4 Hour Hard On

From the book,
Walking The Black Cat
published by Harcourt Brace--

(c) 1996
by Charles Simic
All Rights Reserved



THE MASTER OF CEREMONIES

He’s shouting again from the rooftop
And pointing,
Pointing and bowing down from the waist
As he introduces the evening performance:

The baby in the crib is playing with his father’s
Black sock, pulling it over his head.
In another window,
A woman with a stem of a red rose between her teeth
Has got hold of a tiger by its tail
And for some reason won’t let it go.

And now for a bit of snow.

All those normally incapable of happiness
Are catching flakes on their eyelids,
On their tongues
As they run amuck in the street.

Pastry chef, I believe, you’re next.



GHOSTS

It’s Mr. Brown looking much better
Than he did in the morgue.
He’s brought me a huge carp
In a bloodstained newspaper.
What an odd visit.
I haven’t thought of him in years.

Linda is with him and so is Sue.
Two pale and elegant fading memories
Holding each other by the hand.
Even their lipstick is fresh
Despite all the scientific proofs
To the contrary.

Is Linda going to cook the fish?
She turns and gazes in the direction
Of the kitchen while Sue
Continues to watch me mournfully.
I don’t believe any of it,
And still I’m scared stiff.

I know of no way to respond,
So I do nothing.
The windows are open. The air’s thick
With the scent of magnolias.
Drops of evening rain are dripping
From the dark and heavy leaves.
I take a deep breath; I close my eyes.

Dear specters, I don’t even believe
You are here, so how is it
You’re making me comprehend
Things I would rather not know just yet?

It’s the way you stare past me
At what must already be my own ghost,
Before taking your leave,
As unexpectedly as you came in,
Without one of us breaking the silence.



LITTLE UNWRITTEN BOOK

Rocky was a regular guy, a loyal friend.
The trouble was he was only a cat.
Let’s practice, he’d say, and he’d pounce
On his shadow on the wall.
I have to admit, I didn’t learn a thing.
I often sat watching him sleep.
If the birds tried to have a bit of fun in the yard,
He opened one eye.
I even commended him for good behavior.

He was black except for the white gloves he wore.
He played the piano in the parlor
By walking over its keys back and forth.
With exquisite tact he chewed my ear
If I wouldn’t get up from my chair.
Then one day he vanished. I called.
I poked in the bushes.
I walked far into the woods.

The mornings were the hardest. I’d put out
A saucer of milk at the back door.
Peekaboo, a bird called out. She knew.
At one time we had ten farmhands working for us.
I’d make a megaphone with my hands and call.
I still do, though it’s been years.
Rocky, I cry!
And now the bird is silent too.



ROACH MOTEL

The fears of my mother,
And I their projectionist
Cranking the projector.

An evening of noir films.
The electric chair is in it,
And so are the cops.
I’m smoking a cheap cigar,
Playing poker with a scar-faced killer
And a fat woman with a husky voice.
She drinks gin out of a bottle,
Sways her hips to the radio,
Has wedding plans.
At daybreak, a web of twisting shadows
Cast by a ceiling fan.
I have holes in my socks,
An asthmatic wheeze
When I kneel down to pray.

I also have a long tail
And look like a monkey
Because I keep lying all the time.



HOT NIGHT

Long haired Jesus,
Arms outstretched,
Reeling,
In an open yellow convertible
As he flies down
Santa Monica Boulevard

Magdalene driving with shades on.
Tires screaming.
A dwarf with a monkey
Stepped out of a cab.
White hotels, green traffic lights,
Palm trees swaying darkly.

That and nothing else.
Been here and gone.
The scent of the sea.
The palm trees converging
And parting up ahead.



EMILY’S THEME

My dear trees, I no longer recognize you
In that wintry light.
You brought me a reminder I can do without:
The world is old, it was always old,
There’s nothing new in it this afternoon.
The garden could have been a padlocked window
Of a pawnshop I was studying
With every item in it dust-covered.

Each one of my thoughts was being ghostwritten
By anonymous authors. Each time they hit
A cobwebbed typewriter key, I shudder.
Luckily, dark came quickly today.
Soon the neighbors were burning leaves,
And perhaps a few other things too.
Later, I saw the children run around the fire,
Their faces demonic in its flames.

Check out Clapton covering "Little Wing"-- from
circa I don't know when, with Cheryl Crow on backup
vocals, Nathan East and David Sanborn out front.

Sanborn rips into some kind of unforgettable solo,
gets the righteous thumbs-up from Slo Hand.

When the smoke clears, ol' David's lip is bloody,
and he lights up with an electrifying grin that's
about enough to break your heart.


Jimi would definitely approve.


Your Designated 4-Hour Plug-In

Three Shards by John Bennett
(c) 2007, All Rights Reserved



BAD DREAMS


Bad dreams.

Go to your room.

Stay there until the sun comes up.

How many times must mommy tell you not to wreck her
beauty sleep?

Where do you get off, rearranging reality?

Sometimes I think you're not really mine.

Or that I don't know who the father is,

And one night you'll tell me.



STAND STILL LIKE A LIGHTNING ROD

Stand still like a lightning rod. Stand still like a mortified mother hovering over the kitchen sink with a sudsy rag in her hand. Stand still like Eric Clapton in the presence of God. Stand still like a diver poised on the high board. Like a suicide in the center lane of a freeway at midnight, waiting for his ride into the hereafter. Like the Lone Ranger around the campfire the night Tonto told him he was gay. Like a minotaur staring down at his draft notice. Like George Bush the night Laura asked him to kiss her "down there."

In the still of the night, that's when the surprise attacks come. Rockets red glare and all that. Bombs bursting in the trunk of the car. Uncle Vinnie sends his regards. Uncle Sam. We won't be back 'til it's over over there.

Stillness and miscued laughter. The pit orchestra tries to cover with a flurry of impromptu music, and Lincoln stands in his box seat and applauds, unable to sit still another moment. A failed actor steals the show. The grave digger leans on his shovel. Dynamite seems to be the solution for so much that ails us.

Knights hale and hearty drunk on ale in some out-of-the-way inn. Their suits of armor piled in the corner like scrap metal. Fair and buxomly maidens with an eye to the future drop into their pale vulnerable laps.

"You love me, Joe? You take me to Land of Big PX? I kiss you down there, make you happy camper."

The knights wipe the blood from their swords and roar with laughter. There's some laughter so wrong it makes your skin crawl.

Out in the swamp frogs sit still as stone. Every now and then their long tongues flick out like lightning and snap up a speck of life. Far across an ocean in another land and time, a lightning rod at the gabled peak of a red barn quivers and hums--waking a small girl child who lies perfectly still, privy to everything. In the morning she'll forsake it all over a bowl of Rice Crispies, and begin to grow up.

As I sit here making small talk with poltergeists, a thin young man with scraggly blond hair passes my car, back & forth, over & over again, pumping hard on a mountain bike--up the hill, down the hill… up the hill, down. The last time he went by I noticed that his legs were missing below the knees--two chrome rods protruding from under his cutoffs into wooden feet stuck in running shoes with the laces neatly tied.

"Stand still like a lightning rod!" I called to him, & he gave me the finger.



SPRING

I just wolfed down a 16-ounce triple mocha and want another. I just lit up my 20th cigarette of the day and I want another before this one's gone. I'm listening to Susie-Q on the car radio and I want badly to dance and play my harmonica.

It has something to do with Spring, with spawning salmon and the eruption of tulips and apple blossoms. Align yourself with Spring, and all life's hidden treasures rain down upon you. There's no force known to man that can stop it.




John Bennett's new website, and
home of Hcolom Press, is located


Here

I've always loved this fine electronic journal &
after a brief hiatus I'm so glad that they're now



Back In Bidness