SCIENCE FICTION POETRY

INTRODUCTION

A half century ago, Ray Bradbury envisioned screen entertainment as an enervating drug, portraying Montag’s wife in Fahrenheit 451 (1953) as a reality/interactive TV junkie who’s lost her social consciousness and her capacity to love. She spends her days in her room, which has television screens covering three walls. Her favorite show, The Family, includes her in the plot, and the characters sometimes turn to address her directly—a hypnotically meaningful thing for her. 

                      —pg 103, The Dumbest Generation by Mark Bauerlein

SWITCHING CHANNELS

When the tv’s on in your master bedroom

     you’re never alone;

      people speak to you

                                                offer advice.

  

When there’s a telephone on the night stand

       within reach

       there’s no need for a revolver

       under your pillow

                                                you have 911.

 When the bedroom door is locked

         the non-hologram man    from

         the next bedroom            over
         can not beam himself      in.

 He escapes his servitude        

           through  facebook and skype

  

But his therapist warns:

          kids                can not free themselves

          from               emotional incest       
          because          it lingers

          until realized.

THERAPY IN A COFFEE SHOP

  
I met my other therapist a few days ago—not the professionally trained degreed woman skilled at tossing reflexive questions my way—no, I met a Detroit poet at a coffee shop and he said something to the affect of “Smile motherfucker” before snapping this mugshot. He also gave me his son’s Darth-Vader talking-head-stick with four buttons to push when confronted about marital assets or other trivial possessions accumulated over the years of one’s marriage:

Button one: “I had enough.”
Button two: “Don’t underestimate the force.”
Button three: What is thy bidding, my master?”
Button four: “I want them alive!”

I haven’t been served my divorce papers, or whatever they’re called nowadays, but through that magical portal called the internet I discovered the following “Non-April Fool’s Day” filing/charges against yours truly, the listed defendant:

Ex Parte Order for Status Quo – SGD
Ex Parte Mutual Preliminary Injunction Order – SGD
Record of Divorce/Annulment Received
Summons Issued (Expires 7/5/11)
Complaint/Petition Filed
Entry Fee $150.00.

So the process of wiping out 18 years of marriage will soon be nothing more than court proceedings instead of the personal explanation of “I can’t make you happy.” I’m not sure what that means, but I’ll store it in my memory bank alongside “I don’t hate you, I just don’t love you” and “You’re an excellent father.”

My buttons have been pushed these past few days and I’m trying to hold my head up and move forward. Running every day seems to help.

In case you’re wondering who that Detroit poet is it’s none-other than Mark C. Durfee, author of The Line Between and Stink. He offered me all kinds of retaliatory options, knowing I’d never act on them. “That isn’t your style,” he said, “you have too much care and concern within you. Your petty meanness is stolen from you at your job and she (meaning “my wife”) is fortunate for that, it makes it easy to target you with what she perceives as your failings.”

I’d like to thank Mark for those free sessions. I can’t help but think about my very own “line between”—a reference he made to that short dash on one’s grave-marker, how it represents all our actions between life and death, and I can only hope that my good deeds outweigh my faults.

SMILE, SAY CHEESE!

Here’s my Dad at my age,
in much happier times …

Maybe it was the economy
and a delicious piece of
German Chocolate cake?

But I’m not the Cake Boss,
No, I’m Colby Jack Ass—

I’ve reached my expiration date.

And I, to be that naive,
to bite into a bad piece
of moldy cheese.

Do me a favor, I suggested,
hire one food inspector
to decide each item’s fate.

Here’s my Dad … at my age,
with Mom … out of the picture
for all the right reasons, together,
strong as the sunrise, more heat
then my short-wicked candles
flamed-out 16 years earlier.

A prearranged activity,
whose planner does not shed
a single tear, but snaps the picture:

Year After Year After Year
After Year After Year After
Year After Year After Year
After Year After Year After
Year After Year After Year
After Year After Year After
Year After Year After Year

until boredom kills the effort,
until I say cheese no more.


*Currently listening to Cowboy Junkies "You Will Be Loved Again" from the caution horses.

"Under the Bridge" & "Polaroid"

Here are two poems, one new and one old. There seems to be a common theme about disappearing, or so I think. Or are they just nostalgic words longing for yesterday? I’m not sure.

Under the Bridge

That evening under the bridge,
with a calm summer breeze against
pendulummed feet, we talked.

Of what? I don’t recall. Our sentences:
dream-bubble-currents churned
in the undertow below.

My actions were set in stone that day,
call it Houdini-speak, how I would not
tell you about my vanishing act.

Like that bottle of wine we uncorked and drank
then tossed near the breakwall only to be
consumed again.

Eighteen winters later, with bloodlines drawn,
there’s no message in that bottle, no Ouija board
or séance to be held, only spring’s thaw—

Where water rushes inward and pushes back the vowels
as I think about what you would have said, what you did say,

“I object—”

And for one brief moment down on Emerald Street,
I thought I saw my open-mouthed smile pressed
against the surface of your eye.

Polaroid

Someone’s fingers are itchin’
to pull the trigger. Call it:
The chemical rub-out before
the sun does its work. Still,
a middle class family
appears (such a rarity
these days). The dull colors
frozen like a Ted Turner classic.
What happened that night is momentarily
forgotten; They are ready
to celebrate with two candles lit,
a four, a five, sunk into Mother’s
cake. The youngest boy emerges
from solitary confinement, his wish
exhaled, gone in a flash.


*Currently listening to the Moody Blues "Days of Future Passed."

A Compendium of Voices: DVQ, Issue 8, Vol.3

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Disclaimer: Although my story “FindYourMate.com” appeared in a previous issue of Diverse Voices Quarterly, I do believe my views here are impartial. You are more than welcome to leave a comment at the end of this review.
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Diverse Voices Quarterly, Issue 8, begins with Antonia Crane’s “Pleasures,” a first person narrative about dying and tempting fate. The narrator avoids the inevitable: a road trip home to see her terminally ill mother, opting instead to perform on a “rusty metal pole” inside a strip club. She knows she can’t compete with the younger dancers who have “legs like blades of Texas Blue Grass and slim pointy ankles,” but doesn’t seem to mind attracting an odd assortment of older gentlemen for their money.

In Gene McCormick’s “Horace Reads the Wall Street Journal,” Horace isn’t reading the newspaper at all because Emma—presumably his wife?—unintentionally elevates household chores to an enticing, yet subtle, strip-tease: Bending over, pushing, pulling, reaching.

It isn’t until A. Frank Bower’s wedding anniversary story “White Lies,” where two married couples argue inside a family restaurant, that we suffer our first repulsive gut shot of tasteless porn-dialogue. Perhaps in choosing this story, the editor of DVQ wants to showcase a wide-range of sexual tension between an array of fictional characters. If so, I’m not sure this piece fits.

Thankfully, the next two poems serve as romantic-interludes, alleviating or toning-down this tension:

Roger Perez Jr.’s “Any Thing Left”: Tulips injected into the granite / with little soil, whisper and remind / me of our first stare, and Raina Lauren Fields “love as a flipbook”: of curiously fondled covers, of slow-turned / pages, until he & i are no longer sipping / warm wine from plastic cups.

Interestingly enough, K.W. Taylor’s flash fiction piece “Phlegmatic” resolves a boyfriend / girlfriend conflict of epic proportion but does so with civility and understanding; whereas Janet Thornburg’s “Musical Tables” (my personal favorite) demonstrates the complexities involved in a platonic relationship where the narrator’s true feelings are symbolically revealed at the closing of her 40-year class reunion.

Relationships, authentic feelings, near the end of DVQ, Issue 8, shift gears, having turned mechanical with Adam Crittenden’s two poems: “A Moment in the Life of the Tin Man’s Girlfriend” and “Zombie.” From the first poem: But you are sterile, you’ve always been, / and I am left with the mess / and an oil can. From the second: he lays down / with lazy eyes he remembers / what she had said earlier / it seems like we are going / through the motions. The emotional impact of these words, although held in check, pack more wallop in the closing pages and heighten the awareness of each piece.

Overall, the placement of each story and each poem in DVQ, Issue 8, makes for an interesting read and is one of the editor’s best efforts yet of displaying a good cross-section of diverse voices and tolerances. As for the digital layout, DVQ, is comparable to other e-journals but lacks an interactive table of contents. I found myself having to bookmark my favorites, which, if you really think about it, isn’t such a bad thing. I would highly recommend this free e-journal to anyone interested in poetry and/or fiction. Fire-up your e-readers. Here’s the link: Diverse Voices Quarterly, Issue 8

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*Note to self: With spring just around the corner, I will be posting more poetry—new & old. You've been warned.

THE TRIO, GEARING UP FOR FRIDAY

I’ve narrowed down my set list for Friday’s reading at the Lawrence Street Art Gallery. It hasn’t been easy. The biggest factor in my selection: What stories, flash fiction, or flash memoir best reflect who I am as a writer?

Also, keeping in mind that folks want to be entertained, what feelings will these pieces elicit? I certainly don’t want to offend the audience or send anyone into a deep state of depression (even though some of my writing is indeed offensive and/or doomy and gloomy). Also, I need to think about the order of each piece. I’ll probably end my set with something semi-humorous, perhaps “The Mathematical Genius”—short, but sweet.

I look forward to seeing everyone, and I’m glad that I get to go first, that way: I can sit back and enjoy the performances of Mark Durfee  and Michelle Brooks. For more info click on the picture or go to: POETIC TRAVELERS.

When Michael-X Steals a Tape Recorder at Mound Correctional and Feels Like a Man

There’s no tellin’ what he’ll do
with a tattoo gun
the steady hum, because
its spring-loaded action
makes music to his ears,
drips ink from a guitar string
& sing sings, more than
bullet holes or
his nolo contendre
now that he’s an artist
penning what?
“East Side Gangsta”
on someone else’s neck
and a tear drop
fleck (or two)
beneath his brother’s eye,
the permanence, the stain,
more ghetto than any
jury of his peers recalling
from their notes each
eye-witness account
placing him at the scene.