Grasshopper Gloss: In Which An Analogy Is Drawn

O grasshoppers, you scoff to see me wave,

That gesture ceding you the right to cross

The concrete -- as though simply that could save

You from becoming just a smear, a gloss

Upon the Greenway's surface. No, you wait

Or fly away in haste. There's wisdom there.

Likewise, e'en though I know that many hate

My firm refusal of concern and care

Some motorists extend on city streets

That I traverse, that cut across my path.

I trust you not, as memory still bleats

Distress at one who waved, then hit me. Hath

We come to this, assuming evil of

Those who might truly mean us naught but love?

Tweet

In Which We Lose Another - R.I.P. Chris Al-Aswad, aka Lethe Bashar

I first found Chris -- or should say, he found me

On Twitter, of course. That is where great minds

Who think alike unite, these days. Valery,

That symbolist and poet -- such rare finds

Are people who know of him or will ask

When reference is made -- and so began

A strange collaboration. Each new task

We gave each other showed more of the man

Behind the pseudonym. Feverish, bright

And willing the world to be a bit more

Like that he found in books and paintings. Slight

Here is my praise; the shock's too new. If you're

Of any mind to see what he could do

Check out his novel. Chris, I shall miss you.

R.I.P. Harvey Pekar

There's nothing words and pictures cannot do,

Is what he taught us, long ago. Pekar,

Quotidian and wry, your work is through

And now it's left to us to keep your star

A-shining brightly, just as you have done

For my beloved Turkel; I can't wait

To get your adaptation of his fun

And moving opus, WORKING, though I'm late

In asking for it. What a perfect pair,

The two of you, both lost to this plane now.

The real world may seem dull, but those who care

To give an artist's eye to it see how

It truly is a splendor. Harvey, thanks

Among my saints, you'll e'er be in the ranks.

In Which Another Good'Un Leaves Us

My parents' home bears witness to his skill

In carpentry; my freezer, too, has held

Much bounty from those fishing trips. Dear Bill,

Called Famous in my old blog, I'm compelled

To thank you for so much, and I'm so glad

I had the chance before we lost you. Oh,

I smile right through my tears; the fun we've had

As families can n'er be stolen, though

Your presence 'mongst us has been, far too soon.

Alternative bird festivals, for one,

And endless chats at coffee, through 'til noon...

I missed the house boat on Lake Powell but, son,

That one was for you grown ups anyhow.

I'll miss you so! Wish you were here right now.

In Which Is Considered Mile Marker 332

The interstate fogged in across the top,
Just me and near one hundred giant trucks,
We slow sometimes to something like a stop;
A wreck up here gets messy and my luck's
Been on a streak of awesome; if it runs
Out here I'm in big trouble. One mistake
However small, begets much bigger ones
As trucks crash into crashes. How I quake
Just driving past a milepost where once burned
So many trucks at such an intense heat
The pavement melted and eight people earned
Their tickets out of this life. Caution's meet
As I traverse the area; I've got
More now to live for than I ever sought!

R.I.P., Dan O'Bannon

For Alien and Dark Star we give thanks,

And Total Recall, Life Force, too and for

Some bits of Heavy Metal's filmic pranks --

The corvette-flying astronaut and more --

I'm also grateful. Dan O'Bannon wrote

And worked on crazy stuff during his days

Among us. Some we saw and some, we note

Were never realized -- perhaps, though, praise

Instead of scorn is due, for while I dig

That Jodorowsky dude, and quite a lot

I'm not sure Dune was for them -- much too big

And sprawling. Just think what they would have wrought

Upon it? No. But Screamers? Um, hell yes,

Would be my answer. Yours too, I would guess.

R.I.P. Peter Storer

It's been a while since I quaffed down a beer
With you my friend, and now I guess I won't,
Not evermore, but I resist the tear
I want to shed. Your daughter's right; you don't
Want us to cry. We had a lot of fun
In building our community. You were
A hell of a fun guy to know. I'm one
Of many who will miss you. There's a blur
Now in my eyes, but still to this I cling:
I've memories galore to make me smile,
As do we all. But may I say one thing?
While you had quite a run I still revile
That fate just took you from us. Friend, farewell.
I know that where you are you're raising hell.

In Which I Have A Tiny Panic Attack At Work

Alone here in a fishbowl, full of folk
Absorbed in work and play, ignoring me,
I suddenly can't shake or call a joke
The feeling that has made me want to flee:
Just weeks ago a jackass in a truck
Hit me on Deep Blue as I crossed a street.
Just days ago another tested luck -
The driver, texting, nearly made me meet
My newly-dead friend sooner than I'd planned:
Was head-on for me and swerved as I did
To miss. It seemed dead-certain that my grand
Time on this Earth was done. Did someone bid
Him look up? It's unknown. But now the sense
That something wants me dead, too, is intense.

November

The trees are naked in November sun,
Shed leaves are dry and clatter through the street;
Cool browns, dull greys, some golds but only one
Bright hue relieves the muted palette. Sweet,
The year is ending. Dormancy prevails.
Yet deep inside each thing is closely held
That which against all chills' attacking fails.
Not death but strength tones down the colors. Quelled,
Then, should be any talk of loss, ennui
Or sadness. Beauty sometimes takes on stark,
Surprising forms if one has eyes to see.
It's there throughout these days, e'en in the dark.
Take time today; go outside and admire
The bold tenacity that guards the fire.

BONUS SONNET: In Which I Long To Be Outdoors All The Time In Autumn

It cannot be the smell of slow, cold death,
That drives me e'er outdoors this time of year
To exercise and draw in one deep breath
And then another, can it? Yet I fear
Sometimes that my deep love of Fall's just that:
A love affair with all that does decay,
Dry up, fall off, freeze, rot and then go splat,
Or just detach and gently blow away.
But summer's sun pins me down like a bug,
It burns my bare skin, gives me headaches, brings
Unwanted gawkers out who'll see me. Ugh.
Now as it wanes I think not of those things,
Just climb aboard my bike, relish the chill
And see how quickly I can climb that hill.

BONUS SONNET: Bye-Bye, Mr. & Ms. American Pie

Two icons of my childhood, both are gone.

I still recall when his hair caught on fire,

And still laugh loud when she sits on the lawn

And tries repeatedly just to inspire

A quiet moment to reflect on trees.

My sister loved MJ much more than I,

As girls. But I remember -- quelle suprise

Our skating in our dad's garage to my

Small turntable with Thriller on and more.

In later years, the freak show dwarfed the man

And Farrah sort of faded to decor:

Her poster long outlived her actual span

Within the public eye. I bid them peace.

At last the tabloids, flashbulbs for them cease.

Who Busted Out A Time Machine When I Wasn't Looking?

A baby down in Oz has died because
Her neighborhood was seething with disease --
Not AIDS, Ebola, swine flu -- I must pause,
And scream before I go on; pardon, please.
'Twas whooping cough that killed this little girl:
Preventable since 1925!
She was too young for shots herself, but (HURL)
The neighbor kids are why she's not alive.
Their parents were convinced that a vaccine
Would be much worse than death on needless scales,
And so this bug broke out again. "Obscene"
Is not a strong 'nough word for these sad tales.
Autism is a horror, yes it's true,
But vaccines do not cause it, K? Thank you.

R.I.P. Patrick McGoohan

The Prisoner was once my fav'rite show
(Or one of them, at least; they've not been few),
This though I was born years after the blow
Of yanking it was dealt to those of you
Who saw it in its actual heyday.
It baffled me, which few TV shows try;
It rarely bothered to explain its plot,
It never spat contempt at my mind's eye
A quality that I enjoy a lot.
It scared me, too, the Rover and the town,
The chill succession of those Numbers One,
These frightened me more than even a clown
And Number Six used brains 'stead of a gun
To try to make his daring weird escapes.
Be Seeing You. At least I still have tapes...