musical phrase, the part of the melody which accompanies the words ‘the bombs bursting in air.’ The isolation of this single phrase makes it clear that this is a deliberate protest to the current bombing of Viet Nam. To eliminate any question about his intent, Hendrix (who served in the US Army in the 101st Airborne) follows the phrase ‘the bombs bursting in air’ with the sound of an air raid siren, then a duplication of roaring jet engines, and then the distinctive and unmistakable whistle of bombs falling through the air and exploding. Unlike the explosions of the earlier rockets, these explosions are much lower and more massive (this was the war that created the phrase ‘carpet-bombing’) and are followed by extended screams and cries of anguish. Hendrix then returns to next the part of the melody that corresponds with the lyrics ‘gave proof through the night that our flag was still there.’ He then delivers his ‘coup de grace’, interpolating almost two bars of the song “Taps.” This is probably the most stunningly creative and apt part of the entire performance, since the song “Taps” was composed by US Army General Daniel Adams Butterfield during the Civil War and is primarily used by the Army for two occasions; the nightly lowering and folding of the Post flag, and at military funerals right after the folding and presentation of the flag. Thus, “Taps” directly connects the US Army, the US flag, nightfall, and death. In fact, the song’s first verse concludes with the words ‘falls the night’, and its third verse concludes ‘Friend, Good Night.’ Hendrix follows this snippet of “Taps” with the third and concluding question of the first verse, ‘Oh Say does that star-spangled banner yet wave’, letting the notes of the word ‘wave’ trail and hang like a flag in a stiff breeze. He then continues with ‘O’er the land of the free’ and here he lets the notes of the word ‘free’ feedback into a high-pitched whistle which then plunges and falls like the earlier bomb sounds. The pun on the word ‘freefall’ is almost certainly intended, since that word is a perfect description of how bombs descend from planes, and Hendrix concludes with ‘and the home of the brave.’ His pause after the word ‘wave’ highlights the fact that the last question is really two different questions, and foregrounds the second of the two questions. Given that the original poem was written after a naval bombardment and that Hendrix’s recital (even though instrumental) foregrounds the poem’s words to protest the US bombing of another country, how could this not be a gorgeous example of political performance poetry?

And until next we meet, may all your potatoes be sweet (and dusted with cinnamon.)

Gratitude

The heat of her hand
between bare shoulder blades-
Winter sunlight.

This summer I passed a half a hundred trips around the sun and have spent some of the ensuing time in reflection. In celebration, here are at least fifty things I've found to be thankful for;

The sliver of sunlight that fell across my face this morning and lifted my eyelashes from sleep.

My mother's encouragement in all my endeavors, even the ones she disagreed with.

My father's insistence on excellence, his attention to detail, his attempts (however unsuccessful) to embrace the awkwardness that was his oldest son.

The thirteen year old boy who kisses me on the forehead and says "Thanks Dad. " for no particular reason.

The twenty-eight of my thirty-two teeth that have stuck it out this long.

The biscuits in the Borgata Buffet at breakfast, the butter that colors their crannies, the syrup that sticks them to my tongue.

All Fifty Shades of Grey (Earl, that is)

For "Kind of Blue" and "A Love Supreme" and notes that always get taken and pondered.

The length of my arms, the strength of my fingers, the seams in my then two year old son's T-Shirt, that day he darted between two parked cars and I caught his collar inches before he reached the street and an oncoming Escalade.

For nipples that know the difference between the soft nap of a sweater and the tenderness of a tongue.

Hershey's Kisses.

Seeing Roberto Clemente round second base and dive headlong into whatever.

Every woman who's ever put up with me for longer than fifty minutes.

Soft hands and softer fingertips.

All the things I've learned (and will learn) from the woman whose eyes dot the punctuation of my poems, and who cares as much about me as I do her (even if she might not admit it)

The rolling hills and rusty bridges of a city that no matter where I currently reside, will always be home.

My cousins Robin and Lason, who are no longer here, but will always be with me.

A once fractured left wrist that aches when the pressure drops and reminds me I'm alive.

For Bruce Grover, Tor De Barros, Daniel Barnes, Kenny Carroll, Brian Gilmore, David Sherman, and Leonard Poulson who helped me learn the value of real and lifelong friendship.

Tongue kisses that curl toes.

The pallet of bricks that collapsed the ceiling above my bed and just missed me sleeping below.

The pancakes at Gilchrist's and the little bottles of syrup from Bread and Butter.

For the chance as a small child to look over my mother's shoulder as she read the Bible and figure out the squiggles.

All the blocks that made me stumble and forced me to learn to climb.

For Licorice, soft and black.

The rumble in the bottom of my baritone.

For my eyes (all four of them).

For the lint trap above my shoulders that doubles as a brain.

For the quirks, twitches and "No napkins Please" that make me sui generis.

For the tiny muscle that tightens and clenches just before I sigh and succumb.

For AC and DC and all the electricity in between.

The perpetual breeze off the ocean that keeps Atlantic City cool.

For the day I'll kiss her, and marrow deep, she'll know.

And until next we meet, may all your potatoes be sweet (and dusted with cinnamon.)

Two Trains Running (Into each other)

The Kiss

Shuns no shoulders,
queries ears
with quivers of fire.
Yet somehow more flower
than flare,
more tight splice
than splash.
Is the lipping
of the brim of me,
spiced rum
tipping the tongue of me.
Interlocks the fingers
and dilates all diligence
with a hiss from the heart
of  a rabid radiator.
All melting wax to
my stiff wick,
it burns the softest
and most breathless
of all silences,
such glossy velvet now
as it glances,
a moistness that veers
on voluptuous violence.

And until next we meet, may all your potatoes be sweet (and dusted with cinnamon.)

Papa was a Rolling Stone (Part 2)

It was the last time I saw him for almost two months. In fact, I had begun to get so worried that I asked B. a pretty DayShift Dealer at Caesars if she had seen him either. She also was starting to get a little worried. Maybe two weeks after I asked B., I stopped past Caesars on my way to Kwi (their noodle bar, which is the best in the city) when I heard a familiar bellowing coming from the 2/5 NL table at the end of the room. I didn't have to look to know who it was, but I looked anyway. And there he was, he looked a little thinner, but otherwise the same. As soon as he saw me, he started yelling. One funny thing is that he's maybe the only person in AC who doesn't call me by any of my names; no Joel, no Pittsburgh, no Renegade. He usually just says Hey or Hey you or sometimes refers to me affectionately as 'Boy'. This time he called me something he had never called me ever before, "Son," as in "Hey Son, come here." I walked over and he gave me a great big bear hug and whispered in my ear "Thank you, thank you so much." It turns out that the night I had seen him he had had a big weekend, in fact he had won over 12k and had it on him in cash when he fell out. But even more importantly, he had gone to the doctor where he found out he had gallstones and that the episodes of pain he was experiencing meant that his condition was potentially life threatening. He doctor recommended surgery immediately and he was just recovering. He asked me if I needed anything, I told him I was just glad he was OK. The Dealer motioned to him that it was his turn to act on a new hand, he turned to the Dealer and said 'Don't be rushing me, I'm talking to my son, he saved my life, least I can do is say thanks." He told me there was no way that he could ever repay me, but if I ever needed anything to just ask. I told him it was cool, I was just glad I could help. He said "If I ever hit the Bad Beat Jackpot, the first thing I'm going to do is give you $1000." I said cool, if I ever hit it , I'll do the same.

Which leads me to my second favorite James memory. It was about six months after James had his operation, back when the Trump Plaza casino next to Caesars had opened a poker room with electronic PokerTek tables. I loved playing there, less rake, no dealer mistakes, faster dealing and thus more hands. I was playing in a tournament there and busted out on one of the worst beats I'd ever taken, where a guy put me all-in on the Turn when he was drawing to one out and then he hit it. I was so disgusted, I left the Plaza and walked over to Caesars, But I only had $400 on me and so I decided to only play 1/2 instead of 2/5. Problem was, it was Saturday night and all the 1/2 tables were full and there was a 30 + person list. They did have a few seats at 2/5 though, the Floorperson told me. I really didn't want to play 2/5 with only one Buy-in and didn't trust myself to be patient enough to only play with two $200 bullets. I walk back to check out the games and there is James complaining at the top of his lungs about a guy who just beat him out of a pot and is now leaving. "Where you going?" he asked "You afraid of me? You better be afraid, you better run if you wanna keep my money." He looked up and saw me "Hey Son." he said "Come on and sit here in this game."
I told him i didn't feel like playing 2/5, but he wasn't trying to hear it.
"Stop being silly and sit down, Son." he told me. I told him I'd wait for a 1/2 seat.  But he wouldn't stop, so after about five minutes, when another player left, I took the 5 seat. James was in the 8 seat at the end of the table and was having trouble seeing. He asked for the 5 seat and I took the 4 instead. To make a long story even longer, it was my Big Blind. I posted and mucked when someone raised. The next hand I posted my Small Blind. The 7 seat raised to $25 and the 10 seat made it $75 to go. I had A4 offsuit and folded, but when James looked at his cards, he hesitated. I knew right away he had a big hand. He looked to his left and then smooth called. It's been said that not all trappers wear furs and I was sure James was trying to trap these guys with his pocket Aces. The flop came AK9 and James checked, the 7 seat bet $90 and the 10 seat raised to $250. James couldn't get all his chips into the pot fast enough. Both remaining players called. The Turn was King and the River a four. James turned out Aces full of Kings, but the 10 seat turned over two black Kings for quad Kings. The Bad Beat Qualifying hand at that time was Aces full of Jacks which meant that James had just hit the BBJ. I checked the TV, the BBJ was 212k, James had just won 106k, the 10 seat had won 53k and the rest of us had won $6,600. I had only been at the table for two hands. James grabbed me as the table exploded with joy. "What just happened?" he asked me. I told him he'd hit the BBJ for over 100k. "Did I hit it?" he asked, over and over again. "Yes James" I kept saying "You hit it." Despite the fact that I'd won over six thousand, he still wanted to give me the thousand he'd promised. I said OK, but I was still going to give him a thousand too. We called it a push. He called me his lucky charm. To be honest, I didn't really care what he called me, as long as he still called me "Son."

 

17 for Sandy

“The wind came back with triple fury, and put out the light for the last time. They sat in company with the others in other shanties, their eyes straining against crude walls and their souls asking if He meant to measure their puny might against His. They seemed to be staring at the dark, but their eyes were watching God.”
― Zora Neale Hurston, Their Eyes Were Watching God


October dawn-
Carpet rolls rise from
Bungalow Park curbs

Sand dune-
halfway plugged in

Flat screen TV

Pathmark lot

every parking space full

Ocean waves

Winds subside-

Red eyes in Venice Park

Gardeners Basin

drying in the tree branches

seaweed

Receding tide-
Window planters sprout

broken shells

Crosswalk-
Half the lines in this street
are electric

Half full garage-

Refrigerator sideways
in the water

Wind whistles-
Rocking back and forth
Stop Sign

Shattered window-

Liquor store leaks

in the dark

Boardwalk dark-

"Just Don't Want To Be Lonely"

From casino speakers

seawater
between Ballys and Caesars-
Fire hydrant

Seaweed
inches from the ceiling-
Carpet squishy

Planted in yards
on this Brigantine street-
Pieces of seawall

Full moon

Brigantine seawall

High tide -

Brigantine mailboxes
almost full

Brigantine's North End-

Boats in front yards

couches on curbs

And until next we meet, may all your potatoes be sweet (and dusted with cinnamon.)

Post-Post Sandy Report

Played (poorly) at Harrahs Philadelphia on Thursday night and got broke. When I went to sleep I saw where AC Mayor Langford had requested that AC be allowed to reopen. Woke up this morning around 11am and saw that Governor Christie had complied with the request. The ride down was uneventful and aside from the roadside debris on the Expressway near AC things looked normal. Inside the city there were signs of storm damage including massive piles of seaweed and marsh grass along the roads near the bay, missing traffic lights and downed light poles along the sides of the roads. We went straight to the storage place, which is right off the bay on the mainland. The automatic gates weren't working due to a lack of power, but they had one gate propped open. As we approached our space I checked the ground for signs of flooding. The whole storage place is built on a small hill or rise about ten feet above the roadway. I saw lines of broken shells along some of the units which indicated some flooding. Our unit is towards the middle and I was heartened by the lack of shells or seaweed in our row of units. I unlocked the unit and held my breath before pulling the door up. If my boxes were still stacked, then I knew things were cool. As the door rose I saw one, two, three levels of boxes, leaning against the wall, but still stacked. My computer was atop a rubber tub in the middle just where I left it. I breathed a heavy sigh of relief, then grabbed my leather Steelers jacket. It's definitely cold enough for my most infamous piece of clothing to make its return.

We headed to the Borgata and got there ten minutes before four PM when they were due to open. The Surface Lot was closed, but the garage was open. The casino looked perfectly fine inside and out. Once inside I noticed that all the restaurants were closed, although the Gift Shop was open. That meant no Starbucks, free or otherwise. One of the benefits of having a deep, sexy voice is that the Starbucks manager has a massive crush on me and gives me my tea for free. But no tea today. By the time I got to the poker room two other players had beaten me there and were sitting around waiting on a game. It was 4:10. There were four dealers on dead spreads waiting to open games. By 4:30 there were two 1/2 NL games and a list for 2/5. By five PM there were three poker games and about fifteen bettors in the Racebook. There was one waitress in each station. The games featured mostly AC poker regulars, but weren't too bad. By nine PM there were ten games going. The Borgata seemed to be the only poker room in town that was open, although I heard that the Taj Mahal also had at least one game. I got a free room from a guy who owed me a favor for writing a letter for him. AC has most of its power back, but none north of New Jersey Ave or so. ACPD was out at dusk in Riot Gear patrolling the darkened sections which included parts of the Inlet, Bungalow Park, and Gardeners Basin. Those sections were hit hard by the flooding, especially the South Inlet and the sections of houses that border the Marina. There are no lights on the Boardwalk between Taj Mahal casino and Caesars. Also no power on Atlantic from Virginia Ave down to the Walk.

I was going to take a haiku walk, but wound up grinding instead. Sandy put a decent sized bite in my bankroll and FEMA won't be supplying me any relief.

As of midnight Borgata has 16 poker games and over 25 tables active in the Main Pit. Baby steps, baby steps.
And until next we meet, may all your potatoes be sweet (and dusted with cinnamon.)

Post Sandy Report

I'm fine. I was going to do a narrative type blog post, but there was no drama really. I evacuated AC Sunday morning with a friend, we came to Chester PA near the Philly airport. I played at Harrahs Chester on Sunday. There was some wind and rain and then it was over. Harrahs Chester is still shut down as we speak. My only personal concern is that I have stuff in a storage place near Venice Park and it is right on the bay. It is very likely that it flooded. My computer is the main thing I'm worried about. I know so many dealers, floor people, waitresses, retail clerks and others who live in and around AC. I'm sure their problems are much worse than mine right now and I hope they all made it through this thing OK. If anybody needs any help give me a holler. I watched the storm on the news and kept up on Facebook and Twitter, both of which had near instant posting of photos from the island. Brigantine got it real bad, the ocean met the bay on the street I used to live on at the far northern end of the island. Even though the famous shark photo is a fake, the other photos aren't. It may be a month before folk on that island get back to anything remotely resembling normal life. On Absecon island; the Inlet, Margate, Ventnor, and Venice Park aming others, all got flooded bad. I hope those people can recover fairly easily. The casinos are all fine and can reopen as soon as the state allows them.

October night-
This wind pinging my glasses
is Sandy.

Outside Denny's-
Face wiped clean by
sideways rain

Atlantic Ave.-
Sidewalk full of
Boardwalk

They say the barometric pressure at the Marina measured at 27.99 inches, I've never even imagined to could go below 28. That's never happened in my lifetime, that is an incredibly powerful storm. Tide was 8.9 feet (9 is the record) which is .9 feet over major flood stage. Total rainfall for AC was over 14 inches. That's crazy. It might take the Cape Verde Islands five years to get that much rain. The Tropical Storm wind field for Sandy was 964 miles, another insane number, which means it was hitting AC, Pittsburgh and DC at the same time. The three cities where I've lived 48 of my 50 years. Triangulate that.

And until next we meet, may all your potatoes be sweet (and dusted with cinnamon.)

Papa was a rolling Stone.

I'm rolling south down Pacific Ave. Atlantic City's main strip where most of the casinos line the beach like Life Guard chairs, headed to McDonald's to grab a Sweet Tea, when I decide to stop by Caesar's poker room to see if Old Man James is in town. I slide into the poker room through the back door and right away I spot him seven tables away, headphones clamped over his ears, slightly slumped in his chair. And if I see James, before I hear him, then I know he's not winning. He's in a 1-2 No Limit game in the ten seat and never sees me until I tap him on the shoulder.
"Hey Son" he says, extending his hand.
"Hey Pop" I reply, taking his hand in our familiar shake.
He turns back to the hand in process and I survey the situation, he's got position on the other two guys in the hand who both check to him. As he bets, I notice how slowly he pushes the chips into the pot, which means he's been playing a long time. They both fold and after the dealer pushes him the pot, it takes him a long time to stack his chips.
"Long Session?" I ask.
"Too Long." he says, which means he's most likely been playing all night.
"You been playing all night?" I ask, although it's three in the afternoon.
"Yeah", he says "And these motherfuckers won't let me win nothing, they got $800 of my money and won't give me back a motherfucking dime."
Playing poker with James is like playing poker with Redd Foxx. he is nothing if not loud and profane. He can call you seven types of Motherfucker and mean seven different things, some of them even affectionate.
"You eat?" I ask, he shakes his head no.
"You take your medicine?" I query, again no.
"Get me out of here." he asks, and I nod OK.
"I need to go check into my room at Ballys, walk me over there." he says.
I tell the dealer James is done when the Big Blind comes to him, which is only a few hands away and the dealer Pete says OK, in his frog-like croak.
While I wait, I remeber the first time we met, in a 2-5 No Limit game right here in Caesar's where I used to play thousands of hours. Caesar's had the best 2-5 game in AC back then, better even than the games at the Borgata. There was tons of action and no shortage of bad players who came to gamble it up, as far as they were concerned poker was just another table game based on pure luck. James was winning that day and he was loud as hell, talking more shit than a septic tank. He got into a dispute with a dealer and cited a rule incorrectly. As I am wont to do, I interrupted and corrected him. He turned his then seventy-five year old white haired head my way and said
"Who asked you a motherfucking thing?"
"Nobody," I said, "but that aint never stopped me from talking."
He said "Well, fuck you, then."
"Sorry Pops" I replied, "You're not my type."
"Well double fuck you then" he said and we both burst out laughing.
I hadn't been at the table ten minutes, but I had already peeped his game. James liked to play the old fool and get under people's skin, which would then cause them to want to beat him and play poorly against him. But I know a hustle when I see one and this was a stone cold hustle, in fact although I didn't know it at the time, James was a legendary pool hustler from Brooklyn who had specialized in the game of One Pocket back in the 60s and 70s. Retired now from the hard green felt of the pool table, he had landed on the softer felt of the poker table. He played good cards in good position and let the idiots underestimate him, by the time the figured out he could play, he already had their chips stacked neatly in front of him. We became cool and I like playing with him, partly for the show and partly because he made the game good, getting folk riled up. But what really made us tight was the late Sunday night a few years ago when I was strolling down Pac. Ave after a big night at the Taj Mahal. I was taking my customary forty-five minute walk up and down the Strip before I headed to bed, when I approached Caesar's. The light turned green and I started crossing the street when, out of the corner of my eye, I saw someone stumble and fall, almost hitting their head on one of the concrete planters that front the casino. When I got to the other side the person was still there, layed out,  apparently unconscious on the sidewalk. I hurried over, it was Old Man James face down on the concrete. During my five years I spent working as a Unit Leader in a sleepover Summer Camp in Virginia I was trained as a First Responder, which included both Fire Suppression and Advanced First Aid. I kneeled down, but James was still out, his eyes open, but rolled up into his head. I leaned close to see if he was breathing, which he was, I then checked his pulse and it was good too. "James, James" I called to him. Slowly, his eyes rolled down and came into focus.
'What's going?"he asked, "What happened?"
I told him he had fallen out.
"Where am I ?" he asked. I told him he was in front of Caesar's.
"I got to catch my bus" he said. "I got to get back to Brooklyn before my wife gets worried."
I told him to slow down and stopped him from trying to get up until I asked hima few questions. After I was sure he was OK, I had him sit up. He was lucid now, his bus was leaving in ten minutes from the Bus depot across the street. I told him I'd walk him across the street, but that he had to go see a doctor as soon as he got home.
"Motherfuck a doctor." he told me, "I'm alright, now."
'James," I said, "you got to go see a doctor, find out what happened"
"Fuck you and the doctor too." he told me, "You starting to sound like my wife."
I wasn't budging though, more black men in America die of preventable diseases than any other demographic. "James," I insisted "You got to go see the doctor."
"I aint going to see no motherfucking doctor." he responded.
I said "If you want me to help you across the street so you can catch your bus, then you've got to promise me you'll see the doctor."
Due to his two artificial knees and artificial hip, I knew James couldn't get up off the ground on his own. He looked around, he knew time was running out before the last bus left for Brooklyn.
"You's a motherfucker, aint you?' he said.
"Yes James" I said "I am, in fact a motherfucker." A motherfucker who wasn't budging.
"You trying to catch that bus?" I asked
"You know god-damned well I am." he said.
"You going to the doctor? I asked.
"I guess I aint got no motherfucking choice" he said, "Help me up."
I refused to move until he promised me, which he did. I knew as an old school gambler that he'd keep his word, because in that world your word was bond, your whole reputation was based on keeping your word. I helped him across the street and stayed until he caught his bus. It was the last time I saw him . . .  (to be continued.)

And until next we meet, may all your potatoes be sweet (and dusted with cinnamon.)
 

The Strongest Clench

“When a true genius appears in the world you may know him by this sign; that the dunces are all in confederacy against him."
Jonathan Swift


Here's an interesting article that confirms something we already knew about writers in general and poets in particular. The point is that being rejected and having the proper mindset to deal with it, actually seems to help spark creativity. This would help explain the last 3000 years of unrequited love poems. Dante's 'Divine Comedy' which is arguably the greatest poem in any language was inspired in large part by his unrequited love for Beatrice. Beatrice appears in the poem at the end and even though she (and his love for her) operate on a symbolic level, the point still stands. Shakespears wrote one of the greatest sonnet cycles in the English language and they're mostly about unrequited desire. Go figure. One the one hand this makes me happy, because it's always good to have company. On the other hand it's terribly depressing, because it means there's most likely no real way out of the dilemna of being mostly creative when things aren't going well. I used to know a poet who went around bragging that he was the only one of his poet friends who could still be productive when he was happy. He was also, unfortunately, the worst poet out of his group of friends. I write the most (and the best) when I'm obsessed with some woman whom I can't have. It totally sucks. But it's been that way my whole life. I don't just mean popems of unrequited desire, I mean poems about anything. My work is just better when I'm in "the strong clench of the madman," it is what it is, I suppose. Part of this is because for many writers writing is a coping mechanism, but it looks like part of it is just because of how our brains work.

Boardwalk sunset-
Sea gulls turn away
my crumbled bread

And until next we meet, may all your potatoes be sweet (and dusted with cinnamon.)

October Haiku/Senryu

Horse Room
as I apologize
she shakes her ponytail

Sliver of moon
the fullness of her lip

Speck of white
floating in this evening's tea-
October moon.

Moonless night
filling the beach
sound of waves.

Waves
trying to erase
her footprints

October sun-
Last Lemonhead
in the box.

Her final moan-
moonlight.

UPDATE:I posted most of these to my Facebook Stautus at one time or another and several of them  generated a great deal of response. This whole batch has actually gotten a great deal of feedback, much of it from people who don't write haiku. One of my goals as a writer is to become a Haijin (a master of haiku), this is a lifelong journey. Aside from becoming a master in chess, there is no other goal that has meant more to me. One step in that journey is getting a haiku published in a Haiku journal. I have had many of my haiku and senryu published, one even in Time Magazine, but have yet to get any published by haiku specific journals or websites. I have a feeling that one of these might be the one that finally does the trick. The 'ponytail' senryu in particular, marks a new step for me, in that it is an unvarnished, true life experience, that I managed to make into a decent senryu. It has gotten a great deal of response and received a lot of comments on my Facebook. I can't say I knew how good it was when I finished it, but the response made it clear right away that it struck a chord with folk. I haven't been writing a lot of poetry lately, in part because I haven't been reading much poetry, so anything I squeeze out that's decent is a real blessing. Haiku are so hard to do well, so hard to master. I'm very grateful for any progress I make along this path. I may have turned a proverbial corner in my journey.

Yesterday my blog got its 15,000th pageview, which is a remarkable milestone. It took me eight years to get to 10k, but since I switched to mostly posting prose back in May I've gotten 5k pageviews in the last six months. I'm going to keep posting about 80% prose and 20% poems.

And until next we meet, may all your potatoes be sweet (and dusted with cinnamon).

Message in a bottle

I'm rolling through the Showboat Casino when I run into J. and he has a question for me.
"Hey Pittsburgh" he asks "I heard you write good letters."
And I know right away what he wants and I say "Yeah. I'm alright."
And he cuts straight to the chase, six months ago he got in a fight and is now barred from the Taj Mahal casino. He needs to write a letter to the head of security to get his gaming privileges reinstated, can I do that for him? He's willing to pay $50- $100. And of course I can, because words are like Lego blocks in my hands and if you need me to build you a tank, no problem, a house? No problem. A fire truck? No problem. And truth be told, he's the 5th guy this year to ask me for such a letter. It started when my boy T got barred from the Borgata for a domestic incident with his girl, then Old Man James needed one for the time he cussed out a floorperson and got evicted, and so on. Somehow, the word got out and amongst poker players I became the literary equivalent of the cat with the best weed. Most of them don't know I'm a published poet and none of them know about or have read my blog, but still the word (like a twenty-four hour stomach flu virus), has spread. And it's ironic because although I love certain types of writing, I've never been much of a letter writer. In fact, I can count all the personal letters I've ever written on one hand. And I was already in my thirties when email replaced letters as the primary form of written communication between most people. When I was a kid, my Mom would send us off to Summer Camp for two weeks and always packed a pen and stationary. It would return unused. Then she started sending us off with postcards, pre addressed and stamped. All we had to do once we were at camp was write something and hand it to the counselor. I don't think I ever wrote a single word on any of them. I can't really explain it. I'm pretty articulate and unlike most guys, fairly articulate in expressing my emotions. But I never had any interest in writing letters. So of course, now I have people paying me to write letters for them. Got in a fight? No problem. Cashed a slot ticket that wasn't yours? No problem. Drunk and belligerent? No problem. It's nothing that a little written contrition can't fix. For some of these cats English is a foreign language, others are just intimidated by the task, still others just want a better letter than they feel they can write. So far, everyone has been reinstated. Including me, for my little contretemps in the bathroom at the Borgata.

I'm cruising through Caesars later, checking out the action and a floor person tells me that a cat I know got barred last week for pissing into a bottle under the table while playing poker. That's a new one for me and it's a tad trifling, but everybody needs a little side hustle, right? I know I'm probably going to hear from him soon and already I can feel the words lining up in my head like casino gamblers in a buffet line . . .

Why I've always avoided Beauty Parlors.

What I remember most is the smell. Not the orange hunger of the flames as they devoured first the sleeve of her baby blue terry cloth robe, then the broad back, then the long curling black strands of her hair. Not the sound of her astonishment at the sharp bite of the flames, not the frenzy that propelled her shrieks into the morning air. Not even the aftertaste of smoke and ash that would later settle in the back of my two year old throat. What has stayed with me longest, deepest is the smell. The burning smell. Not the burning pure cotton of the terry cloth. Although it burned. Not the acrid smell of burnt skin or flesh. Though they too burned. But the smell of her hair, burning. It is the one thing that even across the broad expanse of these forty-eight years, I still cannot shake. The smell of hair-burning. Her hair. And if a human being is on fire in front of you, it shouldn't matter who it is, the experience sears into memory like a white hot brand into the flank of a cattle. But she was, is still, my mother. Aflame and fighting, twisting, swinging, swatting at the orange beast which had mounted her back. Then stumbling across the room towards the open door which lead to the basement.

I was seated at the kitchen table, facing her, looking at Mark, whose back was to her. We were waiting on breakfast, on oatmeal, a favorite. She was at the stove, the long blue sleeves of her bath robe swished elegantly through the air as she moved. We were two hungry toddlers, banging spoons against the sides of our green plastic bowls, singing, chanting, in anticipation of breakfast, my favorite meal. It was Spring, another kind of fire, mid-morning sunlight poured through the window to the left of her, through the doorway to my immediate right. It was an ordinary day, like any other. Unlike any other. What I remember most is the smells, of the kitchen, of Spring, of oatmeal, of grease loosening on the hot top of the stove. Of my mother's hair being greedily eaten by the bright lips of leaping flame.

I don't remember the ambulance's arrival, but well into my forties, ambulance was the single word I couldn't pronounce correctly. I recall little of the three months she spent in Intensive Care, burns scarring forty percent of her body, infection a constant threat. I remember that we then lived only two blocks from one of the best Burn Units in the country and that they tried some new experimental techniques. I don't remember the nine months I spent living with friends while she recovered. I do remember how she was changed when she came home. How she never wore sleeveless garments anymore. How she gave up two packs a day and bourbon neat. I do remember that her hair grew back, how fortunate she was that because of its length, her scalp itself never burned badly enough to scar and destroy the follicles.

I remember how, as a kid, if I entered a neighbor's house and someone was using a hot comb, I would have to turn and leave straight away. It wasn't the sight of the iron teeth glowing red on the gas burners. I never got that close. It was the smell wrapping its thick gray fingers around my throat long before I ever made it to their kitchen. It is why to this day, even fifty years later, I have never set foot in a black beauty parlor.

And until next we meet, may all your potatoes be sweet (and dusted with cinnamon.)