2013 NaPoMo Haiku/Senryu (and other poems)

Well kids, it's that time of the year again wherein your intrepid hero attempts to navigate the roiling and treacherous waters of inspiration with his flimsy poetic craft. This year unlike others, we come into the month with a great deal of momentum, although sans our former muse who now merely glowers when she deigns to glance in our direction at all. But the Show must go on and write we will even if it is without the buoyant mania that once propelled our craft. We are tied to no line except that one which anchors us nightly. Our goal is the distant city of Haijin many miles downstream. How far, you ask? Who knows. The point is to get closer. We will enjoy the process of the ride rather than sweat the arrival. We must make at least thirty stops along the way, a haiku or senryu for each day, although they will likely swirl in eddies and waves as opposed to a continuous flow. By the end of the month I would also like to have written at least seven haiku in Kriolu, last month I wrote my first two, which leaves me five to go. We begin though in English;

Whitney's voice
from a passing car-
An old receipt

Fresh blueberries
falling into
Chucky's laughter

Slope
of the barren volcano-
Nunny's stare

Crushed pumice
blackens the beach
Grandfather's temper

She thanks me
for no reason-
Thawing ice

Ninety eight
reasons to come out-
Sports Illustrated

Crescent moon
peeling the yellow
midnight banana

Lingering
over a comma-
Quarter Moon

April swirls
Bobbing in the white waves
a little buoy

Sound of Evening rain-
The apple trees' branches
against the window

Clouds drifting-
Just before just after
goodbye kiss

Crack of thunder-
All the neighborhood cars
alarmed

This tongue
between moist lips-
Sealed envelope

A scar
below her right breast-
The Milky Way

Mountain Laurel blooms-
Flickering deep in Penn's Woods
a single candle

Sunrise-
her tongue warms
my nipple

Low fog-
A Mourning Dove's
high coo

Above the hum
of the power line-
Crow

Vaguely threatening
The man in the red pickup
afternoon sky

Golf ball
semi-lodged in sand-
Half moon

Chilly afternoon-
I turn up the flame under
a pot of greens

Storm clouds-
Branches of this lone tree
untrembled

All in-
My stack suddenly
larger

Thanksgiving Night-
Wild Turkey in a
tumbler

Fiftieth birthday-
Looking up a word
I used to know

Marsh reeds sprout

through sidewalk asphalt-

Her reluctant smile

At the corner
A boy with his pants sagging-
Half moon

Hair bun bobbing
she slowly disappears-
Setting sun

Adjusting the hat
then readjusting it-
Cool breeze

Plink plink
a shuffling of poker chips-
Fortunes

April first- 

The waitress' fingernails 

are ivy green

First of April-

Maybe this cute cashier 

has no boyfriend

Spring lonliness- 

The wind pushes an empty 

box of Newports

April puddles-
Even this atheist
must take a leap

Starless night-
Almost forty ounces
of emptiness

Autumn breeze-
Brushing what's left
of my hair

Early April sky-
Even a seventeen bar
Blues isn't this gray

First kiss
after making up-
Sheet lightning

Monday Morning-

Even my reality checks 

are bouncing

Apparently I

didn't catch her drift-

Leaves swirling

Thesaurus

I find everything

except love

April Fools Day-

At least the puppy knows

he's chasing his tail

Cracked nail 

on my left big toe- 

Sliver of moon

The homeless man
staring into the window-
Me

As part of output this month I'm going to try to get this haiku translated into French, Arabic, Spanish, and Portuguese (those being the primary languages of the West African Slave Trade);

Only sunlight
passes in both directions-
Door of No Return

Só os raios do sol
passam nas duas direcções-
Porta sem retorno

(Portuguese translation by R. Erica Doyle)

Ne passe que lumière
dans les deux sens –
Porte du voyage sans retour

(French translation by Christine Lux)

Anyone with expertise in translating to those languages or in writing haiku in those languages can feel free to comment or add input.

So far, the only regular poem I've written this month is this fun one I came up with for Jericho Brown's birthday;

I placed a candle
upon a cake from New Orleans
And Please it was, upon a plate.
It made the nervous words
Surround that cake.

The alphabet rose up to it,
And curled around, no longer ordered.
The candle was Please upon the cake
And of a shimmer in wick.

It took desire everywhere.
The cake was chocolate and Please!
It did not give of fork or knife,
Like nothing else from New Orleans.

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

Getting Lucky

Every once in a while in AC you hear stories about people getting lucky. Some of them are so incredible you think the people have to be lying. Like my buddy RF, who woke up this Thursday at 9 am with $1 to his name and no gas in his tank. He lives up north in Jersey and he wasn't even sure he'd have the tolls to get home. I saw him at breakfast where he'd just finished using up the last of his comps at the Borgata to eat. I would have helped him out, but I was busted too, although not in as bad a shape as him. Then his phone rings and its his boy E from back home. He started not to answer
because E is always calling to borrow money and he had none to lend. But he picked up anyway and sure enough E was looking to come down to AC but was short a few bucks. But the something odd happened, when RF told him he was busted, E decided not to come down and then offered RF what little money he had. RF told me that in twenty years E had never done such a thing. E deposited the $40 in an account and since it wasn't enough to play poker RF decided to bet the horses. He bets a few races and then put $18 on a Trifecta that comes in for $14, so he wins 9x $14 which is $126. Just enough to buy in to a 1/2 No Limit game. RF is a patient winning poker player so he sets about grinding only he runs second best and soon is down to $30. He gets All In and triples up and soon thereafter runs it up to $250. He's thinking about locking up his win when he's dealt JJ and calls a small raise. The Flop comes ten high and the raiser bets $50, RF moves in for $178 more. The raiser leans back, ponders and then shows RF two queens. He mentions that RF hasn't played many hands and then mucks his hand. RF takes down a nice pot and breathes a sigh of relief because the guy had him crushed. He gets a losing hand, but is lucky enough to get it against the one guy who woud fold a better hand. Well to make a long story even longer, he runs his stack up to over $800. He picks up and call it a day. From $1 to over $800 in half a day and when he really needed it. I got lucky that day too, but not so much in poker, although I won a little there also. I got a second haiku accepted for publication, then found out that NPR was taking a different one for their Twitter Poetry contest they do every National Poetry Month. In fact, mine was the very first one they accepted this year. I discovered that Twitter now takes line breaks which means no more need for slashes to indicate line breaks. To celebrate I wrote this poem which somehow turned out pretty good ;

Ars Poetica

I am broken
open by
the random
enjambment
of her
sighs.

I was just screwing around and got lucky, but things got even better. I had decided to try to write some haiku in Kriolu, the Portuguese Creole language spoken in Cape Verde and my goal was to try to scratch out seven haiku. I searched the Web high and low for some examples, but couldn't find any. If anyone is writing haiku in Kriolu, they're keeping it hidden. The idea of being the first one to do it was pretty exciting even though I knew I might not be first, just the first to put them in the Web. So I started and lo and behold if I didn't somehow manage to get insanely lucky. The very first one I wrote turned out decent!!

Cigaru sem fumo
na beixu di homi-
Vulcão na Fogo.

Cigarette
unlit on a man lips-
Volcano on Fogo.

Not bad at all, but then it got even better!! I wrote this joint in English with a Cape Verdean theme;

Cigarette smoke
drifting across a stage-
Cesaria's voice.

I was on a roll!! I then squeezed out several more about my grandparents including these two;

With her sisters
Nunny speaks Kriolu-
Sudden sunbeams.

From the big toolbox
I select the correct wrench-
My Grandfather's smile.

Nunny is my grandmother, of course. The second one is pretty good if I don't say so myself, maybe one of the best Senryu I've written. And just when it seemed Things couldn't get any better I hit a miracle card on the river in the form of this Kriolu haiku;

Sodade
de Cabo Verde-
Quel ventu seku.

Longing
for Cape Verde-
This dry wind.

That might be the best haiku I've ever written, it would take me a long time to explain it, but when I posted it on Facebook, my cousin Tor commented in Kriolu "Perfeito!!" Perfect! On the one hand I'm super happy, on the other I'm worried I might never write anything half as good in Kriolu ever again. Poets, we're crazy like that. I also managed this excellent revision of an earlier poem that came from an exercise. I seem to have gotten super lucky with the ending here, I read the poem for the first time at the World Above monthly open reading at Dante Hall here in AC and got audible gasps at the end. I'm not going to lie, I live for that kind of response to my work;

Because on each
of her fingertips
a maze meant whorls,
it's her hands
that I itch for.
What I may miss
in tracing a line
on her palm
I divine
in the next.
Even her pinky
like a searchlight,
finds what
I fear revealed.
Her slender thumbs
oppose with grace
(Will they oppose me?)
Her index rises,
a tender wand,
a tenth of what
troubles my blood:
a touch more subtle
than I surmised.
All night,
each nail,
a pale croissant
I crave.


I'm on a roll, let's see how long my hot hand continues.

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

HOLE (noted)

"each hoisting forever upward his burden"

Each shriek,

hoisting a heavy tome

somehow calligraphic,

upwards as dust

a new music, old

burden, unbreathed.

Each bar stumbled from

hoisting hymnals

forever humming

upward, arpeggiatic

a soul, saxophonic

burden, burnished.

Each solo, flat sharp,

hoisting a hammer

forever falling,

towards

the ash-black

burden, airborne.

Each scream almost

hoisting down heaven.

forever. flaming

upwards. hell-bent.

your passion's single

burden. burning.

I'm thinking of revising this poem from the above form (which is a quotilla) to a form I call the B-Bop Solo, where I start with a quotilla, but then use normal enjambment and variations of the original phrase. I have written more successful poems like this than I have quotilla and it may become my favorite form to work in. The first revision looks like this;

HOLE (noted)

"each hoisting forever upward his burden"

Each shriek hoisting

a heavy tome

ssomehow calligraphic,

upwards as dust

a new music,

old burden, 
unbreathed.

Each bar stumbled
from

hoisting hymnals,

forever humming upward

arpeggiatic

a soul, 
saxophonic

burden, 

burnished.

Each solo, 
flat sharp,

hoisting a hammer

forever falling

towards

the ash-black

burden, 

airborne.

Each scream
almost

hoisting 

down heaven

forever

flaming

upwards

hell-bent,

your passion's
single

burden. 

burning.

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

March 2013 Haiku/Senryu

You never know where the light will come from. Had a spell where inspiration was drier than a psoriatic elbow and then Boom! NPR sends out Tweets announcing this year's NaPoMo Twitter Poetry Contest and The NPR Cherry Blossom Haiku Contest, so I decided to get an early start. I initially decided not to submit any haiku or senryu deciding instead to submit excerpts from existing poems that I thought were interesting or could stand on their own. A funny thing happened on the way to internets. I started revising the excerpts to make them fit the 140 character limit and some of the poems got better. I also revised a couple to help them stand alone better and whaddaya know, but the new lines were not only better solo, they fit better in the poems too. I gained a new revision technique, one that looks to help my poems mightily. And then I decided to revise a few haiku/senryu and wound up submitting them too. Which has lead to me Twitterbombing haiku over the last few days. Including my first ever Portuguese haiku (Thanks Deborah). In fact, for NaPoMo I'm going to try to write at least seven haiku in Kriolu. I searched the web, but couldn't find any, maybe someone else is searching too and not finding any, so now there'll at least be something out there. No, my Kriolu isn't good enough to be writing haiku, but I figure this will force it to get better (wish me luck!). All the new ones felt like they wanted to pool in one spot, so here they are;

Mountain
of grey ash and scarred rock-
Her fuschia sweater

Shining sign
"Dangerous Curve Ahead"-
Her lower lip

Titanium screws
won't help these brackets hold-
March wind

Chuva miudinha
Cai nas ruas da cidade-
Floras de cereja

(Translation)
Light rain
Falls on city streets-
Cherry blossoms

Tears
of a boy charged with rape-
Late rain

Grass clips
from the Mailman's boots-
More Junk Mail

And these next two Ladies and gentlemen are my first attempt at haiku in Kriolu;

Sodade
de Cabo Verde-
Quel ventu seku

(Translation)
Longing
for Cape Verde-
This dry wind

Cigaru sem fumo
na beixu di homi-
Vulcan na Fogo

(Translation)
Cigarette unlit
on a man lips-
Volcano on Fogo

Cigarette smoke
drifting across a stage-
Cesaria's voice

Sunlight only
passes in both directions-
Door Of No Return

Nunny speaks 

Kriolu with her sisters -

Sudden sunbeams

Dealer's green eyes-
Lima beans in Nunny's
jagacida

Almost Thanksgiving-
Nunny stirs a giant pot
of Caçhupa

March morning-
Drapes open to
thick fog

Cotton between
me and the pills-
Morning fog

Out of
the whiteness of the fog-
Snowflakes

Big toolbox
I select the correct wrench-
Grandfather's smile

NPR Cherry Blossom Haiku
(These are the 5-7-5 versions for the contest)

March snowfall-
Her cheeks almost pink
as cherry blossoms

The man next to me
wearing no deodorant-
Not cherry blossoms

The shadows somehow
deeper after she departs-
Cherry blossoms fall

Vernal Equinox-
Our backyard halfway full
of cherry blossoms

Wet April morning-
Windshield wiper blades heavy
with cherry blossoms

Cherry blossoms swirl-
In morning's pink avalanche
we leave snow angels

(Here are the versions I prefer even though they aren't all 5-7-5)

Early March
her cheeks bright pink-
Cherry blossoms

Man with
no deodorant-
Not cherry blossoms

She departs
into deepening shadows-
Cherry blossoms swirl

Vernal Equinox-
Our backyard halfway full
of cherry blossoms

April morning-
Windshield wiper blades heavy
with cherry blossoms

Cherry blossoms swirl-
In the pink avalanche
snow angels


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

HARVEST MOON

I was standing outside the main auditorium on the campus of James Madison University in between readings at the first Furious Flower poetry conference back in 1995 when I first met Lenard D. Moore, haijin extraordinaire. I can't remember who introduced us, there were so many poets standing around just kicking it, but I had had a few haiku selected and published somewhere and it was suggested to me that I talk to Lenard. I had just heard of his book "The Gulf War-A Brief History" which was a collection of haiku that dealt with his experiences fighting in the first Gulf War. The book was, even then, very hard to find and even at Furious Flower it wasn't on sale. He fortunately had a copy of it on him which at least gave me a chance to flip through it while he talked to some of the poets standing around us. He had seen some of my work and remarked that they were very nice "short poems" and I knew right away what he meant. That they weren't haiku, at least not in the traditional sense. Like a lot of black poets I was a big fan of the "haiku" written by Sonia Sanchez and wrote poems in that style. But, I wasn't offended, I knew he was right and was interested in learning more. He started by rattling off some of the rules of traditional haiku and to my surprise he didn't mention the one rule I most expected. The five-seven-five syllabic requirement is the most famous 'rule' of haiku, only he never mentioned it, he talked about privileging the concrete image, no metaphor (a tough one), no simile, no rhyme, the 'Season word', and the importance of contrast or juxtaposition. Finally I asked him about the syllable count and he said what was most important was keeping it under 17 syllables. I have always loved writing in forms and dug haiku, or at least what I understood as haiku, like I dug many other forms. He recommended a few books for me too read and I made a mental note. Thus began a journey which has taken me almost twenty years, the journey to develop some competency and perhaps master the art of writing haiku. A few years later Lenard would attend Cave Canem, the workshop/retreat for black poets and we would get a chance to sit down and really talk about haiku and I would get a chance to peruse his books from end to end. I would spend a lot of time on and off scratching out little poems, some more successful than others and in fact buoyed by what I learned from him at CC I would go on to win the National Head to Head Haiku Slam Championship (which was written up in Time Magazine, of all places) and then defend it the next year. The first ever two time winner, although it has since been done by Tazuo Yamaguchi also. Still, the thing I wanted most, as a measurement of my progress was publication in a magazine or journal that specialized in haiku. That, to me would establish that I had achieved a basic ability to write in the form. To be honest, I don't submit much, not even regular poems, but I did submit maybe 20 or so haiku a year to various journals for quite a few years. Everything got rejected, although I came close a few times and got some great advice from a few editors including the very gracious Jim Kacian who almost took one of my haiku for Frogpond back in 2001. That near miss sustained me for a long time, I knew I was a good poet, but was just missing a key element of haiku. So, I kept reading and studying. Because if nothing else, I'm a very patient guy and fervently believe that anything worth having is also worth waiting for.



Earlier this year I finally had a breakthrough in my understanding of the form, it was something that Lenard had mentioned all those years ago, that I heard, but somehow never quite comprehended, privileging the concrete image, foregrounding it really and letting it stand on its own. It basically means letting go of any and all poetic devices and letting the image do all the work. That's a tough thing for most poets, myself included, to do. Poetic devices are what we specialize in after all. Posting haiku as Status Updates on Facebook helped a great deal, because you get instant feedback as to what people respond to and, if you're lucky, you can learn from that. I'm hard-headed, very much so, but I do learn, eventually (well, sometimes). And so, Last year for National Poetry Month I got a haiku accepted by NPR for the NaPoMo Twitter poem feature on their program 'Tell Me More'. It's not exactly a literary journal, but it was cool. The link for the poem on my Facebook got over 100 Likes or something crazy like that. Then, after a year or so of submitting haiku for the Wednesday Haiku Feature of the Lilliput Review's blog Issa's Untidy Hut, I finally got one accepted. It was for me a pretty big deal, i think I spent the whole day playing poker and not caring if I won or lost a single hand. Then, I got an email for a new haiku journal that was starting up, focussing on haiku about the moon. Was I interested in submitting? Do squirrels like nuts? Do eskimos build igloos? Do camels feel special on Wednesdays? I submitted and got a few accepted, Oh frabjous day! Calloh! Callay! It's just baby steps, but I'll take it. Along the way there have been some pretty cool moments. I often post haiku on FB and sometimes they get responses and sometimes they just seem to fall through the cracks, but one senryu in particular generated a ton of response;

In the Horse Room
I try to apologize-
She shakes her ponytail

As a writer, you just never know what people will latch onto or respond to, but this poem struck a chord with a bunch of folks. Often I post haiku and they get no response whatsoever, if one gets three or four Likes, I'm happy. If it gets any actual Comments, that's a bonus. This Senryu got over twenty comments, that's a record for me on Facebook. It always helps when people respond strongly to something you've written. Reading the Dark Pens issue has sparked a surge in writing for me and I cranked out a bunch of new haiku and some revisions of older Ku that didn't quite work for me. I feel like I've turned a corner. We'll see. The last couple of days I've been posting mad haiku to Twitter trying to get a poem accepted for a couple of NPR programs, I hope folk aint mad about me haiku-bombing their Timelines. Below enjoy seven acorns I found while strolling

warning track—

Clemente settles under

the September sun

red solo cup

Yellowjacket buzzing

blue Kool Aid

Her hands

under my unbuttoned shirt-

Radiator steam

Pigeon heads

between cracked vials-

Cherry blossoms

break room

after wiping her glasses

she swipes right

August twilight-

the Brick wall hisses

and darkens

After her kiss

on my collarbone—

crescent moon

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

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.)