Archive for November, 2011

Born to Rut

It seems some people are born to be (speaking in simile) like pigs. Others are born to be (speaking in metaphor) pigs. Some are born to emulate Tolstoy and ; others to emulate Sarah Silverman. I am born to be in the middle.
I’ve witnessed pig tale at my “employer” that merits sharing with readers of Honey & Quinine who seem to be in the middle as well.

At our granite showroom, the first thing visitors see as they walk with me from there to the exit at the back of the building after an easy step to the right and then to the left is our “unisex” bathroom equipped with toilet and vanity with tissue, paper towels, and cold and cold running water. The bathroom as a door that any visitor to the room more grounded in elementary propriety than a Warner Bros. cartoon character with a curly tail would know is likely to appear most appropriately as a door drawn almost closed. Said visitor would understand how the door, drawn almost closed, reveals the availability of the room for human habitation the way a door closed does not. Sure, the person approaching with dirty hands or purging waste on his or her mind can turn the closed door’s knob, turn it and pull, only to understand that the cozy quarters is “occupado” as they say with plastic signs left on airliner seats temporarily vacated. There is really no need for closing the door entirely and forcing the approaching visitor to go to the bother of trying to open the door and, with that innocent effort,  disturbing the person less than two feet away from the knob.  The door, left slightly opened — four inches, max — confirms the room is not occupied while saving a customer and a fellow employee the bother of looking into a BATHROOM.

So what’s so wrong about seeing a bathroom? The appearance of even the best bathroom — say even the Bill Gates model with HOT and cold running water — is a distraction to the customer thinking about granite and marble, an un-necessary distraction, just like an unvacuumed showroom floor or short hallway so brazenly cluttered with samples and supplies it resembles bin Laden’s bedroom after the Seals flew away.

I vacuum the showroom floor whenever it should be vacuumed. The hallway to the rear exit that SCREAMS APATHY and NEGLECT is beyond my control. The last time it was clutter-free, it was because the property assessor was visiting the next day. Three days after the visit, things and cascaded into disarray, the rut of owner’s choice in this backwater of “so what?”

I also draw the bathroom door almost shut, on arrival here in the morning, right after I punch the time clock. First things first. Every time I move within line of sight of the door, I adjust my intended route in the showroom to allow me to partially close that door. When customers visit and I see the gaping maw of piggishness on parade, I race ahead of the customers as though I see a five-year old about to fall off a window ledge, and wit-ishly (I know wit has nothing to do with it) explain to customers following slowly, perhaps perplexed by my rush, “I know you didn’t come here to see our bathroom, ha ha ha,  you came to see slabs of granite.”

Last July I produced a small note on the wall behind the toilet so that anyone standing, facing the commode would see it. The note was computer generated and printed in black and white, probably 4 inches by 6 inches. It said . . .
Some visitors to this room are not blessed
with the capacity to read and understand
simple English, but if you ARE one of those
so happily blessed, please demonstrate that
talent by closing the door behind you when
your business in this room is completed.
Thank you.

On the inside of the door, the side anyone would see when facing the closed door en route back to the showroom or another place, I produced and posted a shorter note, a “reminder” about 8 inches by  11 inches with much larger type that read
“Please close this door behind you. Thanks.”

The business owner didn’t complain. He had given me permission in July to place them as I had. He also ignored their message. From my desk in the showroom near the front door, I can neither see, nor do I want to see, who visits the bathroom.  There are seven people who work here. Some close the door, some don’t, some close it some of the time. I do not judge anyone here. I do not try to manage or correct the incapacities of these strangers. I can barely manage and correct my own incapacities. Even so, the neglect of a simple act of pulling the bathroom door almost closed (as I do every time I visit) seems to suggest more disrespect for the ultimate success of my “employer” than should be in an environs where we don’t eat corn cobs for dunner and feed ourselves with chunks of wildlife skewered on the tip of a knife. We who profess to respect the public at large, should demonstrate that respect, in part, by closing the bathroom door behind us.

Little things mean a lot.

Live long . . . . . . . and proper.

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It’s 10:26 on the “atomic clock” behind me at “work” (HAHAHAHAHA) where I’m sitting at the showroom computer. I’m wearing my usual garb for raking leaves at 40 degrees on a windless, overcast morning and over that, a light flannel jacket and over that my brown leather jacket. I should come as a surprise to many of you that I’m not raking leaves outside today, I’m sitting in a building on the edge of the world and serving my employer by answering the phone, greeting customers who visit and helping them make granite countertops a part of their homes and businesses. I like the freedom that transcends the downside degradation and shame I feel when I encounter anyone I know who innocently and rightfully visits here.  I do not like “employer’s” (HAHAHAHA) aversion to turning on the furnace.

My feet and hands are cold; between them, I’m okay. I’ve not finished my first cup of coffee of the day.

I slept in my bed instead of the living room easy chair last night because it was important for me to get an honest five hours sleep. I didn’t even nap after dinner last night because I knew I would be arising later than usual: 7:30 or so because I had to pay my electric bill downtown before driving out to the airport for a while and then coming here.  So, I watched my special edition video of Caddy Shack and enjoyed it immensely, I could listen to Loggins sing “I’m All Right” for an hour and want to hear another hour. Slept like a sleeping baby until 6:45 and lay in bed until 7:30. Then dressed and drove down to the utility office and then to AeroKnow Museum with just time enough to check my email before coming here.
This morning at work (HAHAHAHA) I’m culling cartoons, poems and articles from the past two-years’ The New Yorker for future reference. The cartoons I like will be trimmed out lf whole pages and taped to the clean sides of scrap paper I’ve already printed on one side and three-hole punched. Eventually, by February, probably, I will add the pages to binders. I already have six or seven full since I started 16 years ago. The collection will serve as a tomb of humor I’ve appreciated, thus a tomb of my humor as created by successful cartoonists. I hope that MANYmany years from now, friends who survive me (and I hope all of them will) will find these binders in a corner of my living room bookshelves, take them home and laugh. This is my legacy to those people.

The articles are terrific non-fiction covering mostly politics, history, biography and art, articles I’ve read and articles I’ve not read but want to read. It’s amazing how many of these I’m finding for the first time, probably because I didn’t sit down and look closely at the issue when it arrived in my mailbox. Case in point: “Decline, Fall, Rinse, Repeat” by Adam Gopnik in the September 12, 2011 The New Yorker. I read enough of every article on sight to know if each is a keeper or a discard. It’s also amazing this year and in 2010, how many I’m not reading . . . ever . . . not saving, and that is why I’m likely going to write the subscription department and cancel my subscription for 2012.  The articles I keep TRUMP cartoons and poetry every time. Even if it’s a beautiful poem, it’s a poem lost for the sake of the greater whole article.

The poetry requires more time. All I am doing at first glance is setting every poem aside. If it’s a two-page presentation, I remove both pages and tape them, back to back at the top for easer reading later.   This winter, for the first time, those I don’t enjoy will be shared with my poetry friends in this town.  I will take them to a poetry reading, leave them on a table and invite all comers to take some home. I believe in poetry. Those I like will be read and savored, added to my whole poetic consciousness, to feed my own creative process; not so I can imitate a favorite author, but so I can digest success on paper and gladly be moved in small ways by small echoes of those poems as I create my own. Those I like will be added to a file of “world poetry” Ive clipped from The New Yorker and encountered and printed on the Internet.in my home office. Robert Pinsky’s  “Samurai Song” hit me like a ton of bricks a few weeks ago. I read it at a poetry event, and I’m going to memorize it.

It’s 11: 01 Monday morning. My hands are getting colder. I haven’t even finished my first cup of coffee, and it’s time for a second cup so I can warm my hands again. That means I must conclude this minstrel’s ramble.

Y’all have a fine day! 🙂

Live long . . . . . . and proper.

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Camping Out Inside

There are dollars in my checking account. What I am about to say is not shared in desperation (as in  “I have a terrible rash and Great God in Hebbin Above, I’m mizaba!) but in the spirit of adventure and fondling FATE with her permission and my free will.

Lurching into the winter after the first summer in my LIFE when I have not enjoyed at least one air-conditioned room in my house, it is, perhaps, natural that I have decided to continue my green streak (using less of the public utilities) even if I turn blue. I’ve decided not to turn on my home’s working furnace until absolutely necessary for the sake of maintaining unbroken, un-burst water pipes. That’s my goal. The morning I awaken and nothing comes out of my kitchen faucet when it’s time for Folger’s in my cup is the morning I will “turn on my furnace,” so to speak.
I consider this adventure “camping out with better furniture.”

Which is not  to say “without a sleeping bag.”  The one given to me by my friend Barry Tempest, en route home to King’s Cliff, England after spending a week at the national EAA event at Oshkosh, Wisconsin  and spending a few days in Springfield returning “trans-pond” to the nation of kidney pie is being appreciated every night.
I don’t crawl into it. I’ve never crawled into any sleeping bag because the thought of my head stopping where feet traditionally spend their evenings in quiet repose . . . . does not appeal to me. Every night to most of the last month, the totally unzipped bag covers me like a blanket at I sit in the living room easy chair and read, eat supper, watch a little PBS and nap until awakening, typically about 1 or 2 am.

That is when I decide to A:  toddle off to bed after taking a few hearty hits of my friend Carlo Rossi Burgundy in the family size gallon bottle or B: turn off the light quickly re-settle into the chair in a semi-recumbent posture while the sleeping bag is still warm. There are advantages to each. This modus de dreamville of lying prone still maintains the allure of tradition with me. I like lying down between sheets and quilt with a few pillows. I like if even more with a consenting adult who hums tunes Mary Martin used to sing. Some dreams don’t fade away. On the other hand, the new sheets and pillowcases are not cotton. They are some kind of artificial fibre, and when I arrive in the bedroom from the warm cotton-lined, sleeping bag spread over me, I feel like I’m covering myself with cold, woven plastic. Eeeeuwzers! It takes up to 15 minutes to rediscover where my toes are in bed past September. Up to five nights a week I stay in the chair because the TV turns itself off if it’s on, I can snuff the only light on in the house by reaching up from the living room chair.

I never bring Carlo to the bedroom. I will NOT drink myself to sleep. 

The adventure continues when I awaken to the new day as early as 4 am and later.  The only time I enter the bathroom is to purge liquid except for occasional visits to the shower, usually on a Sunday, the Lord’s day and sometimes not even that. I’m not going to turn on one of my space heaters for days when no one likely to notice will be closer than five feet to me. For short-term action — poetry events, open mics, receptions, witch burnings . . . . after shave lotion generously applied to cheeks, beard and lower thorax can compensate for a infrequent attention to hygiene. When it really matters — like when I expect someone I know will sit next to me at one of these sociable events — I do return to my regular haunt with soap,  a plastic curtain and streaming hot relief. The warmth from these leisurely visits sinks in deeply enough so that I don’t become a shivering soggyperson before I’m dry and fully ready for action.

One reason I don’t mind driving out to my AeroKnow Museum at the airport at 5 am is that I know I will be warmer there than at my inside campground. There’s also free coffee and a warm bathroom there.  The benefit that I accomplish a LOT between arrival and 8:45 departure for my part-time “employer” is almost “icing” (icing meaning sweetness) on the cake of  beneficent circumstance.

Since mid-November I’ve been wearing a dry bath towel over my head like a scarf and tucked into my leather jacket opening at the neck. It’s amazing how much warmer my ears are, a boost to the overall outlook compromised in my camping adventure. I recommend the towel head approach.

As long as I’m home only long enough for a late supper and sleep, I expect the adventure to continue sans despair and regret. Saving money is a boost to self-respect. I’m getting accustomed to awakening at 1 and seeing my breath sometimes. I think it’s all pretty cool.
Live long . . . . . . and proper.

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A Visit to Grandpa’s House
by Job Conger
written 8:35 am, November 16, 2011

She came to contemplate the treasured past
of the grandfather whom she never knew,
to gaze on ancient artifacts:
the typewriter, old books, the bedroom too
where he was born – how many years ago?
One hundred thirty-two.

Her father Nicholas was grandpa’s son,
a man of manners, paper, tempered steel
resolve, determined as grand dad
to sail a schooner-life on waves of destiny; real
moral certitude and zest
from mizzen topsail to the fine-hewn keel.

The poems Vachel wrote at childhood desk
with north exposure to the summer sun,
the Bible read aloud in parlor’s peace
in family communion when day’s work was done.
Conversations with his Mom, Dad, sisters Olive and Joy,
seem to echo in her quiet contemplation.

From Spokane back to home in ‘29
to Springfield birthplace, grandpa’s last retreat
until December agonies consumed him.
What remains of that? Nothing here on Fifth Street.
The piano, paintings, horsehair couch and stairs
are mum, guarding the terrible tempest of defeat.

She never knew her grandpa or his wife –
Dad’s mother who spurned Springfield like a curse.
The house at 603 reveals most Tom and Kate,
loved so in their son’s misty prose and verse.
It is lauded for its Lincolnesque graundeur
by preening guardians, the Victorian myopaths and worse.

Returned from rooms she visited alone
absorbing what she could from eyes to heart,
she thanks the site director for her time,
the warm reception, kindness after hours, part
of her five days in this town: the Association dinner,
speaking at schools of grandpa, poetry and art.

Tomorrow, Thursday, she will ride a plane —
Grandfather flew just once, from a Wisconsin lake —
from Springfield home to Eugene, Oregon,
her loving family, catching up, and plans to make
for local writing workshops, being mom and wife.
What grander outcome could her grandpa dream?


Still keeping true to my promise to write something new for every public poetry reading I attend,  I shared with a friend last Saturday the subject of the poem I knew I would write Wednesday. The occasion was the monthly third Wednesday gathering of poets,  fiction excerpt readers, up and coming stand-up comics and essayists at Robbie’s restaurant in downtown Springfield, Illinois, sponsored by Springfield Poets and Writers.

Since last Friday the poem had occupied more and more of my mind, but I wrote nothing until Wednesday morning at 6:50 am. I’m in the new habit of arriving about 5 am at my AeroKnow Museum at the airport to work on what needs to be done at the collection. Most of the time all of the time is devoted to aviation history, and anyone who wants to help with this activity is welcome to contact me. If you do, you will be the first.

There was too much uncertainty at my part-time employer away from the airport to believe I could produce the poem I wanted if I delayed focus until arriving for paid (only God knows when, in December, maybe) compensation. I had been away from “employer” Monday and Tuesday working on a story for the December Springfield Business Journal. The only time I could concentrate would be at the Museum.

Something new for me: I closed the office door to limit intrusion of outside conversations from the nearby lobby and hall.  I wanted to share information about the grand daughter and the house she visited, but I did not want to write in the imagined first person of the subject, Louisa Lindsay Sprouse. Writing in third as a witness gave me a more honest perspective. At the end of the first stanza, I knew I wanted to repeat the stanza/rhyme scheme. I knew I didn’t want to make it a looooonnnng poem; two pages would be my limit, but as I began the fourth stanza I began to wonder if I could end it in THREE pages. From 6:50 to 8:40, I wrote the poem and sent it to a friend. I’d promised her the poem as soon as I finished it.

I made a hard copy at my airport office rather than emailing it to myself at “work” because I wanted to re-type it there, to get a better feel for the phrasing. There, during what turned out to be a relatively slow day, I revised it six times. It was important for me to make consistent the meter of the first line and second line of each stanza, and I’d be happy with whatever I could muster with hard focus and attention to detail with the rest. I also knew — it was, like, OBVIOUS — that the final line of the poem was NOT consistent with the two earlier rhymes in that stanza. On the other hand, the OUTCOME on the final line was more important than the RHYME of the final line. If the effort had been a song lyric I would have tried harder to find a way to three-time-rhyme. I might have ended it making another point. I liked the point I made. I realized there would probably be less interest from strangers in hearing a song about the grand daughter of a famous poet visiting his restored home (Vachel Lindsay Historic Site, 603 S. Fifth St., Springfield, Illinois) than hearing a poem about her visit.  THIS was and would forever be a poem.

I hope you like it.

Live long . . . . . . and proper.


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It’s a ritual of late here on the edge of the world where I work part-time on Springfield farfarfar northeast side. Or if you listen to WMAY as much as I do, you may call it a ritualTHING.  Whatever you call it, It has become a part of my life, and I missed it when it wasn’t three days this week.  Though in the past 40 years up to September this year, I have eaten probably fewer than a dozen apples, since early September, I have consumed maybe 50.  If the new ritual were connected to my experience reciting at the Johnny Appleseed Museum in Urbana, Ohio, I believe I would have adopted it closer to March when I visited and read part of Vachel Lindsay’s fine poem “In Praise of Johnny Appleseed” at the Museum’s rededication. Though I think well of the man, revere him,  I feel no loyalty to the man John Chapman a/k/a Appleseed whose legend benefits not a whit from my eating fruit. The ritual of the 10:00 apple began as an easy effort to live healthier. By the time I considered it a “ritual,” it had become one.

No surprise, there, really.

I am eating more fruit these days. Green seedless grapes I purchase more frequently than  chunky peanut butter. Almost as frequently I purchase Golden Delicious apples, six or seven almost every visit to the grocer  at $1.98 a pound .

I brought a plate and sharp knife from home in the opening days of the 10:00 ritual, a poor attempt at ceremony, a Welsh-American’s attempt at something as special to me as a high tea in London. Even before I started working at my aviation museum at the airport at 5 am and then coming to the edge of the world to open at 9, I found myself hungry by 10, and the perfect sate to said hunger was and is and evermore shall be my 10 o’clock apple.

It’s not just an apple. It’s an apple with the peeling left on (my Momma did not give birth to a softee)  sliced four times around the core; roughly 1/2 , 1/3 and the rest in two more cuts. To make it more of an adventure, I don’t even wash the apple — or if you live in central Illinois, I don’t even pre-wash the apple.  Then I slice the chunks into bite-size wafer-thin pieces, ready to munch at my leisure. If I am called away by priority matters — visitors, a phone call, supplier representative — I’m seldom away from my desk long enough for the color to go “brown” with exposure to the air . . . or dusty, from too much exposure to the air.

I KNOW I could maximize the experience with a Riesling or Sauterne, a Chablis of I’m truly desperate, but this is not an option on the edge of the world. The best I can do is a 2011 Folger’s Instant, young, hearty with coffee overtones and a robust bouquet.

Until last Monday, the 7th, I didn’t know how much the 10:00 apple meant to me until I opened the low right door on my desk and discovered the empty bag. I had forgotten to buy more over the weekend, and I was in no mood to visit the Shop N Save Tuesday and Wednesday. A rough day on the edge of the world saps the joi’d’vivre out of me like a leech on a ventricle.  And I wasn’t desperate to go to the store. It wasn’t like I was out of WINE at home!

Sooooooooo, today on my way to the Gallery II reception downtown I will stop at Sh’ave and bag me some more apples for the rest of the week. It’s a ritual that brings me a breath of sweetness every morning, a simple, unhurried pleasure.  I  bet, if you try this for yourself, you will feel the same. ENJOY!

Live long . . . . . . . and proper.

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When I head out to my AeroKnow Museum on Sunday mornings to continue this 18-month saga of setting up (still) and maintaining it, I like to dress particularly well because often that’s when Springfield area citizenry visit and they are the visitors I want most to impress. Why? Because they are those most likely to return someday and volunteer to help.  Don’t misunderstand, I love talking with pilots and passengers whose general aviation and military aircraft are parked outside because I learn a lot from them, and they often permit me to photograph their airplanes, escorted of course, on the tarmac. Local visitors offer me a chance to teach, and are most likely, in turn, to contribute dollars and their future time. That’s been the hope so far. So, it was only natural for me to wear my new dress shirt to the Museum a few Sundays ago.

AeroKnow Museum is evolving. Things are getting relocated. The only things that have not moved since they were first brought to the airport are the 20 filing cabinets in the Research Room, directly adjacent to the Operations Office upstairs. But things are edging toward their natural places as visiting and using the other upstairs rooms housing the rest of the collection which is not already pretty well set as it is in the downstairs Visitor Reception Room. The goals, Museum-wide, are maximum accessibility and visual appeal.

It never occurred to me a few weeks ago that my moving shelves, concrete blocks and boxes-a-plenty into the new storage room should be delayed until I was appropriately attired for the occasion. It should have occurred to me. About mid-morning, I noticed a droplet of blood on my white dress slacks. My choices were limited. Suffice to say I knew right away. To be honest, maybe they weren’t dress slacks. After all they were machine washable permanent press, but they were nice pants. I’ve recited my poetry in those pants.

“Where the fring-frang did that come from?!” I asked to no one in particular, the sole occupant of the room being obvious and being me.  I had felt no pain or discomfort, but clearly something had connected aggressively enough with my personal epidermis to go deep and draw blood.  My first guess: bare arms below the elbows since my sleeves were rolled up. My first guess was “spot on” one might say, pun intended. For the love of Benji, I could not remember how it had happened, and obviously I had rolled that shirt sleeve back up a few times to above-elbow-level because there were a few spots o’ red on the in and outside of that sleeve. Then I noticed the drop and a slightly smeared drop and whole drop, on the body of the shirt, right down FRONT.

“CHEESES (I worship Wisconsin) what the fring-frang am I going to do NOW?” I said to myself.  Significant money paid for that shirt! J.C. Penny money! (<– homage to James Bond movies. Did you catch it?) So, for some days, I’ve been feeling like a bleeding idiot (<– homage to the British lexicon. Did you catch it?) for letting it happen and lamenting my misfortune in staining the new shirt, to say almost nothing about the pants. Finally, today I decided not to make a bigger deal out of this than I’ve made already by wasting your time with this blog post, to say almost nothing about wasting my time too.

For reason unknown, the blood disappeared from my pants with just one circular sojourn through the basement Maytag. They’re clean as a whistle . . . . . a whistle  that has two legs and a zipper as it were.

I’ve decided to keep wearing the slightly “distressed” off-white dress shirt in polite company; even recite poetry in it; even go to my employer (ha ha ha) in it.  Even wear it again some Sunday at AeroKnow Museum at the airport.  The blood suggests no great bodily harm to me. I might think differently if the largest stain were as large as, say, a dime, but none are.  No one I believe I know is going to notice it, and fewer will ask how they got there. And if someone does, I will explain with pride that I willingly parted with that blood for the glory of the AeroKnow Museum of Springfield, Illinoise.

I do not desire volunteers yet undiscovered to go that far, should someone be waiting in the “wings,” almost ready to share one or two hours of precious TIME a MONTH for a good cause. I knew there was an element of danger that is a part of my dedication the way “in-freaking-credulous!” is a part of my reaction to every Michelle Bachman speech.

After all, of all the things I am, it seems the constructive attitude I have adopted as my own, following the messy encounter with an abrasiion allows me to be what I want most of all to be: an American!

Michelle, eat your heart out.

 Live long . . . . . . .  and proper.

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INTRODUCTION: Prairie Art Alliance’s Gallery II at Sixth at Adams features a special part of the gallery which displays the poems of several Springfield area bards, poems which inspired their visual artists to paint special creations based on the poems. Participating poets were asked to also share notes that helped create the poems featured in this terrific cooperative enterprise. I have shared my “It Was A Younger Town,” the poem that inspired Katherine Pippin Pauley to take brush in hand for her part of the equation and will not share it again in this post. Below are “notes” which I might have  created for the longer poem. In creating these, I wanted at least three short poems, not necessarily in sequence, relating to remembering places from childhood, the essence of “It Was a Younger Town.” I created four, and though I didn’t intend them as a complete organic (beginning, middle, conclusion) poem there is a hint of that in what follows this.  The gallery opens with a First Friday reception in cubist downtown Springfield Friday night , November 3 from 5:00 to 7:30.. On November 17, there will be a special reception in which the artists and poets will be introduced, and the poets will read their creations.

To make my “Notes” look more “faux-authentico” I printed each in an obtuse angle to the portrait-formatted page, then dipped my index finger into a cup of warm Folger’s Instant coffee with a quarter spoon of white refined sugar and alternatively dripped and slug fingers of the brew onto the printed paper.  The process was conveniently random, but I let the slings and drips dry on the paper and evaluated the look before repeating the process three more times from the same cup of by-then-tepid coffee to get the result I wanted in my mind’s eye. Come to the receptions and see if you like the result.

The Notes of Job
by Job Conger
written October 9, 2011

There is no peace in history,
seeing the innocence of what I loved
stained by the blood and excrement
of what I could not, did not love.
Memory is not the comforter;
it is the ENEMY!

An image
for this poem
must have been more
than the grain of sand
that sparkled in the sameness
of all the myriad images
that are forgotten.
It must have captured
more than my
. . . passing gaze . . .
at age seven.
It must have captured
my curiosity
and my lasting affection.

What blessing can a building
bestow to a living thing?
Shelter, by all means,
a visual for an emotional turn,
a way-point for an important
cataclysm or cozy moments,
a brick and mortar
favorite song.

The scents and sights
loved me back! I felt
it then and feel it now.
ans wish somehow
I were a brick without
a heart to hurt but a
heart to love and be
Live long . . . . . . and proper.


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