tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-85343797908276144322024-03-20T15:39:33.224-06:00STORIES STORIES STORIESCreative Non Fiction and Fiction. Tales from A Mile High and Underground.
An affirmation: WE ARE NOT GHOSTS!Edwin Forrest Wardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09239907046852195219noreply@blogger.comBlogger65125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8534379790827614432.post-79650576521339349662017-11-19T10:49:00.002-07:002018-09-20T18:22:25.618-06:00ADK<!--[if !mso]>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIvphZRPpdqXnCDplOsFoXzKLDDWTE85iwjkr83r98YL7RY2iZbVhdAohcWGaChWTWTnJmqqqSCv5e7M1pwVgWNu_9vPXbHw3HParou2QHgBGDj-M_T-D_cQ0KfrjdJlMtEJLdFZQkAnc/s1600/ADK+cover.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1044" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIvphZRPpdqXnCDplOsFoXzKLDDWTE85iwjkr83r98YL7RY2iZbVhdAohcWGaChWTWTnJmqqqSCv5e7M1pwVgWNu_9vPXbHw3HParou2QHgBGDj-M_T-D_cQ0KfrjdJlMtEJLdFZQkAnc/s320/ADK+cover.jpg" width="208" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia"; font-size: 11.0pt;">Cover Art
- <i>Alfred Dietrick Kleyhauer III<o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia"; font-size: 11.0pt;">Photo -
What Nots Live - </span><span style="font-family: "handwriting - dakota"; font-size: 14.0pt;">Marcia
Ward</span><span style="font-family: "handwriting - dakota"; font-size: 11.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia"; font-size: 18.0pt;">ADK<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia"; font-size: 14.0pt;">As always for Marcia<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia"; font-size: 14.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>In
Alfred Dietrick Kleyhauer III’s first book,<i> BLACK –</i></span><span style="font-family: "georgia"; font-size: 14.0pt;"> a collection of poems and ink
drawings he created as teenager and published by Alan Swallow of Swallow Press
who also published the likes of Henry Miller and Anais Nin, Alfred says of
himself: “i was born on a little green hill 1 mile up in the sky. i didn’t talk
until I was 3. i said: ‘there’s a damned fly in my window.’ My father has
always thought me a bit mad; my mother has always thought me a bit queer.
Amazing how revealing genealogy is.” Alfred was, in fact, outrageously queer as
well as immeasurably brilliant as the scales used to measure IQ tend towards
inaccuracy when approaching the 200 mark.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia"; font-size: 14.0pt;">Alfred spent most of his adult
life living in downtown Denver above his father’s optometry shop on Tremont
just north of 14<sup>th</sup>. The last time I looked, the unoccupied building
still sports the name Kleyhauer across the door, and it remains one of the few
two story buildings in downtown Denver. In keeping with the title of his first
book, Alfred painted the walls, floor and ceiling of his apartment black where
he eventually spent much of his final years in mourning as his companion,
Michael Trego, had died of AIDS. Ironically, a decade before his death, Alfred
and Michael had created poster size comic book-like collaged drawings that tell
the tale of Trumble and Ding, alter egos of Alfred and Michael. My favorite of
the group has a prophetic, Tiresias-esque feel: Trumble and Ding are
conventioneers riding a trolley towards a convention center that radiates
welcoming and wonderful times. Trumble and Ding are blissful with anticipation.
Across the destination light box of the trolley, one word: ETERNITY. Sadly,
Alfred died in 1994 while crossing California at 15<sup>th</sup>, a block from
Denver’s, at the time, new Convention Center, the first accident fatality of
Denver’s recently launched electric trolley, Light Rail. The Denver papers
noted in their stories of the tragedy that Alfred was drunk at the time; well,
Alfred was drunk for forty years – Everclear, 200 proof, was his preferred
wake-up call. I believe what happened is that he simply was impatient to cross
California Street as he lived nearby on Glenarm. He’d crossed that street a
thousand times and most likely didn’t take into account presence of the new
high-speed line. I gather from certain witness accounts that he simply wiggled
through the crowd that was waiting for the train and sadly stepped in front of it.
Had the Light Rail trains been equipped with cowcatchers he most likely would
have been scooted sideways instead of under the train. Poetically, perhaps
fittingly, on the west side of the street from where Alfred died, there is a
Colorado Historical Plaque inscribed with words from Jack Kerouac’s 1955
classic <i>On The Road</i></span><span style="font-family: "georgia"; font-size: 14.0pt;">: “I walked around the sad honkytonks of Curtis Street: young kids in
jeans and red shirts; peanut shells, movie marquees, shooting parlors. Beyond
the glittering was darkness, and beyond the darkness was the West. I had to
go.” Alfred was, to my way of thinking, Denver’s <i>glittering darkness</i></span><span style="font-family: "georgia"; font-size: 14.0pt;">.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia"; font-size: 14.0pt;">During his life Alfred embarked on
many artistic adventures. He held Sunday potluck art salons. An early evening
there was theater in progress. One of Alfred’s assets was his ability to have
an answer for any query. Alfred possessed a certain wisdom capable of grasping
the simultaneity of time, that is, the timelessness that it generally takes
mathematical physics to describe as well as having an alchemist’s passion that
absorbed the truth of everyone he knew. Whenever I was burdened by an
unsolvable problem it was Alfred who I turned to. Here’s an example of what I
mean.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia"; font-size: 14.0pt;">I served as the editor of the
Denver literary art magazine <i>POINT</i></span><span style="font-family: "georgia"; font-size: 14.0pt;"> in the early 90s. Five or six of used to sit around the
offices of the Alternative Arts Alliance drinking beer and figuring out the
magazine’s content. One time it was suggested that we publish on the inside
cover a drawing by a local artist that I simply found unsavory, to say the
least. It depicted an airbrushed image of a mustachioed visage that looked a
lot like Adolph Hitler floating above an airbrushed piece of meat, a New York
steak. I nixed the piece for use because I was not about to include any
reference to Hitler. The other magazine makers called me a censor. I maintained
that I was an editor not a censor. We were at an impasse so I called that
artist and asked for an explanation of his submission. He told me it was a
private joke between him and his girlfriend: “I call her a piece of meat and
she calls me Adolph Hitler,” which I interrupted as proof that not only was the
piece not funny it reeked of misogamy and ill humor. I was so upset at being
labeled a censor by my peers that I called Alfred for advice and solace. His
humorous and compassionate “Hell, Ed, it’s nonsense no matter how you look at
that artwork because Hitler was a vegetarian” gave me perspective, and I stuck
to my guns pointing to the utter inanity of the artwork and used a beautiful
photograph of Marcia’s instead for what turned out to be the final issue of <i>POINT</i></span><span style="font-family: "georgia"; font-size: 14.0pt;"> magazine, the final issue because
I resigned and no one was willing or capable of doing what I had done to make
POINT real.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<a href="https://www.blogger.com/u/1/blogger.g?blogID=8534379790827614432" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"></a><a href="https://www.blogger.com/u/1/blogger.g?blogID=8534379790827614432" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzxgvknQpqZifaOEwOe6kFa4REHtk6GB48bDAH02Q_jfkH6XQXChaWxG6UtQkjrm-JZvwUVGpWMF2ffYn4WVtQoa67K4-ZW-wlKjBAMUTzcQrKp2ij09lfr8sVSmSUFgL6QbGJibBunRk/s1600/The+Waht+Nots+by+Marcia+Ward.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="384" data-original-width="384" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzxgvknQpqZifaOEwOe6kFa4REHtk6GB48bDAH02Q_jfkH6XQXChaWxG6UtQkjrm-JZvwUVGpWMF2ffYn4WVtQoa67K4-ZW-wlKjBAMUTzcQrKp2ij09lfr8sVSmSUFgL6QbGJibBunRk/s200/The+Waht+Nots+by+Marcia+Ward.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>
<span style="font-family: "georgia"; font-size: 14.0pt;">The day I met Alfred, he was
playing piano in a small alley-side gallery </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "georgia"; font-size: 14.0pt;">just west of Washington Street on
First Avenue. The actor and director Richard Collier, who had founded The
Trident Theater on South Gaylord Street, Denver’s first avant-garde </span><!--[if gte vml 1]><v:shapetype
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</v:shape><![endif]--><!--[if !vml]--><!--[endif]--><span style="font-family: "georgia"; font-size: 14.0pt;">playhouse, was pushing his artistic envelope and
exhibiting paintings. Alfred’s compositions and playing seemed that day to
channel, all at the same time, Beethoven, Coltrane and Dylan (to whom Alfred
had dedicated <i>BLACK</i></span><span style="font-family: "georgia"; font-size: 14.0pt;">). A quick aside concerning Dylan and Alfred: Early in his career
Dylan had a scheduled lay over at Stapleton Airport. Hoping to make good use of
his airport downtime, he asked his Denver connection, Harry Tuft, to arrange
for Dylan to meet Denver’s hippest character. Alfred was asked to go meet Dylan
and he told me that when they met, both he and Bob removed their sunglasses as
a way of introduction and connection and Alfred claimed all four eyes revealed
were as spaced out/drugged out as any on the planet, and they both laughed.
Eventually Alfred wrote hundreds and recorded dozens of pop and not so pop tunes
that he and guitarist Bob Peek brought to sundry Denver stages via their band
The What Nots. I once used in the basement of the house on Pennsylvania where
my second son, Zenith Star, was born an old Tandberg reel-to-reel recorder to
record Bob and Alfred singing nine of my favorite pop tunes of the twentieth
Century. I especially liked “Brenda are you ready, Brenda let’s go steady” as
my first girlfriend was a Brenda. His song, “Dancing on the Grave of War” -
whose melody ADK composed on a miniature electric piano that he bought at
Woolworth’s for twenty-nine dollars - is a haunting masterpiece of nuance and
timelessness: “Ships follow trade winds, when there’s no war.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia"; font-size: 14.0pt;">Mid-life, Alfred started a typing
service for term papers as he could type a hundred words a minute without
error, both blindfolded and intoxicated. When students - freshmen and doctorate
candidates alike - brought him papers to type he would tell them, “I hope you
don’t mind, but it would be easier and quicker for me to just rewrite your
paper from scratch than deal with the thematic and grammatical errors contained
therein. And, of course, I guarantee an <i>A</i></span><span style="font-family: "georgia"; font-size: 14.0pt;">.” One of the youngest Denverites ever to be
admitted to MENSA, Alfred earned a dozen PhD’s anonymously via his underground
“typing.” He told me that he once got seven “A’s” all in the same graduate
class, ghost writing for seven of the eight students enrolled. He had to have a
different writer’s voice for each all while writing about the same theme. He
also wrote out a check to me for one million dollars because he simply loved my
family; even more precious, he gave me a first take Walt Disney drawing of
Goofy, that one of Alfred’s wealthy lovers had given him.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia"; font-size: 14.0pt;">In a review of Black for the
Colorado Historical Society, I wrote:<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia"; font-size: 14.0pt;"><i><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
</div>
<span style="font-family: "georgia"; font-size: 14.0pt;"><i><br clear="ALL" style="mso-break-type: section-break; page-break-before: always;" />
</i></span>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia"; font-size: 14.0pt;"><i>BLACK</i></span><span style="font-family: "georgia"; font-size: 14.0pt;"> is the quintessential Alfred, possessing as only an eager
and tireless speed-reader can, the librarian mind of a ancient lizard whose
jewel eyes have knowledge of centuries, civilizations, and art movements
unfolding.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He writes the dialogue
of warriors and composers and sheathes the sword of love. Maybe one day, the
Bonnie Bray Library will change its name or name a nook to include a reference
to Alfred, as no one used the books in that branch library as did Alfred. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<!--EndFragment-->Edwin Forrest Wardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09239907046852195219noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8534379790827614432.post-84509141279083283602017-11-19T10:38:00.001-07:002018-09-20T18:16:45.068-06:00SPIDER MAN<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifZGMvYYyHpE_50BsBBQEuZfPWDYjLDkdiBaxL1cvNJuVjSb-jCUvNCklHUfXr2ZssOacJsMOEY6_abQn9XR86Zg8uI-R81Mpr2urtJHHtU6mkRG1OfjGsIpS7an6uw77MLH_qCEwKxAk/s1600/SPIDERMAN+Cvr.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1043" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifZGMvYYyHpE_50BsBBQEuZfPWDYjLDkdiBaxL1cvNJuVjSb-jCUvNCklHUfXr2ZssOacJsMOEY6_abQn9XR86Zg8uI-R81Mpr2urtJHHtU6mkRG1OfjGsIpS7an6uw77MLH_qCEwKxAk/s320/SPIDERMAN+Cvr.jpg" width="208" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia"; font-size: 10.0pt;">Cover
photo : </span><span style="font-family: "handwriting - dakota"; font-size: 10.0pt;">Marcia
Ward</span><span style="font-family: "georgia"; font-size: 10.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia"; font-size: 14.0pt;">Spider Man<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia"; font-size: 14.0pt;">as always for Marcia<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia"; font-size: 10.0pt;">(much of this material was gleaned
from a story told by my father-in-law, Russell Zimmer, and from Francis
Melrose’s account in the ROCKY MOUNTAIN MEMORIES column of the <i>Denver Rocky
Mountain News</i></span><span style="font-family: "georgia"; font-size: 10.0pt;"> of
September 12, 1999)<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia"; font-size: 14.0pt;">There are
particular places on earth that seem to be magnets for tragedy or repositories
of bad luck and/or evil or wellsprings of great fortune. Think the Bermuda
Triangle, think Calvary, think Sand Creek; thinking on the bright side, think
The Mercury Café. This story is about a somewhat malevolent location in Denver.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia"; font-size: 14.0pt;">On
January 24, 2003, a Cessna 172 Skylark on its way to Cheyenne Wyoming from
Centennial Airport collided with a twin-engine Piper Cheyenne that was en route
to Centennial Airport from Jefferson County Airport. The Cessna wound up
landing almost eerily intact, albeit with two dead onboard, in a back yard a
few blocks south of where on Moncrieff Place a block east of Lowell in
Northwest Denver the larger Piper Cheyenne crashed into a home that burst into
flames killing all three young men on board, one of whom had survived the
Columbine massacre five years earlier. A tragic event, for sure. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia"; font-size: 14.0pt;">Strangely,
on the lot just west of the Piper Cheyenne crash site, sits another house that
was home to an even more bizarre tragedy that took place in 1941,
coincidentally, a sad story that has dovetailed into my wife Marcia’s family
lore.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia"; font-size: 14.0pt;">In 1891 a
young accountant, Philip Peters, and his wife Helen moved into a modest brick
bungalow at 3351 West Moncrieff Place in Denver Colorado. The outgoing,
generous and entertaining couple lived there for the next fifty years, during
which time they offered their hospitality to family and friends and, even,
strangers. They were music lovers and founded the West Denver Mandolin Society,
as mandolins were all the rage at the Turn of the Century. Helen and Philip
kindly offered their home for Society meetings and practice sessions. They were
especially benevolent to one Theodore Coneys, a musician whom, a decade
earlier, they had hosted as a teenager when Theodore was traveling from Indiana
to California for a music competition. Coneys was then a debonair albeit
impoverished mandolin instructor who conducted classes in the Peters’ living
room during his time as a member of the Mandolin Society. Out of the goodness
of their hearts Helen and Philip fed the undernourished Coneys dinner off and
on during their tenure with the Mandolin Society, but Coneys drifted away from
Denver in 1912. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia"; font-size: 14.0pt;">Fast-forward
almost thirty years. In the autumn of 1941, Helen was hospitalized with a
broken hip. Her hospital stay was lengthy. Because the elderly Mr. Peters was
alone, neighbors on Moncrieff Place invited the 73-year-old Philip to take
supper with them during Helen’s hospital stay as cooking for himself was not
Philip’s forte. When Mr. Peters failed to show one night for dinner and then
failed to answer their knock at his front door, the neighbors, concerned that
Mr. Peters might have had a stroke, had their youngest daughter crawl into the
house through an unlocked kitchen window where she was terrorized to discover
the body of Philip Peters. He had been bludgeoned dozens of time with a cast
iron stove shaker. Arriving police, after their search, were exceedingly puzzled,
as they found neither the killer nor any clues to the murderer’s identity.
Robbery was ruled out. Especially odd it was that all the outer bungalow doors
were locked.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "georgia"; font-size: 14.0pt;">Over the
course of the next few months, the murder case remained unsolved. During that
time, housekeepers whom Helen hired quit one after the other referencing a
ghostly presence and weird noises. Helen alerted the police again and again to
the strange things a foot in her home, and they conducted additional fruitless
searches. Helen, at wit’s end and unsure of what to do, approached my wife’s
great aunt Mary, her good friend, across the street for help. Visiting Mary at
the time from Wyoming were Mary’s brother Frank and his teenage son Russell, my
wife’s grandfather and father. Over a lunch of cherry kuchen (her nephew’s
favorite) and chicken soup, Helen spoke of her suspicions, mentioning her
housekeeper’s sightings. She went on to claim that on more than one occasion
she’d found the refrigerator door ajar. A half-quart of milk would turn into a
half cup of milk. She had a litany of minor food disappearances. She remarked
that there were strange smells as well. And sometimes, she’d arrive home from
shopping and find the rocking chair a-rocking. The ever practical and skeptical
Frank rolled his eyes and winked at his son, an indication that he thought her
husband’s tragic death had warped Helen’s logical thinking.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Finally she asked Frank and Russell if
they’d take a serious look around her house. And they did search every room
including the cellar. The father and son conducted what they felt was a
thorough search of the house, as had the police more than once, and like the
police, Frank and Russell came up with nothing. Helen was so bewildered by the
fruitless investigation of her husband’s murder and her intuition that
something was a miss at 3351 Moncrieff Place that she moved to Grand Junction
to live with her son. The house remained unoccupied. Or was it?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "georgia"; font-size: 14.0pt;">Spurred
on by the neighbors’ stories of footprints in the snow heading towards the
kitchen window and reports of occasional noise and faint late night light
emanating from the house, the police reluctantly, yet dutifully, set up
surveillance in Marcia’s great Aunt Mary’s shrubbery. And soon their
persistence was rewarded when they glimpsed a face in the window as a curtain
was briefly pulled back. The police raced into the house and saw a door
swinging shut across from the top landing. And inside a closet they found a
narrow opening through which one Theodore Coneys was attempting to ascend. The
police grabbed two feet that were attached to<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>the disheveled, emaciated, and exceedingly stinky
seventy-five pound man who came to be known as Spider Man, a moniker having to
do with the cobweb infested mini attic where Coneys had apparently lived. To
quote an investigating detective, “A man would have to be a spider to stand it
long up there.” The stench in Coneys makeshift abode was so putrid and foul
that one of the detectives actually fainted. No surprise it was that Theodore
Coneys immediately became the prime suspect in Philip Peters murder, a crime
that he admitted the very night of his capture although he claimed
self-defense, as in “It was him or me,” as Peters was carrying a blackthorn
cane he used. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "georgia"; font-size: 14.0pt;">At his
trial that ended in his conviction, Coneys spun a tale of poverty and
homelessness that led him back to Denver in 1941 after his departure from
Denver in 1912. The Great War years and The Great Depression had not been kind.
He spent years hobo-ing and working as an itinerant laborer. Back in the city
where he’s known better times, Coneys had hoped his old benefactors from his
mandolin days would give him a loan; thus he went to visit Philip and Helen,
but finding no one home and the front door unlocked he went in to steal some food.
Knowing of the mini attic space from his stay on Moncrieff Place years before,
Coneys secretly lodged himself there. He pilfered food at night while Helen and
Philip slept. Sadly, Mr. Peters, alone with Helen in the hospital, had come
across him one night at the refrigerator and Coneys killed him. With nowhere to
go, Coneys stayed after murdering Mr. Peters even as the police searched the
house the night of the murder and subsequently. He was there when Russell and
Frank searched as well. Until July of 1942 he remained during the time that
Helen lived there alone and after she departed for Grand Junction. He drank
water from radiators and the hot-water heater and ate jarred jam he found in
the cellar.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He had even jerry
rigged the wiring and electrified a radio and some lights; hence, the
occasional lights and noises emanating from what the neighbor kids had come to
call “the Haunted House.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "georgia"; font-size: 14.0pt;">Coneys
was sentenced to life in prison in the Colorado State Penitentiary where he
died in 1966, about the time my wife took up roller skating on the sidewalk in
front of Spider Man’s abode while visiting her Great Aunt Mary. Fortunately
Marcia so loved her visits with Mary that she vowed to herself that she’d leave
small town Torrington Wyoming one day and make big city Denver her home. Lucky
me she made good on her promise. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "georgia"; font-size: 14.0pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<!--EndFragment-->Edwin Forrest Wardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09239907046852195219noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8534379790827614432.post-62122766254751698892017-11-19T10:32:00.000-07:002017-11-19T10:32:45.216-07:00FREE DONUTS
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQs1Td7od1jaLmnuim1V4PQj1ySaHeIRA2AB1R5bZUIKqAmYzb-I0tbbL5otWvmXXSkX_gzn6ObLQQ9MRa7j5xUFLmFVa1d7LU0PoEuVdKKTjelt1FsbhID-yPPlKYNQ7o866wwQkE2vw/s1600/FREE+DONUTS+cvt+FB.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1033" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQs1Td7od1jaLmnuim1V4PQj1ySaHeIRA2AB1R5bZUIKqAmYzb-I0tbbL5otWvmXXSkX_gzn6ObLQQ9MRa7j5xUFLmFVa1d7LU0PoEuVdKKTjelt1FsbhID-yPPlKYNQ7o866wwQkE2vw/s320/FREE+DONUTS+cvt+FB.jpg" width="206" /></a></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 14.0pt;">Free Donuts<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 14.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 14.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 14.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>as always
for Marcia<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 14.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Sixty
years ago, my favorite thing about mornings as an elementary school student was
plotting my departure time to coincide with Bobby Leonard and his mother Amy
leaving their house. Because they lived across the street, from behind the
glass of my front door, I could see their front door open. And then, as if by
sure chance, I would catch up with them as they reached the sidewalk. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 14.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Bobby
was an only child and thus somewhat spoiled. Amy and her husband had divorced –
a circumstance quite unusual in our Irish Catholic neighborhood – and,
consequently, both she and her ex over indulged Bobby. Because Bobby liked
trains, his father, Chick, had built in the row home basement a model miniature
train platform as sophisticated as any found in train museums, complete with
scale size houses lit from within, people, switching stations, flora, trestles,
fauna, trains, tunnels and mountains. Chick, who visited once or twice a week,
had also taught his son, me and Bobby Ethridge how to swim one summer; on the
car ride to Spring Lake in Jersey, he taught us the words to the first bawdy
ditty of pre-adolescence: “I love you . . . without no pants.” In hindsight,
understanding the divorce of the wild and crazy Chick and the extremely devout
Catholic Amy is a no-brainer. For her part, Amy always pampered Bobby with
things outside the reach of the poverty that most of the neighborhood was mired
in. For instance, every morning Amy and Bobby would stop at the corner market
and purchase a glazed donut for him, which at the time cost a nickel, an amount
beyond my three cents a day allowance that my mother gave me for the purchase
of three penny soft pretzels to be eaten at ten AM recess.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 14.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Well,
I had learned almost a year ago by chance, that if I happened to be in their
company, ostensibly for the purpose of walking the half mile to school with
Bobby after Amy embarked on the trolley that took her in the direction of the
arsenal where she worked, Amy would kindly ask, “Eddie, would you like a
donut?” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 14.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Needless
to say, I always answered, as if surprised by the question, “Well, I guess so.
And thank you Mrs. Leonard.” The only days this didn’t happen, where the days
that the devout, yet excommunicated, Amy left early for work, intending to go to
seven AM Mass before work.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 14.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>So,
I’ve always had a weak spot for donuts. And pastries. In my late teens whenever
I had occasion to visit New York City where the drinking age was eighteen, did
I, like most of my companions, head for the nearest bar? No, I headed for the
nearest bakery. Hell, if I’d been swayed by all my eighteen year old friends
who encouraged and cajoled me to get a tattoo as they had, I would be sporting,
not a fifty year old shamrock or heart with an inscribed <i>Mom</i></span><span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 14.0pt;">, but rather an Italian cannoli or
Greek baklava or a cherry Danish on my bicep. Such a breakfast sweet aficionado
am I, back in the late 70s - believe it or not - I actually was extended cash
credit at a <i>Winchell’s</i></span><span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 14.0pt;">, because I was a religious regular, frequenting the all night donut
shop at 1301 South Broadway on the way to my South Pearl Street home in
Washington Park West after late nights at the Boston Half Shell in downtown
where I waited tables. I’d purchase sweets for the remaining car ride and for
the morning’s breakfast. I mean the elder clerk there knew my name and would
fill my order – two glazed and a cherry Danish – when he saw me pull up in my
van. The first time I took Marcia to <i>Winchell’s</i></span><span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 14.0pt;"> after she left Laramie and moved
in with me was not after work, but after eating at <i>Cagino’s</i></span><span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 14.0pt;">, an Italian eatery in North
Denver where I’d spent most of my cash on Heineken and Grand Marnier and pasta.
At W<i>inchell’s</i></span><span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 14.0pt;">
I came up short when presented with our donut dessert tab. The clerk told me,
“Hey, Eddie, no problem. I know you’ll be back, and you can settle up then! In
fact, let’s just call it, ‘My treat.’”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 14.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Anyway,
I did outgrow my poor choice in sweets once I had children. My teeth have
always been a nightmare and not wishing the same for my kids, I rarely indulged
them. Still, as with any habit, I always wondered what was new in the world of
donuts every time I drove or walked by a bakery or donut shop. And then a
couple of years ago, <i>VOODOO DONUTS </i></span><span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 14.0pt;">opened on East Colfax Avenue, and it began voodoo-ing my
name, with a Cajun accent, “Eddie, Eddie, Eddie.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 14.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Now
Marcia and I live in Mayfair east of Colorado Boulevard, and East Colfax
Avenue, given its sights, characters and urban milieu sure beat 14<sup>th</sup>
Avenue as a route home from The Mercury Café, one of the few places in Denver
that we regularly patronize. We had a running joke every time we passed <i>VOODOO
DONUTS</i></span><span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 14.0pt;">.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 14.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“How
‘bout we stop for a few donuts?” I’d ask, and Marcia would answer, “Only if you
promise to take me to <i>Potage.</i></span><span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 14.0pt;">”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Hardly a
quid pro quo, given that donuts for two at <i>VOODOO</i></span><span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 14.0pt;"> come in at about ten bucks, while
dinner for two at <i>Potage</i></span><span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 14.0pt;"> tops a C-note. So I must admit that when I had the chance, I began
stopping at <i>Voodoo</i></span><span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 14.0pt;">
when I was alone in the neighborhood. I also would stop at the nearby <i>ICE
CREAM RIOT</i></span><span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 14.0pt;"> and
devour a quick serving of <i>Philly Water Ice</i></span><span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 14.0pt;">, another indulgence not satisfied enough growing
up in Philadelphia. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 14.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Two
years ago, I became friends with Bill Snyder, another Philadelphia departee. It
was Bill who had hipped me to the <i>Philly Water Ice</i></span><span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 14.0pt;"> at <i>ICE CREAM RIOT</i></span><span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 14.0pt;"> as he lived north of there at
Park Avenue and Court Place. Bill doesn’t drive and Marcia and I often
chauffeured Bill & his wife Vicky to and from their apartment whenever we
did things together. So one night we’re driving home after dropping off Bill
and Vickie, and I announce, “If there’s a parking space in front of <i>VOODOO</i></span><span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 14.0pt;">, I’m gonna run in and get some
donuts for the morning.” And, as I like to say, “The Muse is with us;” for
indeed, right smack in front of <i>VOODO</i></span><span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 14.0pt;"> there’s a parking space.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 14.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Tired
as she was – I mean it was approaching midnight – Marcia did not offer her
usual stern resistance: “OK, but I’m staying in the car. This stretch of Colfax
is a little too sketchy. But know: our next dinner date will be French!”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 14.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I
can hear the locks of my Hyundai engage once I’m on the sidewalk.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 14.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Speaking
of sidewalks, there’s a lot going on right here on this south side block of
Colfax. Three young men, with pants so sagging that the red of their Cripps
inspired boxers would infuriate a bull, and with unbuttoned shirts exposing
their self tattooed chests, and exuding an air of “we don’t belong, we’re high,
and we’re gonna raise hell” are hassling a young intoxicated wasted-eyed Goth
of a kid who’s sitting on the cement, legs splayed, back against the wall, and
hoping his antagonists will get bored and leave him alone. “Come on, man, buy a
copy of our paper,” they’re insisting as they tease his face with some
newsprint they are holding, ending with “You can simply donate if you can’t
fuckin’ read!” What I guess to be a working girl leans against the car in front
of mine, her stance suggesting that she’ll do what’s taboo, miming her
I-wanna-party availability to a pair of young geeks across Colfax, implying
with raised arms and fingers pointing in the direction of her front and back
that she’ll even do two. In complete contrast, what I assume to be a Congress
Park family of four – Mom, Dad, teenage girl and elementary school age boy – is
entering <i>VOODOO</i></span><span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 14.0pt;">
as I approach the door. They avert their eight eyes from the avenue’s shenanigans.
I think, “Christ, what people, my self included, will put up with for a donut!”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 14.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Inside
there’s queue of some twenty people, slowly zigzagging its way forward through
the maize of belted stanchions. Judging by how long it takes each customer to
order, given the overload of <i>Voodoo</i></span><span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 14.0pt;"> choices, I estimate it’ll be twenty minutes before I get
back to Marcia. I’m resigned to figure that I’m going to have to include
dessert as well into my next date-night budget to make up for my donut
diversion.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 14.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Fifteen
minutes into my wait – I’m now behind the family who’s about to step forward
and place their order – the three thugs I’d seen earlier hustling copies of
Denver’s <i>The Voice</i></span><span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 14.0pt;">
– they enter the store. “Storm the store” would be a better characterization of
their entry. Puffing themselves up and shrugging their shoulders as a boxer
might upon entering the ring, they by-pass those waiting their turn, duck under
the queue ropes, and strut to the counter, asking the rather easily intimidated
cashier, “Where’s your toilets?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 14.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>No
one in line says anything to the young men. How politically incorrect would it
be for donut connoisseurs to chastise three boys-to-men about their rudeness
and ill regard for everyone waiting in line? Most people in the shop, including
the two cashiers and a baker refilling the display cases, avert their eyes,
assuming there is no evil if you see no evil. And then, with a gloat of a smirk
upon his pimply face, the apparent leader of the pack turns towards all of us
waiting customers and, with feigned distraction, unzips his zipper with a
mockery of good graces that suggests he’s asking, “Don’t you just wish you
could have some of this?” before heading off in the direction of the restrooms.
It’s so quiet now and the air in the store is so charged with unspoken
annoyance you can hear the cake donuts rising in the ovens. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 14.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>One
of the two cashiers taking orders is free now as the two young men pace and
lurk and stare at everyone from the area of the restroom door. Before the
family in front of me can leave the queue and step to their right to approach
the free cashier, the leader of the gang of three exits the bathroom and blocks
their path, asking the young teenage girl, with a feigned sincerity, if she’ll
help them out and buy a copy of <i>The Voice</i></span><span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 14.0pt;">, a query she’s unsure of how to answer. “Come on,
help a homeless homeboy. I’m sure you gat a dollar.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 14.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Apparently
not sure of how to play this bullying request, the girl’s Dad reaches into his
pocket. But before he can fumble his way to retrieving a dollar or his wallet,
I step between the thug and the girl and remind the Dad, “You’re up. Please, go
place your order,” a command of a suggestion that offers him and his family a
way out the corner the bullies had painted them into. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 14.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Thank
you,” he tells me with a gracious wink, as he ushers his wife and children away
from Mr. Pushy.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 14.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“How
about you, Grandpop, you gonna buy a paper?” the man-boy then says with all the
menace his eighteen year old countenance can muster. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 14.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Time
stands still and I have the sense the whole world of the donut shop is
watching, awaiting my response. In reply, after alerting my entire being to the
present danger and summoning every fiber of memory of my once upon a time
eighteen year old gangster Philadelphia self, I step close to him, so close to
him that his arms and fists are taken out of any fisticuff equation, and do my
best taxi driving Robert Di Nero: “‘You talkin’ to me? You talkin’ to me?’”
following up with “Listen up kiddo, my mother taught me a long time ago, ‘Don’t
talk to strangers, even if they’re offering you a donut,’” and end with the
advice, “Back away from me, now, before the clerk dials 911.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 14.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Astounded
by my humor and my sixty-nine year old moxie, the kid’s bafflement gives way to
fear as groups of people in line applaud. Whereas previously, no one would look
him in the eye, the entire contingent of donut seekers, mostly men, is staring
him down. He and his pals do back away, assess the odds, maybe twenty-five to
three, and hightail it under the ropes and out the door like the defeated rat
pack they are.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 14.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>When
I finally get to order my donuts, the clerk tells me “No charge. The house of <i>Voodoo</i></span><span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 14.0pt;">’s got you covered.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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<!--EndFragment-->Edwin Forrest Wardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09239907046852195219noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8534379790827614432.post-49833104909666967252017-02-17T13:38:00.000-07:002017-02-21T08:11:09.833-07:00JRM<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQ_O1hq256ZP_dZ92nBzzrtMR5qyWHmypuvhGOthnuBAyGnFgxRlENy0G3he5Nh6hf9xLg3042yffWPFkobji5wmNld5ks9uzrFTLtsRU9e14RQaS8tyD9KANtQisNAsDdNrhNaWruOcg/s1600/JRM+coverFB.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQ_O1hq256ZP_dZ92nBzzrtMR5qyWHmypuvhGOthnuBAyGnFgxRlENy0G3he5Nh6hf9xLg3042yffWPFkobji5wmNld5ks9uzrFTLtsRU9e14RQaS8tyD9KANtQisNAsDdNrhNaWruOcg/s320/JRM+coverFB.jpg" width="209" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia"; font-size: 10.0pt;">Cover
Photo Montage - </span><span style="font-family: "handwriting - dakota"; font-size: 10.0pt;">Marcia
Ward<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia"; font-size: 10.0pt;">Original
Photos for Cover Montage <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia"; font-size: 10.0pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>-</span><span style="font-family: "handwriting - dakota"; font-size: 10.0pt;"> Joe Kinneavey </span><span style="font-family: "georgia"; font-size: 10.0pt;">&</span><span style="font-family: "handwriting - dakota"; font-size: 10.0pt;"> Marcia Ward<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "handwriting - dakota"; font-size: small;"><i>13</i></span><span style="font-family: "handwriting - dakota"; font-size: 10.0pt;"><span style="font-size: large;"> </span>Sounds</span><span style="font-family: "georgia"; font-size: 10.0pt;"> Cover Art -</span><span style="font-family: "handwriting - dakota"; font-size: 10.0pt;"> James Ryan Morris </span><span style="font-family: "georgia"; font-size: 10.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia"; font-size: 14.0pt;"><i><span style="mso-prop-change: "Edwin Ward" 20090421T1734;"><span style="mso-prop-change: "Edwin Ward" 20090421T1734;">People<span style="mso-prop-change: "Edwin Ward" 20090421T1734;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia"; font-size: 14.0pt;"><i><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>b<span style="mso-prop-change: "Edwin Ward" 20090421T1734;"><span style="mso-prop-change: "Edwin Ward" 20090421T1734;">etter without<span style="mso-prop-change: "Edwin Ward" 20090421T1734;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia"; font-size: 14.0pt;"><i><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>t<span style="mso-prop-change: "Edwin Ward" 20090421T1734;"><span style="mso-prop-change: "Edwin Ward" 20090421T1734;">hem,<span style="mso-prop-change: "Edwin Ward" 20090421T1734;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia"; font-size: 14.0pt;"><i><span style="mso-prop-change: "Edwin Ward" 20090421T1734;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="mso-prop-change: "Edwin Ward" 20090421T1734;">I thought once . . . /<span style="mso-prop-change: "Edwin Ward" 20090421T1734;"><span style="mso-prop-change: "Edwin Ward" 20090421T1734;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></span></i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia"; font-size: 14.0pt;"><i><span style="mso-prop-change: "Edwin Ward" 20090421T1734;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="mso-prop-change: "Edwin Ward" 20090421T1734;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia"; font-size: 14.0pt;"><i><span style="mso-prop-change: "Edwin Ward" 20090421T1734;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>s<span style="mso-prop-change: "Edwin Ward" 20090421T1734;"><span style="mso-prop-change: "Edwin Ward" 20090421T1734;">urrounded by assassins<span style="mso-prop-change: "Edwin Ward" 20090421T1734;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></span></i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia"; font-size: 14.0pt;"><i><span style="mso-prop-change: "Edwin Ward" 20090421T1734;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>w<span style="mso-prop-change: "Edwin Ward" 20090421T1734;"><span style="mso-prop-change: "Edwin Ward" 20090421T1734;">as the<span style="mso-prop-change: "Edwin Ward" 20090421T1734;">
common reference.<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></span></i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia"; font-size: 14.0pt;"><i><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span><span style="mso-prop-change: "Edwin Ward" 20090421T1734;"><span style="mso-prop-change: "Edwin Ward" 20090421T1734;">& so leaving<span style="mso-prop-change: "Edwin Ward" 20090421T1734;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia"; font-size: 14.0pt;"><i><span style="mso-prop-change: "Edwin Ward" 20090421T1734;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="mso-prop-change: "Edwin Ward" 20090421T1734;">all of it behind<span style="mso-prop-change: "Edwin Ward" 20090421T1734;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia"; font-size: 14.0pt;"><i><span style="mso-prop-change: "Edwin Ward" 20090421T1734;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="mso-prop-change: "Edwin Ward" 20090421T1734;">I went away to here, this<span style="mso-prop-change: "Edwin Ward" 20090421T1734;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia"; font-size: 14.0pt;"><i><span style="mso-prop-change: "Edwin Ward" 20090421T1734;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="mso-prop-change: "Edwin Ward" 20090421T1734;">place<span style="mso-prop-change: "Edwin Ward" 20090421T1734;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia"; font-size: 14.0pt;"><i><span style="mso-prop-change: "Edwin Ward" 20090421T1734;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="mso-prop-change: "Edwin Ward" 20090421T1734;">isolation and study<span style="mso-prop-change: "Edwin Ward" 20090421T1734;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia"; font-size: 14.0pt;"><i><span style="mso-prop-change: "Edwin Ward" 20090421T1734;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="mso-prop-change: "Edwin Ward" 20090421T1734;">the intention<span style="mso-prop-change: "Edwin Ward" 20090421T1734;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia"; font-size: 14.0pt;"><i><span style="mso-prop-change: "Edwin Ward" 20090421T1734;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="mso-prop-change: "Edwin Ward" 20090421T1734;">complete-<span style="mso-prop-change: "Edwin Ward" 20090421T1734;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia"; font-size: 14.0pt;"><i><span style="mso-prop-change: "Edwin Ward" 20090421T1734;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="mso-prop-change: "Edwin Ward" 20090421T1734;">but the nite falls<span style="mso-prop-change: "Edwin Ward" 20090421T1734;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia"; font-size: 14.0pt;"><i><span style="mso-prop-change: "Edwin Ward" 20090421T1734;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="mso-prop-change: "Edwin Ward" 20090421T1734;">across the empty glass<span style="mso-prop-change: "Edwin Ward" 20090421T1734;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia"; font-size: 14.0pt;"><i><span style="mso-prop-change: "Edwin Ward" 20090421T1734;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="mso-prop-change: "Edwin Ward" 20090421T1734;">& one wishes for speech<span style="mso-prop-change: "Edwin Ward" 20090421T1734;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia"; font-size: 14.0pt;"><i><span style="mso-prop-change: "Edwin Ward" 20090421T1734;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="mso-prop-change: "Edwin Ward" 20090421T1734;">n<span style="mso-prop-change: "Edwin Ward" 20090421T1734;">o matter how stupid or hackneyed<span style="mso-prop-change: "Edwin Ward" 20090421T1734;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></span></i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia"; font-size: 14.0pt;"><i><span style="mso-prop-change: "Edwin Ward" 20090421T1734;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="mso-prop-change: "Edwin Ward" 20090421T1734;">just that warmth<span style="mso-prop-change: "Edwin Ward" 20090421T1734;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia"; font-size: 14.0pt;"><i><span style="mso-prop-change: "Edwin Ward" 20090421T1734;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="mso-prop-change: "Edwin Ward" 20090421T1734;">which human exchange
provides<span style="mso-prop-change: "Edwin Ward" 20090421T1734;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia"; font-size: 14.0pt;"><i><span style="mso-prop-change: "Edwin Ward" 20090421T1734;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="mso-prop-change: "Edwin Ward" 20090421T1734;">(from the mountains<span style="mso-prop-change: "Edwin Ward" 20090421T1734;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia"; font-size: 14.0pt;"><i><span style="mso-prop-change: "Edwin Ward" 20090421T1734;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="mso-prop-change: "Edwin Ward" 20090421T1734;">looking down,<span style="mso-prop-change: "Edwin Ward" 20090421T1734;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia"; font-size: 14.0pt;"><i><span style="mso-prop-change: "Edwin Ward" 20090421T1734;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="mso-prop-change: "Edwin Ward" 20090421T1734;">the lites prominent<span style="mso-prop-change: "Edwin Ward" 20090421T1734;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia"; font-size: 14.0pt;"><i><span style="mso-prop-change: "Edwin Ward" 20090421T1734;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="mso-prop-change: "Edwin Ward" 20090421T1734;">its understood why<span style="mso-prop-change: "Edwin Ward" 20090421T1734;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia"; font-size: 14.0pt;"><i><span style="mso-prop-change: "Edwin Ward" 20090421T1734;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="mso-prop-change: "Edwin Ward" 20090421T1734;">man built cities, came in
from the cold<span style="mso-prop-change: "Edwin Ward" 20090421T1734;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia"; font-size: 14.0pt;"><i><span style="mso-prop-change: "Edwin Ward" 20090421T1734;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="mso-prop-change: "Edwin Ward" 20090421T1734;">settled next to another
tongue<span style="mso-prop-change: "Edwin Ward" 20090421T1734;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia"; font-size: 14.0pt;"><b>JRM</b><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia"; font-size: 14.0pt;">I first
saw and heard the most influential man in my life, the man who wrote the poem,
“People,” at Naropa University on the Pearl Street Mall in the summer of 1978.
I had gone to the literary reading to hear William Burroughs, the famous beat
novelist, but, as it turned out, William was indisposed; fortunately for me,
another writer about whom I knew nothing and whose name I did not quite catch
when introduced was asked by the host, Allen Ginsberg, to fill in. The Croupier
Press had recently published the man’s book, <i>13 Sounds</i></span><span style="font-family: "georgia"; font-size: 14.0pt;">, a “greatest hits” if you will,
thirteen selected poems that spanned a quarter of a century, to quote the
intro: “A toast to the hipsters who remain!” Two poets, Gregory Corso and
Antler, were also on the bill. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia"; font-size: 14.0pt;">A novice
poet myself I was hoping to take in this literary event to get an understanding
of what “being a poet” actually meant. Besides the singer Bob Dylan, the only
poet I had ever actually heard in person read poetry was John Ciardi, the poet,
etymologist, translator and teacher who wrote the text about teaching poetry, <i>How
Does A Poem Mean</i></span><span style="font-family: "georgia"; font-size: 14.0pt;">.
I was teaching high school English at the time and thought hearing Ciardi’s
take on poetry might be useful. As there was a question and answer period after
his reading (which I characterized as “ennui verbalized”), I asked Ciardi what
he thought about Bob Dylan. His response that “Dylan is not a poet” convinced
me that I need not buy his book, even though the school board would have
reimbursed me.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia"; font-size: 14.0pt;">Well, the
night at Naropa the poet whose name I didn’t know was preceded first by Antler
whose work was a smarmy take on Walt Whitman, a long lined hippy-esque homage
to the decaying beauty of the American environment, and then by Gregory Corso
who read some nonsense verse he had written while lecturing at Harvard, a
mockery of classicism in the arts which I interpreted as jealousy of the
intellect of Sappho and Homer. Having heard from a friend, Charlie Ross, a
student at Naropa, that Corso took pride in denigrating Dylan, “Dylan’s not a
poet, he’s a rhymer,” I must admit I paid the legendary Beat scant attention.
And then the mystery Burroughs replacement took the stage and the patter of his
vernacular take on poesy blew me away. Whereas I had found Antler utterly
derivative (hence boring) and Corso a dismissive show-off (hence repugnant),
this man was, for me, the real deal, a man celebrating friends and great art
while giving the finger to peanut butter and jelly America. His delivery was
quiet and songlike with his anger-turned-art bubbling, nay, seething, just
below the surface of his vocalization. I felt like I was watching a true poet
in action, hearing poetry live without musical accompaniment (as in Dylan), for
the first time in my life. I was experiencing something that would color the
rest of my life. I could not have imagined just how importantly this man whose
name I had not bothered to take note of would figure in my life.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia"; font-size: 14.0pt;">But, of
course, after the reading I was soon back to the everyday world of waiting
tables, courting my future wife, walking the dogs (a Malamute and a Labrador
that an ex-girlfriend had saddled me with), and trying to figure out how poetry
would ever lead to a living or lifestyle. At the time I had taken to reading
poetry in public by going on stage while musicians went on break at street
fairs and in nightclubs. At one street fair where I read between sets of the
Robin Banks Band, Jessie Graf, a poet and member of Denver’s Society for the
Advancement of Poetics, an alliance of poets that sponsored something called
Denver Poets Day at Civic Center Park, approached me. He suggested I should
read at the next POETS DAY, and that if I was up for it, he’d get me readings
elsewhere. Naturally I was flattered and enthusiastic as I dreamed of becoming
a famous poet. Denver Poets Day was a month out and I immediately began
creating and memorizing and staging the poems I would recite. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia"; font-size: 14.0pt;">Well, I
show up at Denver Poets Day and I’m on fire with anticipation and pride in my
new poems and my frenetic rapid cut machine gun style delivery; and, in my
estimation, I do deliver. My set is well received and it takes a while for me
to fall off cloud nine, but when I do come back to the here and now, my world
takes a decided turn towards the very future I have lived. James Ryan Morris,
the very man who had rocked my world in Boulder filing in for Burroughs, and a
friend of his, Larry Lake, take the stage and, reading mano a mano, proceed to
define for me the nature of friendship in the arts and poetry. Well, as it
turns out I am so blown away by Morris and Lake’s reading that I become keenly
aware of my amateur status as both a writer and performer. Whereas I had hoped
I’d be well received, it was apparent Morris knew he would be. It was all in
the precision of the writing, its intellect. Nothing was from the gut; nothing
depended on the theatrics of his body, its motion, and its appearance. Simply
said, all was in the words for poetry is about the poem, not the poet.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia"; font-size: 14.0pt;">At the
conclusion of Denver Poets Day, Jessie Graf lets me know that he has set up a
reading for me at a Global Village, a folk music venue on Pennsylvania Street
in the Wash Park hood run by the musician David Feretta.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As the hot shot new kid in town, I’m
going to be appearing with no one other than the national cultural critic and
the publisher of Denver’s late 60s <i>Mile High and Underground</i></span><span style="font-family: "georgia"; font-size: 14.0pt;"> newspaper and author of numerous
books, James Ryan Morris. Thus begins my connection to this life as an artist I
have lived.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia"; font-size: 14.0pt;">First
thing I did when I returned home later that day was to put everything I had
ever written in the bottom of my old clothes drawer. I did not want my old work
easily accessible or to have any influence upon what I might create as I
intended to write in a completely different way, as Kerouac had done after
reading a letter from Neal Cassady. “In the vernacular;” I told myself, “in my
own voice.” Jessie Graf had also suggested that I introduce myself to Morris at
some point, as Jimmy owned a bookstore, The Blacksmith, on 17<sup>th</sup>
Avenue. And I did.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia"; font-size: 14.0pt;">Our first
meeting was a little strange. I was a bicycle rider in 1978 as I was always
trying to keep up with the physicality of my new girlfriend Marcia, an avid
bike rider, who was nine years my junior. When I arrived at Blacksmith Books, I
was wearing a surgical mask as I wore one to keep the brown cloud, ubiquitous
as it was in those days, out of my lungs. I was so nervous about meeting Morris
that when I entered his storefront, I forgot to remove my mask as I approached
the counter behind which Morris sat watching <i>I LOVE LUCY</i></span><span style="font-family: "georgia"; font-size: 14.0pt;"> on a small black and white TV.
Averting his eyes from the TV, to see me approaching, he immediately pulled out
from under the counter a handgun and pointed it at me, with a look in his
incredibly blue eyes, the bluest I have ever seen, that could turn fire into ice.
He said not a word; all I could hear was my own heart beating and the patter of
Desi as he scolded Lucy about some silly faux pas. It was then I became aware of my
own faux pas and removed my mask, apologizing: “Sorry, I wear it for riding my
bike. I’m Ed Ward. We’re to read together at Global Village and I thought it
best we meet.” Only when Morris saw my bike outside leaning against his
storefront window, did he stow the handgun again under the counter. He then
said, “You look nervous as hell. You need to calm down. Here, take one of
these,” offering me an assortment of what I presumed to be downers. I
recognized some little blue pills as Valium (my ex-wife, Carol, her choice of
drug during our painful divorce) and took Morris up on his offer. I told myself
this is one strange way to begin a friendship, as I washed down the little blue
pills with a swig of his proffered Jack Daniels.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia"; font-size: 14.0pt;">Two
months later, after hanging out at the bookstore a number of times, talking
poetry and art, I await our reading as only a novice about to read with a
master can: in need of more Valium. But as it turns out, I never get to read
with Jimmy as Morris dies two days before our reading, having overdosed on
alcohol and barbiturates in his bed in his cabin in Wondervu. A week or so later
I attend his funeral and burial at Dory Hill Cemetery outside Blackhawk at
which old guard Denver bohemians from LA and Denver read poetry, sing songs,
and play jazz; and I am introduced to them all as “the poet who was going to
read with Jimmy,” a moniker that somehow gives me more street-cred that I
deserve, and I become brother to a group of men and women most of whom are ten
or twenty years my senior. Somehow, my immediate family that consisted of three
sisters, one in Saint Louis, and two outside of Philadelphia, now consisted of
dozens from Denver and Venice Beach California, a place I had never even been
to.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia"; font-size: 14.0pt;">A month
later, however, I have reason to visit Venice as my ex-wife, the soon to be
head of a Danish film company with headquarters in Beverly Hill that made B
movies for European distribution (Frank Stallone who spent his teenage years in
Tacony, where Carol and I grew up, was Carol’s “star” actor) had called to tell
me that a dearly beloved dog I had raised, that she had gotten custody of, was
in need of a new home as Dylan Dog snarled and growled every time her new
husband, a coked up talent scout who placed guests on TV game shows, came home
from work. “It’s either with you or to the shelter,” Carol had said, and Marcia
and I flew to California to rescue my beloved Bearded Collie English Sheepdog
mix. Prior to our departure, Diana Morris, Jimmy’s widow, had suggested that we
visit an old friend of Jimmy’s from the 50s, Baza Alexander. So, as it was when
I first met Jimmy Morris, it was with great anxiety that I stood outside the
arched gateway of 1439 Cabrillo Avenue in Venice Beach. I wasn’t sure if my
ringing the doorbell at the gate would interrupt an orgy or shooting gallery
shenanigans, behaviors Morris had been into. But surprise, what I found was The
Temple of Man, the most important organization to influence my take on art and
life.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia"; font-size: 14.0pt;">Today,
almost 40 years later, Baza, who died in 1987, exerts still a strong influence
upon me, an indelible mark on my soul, via my ordination into his Temple of Man
whose premise that “Art is Love is God” - something the artist Wallace Berman
wrote across the wall of Stuart Perkoff’s Venice West coffeehouse in 1959 -
remains the guiding principle of my life. And to think, it all started with
nervous Eddie asking David Smith of the Robin Banks band if he could take the
stage between sets at a street fair outside the Oxford Hotel. Don’t know where
I’d be today, had the singer said “No.” Chances are I wouldn’t be making money
in my 60s writing and performing marriage ceremonies as a minister, hosting
this event, writing stories, painting watercolors, or rehearsing my play, MY
BEST SHOT, a docudrama that reenacts the scene and reading of Jimmy Morris and
Larry Lake thirty nine years ago, something I’ll be staging for Denver Poets
Day on August 6<sup>th</sup> this summer. Hope you can make it!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<!--EndFragment-->Edwin Forrest Wardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09239907046852195219noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8534379790827614432.post-67525323764569845272017-01-25T12:53:00.000-07:002017-01-26T14:36:02.974-07:00SCIBELLA SURPRISES<br />
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<span style="font-family: "georgia"; font-size: 10.0pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 19px;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8ql0oOBOL_BPCNnkojZcplj1e3LDyoF3KYyVfzc1_mtOzOEdH9v4eamD6OVbNFeMrnnXk-KmkQuDdM7riBkuGbEecgcsokI4Ou_Eph0137vokf0Zchwt7bqqoP42ksPHapBe_h25RTkw/s1600/Scibell+SurprisesFBcvr.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8ql0oOBOL_BPCNnkojZcplj1e3LDyoF3KYyVfzc1_mtOzOEdH9v4eamD6OVbNFeMrnnXk-KmkQuDdM7riBkuGbEecgcsokI4Ou_Eph0137vokf0Zchwt7bqqoP42ksPHapBe_h25RTkw/s400/Scibell+SurprisesFBcvr.jpg" width="268" /></a></span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: georgia; font-size: x-small;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 13px;">Cover
Photo Tony & Gayle at Black Ace Books on Colfax – Marcia Ward</span></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 14.0pt;">Scibella Surprises<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 14.0pt;">The
artist, poet, bookstore proprietor and publisher of BLACK ACE BOOKS, not to
mention famous beatnik, Tony Scibella, came into my life in the flesh in 1979
although the shadow of his stature as a major beat artist had preceded him. In
photos I had seen, Tony’s look was half beatnik, half Hell’s Angel,
intimidating and bigger than life; nonetheless, the first unexpected attribute
he unveiled upon meeting him was his tenderness. Years later I’d call him Pope
Tony for Christ-sake. If I badmouthed someone, he’d find a way to show me that
I needed to be forgiving and inclusive and loving. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 14.0pt;">Because
of my interest in poetry, especially Denver poetry, I was aware that Tony had
authored poems and created art for Jimmy Morris’ 1968 & ’69 <i>The Mile
High Underground</i></span><span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 14.0pt;">
here in Denver, copies of which my first publisher, Larry Lake, had shared with
me. Additionally, I’d read more than once Lawrence Lipton’s 1959 <i>The Holy
Barbarians</i></span><span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 14.0pt;">, the
first novel concerning the Venice Beach beatniks that fictionalized the life of
Stuart Z Perkoff and his friends, Tony being one of them, Stuart’s best. I’d
also read a number of Tony’s books published in Denver: <i>ACE IS BLACK OF
COURSE</i></span><span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 14.0pt;">, <i>BIG
TREES, </i></span><span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 14.0pt;">and <i>TWO
HUNDRED COPIES FOR MY FRIEND STUART </i></span><span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 14.0pt;">all three of which reminded me that I was indeed, at best,
an apprentice poet. Not only was Tony’s writing funny and charming and personal
and truly in the vernacular, but it also demonstrated a personal action-painting,
modern-day-text style spelling; I mean why write <i>you</i></span><span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 14.0pt;"> when <i>u</i></span><span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 14.0pt;"> should suffice. So I was
expecting greatness when I scheduled Tony who would be visiting from LA to read
at POEMS LIVE, the monthly literary event that Marcia and I hosted at Café
Nepenthes on Market Street.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And
Tony delivered. The room was already packed with old guard bohemians when Tony
walked in accompanied by a dozen friends (a surprise given that poets I knew
were generally loners); among them “The Dope Queen of Beverly Hills,” Marsha Getzler,
and artists Bill Dailey, Michelle and Saul White, and Gayle Davis, all of whom
had road tripped with Tony from Los Angeles, and Denverites Linda and Steve
Wilson, Larry Lake, Barbara Sokol, Joe Kinneavy, Lenny Chernila, Gypsy Davis<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>(a minor character in On The Road) and
Dave Lockman. I asked Tony how long his reading would be and he answered with a
crisp, no nonsense “Forty-two minutes.” I had a cassette tape recorder that I
had borrowed from an old girlfriend as I anticipated that Tony’s reading would
be out of the ordinary. I popped a forty-five minute tape into the machine and
affixed a microphone to the house microphone and wound up capturing in its
entirety the first public reading of the first part of what would become Tony’s
masterpiece <i>THE KID IN AMERICA</i></span><span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 14.0pt;">, which, surprise surprise was, indeed, forty-two minutes
in length. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 14.0pt;">Over the
course of the next dozen years Tony lived sometimes in Denver and sometimes in
Los Angeles and we became fast friends with me publishing some of his poems and
some of Gayle Davis’ (his second wife) art in my literary magazine, <i>PASSION
PRESS</i></span><span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 14.0pt;">. I also
serialized the middle portions of <i>THE KID IN AMERICA</i></span><span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 14.0pt;"> in the art magazine that I edited
POINT. In addition, I produced a number of readings for Tony during his Denver
years and was always amazed and surprised that he never once repeated himself,
producing fresh work for every show. “No restin’ on yr laurels, Matie!” was
something he used to crack wise. Another of my favorite Tony sayings “Don’t
tell no one” attested to his belief that art was created for oneself and one’s
friends, not for the world at large, something I took to heart believing like
Tony that anonymity is one of the keys to remaining true to yourself and true
to your muse, with whom, as Tony liked to point out, you’d sign a contract when
you first called yourself a poet, a contract that Tony would add was “for
life.” Whenever I visited LA while Tony lived there, we’d usually cross paths
at Marsha Getzler’s Beverly Hills house, as Tony and Saul White and Bill Dailey
were the artisan artists who converted what had once been an outbuilding on the
estate of a Katherine Hepburn – the “cabin” was used for illicit liaisons<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>- in to what is currently The Temple of
Man, a hillside home brimming with the written and visual art of California and
Colorado greats. Tony painted the bathroom shower tile in his inimitable style;
unfortunately, no one could shower in it for years because the waterproof
fixative he used to set the paint never quite dried! <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 14.0pt;">Whenever
Tony came to Denver while living in LA, he was always full of surprises. In
1988 he came to read poetry at a Steve Wilson Exhibition Marcia and I produced
at Gallery Bwanna on Blake Street. He had what appeared to be a small poem in
his hand that turned into a twenty-page poem that unfolded Orihon-style, like a
Chinese folding book. He had a one day art show at Jerry’s Records on East
Colfax where the walls and the album covers on them were covered with white
butcher block paper to which Tony pinned twenty-some artworks, all of which he
gave away at the end of the day. When he officiated at the marriage of Barbara
and Larry Lake, he conducted the shortest ceremony in the history of marriage,
even shorter than a Las Vegas drive through ceremony: “Believing in the dance we
do, done it is done, we are one.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 14.0pt;">In the
early nineties Tony returned again to Denver from LA, primarily to help Bill
Dailey in his final months as Bill was dying from cancer. Tony moved in with
Bill who lived in a mobile home situated on the Platte River in Littleton, a
living situation that Tony’s first wife, Sam Scibella had arranged. After Bill
died Tony stayed. At the time I was hosting the Friday night Poetry Readings at
The Mercury Café and I eventually cajoled Tony into attending. He had balked at
attending because they started at 10 PM, a little late for the early riser that
Tony had become, but my suggestion that Tony “take a fuckin’ nap” worked. Tony
so enjoyed the Friday Night readings that he eventually took over my roll as
host in 2001 when I retired after ten years of weekly smoky late night
adventures in the word trade. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 14.0pt;">Which
leads me to two of the women in Tony’s life. Kate Makkai and Gayle Davis. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 14.0pt;">Tony met
Kate at the first Friday night poetry reading at The Merc he attended. It was
an open reading and when he arrived he asked if there was anyone he should be
sure not to miss. Looking at my sign up sheet, I suggested that he be sure to
hear Kate Makkai, as I was in the process of publishing her first book, <i>Pink</i></span><span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 14.0pt;">. In fact the first time I had
heard Kate read I had told her, “You might not believe this, but I’m going to
publish your first book” because she obviously had the gift. I remember
checking Tony out as Kate read, trying to gauge his impression of the young
writer who was some forty years Tony’s junior. The grin on Tony’s face assured
me that I was not alone in my assessment of Kate’s talent.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The following Monday I had reason to
visit Tony and I drove to Meadowwood Village in Littleton. The crowded trailer
park assigned two parking spaces to each trailer and I was surprised to find
both of Tony’s spaces occupied. I wondered who would be visiting Tony at 9 AM
on a Monday morning. The answer was a surprise: Kate Makkai. Her first visit
would eventually evolve into her moving into the trailer within a month. The
pedestal Tony put Kate on was so high she could see California! For the next
year or two Tony would be Kate’s “mentor” and Kate would be Tony’s muse. Tony
was so bemused by Kate that he asked me that first morning in the trailer to
hold up publication of Kate’s book until he finished <i>THE KID IN AMERICA</i></span><span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 14.0pt;">, the poem he’d been working on
since 1976. I must have asked Tony a dozen times when he was going to finish <i>THE
KID</i></span><span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 14.0pt;"> and he always
said, “Hey, what’s the hurry.” Now he promised to wrap it up within the week so
I could publish PINK and THE KID simultaneously, a feat Tony, in fact,
accomplished by writing the final part, an apology/homage to the women of the
Venice Beach beat era, something that Kate’s presence in his life had prompted.
And I’m sure that Tony’s presence in Kate’s life prompted her to write
“Pretty,” which, today, is the most viewed poem on U TUBE, which had, the last
time I looked, over three million four hundred thousand views.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 14.0pt;">Tony’s
second wife, Gayle Davis, is to this day one of my favorite artists and people.
Gayle was and still is many things. For starters, she was the head cheerleader
at Hollywood High. Ms Davis was a talented dancer who studied in Denver with
the Martha Graham dancer, Jane Tannenbaum; Gayle had also been a notoriously
famous naked go-go dancer in Los Angeles in the late 60s.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She is a dance clothing designer and
owns M Stevens Design in LA where she employs dozens of seamstresses and
manufactures dance wear for people like Cher’s dance accompanists. A fabulous
artist, I always looked forward to Gayle’s hand drawn Christmas cards. Believe
it or not, she was one of the first Penthouse centerfolds; today the issue
featuring Gayle is the most sought after issue. A leading lady in a number of B
movies, she starred opposite among others, the great football star of the 60s,
Jimmy Brown. And curiously, she was even Elvis Presley’s girlfriend, something
I only found out after knowing Gayle for twenty some years, something I learned
after Tony Scibella’s memorial when sitting around my motel room with Gayle and
Tony’s children from his first marriage, Anna Scibella teased Gayle “Tell us
about Elvis. Tell us about Elvis.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 14.0pt;">“What are
you talking about?” I asked, and Gayle told the tale of how she became Elvis’ girlfriend
and arm candy for his triumphant return to Vegas. Despite her flirtatious
presence and star quality, Gayle is a shy person. She generally attached
herself to men (Like Tony with his leather jacket, big beard biker looks) who
were more her protectors than lovers, men who had excessive machismo, men who
would make the Hollywood wolves think twice about approaching her. To escape
the whirlwind that was her life in those days of moviemaking and Penthouse
modeling, Gayle used to ride her bike out to the Santa Monica airport where her
father had a hanger for his small plane. She’d lie on the grass out of sight
behind the hanger, out of sight of the world. Just watching the clouds roll by
and the planes come and go granted her a respite from the world that wanted so
much from her. One afternoon as she lay there, the shadow of a man changed the
light of the sky. Looking up at him, she had no idea who he was, but he chatted
her up politely and sweetly and endearingly. After a few minutes she became
intrigued with the kindness of his demeanor, and when he finally asked her
about a date, she said “Yes.” “How about coming to Tahoe with me for the
weekend with some friends?” She told the stranger first she have to take her
bike home and inform her parents what was up and get some clothing for the
weekend. With that Elvis Presley walked Gayle Davis to Frank Sinatra’s waiting
limo and they plunked her bike into the trunk, drove to her parents house, and
then left for a weekend that turned into much more as Gayle was with Elvis for
his entire Vegas comeback tour. Keep in mind I knew Gayle twenty-five years
when I first learned about her relationship with Elvis. A surprise it was that
she never thought to mention it. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 14.0pt;">So there
have always been surprises when it comes to the life and friends of Tony
Scibella. A year or so after Tony’s death I’m researching all things beat on
the internet and I come across a Walter Cronkite interview conducted in the
late fifties. Walter is interviewing Stuart Perkoff, the proprietor of Café
West, ground central for hip in 1959 LA and who had recently charmed America
with his appearance on Groucho Marx’s <i>YOU BET YOUR LIFE</i></span><span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 14.0pt;">.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The Pacific Ocean is the soundtrack for the interview and on
occasion, Stuart’s unnamed friend answers a question or two. No surprise, it is
the voice of Tony that is heard.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 14.0pt;">To this
day, there are a dozens of young (OK, they’re now in their thirties) poets, men
and women, who sport Black Ace tattoos on their forearms. I’ve encountered them
in grocery stores and bars and art events. And when I ask about the tattoo, it
turns out that many of them never even met Tony. Somehow the anonymity that
Tony nurtured morphed, surprisingly, into an almost cult like following.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<!--EndFragment-->Edwin Forrest Wardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09239907046852195219noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8534379790827614432.post-42902945062604278772016-11-30T15:47:00.000-07:002016-12-02T19:01:33.452-07:00ANGELO<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgr_UlIkegQzPhoTvn6A2_29c5MZl-l5EJbT10ZfScjHd8iSna08AS3W-igVY4avdzDjEwVfgwOlhm8g91KcBkegTYwTp3vTAyucjIUSqAhC7Yxu2J41vyHVKKsP5gPC-n5LECuSmy8t0E/s1600/Angelo+facebook.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgr_UlIkegQzPhoTvn6A2_29c5MZl-l5EJbT10ZfScjHd8iSna08AS3W-igVY4avdzDjEwVfgwOlhm8g91KcBkegTYwTp3vTAyucjIUSqAhC7Yxu2J41vyHVKKsP5gPC-n5LECuSmy8t0E/s320/Angelo+facebook.jpg" width="213" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia"; font-size: 10.0pt;">Cover
photography – </span><span style="font-family: "handwriting - dakota"; font-size: 10.0pt;"><b>Marcia
Ward</b></span><span style="font-family: "georgia"; font-size: 10.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia";">Angelo<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia";">A feisty – or should I say
fiery – first generation Italian from Paterson New Jersey, Angelo di Benedetto
was an artist who set the bar high in Colorado when he moved to Central City
after World War II. <span style="color: black;">He was temperamental, once
knocking Jack Kerouac down because the at-the-time seemingly homophobic author
insulted an opera singer who Kerouac believed was flirting with Angelo.</span>
During the War-to-End-All-Wars Angelo never used a weapon; an aerial
photographer and cartographer in the campaign against Rommel in Africa he later
served as an artist whose task it was to disguise Manhattan. “Disguise
Manhattan, what does that mean?” you might ask. Well, the deceptive aspect of
art can be very useful in war and the United States employed artists to trick
their enemies. Cardboard tanks would be built and set on hillsides and the
sound of tanks maneuvering would be broadcast loudly in the hopes of directing
enemy firepower in the direction of unmanned positions. The rooftops of strategic
buildings would be painted to look like something else or camouflaged so as to
be unrecognizable. At one point Angelo came up with a smoke and mirrors scheme
to disguise Manhattan in the event German bombers ever got as far as the skies
above New York. When I asked Angelo in 1987 about the artful trickery he told
me his plan was still classified, and he was not at liberty to discuss it. Too
bad it wasn’t in play in September of 2001.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia";">I met Angelo in 1979 when
he sculpted a grave marker for the poet James Ryan Morris. Jimmy and Angelo and
the filmmaker Stan Brakhage all lived in Gilpin County – Morris in Wondervu,
Angelo in Central City, and Brakhage in Rollinsville – and they were pals,
artists and intellectuals who would talk on the phone for hours at the local
rate of ten cents a call. Cabin fever is real when you live in the mountains,
and during the bitter cold long night-short days of winter, they would explore
ideas and rage against bourgeois art and, in the case of Brakhage and Morris,
government funded art. Brakhage told me that when he made a short film of
Morris playing the roll of Doc Holliday, it was the most dangerous behind the
camera experience he ever had as Morris carried and fired a loaded gun for the
shoot and possessed an existential drug-addicted stance to match Holliday’s.
Stan told me that filming Morris as Doc was “Even more dangerous than filming
calving icebergs from a canoe where death would be instantaneous should the
canoe overturn and dump you in the water.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia";">Well, Angelo’s tombstone
sculpture consisted of a pair of moons, a quarter and a full, welded a top
three steel rods affixed to a ground level nameplate that read <i>POET</i></span><span style="font-family: "georgia";">. The large full moon was somewhat bowl shaped and
the smaller quarter moon that fronted it was flat. At six feet in height the
tombstone resembled a sculptural expressionist’s take on a poet’s lyre; the
play of shadow and light on the sculpture itself was almost musical as the sun
progressed across the sky. I was part of the volunteer beatnik crew who helped
poor the concrete to set the sculpture on the southern side of the hill in Dory
Hill Cemetery outside Blackhawk Colorado. At the time there was a rusty iron
revolving gate that you’d pass through to enter the cemetery grounds and
Morris’ tombstone to the left near the top of the hill was a visual complement
to the eerie metal on metal creaking sounds of the gate as it revolved. You
just knew you were entering a not so ordinary otherworldly place.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia";">That day of the sculpture
installation I also met a young woman, Kelley Simms, who assisted Angelo. A
talented artist herself, Kelley was both Angelo’s assistant and muse. Almost
instantly Kelley and my wife became fast friends, the result of which was that
we, Marcia and I, became good friends of Angelo as well. Our friendship was
further cemented when I hooked up Angelo with a regular customer of mine at The
Boston Half Shell where I waited tables, whom I overheard talking art. Against
my better judgment and contrary to waiter etiquette I interrupted Charlie Barnett
(Charlie was a wealthy scrap metal entrepreneur and an over the top Bronco fan
(he personally had coined the phrase “Orange Crush”), butting into his
conversation with my assertion that I was friends with the greatest living
Colorado artist and that if he was interested I would set up a meeting and tour
of Angelo’s studio, which, as it turned out, happened the very next day. Before
we’d been in Central City an hour Angelo had a check for thousands in his hands
because my call party customer friend Charlie Barnett bought a few small
paintings and a large assemblage for his office consisting of arranged polished
brass gear wheels on an orange panel that resembled – in Charlie’s mind - a
offensive football play diagram. A win-win for everyone, well everyone except
me. When all was said and done, I must admit, I harbored a little resentment
that neither Angelo nor Charlie had tipped me for making it all happen. But I
got over getting stiffed and put it in my bank of petty grievances under the
column marked Oversights and Slights of Others.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia";">Well, over the next decade
I visited with Angelo many times and we talked art and the politics of art in
his studio atop the Mermaid Café. I learned of his friendship with scientists
like Einstein and artists like Diego Rivera and of coming to grips with fame
when, in 1940, paintings Angelo had created in Haiti were centered folded in <i>Life
Magazine</i></span><span style="font-family: "georgia";">. Together we co-produced
multi-media art events in both Denver and Central City. The same year we met we
were simultaneously awarded Colorado Arts Awards from the James Ryan Morris
Society – Angelo for art and me for poetry. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia";">The building where Angelo
lived and worked, which he had purchased when he originally arrived in
Colorado, was the largest building in Central City, having been built to house
a mining-supplies warehouse during the boom times of the Colorado gold and
silver mining industry. To this day, it is still the largest building in
Central City. Outside of major museums I had never seen so much art in one
place. Sculptures, paintings, drawings and assemblages, monumental and small,
filled the cavernous building. Of special note were some sixty large conte
crayon studies of the figures used in, at the time of its making, the largest
mural in the United States; Angelo and his assistant Phyllis Montrose painted
legal giants from history on asbestos concrete panels for <span style="color: black;">the ceiling of the breezeway of the Colorado Judicial
Building at Thirteenth and Broadway in Denver</span><span style="color: #434343;">.</span>
The mural was 3000 square feet of art weighing 7400 pounds! Everything outside
the studio – outside being a steep slope with a cruel pitch - was artfully
divine as well: I’m talking birdbaths and bird feeders and fountains and fences
and furniture. Stonework was reminiscent of Ireland and no item’s placement was
haphazard. Within his personal space, his kitchen table was utterly like no
other because over the years dozens of visitors had carved their names or
initials into its surface and his visitors were some-bodies, both local and
international. Summers when American high society visited Central City to
attend the opera at The Teller House, invitations to supper at Angelo’s studio
were sought after. Eating garlic pasta at Angelo’s with Kelley and Angelo and
Marcia and looking at the names carved into the oak table I came to realize
that the very seat that supported my humble Irish ass once supported the asses
of America’s greatest cultural stars. Marcia sat where the <span style="color: black;">burlesque entertainer famous for her striptease act, Gypsy </span>Rose
Lee, liked to sit.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia";">Well, the last years of
Angelo’s life were hard as are most everyone’s. He had always been a prominent
figure both in Colorado and in Central City and against the prevailing and
naive opinion that gambling is good he fought the arrival of state sponsored
gambling and lost. He sold then refused to sell his building, a bad faith
renege that cost him dearly. He had been dealing with cancer but a stroke took
him away in 1992. When his sister arrived from the East Coast to sort out his
affairs she contacted me and asked if I would conduct a memorial for Angelo.
Because Angelo had been one of the prime movers in the creation of the
sculpture park in Burns Park at Colorado and Alameda Boulevards – his is the
large yellow double arched sculpture - we held his memorial there on a Sunday
afternoon. Hundreds attended and I was witness to one of the most unplanned
cinematic events of my life. It rained off and on all day. Setting up the gear
for the event – we’re talking gasoline generators for power and a PA for the
musicians and speakers was difficult. The event was scheduled for 4 PM and it
was still raining on and off when that time rolled around. Every available
space near the park where a car could be parked was occupied and the small
parking lot on the south end held five times the amount of cars it was built
for. And when I turned on some music to announce that the stage was set,
hundreds of people who had taken shelter from the intermittent rains got out of
the cars and advanced en masse down the small slope at the south end of the
park, all carrying umbrellas. A moving quilt of a myriad of colors approached,
an unplanned Cristo like happening if you get my drift. And then at 4:15 when
everyone was ready, the sun came out!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia";">A week or so after the
memorial Angelo’s sister contacted me and told me that because Angelo’s
remaining art had been catalogued and already appraised for tax purposes I,
along with any of Angelo’s friends who might like to purchase something from
the collection, could come to Angelo’s studio. Angelo’s art had always sold for
high dollars, well beyond the financial reach of me and my friends; but because
the family was trying to escape paying a huge inheritance tax bill, everything,
she said, had rock-bottom prices. Sculptures and paintings that had sold for
thousands were priced in the hundreds. Drawings were even less. So along with a
number of di Benedetto aficionados I went and indulged myself and came to
owning a number of paintings and drawings and sculptures, two of which need
further explanation.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia";">When my friends and I were
about to leave the studio, Angelo’s nephew remembered that there were a number
of paintings not on display that he had found just that morning, paintings
which had escaped the scrutiny of the IRS and the purview of the art dealer who
was handling the art of the estate. The nephew had been walking across the
floor of the top studio where Angelo did most of his sculpting and he heard a
strange squeak emanating from the floorboards. He recalled that Angelo had told
him once that “a poor artist was one who sold everything,” and so the thought
of a secret stash came to mind. And, sure enough, a thorough scrutiny of the
squeaking hard wood floor revealed an access point where with the aide of a
large screwdriver he unearthed a stash of some thirty canvases rolled into a
log, most of which Angelo had painted in the 1930s before joining the military
and before his Haitian experience that had catapulted him to fame. The stash of
paintings had obviously been hidden the entire time Angelo lived in Central
City, works he obviously cherished for personal reasons. Most were realistic
oil portraits of the avant-garde of Broadway circa the early 30s: actors,
writers, Prima Donnas, opera singers and musicians, the New York artistic <i>intelligentsia</i></span><span style="font-family: "georgia";"> if you will, who looked the parts they played in
American culture with wild hairdos, clothing and appurtenances. But two of the
paintings were like no other. Painted in 1937, they were a pair of Diego
Rivera-esque murals illustrating a di Benedetto family farm in Connecticut
circa the early Twentieth Century. In one the farmers were clean-shaven
unadorned men and women, plainly dressed, who looked as if they just arrived
from Italy fresh off the boat, tilling and planting a hillside in spring with
manual implements and an open book. In the next the autumnal hillside was
prolific with fruits and vegetables ready for harvest and the farmers had grown
into their true selves with beards and mustaches, forsaking the clean cut look
they’d employed to pass through Ellis Island.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As they were not priced I offered the nephew a C note each
for the pair because they were the same size as paintings priced likewise. He
accepted my offer because of what I’d done for the family in terms of arranging
the memorial and I walked away with what I’m sure were two of Angelo’s most
prized possessions, things he had hidden because he did not want to sell them,
because he did not want to be a poor artist, an almost other worldly chain of
events starting with, if you will, a squeak from beyond the grave that more
than made up for me not getting a percentage of the deal I brokered a decade
earlier. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<!--EndFragment-->Edwin Forrest Wardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09239907046852195219noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8534379790827614432.post-30556932169415639972016-11-19T10:51:00.004-07:002016-11-23T11:48:12.584-07:00A MIX of PHYSICS, ALCOHOL, GAMBLING, JIMI HENDRIX, BOB DYLAN and SEX: THESE THINGS DON'T NECESSARILY ADD UP TO LOST VIRGINITY<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia"; font-size: 10.0pt;">Cover art
– </span><span style="font-family: "handwriting - dakota";">Edwin Forrest Ward</span><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;"> <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia"; font-size: 13.0pt;">A Mix of Physics, Alcohol,
Gambling, <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia"; font-size: 13.0pt;">Jimi Hendrix, Bob Dylan and Sex:<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia"; font-size: 13.0pt;">These Things Don’t Necessarily Add
Up <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia"; font-size: 13.0pt;">to Lost Virginity<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia"; font-size: 13.0pt;">A little more than fifty years ago, in the summer of 1966,
I was working for the Atomic Energy Commission in an unpublicized basement
laboratory of the Customs Building on Houston Street in Manhattan. Drexel
University had arranged the prestigious paid internship as I was, at the time,
majoring in Physics at Drexel. The six month commitment involved intellectual
and spiritual challenges - I mean there was a war going on in Viet Nam and I
was working for the government responsible for the war; there was also petty
conflict – my three math major roommates and I couldn’t really come up with a
satisfactory formula for a division of labor, for sharing our one bedroom
apartment in Queens. Add to this the uneasy euphoria of living away from my
inner city row home (and mother) in Philadelphia for the first time in a place
where the drinking age was eighteen. Throw a wonderful young woman of a
girlfriend who was very much in love with me into the mix and I was overwhelmed
with prospects and commitments and confusion. Not to mention I was Catholic. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia"; font-size: 13.0pt;">At the time of my internship I paid more attention to Bob
Dylan than I did to my studies, my work at The A.E.C. and my faith (or lack
of). Bobbie D truly seemed to be the prime mover in changing my world.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He was responsible for bringing white
America – people like myself who grew up in <i>uber</i></span><span style="font-family: "georgia"; font-size: 13.0pt;"> segregated overtly racist
Philadelphia into the Civil Rights Movement and singing a language that could
be employed to protest injustice in America and abroad. Two years earlier at
The March on Washington for Jobs and Freedom, Martin Luther King’s “I have a
Dream” speech was followed by Dylan singing “Blowin’ In The Wind” and “Only a
Pawn in Their Game.” Whereas I had memorized all the words to every Dylan song
released at the time (some 90 or so), I could not recite – other than E=MC
squared - any of the differential equations and quantum theorems necessary to
express an understanding of modern physics. I originally had chosen physics as
my major because I wanted to rock the world as I believed Einstein had in 1905.
I sought someday to shed new light on the nature of things (and people) and
change understandings of how the world works. Also, practically speaking, what
better way to wow the women of my dreams is there than Einstein-ing them? “I’m
majoring in Physics” had the kind of cache that I believed got a girl’s
attention. That’s how I had met Ann at a college mixer in the spring of 1966.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia"; font-size: 13.0pt;">Ann was a bright-eyed blonde who went after what she
wanted with a fierceness that was beyond the norms of 1966. And she wanted me.
She’d do most anything to be with me. She lied to her mother and father,
climbed out her bedroom window to rendezvous with me after her exceedingly
protective parents went to sleep, stole cartoons of Kool cigarettes for me from
the Mom & Pop store where she worked part time, cut classes at Beaver
College to play Frisbee with me when I was out of class, and had friends lie to
cover for her when she came for the weekend to visit me in New York. Put
crudely yet succinctly, Ann had more balls than the entire Rugby team at
Drexel. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia"; font-size: 13.0pt;">As I shuffled through my days at the AEC – measuring
particulate matter in the air in ventilation systems pre and post filtration –
something as uninspiring as the office politics that surrounded me, I knew I
already was on my way to the underground where there was “darkness at the break
of noon,” where there was poetry not physics, where there was love not war,
where there was art not religion, where there was risk not steady employment.
Ann – or what she represented – meant more than cold fusion. Love meant more
than a new unified theory of the universe. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia"; font-size: 13.0pt;">At the time my sister Carol worked for the Pennsylvania
Railroad as a keypunch operator; not the greatest of jobs, but one that came
with passes for all family members to ride the Pennsylvania Railroad; hence, I
could travel for free from Philly to New York and vice versa. Most weekends,
for reasons of economy, I went home. I needed to save as much money as I could
from my job, in order to pay my tuition, as my family had not the means to do
so. I kid you not when I say: my family was never more than a dollar or two ahead.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia"; font-size: 13.0pt;">On Fridays, during the ninety-minute train ride from Grand
Central to Philly, I usually played pinochle for money with a bunch of older
men. Initially they took me for a novice card player whom they hoped to fleece,
but a novice I was not. I’d been playing pinochle with my family since I was
seven years old. My parents and sisters and I played for pennies and the
focus-as-a-family playing cards allows, whereas the guys on the train played
for dollars and the braggadocio that playing cards allows. We snarked, broke
balls, bragged, and snide-commented our way the entire train ride as we
shuffled, cut, dealt, bid, played and wooed the three card kitty; the patter of
card playing Philadelphia wise-guys belongs to a universe where Roberts’ Rules
of Order don’t apply, and feeling like one of the older men - counting cards,
counting trump, counting losers, counting suits, counting coo, gambling and
winning money, bragging about Irish luck, plying the card skills I’d learned
from my mother – was exponentially more rewarding than the prestige of my
Atomic Energy Commission credentials.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Fortunately, rare was the time that I didn’t arrived at Holmesburg
Station in Northeast Philly without having double or tripled in an hour and a
half the pay I’d received for working forty hours at the AEC, thereby learning
early that there are ways outside the norm to make a buck. I had January’s
tuition in the bank by October! Punching a time clock was not nearly as
thrilling as making a forty hand - against all odds - in spades, a sort of
differential equation I took to heart.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia"; font-size: 13.0pt;">As I said, Dylan was the hat I wore although I did have
hair like Einstein; thus when Ann came to stay with me for an overnight in July
of 1966, after rendezvousing at Grand Central, we chased after music and
poetry, not science. After drinking<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>half of the bottle of wine I had concealed in a paper bag, we went in
search of the ghost of Bob Dylan, to Greenwich Village on a hot summer Saturday
night and paid two eight dollar covers to enter the Cafe Wha?, where a coke was
another eight dollars, and where a skinny twenty-four year old black kid with
hair curlier than mine wearing blue denim bibbed overalls sat in a corner with
a pair of guitars, a microphone, and an amplifier with a reel-to-reel on the
floor. He exhorted the audience – mostly suburban kids from Jersey – to get
enthusiastic because a demo was going to be recorded this night and crowd
appreciation would go along way to his getting, as he said “that contract in
the sky.” I had been expecting an acoustic Dylan-esque folk scene – as I knew
that Dylan had played his first gig in New York City in this very room in 1962,
but what ensued was like nothing I had ever heard. The guitar playing was ear
dazzling and driven and mad and improvisational and outrageous while the
singing was sensual and intimate. “Crazy, wild, psychedelic, sexy, furious” is
what Ann said. I was too blown away for words. The guitar player’s name scribed
in gold and silver across his black guitar case was spelled strangely: Jimi.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia"; font-size: 13.0pt;">Now after the show, Ann and I returned to my place in
Queens. It being the weekend, my roommates were not around, as they regularly
went home to their parents in Jersey and Maryland and Pennsylvania, meaning Ann
and I would have the pad to ourselves and we would probably get around to the
elephants in the room of our relationship: our virginity. Of course we were not
virgins when it came to orgasms. But sex as in copulation was just not
something we had had the opportunity to partake of. In cars and movie theaters
and on blankets at the beach, these are not places where full nudity and
penetration are going to happen. Unfortunately, things didn’t work out as
dreamed.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia"; font-size: 13.0pt;">When we climbed into bed a bit tipsy from our finishing
off the wine, dizzy with Hendrix sounding in our heads, enthusiastic and shy
with the puppy love that we owned, inexperienced with nudity and flesh against
flesh, it so happened that we when we began to embrace, skin to skin, and kiss,
I got had the most monstrous erection I would ever have. And when Ann took me
in her hands I had the most monstrous ejaculation I most likely would ever
have. Embarrassed by my inability to control myself and by the amount of cum
that seemed to come from me and cover Ann’s stomach and thighs, my ego was
tattered and my manhood so spent there was no way on earth I would be able to
penetrate her safely, if at all, and thus I resorted to something I had only
fantasized about: the cunning linguist within orchestrating an intense climax
for Ann. Spent and satisfied - however awkward our technique - we felt bliss .
. .<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>and, upon reflection, blessed
in a strange 1960’s parochial Catholic sort of way: the silver lining amidst
the cloud of a bungled first-time was that we were able to bring virginity to
the people we would later meet and marry. To this day, I can still see Jimi in
his overalls playing guitar strings with his teeth and with the brass buttons
of his outfit and I can envision Ann in her birthday suit, so beautiful, so
willing, so loving. Sadly, not long after this
Jimi-Hendrix-not-five-feet-away-from-me-CaféWha?-Saturday-night experience
fifty years ago, Ann and I broke up for no good reason. Puppy love is after all
only puppy love no matter how pure and intense. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia"; font-size: 13.0pt;">And because I do believe in “taking what you have gathered
from coincidence,” it must be noted that some fifty years after I heard, really
heard, music for the first time in my life, after not losing my virginity, and
not getting Ann pregnant as would most likely have happened given our lack of
contraception and our Catholic belief that making love was purest when engaged
in for the purpose of procreation, a grandson was born to me whose name is
Jonah Hendrix!</span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPI0ZbsldkQzjjZk41rs53fzNXRiVjcmeylMmTIt5GdCOjZvYBVMYyGgF2ArXFVjy7L5uWjpf4lB_Ik8f1udM3XUBgRVpnfaaYcgahPVSB099TdS8he0VQOKbT06bSf5DIbCUI9KA73rw/s1600/A+MIX+coverFB.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><br /></a></div>
<br />
<!--EndFragment-->Edwin Forrest Wardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09239907046852195219noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8534379790827614432.post-39843554586804652902016-10-24T09:41:00.001-06:002016-10-24T09:41:06.118-06:00Doobie
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvvI3EjVlbJCtQ2djVIKqrrZwuCLu4YqFm2bya78fDqky-2PC5vsf5jDiADdNZZlkXrX2Vw3O-M40Jc8T3RsD5ZVsWLduKslKwv-bSEa-gq0a_cjrc3y41kAQumde-e0csTnhh_4oQkAk/s1600/DoobieCoverFB.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvvI3EjVlbJCtQ2djVIKqrrZwuCLu4YqFm2bya78fDqky-2PC5vsf5jDiADdNZZlkXrX2Vw3O-M40Jc8T3RsD5ZVsWLduKslKwv-bSEa-gq0a_cjrc3y41kAQumde-e0csTnhh_4oQkAk/s320/DoobieCoverFB.jpg" width="219" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">cover photo -</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 19px;"> </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">Marcia Ward</span></i></span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 14.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 14.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Doobie</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 14.0pt;">as always for Marcia<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 14.0pt;">This
story is not about the rock band, The Doobie Brothers; likewise, it does not
concern itself with reefer madness. The only music it references is quacking
and the only pot in the story would be a reference in the description of the
belly of its principal character, our “pot-bellied” drake.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 14.0pt;">When my
youngest son was a sophomore at East High in Denver, he, along with twenty
other students, won a lottery in biology class. Zenith Star was very excited
about his lottery win and asked if he could accept the prize, a fertilized duck
egg. Accepting an egg would be easy; accepting what might hatch would be a wee
bit trickier because the behavior and longevity of pets is not easy to predict.
I mean, I’ve had dogs and cats and birds that have shared decades with me, and
knowing nothing of ducks, I was leery to say “Yes” to the prospect of a duck
taking up residence in my back yard. I mean, I already knew the ropes when it
came to teenagers and pet responsibilities: all in for a day or so, but by
week’s end, all responsibility would be on Marcia and me. I had already
disappointed my son on numerous occasions with my refusal to get him a dog, an
easy “No” on my part because he was enamored of pit bulls; nonetheless, with
great reluctance and much trepidation, I bowed to the pressure of Marcia’s and
Zenith’s pleading eyes and agreed to accepting the egg from his teacher.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 14.0pt;">Meanwhile
back in Paul Harbaugh’s biology class, twelve of twenty duck eggs hatched. By
day two, nine of the twelve hatchlings died, yet, as luck would have it,
Zenith’s duckling lived and the tiny baby got to go home with him on a Friday
afternoon. Saturday morning found me buying a dog house at Home Depot, a sack
of turkey chow at a feed store in Aurora, and a plastic kiddie swimming pool at
Target, totaling close to two hundred dollars for a duckling that didn’t weigh
a pound, a duck which by Monday had doubled in size, and which seemed to double
in size every two days for a week plus. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 14.0pt;">The
duckling that Zenith named Doobie was a domestic Mallard, the kind of bird that
is bred to be fattened up and eaten Peking style in about six months, not a
duck to fly the sky-ways and swim the river-ways. As it turned out, however,
Doobie got to float the kiddie pool and roam the back yard and sleep in the dog
house for close to four years, and, despite my initial reservations, I found
him to be one of the most fantastic and loving pets I have ever had the
pleasure of caring for, although, I must say, he was a menace when he was
horny. He was also more intelligent than you can imagine.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 14.0pt;">The
everyday routine of caring for Doobie was written in stone. First thing in the
morning we (mostly Marcia, the earlier riser) would refill his turkey chow bowl
in the yard. Next the duck would be let out of the locked dog house where he’d
spent the night safe from the neighborhood predators – there was a fox den in
the sewer intake around the corner at 12<sup>th</sup> and Glencoe and a raccoon
could occasionally be seen midnights scampering along our privacy fence. Now
Doobie was very amorous and much effort had to be put into avoiding his
attempts at affection, i.e., taking a nibble on any exposed skin. It was a wild
dance we did, fending off his duck kisses. In late spring and early summer when
male ducks are in heat, mornings after unlocking the dog house door, Marcia
would literally race back into our house screaming “No no no” because Doobie
somehow just knew her to be female and he wanted to mount her feet and get
intimate with her ankles, his intent obvious given the lightning bolt
appearance of his eight-inch long corkscrew penis. Proof of his frenzied
rapture were Marcia’s puckered ankles and the scar above my right eye that
looks like a birthmark, the result of him planting an affectionate smooch on my
forehead with the bristle-like serrated edges of his bill that ducks use to
filter the bugs out of water. Had his aim been a few inches lower, I’d be
looking like a one-eyed pirate. After a morning wandering and scouring the
grass of the yard for insects and such, Doobie’s afternoons were generally
spent serenely floating in the pool enjoying the treats we added: lettuce,
cabbage, bread and similar duck edibles. Sometime during the day (when Doobie
wasn’t amorous) we’d change the duck poop laden newspapers that lined the
doghouse. Such summer stench was nauseating and the chore was no one’s
favorite, especially when bent over as was necessary to accomplish the task,
what with one’s butt and ankles prone to attack. Another true chore was the
replacement of the water in the pool, something we did with an immersed sump
pump; fortunately, the duck waste fertilized water was spread on our lawn and
flower gardens and was an unexpected benefit. At night the duck routine would
end when we locked him up at sundown.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 14.0pt;">But as I
said, Doobie was also caring and intelligent. He loved to be held on one’s lap
and petted. He quacked quietly and nuzzled deep into our embrace whenever we
indulged him. His down and feathers presented a soft and rare chance for such
unique tactility. He also was respectful and never once did he give chase to
our cat that spent hours in the yard with him at a safe distance perched on a
windowsill or on a fence post. The cat had a way of examining the backyard
scene every time she went outside, making sure Doobie was not within pecking
distance of the opened door before cat-sprinting to a place beyond reach of the
duck. One of my favorite things about Doobie was that he thought Marcia and I
were his parents, because when he first arrived we were his caretakers. OK, we
didn’t teach him to swim but we did teach him to heed our call. When ever I
returned home to an empty house and quietly entered the back yard, no matter
how quiet I had been, Doobie was immediately either on a happy waddle towards
me, or, if he had been floating in the pool, he’d raise up with his wings and
practically dance on the water in delight at my presence, his webbed feet
splashing the surface water in a spray of delight. His “Welcome home Daddy” was
as heart-warming as that of any pet I’ve ever had! Doobie’s eyes would
literally sparkle with joy as he skirted the edges of the pool on dancing
webbed feet or lay snuggling against my shoes imploring me to pet and ruffle
him. And when it came to his birdbrain, well, he did, in fact, actually teach
me a thing or two.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 14.0pt;">We kept
his pool beside of our back yard’s southern fence, where grew an abundance of
Virginia Creeper vine. Now ducks love certain grasses and the leaves of many
plants although Doobie had no truck with Virginia Creeper. Once upon arrival
home I went into the yard to find Doobie floating about, and I expected his
usual dancing on the water welcome, but got only a mean stare. In fact his
intense glowering more than got my attention given its unusual fierceness. Then
he paddled over to the Virginia Creeper at poolside and pulled off the vine a
mouthful of the inedible Creeper leaves. Then he literally spit the leaves in
my direction, as if to communicate, “I can’t eat this. Go in the house and get
me some damn lettuce.” In fact, he repeated this action twice, before I
understood and acted on his pantomimed message. When I returned to the yard
with a handful of lettuce and stale bread, I got the dance-on-water webbed feet
routine I was so fond of, and Dobbie quacked a quack-quack that almost sounded
like “Thank You.” He seemed to be gloating in the knowledge that ducks can
teach an old Dad new tricks. His communication with me had been spot on. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 14.0pt;">Sadly,
the fourth of July in 2002 marked the end of Doobie’s backyard life, an
Independence Day tragedy that I think of to this day when I hear fireworks
exploding. Marcia and I were visiting her parents in Wyoming for the holiday
weekend. We left our high school senior son in charge of Doobie. As we should
have foreseen, Zenith Star took the opportunity to party with his high school
buds, returning home late on a Saturday night. When he went to the yard to
secure Doobie for the night, the duck was nowhere to be found. Just a few
feathers scattered about the yard. But no tragedy is simple and Zenith missing
sundown to secure the duck was not the only factor in our duck’s demise. Ella,
our cat at the time, was the kind of spoiled brat cat that wanted in the house
and then out into the night yard all evening long. She’d scratch at the door
every ten minutes wanting to come back in to eat a nugget or two of dry cat
food in the kitchen and then scratch the wood of our back door to go back out.
And because we loved her so, we accommodated her. But getting up and down every
ten minutes became so annoying that I had taken to leaving a bowl of cat food
on our picnic table, out of Doobie’s reach, where Ella could intermittently
nibble to her heart’s content. That the bowl was empty every morning should
have alerted me to the fact that some hungry marauding critter was eating nightly
whatever Ella left uneaten. My guess is that I had been attracting the
neighborhood fox with the aroma of cat chow. And under an exploding fireworks
sky, the neighborhood fox had celebrated scoring a hearty meaty meal. For years
after Doobie’s disappearance, Ella looked for him every time she went outside.
As do I, still.</span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<o:p></o:p><br />
<!--EndFragment-->Edwin Forrest Wardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09239907046852195219noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8534379790827614432.post-86162585495548805422016-09-22T11:24:00.000-06:002016-09-26T10:13:20.513-06:00LIZ<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnuHBkT_0TIw1bGDV4TkpvTPs5yYkgszcHuQzmun5e4NjDHtx56rUCPuhOk3Bqmx4kRhIfjRSLu8amgMFeho9ebvDcMI138LoWa9SbTLozIwU5psW8pwH_XL8-hohdb4rYJBT_fCoAEYI/s1600/LIZ+FBcover.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnuHBkT_0TIw1bGDV4TkpvTPs5yYkgszcHuQzmun5e4NjDHtx56rUCPuhOk3Bqmx4kRhIfjRSLu8amgMFeho9ebvDcMI138LoWa9SbTLozIwU5psW8pwH_XL8-hohdb4rYJBT_fCoAEYI/s320/LIZ+FBcover.jpg" width="214" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 19px;">Liz</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 19px;"><br /></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 19px;">as always for Marcia </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 19px;"><br /></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 19px;"><br /></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 19px;"><br /></span>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 19px;">Liz, and I don’t mean Taylor,
one of the world’s best actresses, is a rarity. Well, I would think so, as I
expect there are not too many who go to the extremes she has gone to in order
to ply her craft in walking this world.</span></div>
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<!--StartFragment-->
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">When I first met Liz she was
dating an actor/director friend of mine, and, boy, did she ever look the part
of the aspiring actress: sophisticated, literate, wealthy, glamorous, stylish,
beautiful, sexy, and clever as a sardonic screenwriter; Liz simply oozed star
potential. Her steel blue eyes were always drinking in everyone and everything
around her. After flirting with the stage she took up writing in earnest and
began writing magazine articles, mostly historical and journalistic. I remember
a documentary film script she wrote about Colorado trains that was produced by
PBS. In the late 80s, although Liz was in her late thirties, she lived on her
exceedingly wealthy elderly father’s ranch near Parker Colorado as her Dad
required assistance. But once she hit forty Liz hired a house keeper/caretaker
for her father as she had decided to go for a big-league career and she started
bouncing about, a year in LA, a year in San Francisco, and the next decade with
dual residences, with apartments in both the Upper West Side of New York and
one in Moscow’s Kitay-Gorod neighborhood, a stone’s throw from the Kremlin. She
smoozed with the New York <i>intelligensia</i></span><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;"> and nouveau rich free Russians. In the mid-90s, she began digging
deeply into Russian culture and the dynamics of new non-Soviet Russian wealth,
and her essays and reviews concerning art and economics began appearing in The
Wall Street Journal and sundry then-new conservative on-line magazines. Liz
especially enjoyed demonizing the Federal Reserve, the IMF, The World Bank,
American Presidents, and Harvard University for its role in poorly advising the
new Russia on what to do with its assets. In 1997 she wrote a manuscript on
these subjects, but due to its incendiary nature, it was never published
although, according to The New York Review of Books, it was “widely read.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">All during this time, I was
in contact with Liz as she had always been quite the marijuana aficionado and I
had been a connection to some of the finer strains of newly cultivated Sativa
and Indica crossbreeds, and against my better judgment, for years, I mailed her
weed; thank god for turkey basting bags and vacuum Seal-A-Meal systems.
Everything I ever sent reached her as did the cash laden novels she sent me.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">In 1997, Marcia and I visited
New York and New Jersey, New York because an old friend, Michael Bergt, was
having a major art show in Manhattan across from Trump Tower and Jersey because
a niece was getting married “down the shore” in Stone Harbor, and we spent two
nights and a day with Liz in her brownstone condo overlooking the Hudson River.
Not having seen her for half a dozen years, our first sight of Liz in her
doorway shocked us. Gone was the movie star, and a beat bohemian drug addled
writer stood before us. Whereas she had previously looked like a fashion model
worthy of the cover of Cosmopolitan, she now looked like a model for the cover
of a 50s Black Ace lurid detective novel titled Hollywood Lady Junkies. The
beautiful long blonde hair had been chopped short and dyed black. Her attire
consisted of sweat pants and hoodie. I’m sure she had a serious Vitamin D
deficiency as she claimed she rarely left her crib. Food, pot, cocaine,
clothing, whatever was ordered over the phone and delivered. She looked like
she rarely bathed and she certainly had not cleaned her residence since
purchasing it in 1990. Enough groceries to feed an army had been delivered in
anticipation of our arrival, and a dozen paper sacks of foodstuffs and booze
sat inside the doorway. She apologized for not having cleaned her place, but
assured us our sleeping situation would be first rate as she produced a
complete set of brand new thousand-count Egyptian bed linens, complete with a
down-filled duvet cover that probably cost more than both our airline tickets.
After we helped her set our bed up, she simply deposited the dead linens and
old bedspread in the trash shoot. An odor of pot, alcohol, mildew, dirty
dishes, dust, tobacco, and cocaine-induced night sweat permeated every nook and
cranny of her flat. She was the complete opposite of the aristocratic,
father-doting fabulously coiffed Liz we knew in Denver; nonetheless, our time
together was groovy and wonderful, gossiping about mutual friends in Colorado,
talking American art and Russian film, listening to her conspiracy theories
involving Bill and Hillary Clinton, Harvard University and Boris Yeltsin,
drinking copious amounts of fine brandy and expensive French wine, and eating
what I assumed to be the best of deli munchies available in Manhattan. Said
succinctly: the caviar was extreme. When Marcia and I left Liz and traveled to
Jersey, we felt as if we were returning to the real world after having climbed
back out of the rabbit hole abode of one crazy, paranoid, generous old friend.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">Two years later, my oldest
son turned twenty, and seeing as how he was at the time a baritone
saxophone-playing jazz enthusiast, I took him for a week to New York City to
experience the Blue Note and Birdland, Greenwich Village and subways, the Saint
Patrick’s Day Parade, Central Park and the Staten Island Ferry. Out the window
of our hotel room were the Twin Towers that then dominated the southern view, a
scene I got to paint, one that would be gone in less than six months. Passion
and I also made plans with Liz for an evening out on the town, beginning with
dinner at an exceedingly trendy SoHo restaurant. She had always been as
gracious with her money as she was chameleon like. Liz was currently making the
rounds of conservative TV talk shows and doing internet interviews and at out
table when we arrived was a TV producer/handler who would be meeting Liz for
the first time in preparation for an upcoming on-air interview during which Liz
would discuss her recent testimony before the Banking and Financial Services of
the United States House of Representatives concerning the shenanigans of
Harvard, the elder Bush, Bill Clinton, the IMF and the Federal Reserve. Liz, as
it would turn out, was two hours late for dinner, something about not being
able to secure a last minute limo for the night. While waiting I consumed more
than my fair share of exotic aperitifs and fine wine, and I probably talked a
little too freely to Liz’s new producer about my old friend who had changed
from a Marilyn Monroe into a Charles Bukowski. But when Liz arrived I was once
again surprised for she had changed back into the elegant, well dressed, and
superbly coiffed sophisticated mostly sober potential superstar I had
originally known. Liz was at the height of whatever game she was now into and
it was one hell of a wild night (the restaurant tab for the four of us was
close to a grand), a night that ended in a private Russian after-hours club
where my son got to experience the sight of some fifty stylish perfumed Russian
beauties all in search of wealthy Russian or American husbands. My last sight
of Liz in New York was through the window of a taxi just before sun-up. She
blew me a kiss as only a great actress can.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">Fast forward a decade or so
and I see Liz for the last time. She’s in Denver. She looks like a spoiled brat
purple-haired Gothic heiress about to travel on a tramp steamer to some far
away forgotten island. She’s come through Denver to score some good weed to
take on her travels. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">We spend an entire morning
and afternoon breaking down a half-pound mixture of Blue City Diesel and Lemon
Sensimilla.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We grind it into
powder and compress it. We carefully open and empty two boxes of tampons and
replace much of the inner tampon absorbent materials with the fine dust of
cannabis after Seal A Meal-ing the herb, making sure both boxes weighed the
package amount before re-gluing the Cellophane wrapped boxes so as to appear
un-opened. Liz confided in me that she was disavowing her American citizenship
and would become an expatriate, as she feared for her life because of her late
90s’ exposes. Her landline had been tapped, she said, and she just knew that
she was under scrutiny if not under downright surveillance. She had rattled the
cages of some very corrupt and powerful financial warlords and too many people
and organizations wanted her gone, including the CIA, its Russian counterpart,
world bankers and criminal financiers. She had paid a fortune for a new
identity and she was on her way to Ecuador where she could, with her new
identity, establish citizenship. She had paid an alchemist artist to melt down and
disguise a couple of pounds of South African Gold Krugerrands as a cheap steel
alloy that was refashioned into jewelry. The belt she wore was worth more than
a Washington Park house she quipped. All her jeweled accoutrements looked like
Gothic heavy metal costume junk. Once relocated and set-up in South America she
would transfer the remainder of her inherited wealth as well as the millions
she made on the sale of her Upper West Side pad via some off shore nonsense so
no one, not even the CIA, would ever find her.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">And so Liz, who used to star
in little underground beatnik theater productions in Denver that my good friend
Richard Collier produced disappeared from my life in 2012 although - when I
dropped her off at DIA with a few pounds of disguised gold and pot laced
sanitary devices – she did promise me that one day she’d return under who knows
what name to pick up a painting of mine she had purchased and asked that I keep
safe. And she promised she’d look neither like a movie star, a bohemian junkie writer,
an economics talking head, a Russian art critic, nor a faux Goth heiress, all
of which characters had been, apparently, conscious choices on her part; she
had not a clue as to what her new face to the world would be. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">In short, Liz never ceased
being the talented actress I had met years before, one who used the world,
rather than a theater, as her stage. Plays for her are still being written. Who
knows: next time she might appear as a ghost! Hell, she could be here in the
room tonight and chances are I wouldn’t recognize her. Well, OK, I might
recognize her very stoned blue steel actress eyes.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<!--EndFragment--></div>
<!--EndFragment-->Edwin Forrest Wardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09239907046852195219noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8534379790827614432.post-11426023434597659082016-06-25T09:27:00.000-06:002016-06-25T09:35:15.684-06:00Spiritu <style><!--
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4JdaRN3dpIY_17kPo9gA249q7OcBl4RKIIJPyjsm1iJaLP-xIEwV-3y1MFp5MsCID_w7HyQKaSEWQBeeu1yXnF_gMC7l4sWJzgVEWFAHr9TJuF2gozUYaXzQ3I_OWjj_eq8tAJQtpZB4/s1600/spiritu+FBcover.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4JdaRN3dpIY_17kPo9gA249q7OcBl4RKIIJPyjsm1iJaLP-xIEwV-3y1MFp5MsCID_w7HyQKaSEWQBeeu1yXnF_gMC7l4sWJzgVEWFAHr9TJuF2gozUYaXzQ3I_OWjj_eq8tAJQtpZB4/s320/spiritu+FBcover.jpg" width="209" /></a></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "georgia"; font-size: 10.0pt;">Cover
photography – </span><span style="font-family: "handwriting - dakota"; font-size: 11.0pt;">Marcia
Ward</span><span style="font-family: "georgia"; font-size: 10.0pt;"> – <i>From the
Poets' Bridge</i></span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia"; font-size: 13.0pt;">Spiritu</span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia"; font-size: 13.0pt;">as always for Marcia</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "georgia"; font-size: 13.0pt;">Many
years ago, as a young artist, I was falsely tagged with the opprobrium,
“street,” as if my talents were unschooled, like someone who sprays graffiti or
writes in poor imitation of Kerouac. Hell, I went to Jesuit schools and I
sometimes think in Latin, <i>Quid agam, amicus meus?</i></span><span style="font-family: "georgia"; font-size: 13.0pt;"> Bothersome also was the uglier
implied characterization of “street:” thuggish. Now normally such mislabeling
is of no consequence in the real world, but on occasion such innuendo can lead
to violence.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "georgia"; font-size: 13.0pt;">In the
early 80s I came into possession of a Panasonic video camera and immediately
took up making short artworks, some poetic, some narrative, some simply eye
dazzling, and some to accompany live music at stage shows. I had no editing
equipment so most were multiple do-overs until I achieved what I was looking
for in one take, an arduous and time-consuming task to say the least, but a
process that demanded planning and an economy of concept. One of my “movieos” –
as I called them - I was especially proud of, one in which my wife danced with
an erotic quality and nonchalance that was both an intellectual and physical
turn on. It aroused a haunting desire for knowledge of her whole being, not
simply lust for her.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "georgia"; font-size: 13.0pt;">In 1987,
at a literary festival and book fair where I had a booth, I was selling poetry
chapbooks and my literary magazine, <i>Passion Press</i></span><span style="font-family: "georgia"; font-size: 13.0pt;">. I knew dozens of attendees at
the fair and many asked in English, “What’s up, my friend?” – <i>Quid agam,
amicus meus?</i></span><span style="font-family: "georgia"; font-size: 13.0pt;"> I
spoke of my video adventuring the last few years and everyone wanted a
look-see.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Because I had a number
of poetic movieos with me on VHS tape and because there was a large television
and VHS player in the lobby where my booth was, I arranged for an impromptu
screening of my compilation. A dozen or so of my interested contemporaries
gathered round and I began screening my work. First, a rapid cut take on the
great Colorado poet, James Ryan Morris, then a documentary of my youngest son’s
costumed third birthday party parade at Alamo Placitas Park, led by my wife,
Marcia, wearing a feathered headdress and a dress-that-sings, and pounding out
a march on a toy tom-tom. Marcia was literally at the height of her maternal
beauty. I followed this with the one of Marcia dancing.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "georgia"; font-size: 13.0pt;">Well, a
minute or so into my piece, “Dancing,” there is a piercing wail of a scream and
a verbal protest from the event organizer’s wife. “Turn that porn off! There
are woman and children here!” I look around the room to see if something
“pornographic” is going on and seeing only attendees perusing the publisher’s
wares, I come to realize that the distraught woman – a college professor, no
less – is talking about my movieo. I ignore her and turn back to watching my
video with my friends; however, without warning, the screen goes black and I
realized a plug’s been pulled as I see the festival organizer, let’s call him
“Mr. Censorium,” standing with a disconnected electrical extension cord in
hand. If looks could kill I’d be dead, I think. Steam’s coming out of his ears,
and he’s glaring like someone who’s been cuckolded. Rather than cause a scene
or even ask Mrs. Censorium what she was so upset about, I leave the room with
my friends and venture outside where we hold an impromptu poetry reading. Half
the people at the fair join us outside, despite the fact that there are
featured literary presenters<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>-
mostly academics and non-profit administrators - on stage in the auditorium
talking about literature. Outside we are sharing literature, not talking about
literature, with the likes of Larry Lake, Art Goodtimes, Woody Hill, Gregory
Greyhawk, and Lucy McGrath riffing off each other. A couple of cases of beer
also miraculously appear and add a lacking festivity to the otherwise staid festival.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "georgia"; font-size: 13.0pt;">Now I did
have a little history with Mr. Censorium. He used to come poetry readings that
I ran in the 70s, and I had sensed his animosity towards me, something I
attributed to my never having asked him to be a featured poet at my readings. I
knew he thought himself to be the cat’s meow when it came to poetics, but I
found his writing, its style, to be derivative, a 3.2 take on Pablo Neruda, not
my cup of tea, and certainly not the outside-the-box vernacular kind of poetry
I was interested in featuring. I was producer and host, and I only featured
poets I was truly interested in. Censorium told others my scene was clique-ish
and “street,” that “Ed Ward wouldn’t know a poem if it bit him on the ass.” I
guess he took my personal tastes personally. In fact, when the literary
festival that the book fair was part of, had been organized, the book fair
coordinator,<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Tom Parson, one of
closest friends at the time, had given Censorium a list of the small press publishers
in Colorado to invite, my self among them. But Censorium had excluded me and my
friend and mentor, Larry Lake, Denver’s most polished small press publisher,
from the invitation mailing. Only when I mentioned my lack of an invitation to
Tom Parson was the omission righted and I was granted booth space.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "georgia"; font-size: 13.0pt;">Flash
forward a couple of years. I had passed on the mandate I’d been given by Larry
Lake, you must publish others as well as write, to John Macker, and my <i>Passion
Press</i></span><span style="font-family: "georgia"; font-size: 13.0pt;"> literary
magazine had been replaced with Macker’s <i>Moravagine</i></span><span style="font-family: "georgia"; font-size: 13.0pt;">. John was also one of Denver’s
alternative event producers, and to celebrate his latest edition of <i>Moravagine</i></span><span style="font-family: "georgia"; font-size: 13.0pt;">, he rented a new restaurant bar
on Blake Street, let’s call it “Spiritu.” Spiritu was closed on Mondays and
John had arranged for a Monday night private party featuring some poets he was
publishing, a painter by the name of Paris Butler, and myself. He guaranteed
the owner, let’s call her Connie Candle, a full house. He’d turn her dark night
into the most lucrative night of the month, a promise, as it turned out, he
kept. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "georgia"; font-size: 13.0pt;">I was
going to show the world premier of my latest and most ambitious video
extravaganza, <i>E the Movieo, </i></span><span style="font-family: "georgia"; font-size: 13.0pt;">that featured three separate takes playing simultaneously
on three monitors of my narrative fiction, <i>Early Light</i></span><span style="font-family: "georgia"; font-size: 13.0pt;">,<i> The Sage the Sniff</i></span><span style="font-family: "georgia"; font-size: 13.0pt;">,<i> </i></span><span style="font-family: "georgia"; font-size: 13.0pt;">and<i> Conspired</i></span><span style="font-family: "georgia"; font-size: 13.0pt;"> with an original score created by
Denver’s most popular band at the time, the heavy-metal Gothic foursome, The
Soul Merchants. I was as excited about <i>E the Movieo</i></span><span style="font-family: "georgia"; font-size: 13.0pt;"> as I had ever been. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "georgia"; font-size: 13.0pt;">I arrive
at Spiritu early on the evening of the party to set up my gear: three VHS
players, three large screen TVs that I had rented, a stand to pyramid-ize them,
numerous patch, extension and sync cords, and a PA and speakers to broadcast
the soundtrack, if you will, “a ton” of equipment. After bringing my gear into
Spiritu’s main room, a youngish – in his late twenties – man bursts out of the
swinging doors to the kitchen, approaches me threateningly, and asks “What the
fuck do you think you’re doing?” I can’t imagine where he’s coming from; hence,
I respond diplomatically, “Hello, I’m Ed Ward. I’m one of the featured artists
at this evening’s private party that <i>Moravagine</i></span><span style="font-family: "georgia"; font-size: 13.0pt;"> magazine is sponsoring here at
Spiritu; I’m here to set up these monitors for the world premier of my latest
project, <i>E the Movieo</i></span><span style="font-family: "georgia"; font-size: 13.0pt;">. Please tell me, what’s your name and who are you?”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "georgia"; font-size: 13.0pt;">His
response is totally out of left field. “No way are you going to do that and
ruin the ambiance of my dining room and chase away customers with these fucking
TVs. No way.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "georgia"; font-size: 13.0pt;">Looking
for a win here, I remind El Ass – that’s the name I’ve given him as he never
told me his – that one: Spiritu is not open to the public on Mondays and two:
that I am the featured artist at tonight’s private party, adding “In two hours
there are going to be over a hundred friends of mine here to spend money at
Spiritu’s bar and enjoy my video installation, Paris’ paintings, and readings
by <i>Moravagine</i></span><span style="font-family: "georgia"; font-size: 13.0pt;">’s
contributors. As far as I know: serving dinner is not part of the equation.
Neither is being open to the public. John Macker made arrangements with Connie
Candle.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "georgia"; font-size: 13.0pt;">“Well as
of tonight, we are open on Mondays, and there’s no fucking way you’re going to
ruin my serving dinner.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "georgia"; font-size: 13.0pt;">Needless
to say, the tension in the room is thick as incense at a Catholic bishop’s
installation. I can’t seem to assuage El Ass’s anger, understand his
inhospitality, nor alter his unwarranted and implacable stance. He’s not even
considering compromise. I do know that John Macker won’t be here until the
party starts at 7, and I’m alone with El Ass in Spiritu. I realize it’s going
to take an hour plus just to set up my gear, let alone doing a practice
run-through, and that if I don’t get started soon, the magic of just turning on
my movieo when it’s show time will be lost if I wait for John Macker to arrive
and straighten things out with El Ass.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "georgia"; font-size: 13.0pt;">I study
the interior of Spiritu. There’s a mezzanine where I might be able to set up
and I offer this as a solution, reminding him there are going to be a hundred
people here to see my show. He doesn’t say “Yes” and he doesn’t say “No,” he
simply walks away and disappears back into the kitchen. So I do set up my gear
on the mezzanine, even though I would have preferred the dining room wall where
everyone could watch from the comfort of the bar and dining room seats. In
years past, I would have never made such a compromise, but the evening was as
much about Paris Butler and <i>Moravagine</i></span><span style="font-family: "georgia"; font-size: 13.0pt;"> as it was about me, and I felt it was not my place
to jeopardize the party as a whole.</span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "georgia"; font-size: 13.0pt;">Well,
when John arrived (at about the same time as fifty or so guests), not wanting
to put a damper on things, I chose not to express to him my disappointment at
being marginalized on the mezzanine. Soon the room is packed, Paris sells some
paintings, poems and stories get read, and I premier <i>E the Movieo</i></span><span style="font-family: "georgia"; font-size: 13.0pt;"> (to a standing ovation, I might
add). I had noted the absence of any general public, as I knew every person in
the room, all one hundred and thirteen of them (I did a head count while people
watched<i> E</i></span><span style="font-family: "georgia"; font-size: 13.0pt;">). So
when the lights came back up and the evening was winding down, I went to the
bar that El Ass was tending, got right in his face, and asked with all the
barbed sarcasm a Philly boy can muster: “How many fucking dinners did I ruin,
Asshole?”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "georgia"; font-size: 13.0pt;">In a
heartbeat, like a stuntman in a Kung Fu movie, El Ass leaps over the bar and
pushes me through everyone behind me, knocking over tables and chairs, slams me
up against the wall where my monitors should have been, and shoves me to the
floor. During this assault I decide not to defend myself or strike back. I’ve
been in confrontations with coked up club owners over the years and know if the
police arrive it’ll be me, not El Ass, going downtown to Cherokee Street,
because when it’s patron versus employee, the employee is always deemed
innocent. Well, as I’m lying stunned on the floor, John Macker rushes over to
find out what’s going on, and he’s strong-armed by the Spiritu staff, hustled
to the door, and pushed outside, with the staff baring his reentry. El Ass
backs away from me and announces, “The party’s over. We’re closed. Everyone
out!” And the remaining party attendees, not having a clue as to what just went
down, depart. And now again, it’s just me and El Ass, plus my wife, in Spiritu.
He’s balling his fists and stewing in his anger. I know he’d like to clock me,
but there are dozens of people outside watching us through the front window.
“Get your shit and get out,” he barks before disappearing into the kitchen.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "georgia"; font-size: 13.0pt;">And I do,
break down my gear and load it into our van that Marcia has parked in the alley
behind Spiritu. I’m still high on the reception <i>E the Movieo </i></span><span style="font-family: "georgia"; font-size: 13.0pt;">had received while simultaneously
trying to process the assault I’d just experienced. Granted, I’d pushed his
buttons, but he’d been wrong, ignorant, thuggish, mean, and combative since the
moment I’d walked into Spiritu, a stance the genesis of which was a mystery to
me. To get some semblance of calm into my being, I smoke a joint, and upon
reflection I realize I have not done a final check to make sure I’ve not left
any gear behind. A lost sync cord would be a fifty-dollar hassle. So I return
to the alley exit and attempt reentry, but the door is locked. I knock, wait,
knock again a little louder, wait, and then pound on the door. It opens and
through the doorway steps El Ass. He’s got a strange look on his face, something
between flirtatious and solicitous. He tells me, “You’re the kind of person I
admire. It’s artists like you keep things interesting. I love you, man” and
then he embraces me in an uncomfortable hug and, and without warning, kisses
me, attempting to insert his tongue in my mouth.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I push him away and tell him, “Fuck you, Asshole. Twenty
years from now, you’ll be gone, Spiritu will be gone, this Denver – as we now
know it – will be gone, but I’ll still be making art despite the likes of
Neanderthals like you.” And I get back into my van and head towards 16<sup>th</sup>
Street.</span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "georgia"; font-size: 13.0pt;">Next day,
Marcia and I, dealing with post show blues, are eating lunch at Green’s on
Colfax Avenue. We’re on the long bench that spans the east dining room wall at
a two top. And who should be seated at the two top to my right: no one other
than Connie Candle, Spiritu’s owner. I can’t help myself and introduce myself.
I tell her my take on what went down last night at her club. She listens but
addresses none of my concerns. Never offering an apology, the only thing Connie
Candle tells me is this: “El Ass, his name is Dean Diavolo. He’s married to my
pastry chef. He’s not my employee. He was there last night because a man named
Ray Censorium, who sometimes holds literary events at Spiritu, warned me and my
chef that John Macker and his friends were street thugs who would wreck my
club. Diavolo volunteered to be bouncer and make sure things did not get
crazy.”</span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "georgia"; font-size: 13.0pt;">Flash
forward another twenty years. Connie Candle comes to my studio to buy a
painting of mine that she’d seen at Scum of the Earth Gallery in the Santa Fe
Arts District. She has no memory of meeting me at Greens. She makes no
connection between “Ed Ward, poet and filmmaker” and “Edwin Forrest Ward,
watercolorist.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I don’t bring up
my night at Spiritu. She buys two paintings and tells me she’ll be back again
someday to buy some more. She kisses me on the cheek politely and asks, “Were
you ever at my club, Spiritu?” I respond, “Yes, I once had an unforgettable
night there.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "georgia"; font-size: 13.0pt;">So, to
close the circle of this story, the petty animosity of Censorium, combined with
the violence of the sexually conflicted sadomasochistic Diavolo, resulted in a
great patron for me. Connie’s spent a goodly sum on the purchase of my
paintings and I expect to see her again. She told me, as did Diavolo, “You’re
the kind of person I admire. It’s artists like you keep things
interesting.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
Edwin Forrest Wardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09239907046852195219noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8534379790827614432.post-15926225058869223532016-05-23T16:15:00.000-06:002018-10-02T17:12:00.502-06:00ALL SHOOK UP <style><!--
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiaTNyh5s4_g8y1jIaLpAazyHpozw_sBBhssgma_a0WULJN7i5QuWLt4Apa1AEq-Ctnm8_jLFn83icDkms_KziDIvPbGGmSmtruBWeO-Qv-pByDN9bPiuDU_bL8sJ7-qS4c1whi6Tq4xoo/s1600/All+Shook+Up+COVER+FBr.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiaTNyh5s4_g8y1jIaLpAazyHpozw_sBBhssgma_a0WULJN7i5QuWLt4Apa1AEq-Ctnm8_jLFn83icDkms_KziDIvPbGGmSmtruBWeO-Qv-pByDN9bPiuDU_bL8sJ7-qS4c1whi6Tq4xoo/s320/All+Shook+Up+COVER+FBr.jpg" width="211" /></a></div>
<span style="font-size: x-small;">Cover photography: Marcia Ward</span><br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
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<span style="font-family: "georgia"; font-size: 36.0pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: "georgia"; font-size: 36.0pt;"></span><span style="font-family: "georgia"; font-size: 36.0pt;">ALL SHOOK UP</span>
</div>
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<br /></div>
<span style="font-family: "georgia"; font-size: 11.0pt;"> </span>
<br />
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<span style="font-family: "georgia"; font-size: 11.0pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: "georgia"; font-size: 13.0pt;"></span><span style="font-family: "georgia"; font-size: 13.0pt;">© 2016 Edwin Forrest Ward</span>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia"; font-size: 13.0pt;">& the IMAGEMAKER</span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia"; font-size: 13.0pt;">Printed</span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia"; font-size: 13.0pt;">May 27, 2016</span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia"; font-size: 14.0pt;">I</span><span style="font-family: "georgia"; font-size: 16.0pt;">M</span><span style="font-family: "georgia"; font-size: 18.0pt;">A</span><span style="font-family: "georgia"; font-size: 20.0pt;">G</span><span style="font-family: "georgia"; font-size: 22.0pt;">EM</span><span style="font-family: "georgia"; font-size: 20.0pt;">A</span><span style="font-family: "georgia"; font-size: 18.0pt;">K</span><span style="font-family: "georgia"; font-size: 16.0pt;">E</span><span style="font-family: "georgia"; font-size: 14.0pt;">R</span><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;"><br />
</span><span style="font-family: "georgia"; font-size: 14.0pt;">PASSION PRESS</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia"; font-size: 14.0pt;">5475 Peoria Street 4-112</span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia"; font-size: 14.0pt;">Denver CO 80239 </span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia"; font-size: 14.0pt;"> 303 322 9324</span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia"; font-size: 14.0pt;"> theimagemaker@qwestoffice.net</span><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;"><br />
</span><span style="font-family: "georgia"; font-size: 14.0pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;"> www.theimagemaker.qwestoffice.net</span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia"; font-size: 14.0pt;">All Shook Up</span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia"; font-size: 14.0pt;">as always for Marcia </span></div>
<span style="font-family: "georgia"; font-size: 14.0pt;">JW McCullough was one of
those rare creatures that had been given, without asking for it, a second
chance in life. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia"; font-size: 14.0pt;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "georgia"; font-size: 14.0pt;">After a tour in Vietnam
in the Merchant Marines, JW returned to the Philadelphia area (he was born in
Vineland New Jersey) and became a performing artist, playing guitar in rock and
roll bands and in an Elvis Impersonator band. His favorite guitar riff, he told
me, was the one he scored for his solo for the Impersonator Band’s rendition of
“All Shook Up.” He also took up creating antics as performance art. Sometimes
poetic often comedic his skits caught the eye of a producer in Philadelphia who
was able to hook JW up with a slot on a soon to launch NBC TV show called
Saturday Night Live. Three producers – one from Philly, one from Chicago, and
one from New York - were cooking up this skit-centered take on comedy. A month
before production was to begin, however, Chicago and New York conspired to dump
Philadelphia and, consequently JW lost his chance. On the brink of
standing in the national spotlight and now back in the Philadelphia dark, JW
had a melt down and attempted suicide by overdosing on alcohol and pills. He
had since Nam been dealing with depression; the VA eventually told him he
suffered from post-traumatic stress syndrome, a result of transporting
munitions from America and transferring them to destroyers in the Gulf of
Tonkin during the war. He did not die, however, as his producer found him and
Hahnemann Hospital pumped his stomach clean. Thus that second chance I
mentioned earlier. For the rest of his life JW had a perspective on life quite
different from everyone else’s. If you’ve given up the ghost and are somehow
brought back to life, you see things differently. And JW saw the world as his stage
for the next bittersweet sixteen years.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<!--EndFragment--><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia"; font-size: 14.0pt;">I met JW at Jerry
Record’s on Colfax when I was making my first feature movieo <i>Sylvia and The
Green Bird</i></span><span style="font-family: "georgia"; font-size: 14.0pt;"> in
1984. I was showing John Loquidis, the proprietor of Jerry’s Records, some
preliminary footage I had shot of his girlfriend, Juliet Johnson, in the role
of Sylvia. JW was hanging around the counter and he looked over my shoulder at
my camera’s viewfinder and announced, “If you’re making a movie I want in.”
Picking up on his Philly accent and sensing a kinship because of it, and
digging his attire – JW dressed with more flair than most rock stars (he was
wearing striped pants, turquoise painted penny loafers sporting Gold Coin
Saloon tokens where the pennies would have been, an embroidered baseball cap
depicting an elephant, and a collarless paisley button up shirt (the buttons
also were painted turquoise) – I said, “Sure.” And thus began our ten year
friendship as JW and I went on to finish my movie together – he as actor,
co-producer, and singer. In the process, he became the brother I never had and
godfather to my youngest son, Zenith Star. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia"; font-size: 14.0pt;">JW’s most lucrative
“job,” his means of acquiring money was to participate in drug studies, mostly
back in Philadelphia, and he split his time between Denver and Philly, often
staying with my family for short stints. We got along well, although I did come
to realize JW was a closet alcoholic after finding sundry empty pints and half
pints of exotic whiskies left about my house. John admitted to me his serious
predilection, claiming, however, he was clean seventy-five percent of the time.
“My binges last about a week,” he said. He also told me he never had a drink in
his life until at age twenty-five he heard the word <i>mimosa</i></span><span style="font-family: "georgia"; font-size: 14.0pt;">, and liking the sound of it, he
ordered one. Then another. Then another. And the next day he went to a liquor
store and filled a shopping cart with assorted whiskies and rums, thus
beginning his see-saw life-long battle with John Barleycorn which he used to
self medicate his manic depressive condition. If truth be told, his drinking
never really impacted our relationship. I’d had alcoholic friends before, hell,
my father was one, and you take a brother as he is; still, I’d have preferred
him sober. And I was always glad to have a companion whenever he returned from
his participation in lock-down experimental drug studies back East. JW’s
justification for taking such risks was that “You get a placebo half the time;
so it’s only half-dangerous.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia"; font-size: 14.0pt;">After release from a drug
study in 1988, he was clean and sober and met up with a performing artist by
the name of Vesna. Soon he and Vesna became a couple and an act, presenting
what they called “The Butterboat Show.” They wowed the underground South Street
art scene in Philadelphia and even won a Pennsylvania Council on the Arts grant
to take their Butterboat Show on the road, eventually winding up in
Florida. As I learned later (like last month after re-connecting with Vesna
on Facebook) Vesna had wanted to end things with JW (“too manic and controlling
and isolating,” she said) but he had followed her to Florida. You might say he
stalked her to St. Petersburg. But because he was unable to rekindle anything
with Vesna, he again took up with his other love, alcohol. During his six month
passionate affair with booze in Florida he sent me dozens of incredibly
sophisticatedly addressed letters filled with manic yet comedic poems and
rambling paeans to his artistic heroes, Prince and Elvis Costello. Even my
taciturn mailman remarked that he loved delivering my mail as he got to handle
the art objects that were JW’s envelopes. “Who is this guy? Whoever he is, tell
him I’m a fan.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia"; font-size: 14.0pt;">And then one day JW
appeared in the elevator door of my loft, drunker than I’d ever seen him,
asking if he could stay with me until he got sober. The loft I lived in had a
glass wall as the second floor of 1444 Wazeee Street had once been the
corporate headquarters of Fashion Bar. JW was so out of it he stepped off the
elevator, walked into my living area and then into the glass wall with such
inebriated recklessness that he knocked himself out. He stayed a week, secluded
in my loft, fighting withdrawal and depression before returning to the world
mostly clean and sober. He had enough bread left from his last drug study to
pay a month’s rent at the Newhouse Hotel at Grant and Colfax around the corner
from Jerry’s Records. He painted his room to match the color of his turquoise
shoes that matched the color of his newly acquired pawnshop electric guitar.
During his last months in Denver he took up antics as performance art again,
but his performances were more in the real world than on stage. Once, as he
told me - “to give downtown workers an unexpected holiday in the middle of the
week,” - he super-glued the locks of dozens of office buildings on the 16<sup>th</sup>
Street Mall. Awarded to Anonymous, his stunt received the “Best Prank of the
Year” award from <i>WESTWORD</i></span><span style="font-family: "georgia"; font-size: 14.0pt;">. JW got away with his prank despite being videotaped by
multiple security cameras as his disguise included a wig and a dress and a
slinky put-on sashay to beat the band. Eventually, however, he decided to – as
he told me - “give Hollywood a chance” and he moved to LA.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia"; font-size: 14.0pt;">JW’s second – and in this
case successful suicide attempt – was his final piece of performance art. It
unfolded over the course of a week. After the June 28, 1992 Landers earthquake
rattled Los Angeles, JW left a phone message for me on my answering machine:
“Ed, I’m drinking again! Been sober the last year but this is just too much!
Really, I’m all shook up and feelin’ whiskey deprived! By the way, did I tell
you I’ve finally made it: my name’s in the Hollywood phone book!” When he did
reach me a day later we had a three hour long distance phone call in which he
manic-ed his way about dozens of topics, alluding to many reckless behaviors,
that shall remain unmentioned, he had taken up. He also told me how he had
called everyone he knew long distance as he wanted to create the largest unpaid
telephone bill in the history of Ma Bell. I missed the innuendo and didn’t get
the hidden meaning of “unpaid.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia"; font-size: 14.0pt;">Now, I had visited JW
three months before the quake and he had been his normal prankster self, living
in a “residential” low rent Hollywood hotel, doing performance art (guitar and
poetry) at assorted bars and galleries and at midnight on the sidewalks of
Hollywood Boulevard. We made the rounds of LA friends I had turned JW on to:
Tony Scibella, Marsha Getzler, SA Griffin and Frank T. Rios. JW had wanted to
visit my ex-wife with whom I had hooked him up, but when I called Carol to set
up a meet, she told me, “You can come alone, but don’t bring that man anywhere
near me,” as JW had apparently worn out his welcome at Carol’s Beverly Hills
Film Production headquarters. At the time of my visit, the sober JW had a
cassette recorder, a guitar, an iron, a manual typewriter, and sundry wild
“outfits.” When I said “Later, man” to him in early April, little did I know it
would be the last time I would speak to him in person.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia"; font-size: 14.0pt;">Anyway, after the Landers
quake, JW scrambled to accomplish a few items on his bucket list of antics.
First he convinced SA Griffin, a successful Hollywood actor and poet, to rent a
brand new Cadillac convertible. JW wanted to superstar it around Los Angeles
and they did. SA had always enjoyed being a wheelman – his performance art
troupe was called the Carmabums - and together they toured for some six hours
or so, top down with Elvis Costello tapes blasting on the stereo. JW honked and
waved to all the street artists and street people he had befriended. A night
later, JW called a local national public radio station that was hosting its
annual fund drive. JW told the hosts, two comedian DJs pleading for money, that
he was one hell of guitar player and he would give the radio station $100 every
time they mentioned “the guitar player, JW McCullough.” Well, the comedians ran
with it, and over the course of the next half hour they worked the phrase -“the
guitar player, JW McCullough” - into their spiel some fifty or sixty times. JW
recorded what ensued on the radio with a cassette tape recorder and mailed me
the tape that I’d characterize as the funniest radio bit I’ve ever heard.
Sadly, I received this comedic masterpiece two days after SA called to let me
know that JW had committed suicide. Apparently, JW, who had been dealing with
post-traumatic stress disorder for over twenty years, had stock piled a years
worth of assorted medications the VA had given him. He cured his anxiety and
manic depression once and for all, by washing down handfuls of pills with sweet
aperitifs and rum. Believe you me, the guitar player JW McCullough, his choice
to end it all, and the performance art ending that it was, shook me up as much
as the earthquake shook LA. The final mimicked riff, the last twitch of his
fingers most likely accompanied the thought: “I’m all shook up, hey hey. I’m
all shook up.”</span><br />
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<br />Edwin Forrest Wardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09239907046852195219noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8534379790827614432.post-10591528255358861512016-01-26T10:35:00.000-07:002016-01-26T11:28:38.680-07:00A POET PRIEST<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgluqWNIJziCftfAV_-FHX6OZoWJznB8AI97riGNDsusAiGkxZQRRNk9rUrO90t11esvbnSKuCjLg91nc-3mI9_eacVUwDw3hBwVREuaCwXm9xpMaRtmYCkwDZ0ExIcrqRQ30PcJcGBz9c/s1600/A+POET+PRIEST.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgluqWNIJziCftfAV_-FHX6OZoWJznB8AI97riGNDsusAiGkxZQRRNk9rUrO90t11esvbnSKuCjLg91nc-3mI9_eacVUwDw3hBwVREuaCwXm9xpMaRtmYCkwDZ0ExIcrqRQ30PcJcGBz9c/s320/A+POET+PRIEST.jpg" width="212" /></a><span style="font-family: "georgia"; font-size: 10.0pt;">Cover
Photo: </span><span style="font-family: "handwriting - dakota";">Marcia Ward</span>
</div>
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<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="font-family: "georgia"; font-size: 14.0pt;">A POET PRIEST</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia";">As always, for Marcia</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia";">When
I was a child attending Saint Bernard’s Catholic Elementary School, I was
teacher’s pet eight years in a row. I’m sure it had something to do with my
desire to please my mother and therefore every woman with whom I came in
contact (like the nuns and female lay teachers) as well as my intellect,
politeness, curly hair, and long lash-laden bright blue-green eyes. And every
nun would tell me at some point in the year that I ought to become a priest.
Similarly when I went to Saint Joseph’s Preparatory High School, a Jesuit
school, my Latin teacher said the same thing. Well as much as I would have
liked to please my devout Catholic mother who would have loved having a priest
as a son, I told all those with clerical designs on my future: “Hell no! I’m
going to marry and have kids,” – a politically correct way of informing them
that I was not about to be celibate. Still, I must admit that I had great love
of ritual, both secular and religious: taking the field for a football game and
the coin toss (as captain I always choose heads) and Sunday Mass, to name an
example of each. And as you’ll see, sometimes, if fate is kind, one can have it
both ways.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia";">In
1979 when I married Marcia Zimmer in my Pearl Street back yard, my publisher,
Larry Lake of BOWERY PRESS served as our officiant. It was a most unique
ceremony in that Marcia and I both wrote love letters to each other that we
shared aloud, I wore no shirt, poems were read and burned in a silver bowl, and
the beard that Larry sported was the antithesis of the clean cut looks of my
Lutheran in-laws from Wyoming. Photos from that day capture the utter dismay of
my father-in-law, an extremely conservative Republican Wyoming State Senator.
In fact, I’m not sure he ever got over me, an East Coast city boy who he
considered to be “anti-establishment.” After all, I did have friends of diverse
races and sexual orientation, I came from a union family, I was a writer making
ends meet as a waiter, and my long curly locks were always a little too
unkempt, too much, for the wind that is Wyoming.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia";">One
result of my wedding ceremony was that a few years later while living in Austin
Texas, I mentioned in a phone call to Larry that I, too, had a desire to write
and conduct rituals as a witch friend and her fiancé wanted me to assist with
their wedding ceremony. And then a few months later in the mail, I received the
second most cherished document of my life, my ordination papers, - the first
being my marriage license signed by Marcia, me, Lenny Cernila, Barbara Timmons
and Larry Lake who listed his title as Poet Priest. Apparently upon Larry’s
recommendation and nomination, I had been ordained as a Minister in the Temple
of Man by the founder of the Temple of Man, Robert Alexander, who went by the name
of Baza. Literally, my Ordination means worlds more than getting paychecks,
being published, graduating from Drexel University or receiving awards for
community service or poetry.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia";">Today,
because I write and conduct some sixty or so marriage ceremonies a year, I am
often queried about the nature of my ministry as my ceremonies are like no
other: did you get ordained on line? Are you a “Universal Life” minister? Where
did you study? How did you become a minister?</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia";">Well,
the Temple of Man, to put it plainly is probably the hippest religious
organization in the world. This is its story as I know it.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia";">In
1960 a rather gifted and notorious poet by the name of Stuart Z. Perkoff was
recorded during the FBI’s first successful use of a reel-to-reel tape recorder selling
marijuana to a friend. A suction cup microphone with a wire leading to a tape
recorder had been affixed to the window of his pad. Because Stuart was becoming
an (albeit reluctant) anti-establishment icon in America, he was just too
revolutionary, too dangerous as a role model, for the likes of J Edgar Hoover.
Perkoff was the protagonist hero - perhaps anti-hero – of Larry Lipton’s 1959
novel, <i>The Holy Barbarians</i></span><span style="font-family: "georgia";"> –
one of the first novels about beatniks, the publication of which incited tour
bus loads of lookie-lous hoping to encounter beatniks to park in front of Café
West, the coffeehouse that Stuart had founded. Café West was the LA gathering
spot for those seeking a life outside the material world of 50s’ America. To
avoid the throngs of tourists hoping to spy on the underground, Stuart and his
friend Tony Scibella used to hide on the rooftops of nearby buildings whenever
the masses invaded what had once been the quiet destitute seaside village of
Venice, a place they had hoped would serve as a low-rent Mecca of sorts for
those seeking a lifestyle outside the norm, a higher consciousness based on art
and love. Stuart had appeared as himself, a beatnik poet, on Groucho Marx’s <i>You
Bet Your Life</i></span><span style="font-family: "georgia";">, accompanied by a
beautiful and extremely tall Las Vegas showgirl (with close to a foot of teased
hair atop her head she seemed twice as tall as Stuart with his shaved head).
Throughout the broadcast, Stuart’s quick wit charmed Groucho and everyone in
America watching the nationally syndicated TV show. When Groucho first began
interviewing Stuart, Groucho referenced his notes: “Mr. Perkoff, it says here
that you are a writer,” to which Stuart replied, “Oh yes, Groucho, I write home
for money every week!” And the quick repartee and quick-witted banter continued
for the duration of the show. Groucho was so charmed by Stuart that he became a
silent patron of sorts, encouraging and supporting the establishment of The Gas
House in Venice, a rent-free artist community where those who resided had only
to keep making art to maintain their residency. But, as I mentioned earlier,
the unwanted fame that came Stuart’s way brought the FBI spotlight and tape
recorder to bear on Stuart and his friends and he wound up being incarcerated
for years in the Penitentiary at Terminal Island where some other notorious
criminals like Al Capone and Timothy Leary once resided, a bitter example of a
most unsuitable punishment for a non-violent offense, an act now perfectly
legal.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia";">One
day a friend of Stuart’s, the artist/poet/printer Robert Alexander, visited the
prison but was told that visitors - other than family (father, son, brother,
wife, etc) or chaplains - were not allowed. And so for this very pragmatic
reason - among other less pragmatic reasons such as his interest in art,
poetry, community and ritual - Baza founded The Temple of Man in 1960, a
non-profit religious organization. To visit an incarcerated friend. The Temple
of Man’s 1967 California incorporation papers state:</span></div>
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<span style="color: #262626; font-family: "georgia";"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“The Temple of Man
is formed in dedication to the sentient individual, creative man, and for the
preservation of his creative works, in order to help broaden perception and
increase the understanding between all men everywhere, who, being unified by
the supreme force of life, are working toward a higher social and spiritual
evolution.” “It is not worship so much as a quest,” the statement goes on. “It
is a way of becoming, of liberation.” Two of the most well known “tenets” of
“The Temple of Man are that Art Is Love Is God,” the words of the artist
Wallace Berman that Stuart Perkoff wrote upon the wall of his Café West
coffeehouse, and that “The Temple of Man is Within,” something the poet David
Meltzer appropriated from the Bible.</span></div>
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<span style="color: #262626; font-family: "georgia";">I happened to meet Baza in the late Seventies when I traveled to
California to retrieve a dog I once loved and used to own that was facing
euthanasia. I had been involved with the celebrated poet James Ryan Morris
during the last months of his life in Denver and Jimmy’s wife Diana, upon
hearing of my plans to go to LA to rescue a dog, had suggested that I visit
Jimmy’s good friend Bob in Venice. At the time my knowledge of The Temple of
Man, the once famous beatnik scene that was Venice, and of Robert Alexander’s
status as a great American artist (Baza’s artwork, publications, and personal
letters are in the Smithsonian) were zilch. It was a meeting that changed my
life. </span></div>
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<span style="color: #262626; font-family: "georgia";">I remember being almost afraid of ringing the bell outside the
gate of Baza’s home, for I knew not what I’d find. Having known what Jimmy
Morris had been into, his predilections, I feared I might be interrupting an
orgy or walking into a shooting gallery. But what I found was a beach house
full of assemblage art, paintings, collage, sculpture and published writings;
and an artist who welcomed me as a brother, “Do you and Marcia need a place to
stay?” offering me refuge from the world I felt so alienated from, 1978
America. My afternoon with Baza truly opened my eyes to the magic of personal
art and reassured me that there were others like me, a notion instrumental in
suffusing the loneliness, the Steppenwolf separateness that haunted me. For
Baza was a father and husband as well as world-class artist. I got it that one
does not have to be insane or an alcoholic or a drug addict to be an artist, as
I mistakenly believed. One only had to love.</span></div>
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<span style="color: #262626; font-family: "georgia";">Toward the end of his life, Alexander wanted to open a cabaret
space, as well as a serious museum and archive for the collection of Temple art
and ephemera he’d amassed over the previous 25 years. Many of those artists
were now gone, their names engraved in brass plaques attached to a shrine he
built in his garden out of abandoned timbers from the old Ocean Park pier; the
scraps of Venice’s past now buoying the dead of his clan: Stuart Perkoff, Ben
Talbert, Artie Richer, Wallace Berman, Lenny Bruce, Dennis Hopper, Larry Lake.
Someday my name will be there too.</span></div>
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<span style="color: #262626; font-family: "georgia";">So I believe you can have it all, that everybody gets what he or
she wants. I became a celebrant of ritual, a poet priest, all because the FBI
stung and jailed a celebrated poet and his good friend could not get in to
visit. And I married and had kids.</span></div>
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<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
Edwin Forrest Wardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09239907046852195219noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8534379790827614432.post-17964304704986151302015-10-26T12:52:00.000-06:002015-10-26T12:54:07.289-06:00BEAT SHAPE<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia;">Cover Photos & Artwork<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirAyUbBPmIdmpV0_Ee0sQUaGT9NaUCNursrMxeUpBplJSAcxn8nGWbHSFEYqrYqSXO0SNZocZRNQDo4jprCFAFTeCPzcaDLQ1E6emBln5niel01-QHdNw8JKsLZE3v0JXwedR4RsX4k3g/s1600/BEAT+SHAPE+coverFB.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirAyUbBPmIdmpV0_Ee0sQUaGT9NaUCNursrMxeUpBplJSAcxn8nGWbHSFEYqrYqSXO0SNZocZRNQDo4jprCFAFTeCPzcaDLQ1E6emBln5niel01-QHdNw8JKsLZE3v0JXwedR4RsX4k3g/s320/BEAT+SHAPE+coverFB.jpg" width="203" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia;">Marcia Ward, TW Gaddy, Steve
Wilson<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia;">Angelo diBenedetto, Rasta 68, Ed
Ward<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia;">Michael Bergt & Jack
Livingston</span><span style="font-family: Georgia;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<h3>
<span style="font-family: Georgia;"><b> <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">BEAT SHAPE</span></b></span></h3>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">as always, for Marcia<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Georgia;">Over
the course of the last five years I’ve been tasked with the job of shedding
light on the Bohemians of Denver, those, a mile high and underground, who have
lived the life of artists. In 2010, I wrote an essay on the literary legacy of
the Denver Beats for the Colorado Historical Society, lent my personal
collection of Beat art and ephemera for an exhibition at The Byers-Evans House,
and produced a show here at The Mercury Café, a celebration of all things
underground entitled a Bohemian Extravaganza. In 2012 my story, <i>Billy
Burroughs Prediction’</i></span><span style="font-family: Georgia;">, was
published in London’s, if not the world’s, premiere beat magazine, <i>The Beat
Scene</i></span><span style="font-family: Georgia;">. Earlier this year I was
interviewed on the Medical Mary Jane Cable Network about my relationships to
some of Denver’s most famous and sometimes most notorious Beat artists like
James Ryan Morris, Angelo diBenedetto, Stan Brakhage, Larry Lake and others. I
contributed info for a chapter on the Denver Beats for History Press’ <i>THE
DENVER BEAT SCENE </i></span><span style="font-family: Georgia;">by<i> </i></span><span style="font-family: Georgia;">Zack Kopp. At the Neal Cassady Birthday Bash last
February I got to entertain Cassady fans from near and far blowing my tale, <i>No
Going Back</i></span><span style="font-family: Georgia;">, a Cassady-esque tale
of a wild blow job once received (a blow job being the fulcrum around which
Neal’s famous 1950 23,000 word letter to Kerouac swung, a letter that prompted
Jack to declare in a letter to Ed White (who designed the Boettcher Memorial
Tropical Conservatory at The Denver Botanic Gardens) that Denver’s own Neal
Cassady was the greatest living writer in Europe and America, a mid-century
correspondence that turned Jack on to a new way of writing. One result of
appearing at the Cassady Birthday Bash upstairs at The Merc was that I was
tapped to design a Beatnik Tour of Denver for an aspiring tour company. Late
last spring, I gave a presentation on the Denver Beats to interested students
at Colorado Academy (some of the suburban students were so enthralled they
actually attended STORIES STORIES in the evening). Currently I am being filmed
as the subject of a Gwylym Cano documentary wherein I narrate stories of poets
and painters I have known. I mention all this to you not to brag but to justify
my assertion that I am, these days, the delegated go-to-guy when the legacy of
Denver Beats is the subject. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">The
somewhat ironic story that follows is the tale of how all-things-beatnik first
infiltrated my Jesuit-Prep School-educated soul. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Georgia;">When
I was nine years old, Jack Kerouac’s <i>On The Road</i></span><span style="font-family: Georgia;"> made the scene in bookstores all across the nation
and gave birth to a cultural revolution. What it meant to be hip was newly
defined. The year was 1957. <i>On The Road</i></span><span style="font-family: Georgia;"> didn’t find me, however, until 1965, and I must admit, I was not all
that impressed when it was required reading in my senior year of high school.
So, you might say that in 1957 Bohemians became Beatniks. Bores became squares.
<i>Espresso</i></span><span style="font-family: Georgia;"> became <i>Expresso</i></span><span style="font-family: Georgia;"> because my good friend and mentor, Tony Scibella,
spelled it that way when he painted the signage on the window of Stuart
Perkoff’s Venice West Café in 1959, a scene that was central to Larry Lipton’s <i>The
Holy Barbarians</i></span><span style="font-family: Georgia;">, a tome that
examined what it meant to be beat in Los Angeles. I met Tony Scibella almost
twenty years after he painted <i>EXPRESSO</i></span><span style="font-family: Georgia;"> and eventually published his masterpiece <i>THE KID IN AMERICA</i></span><span style="font-family: Georgia;"> in 2000. 1959 also saw the arrival of Dwayne
Hickman and Bob Denver on the black and white TV screens of North America
playing the roles of Dobie Gillis and Maynard G. Krebs in the syndicated show, <i>The
Many Loves of Dobie Gillis</i></span><span style="font-family: Georgia;">. I
watched the show in real time as it was broadcast and laughed my pre-adolescent
ass off at the antics of the beatnik that was Maynard; I never forgot the way
Maynard screeched “Work.” He was cooler than a pack of Kools or a micronite
(aka asbestos) filter on a Kent cigarette. Speaking of Bob Denver as Maynard G.
Krebs, here’s a Hollywood Screen Actor’s Guild tidbit I learned from S.A.
Griffin (an actor/poet friend of mine in LA – <span style="color: #060b20;">we
met when SA came to Denver as the guest star bad guy on a Perry Mason movie of
the week</span>): no matter where one is in the world making a movie: if you’re
looking to score some weed, just ask local cast members and crew if anyone
belongs to Bob Denver Fan Club and soon you’ll be connected. Bob Denver
obviously had an impact that went well beyond the four-year run of <i>The Many
Loves of Dobie Gillis</i></span><span style="font-family: Georgia;">. Hell,
filmed in China, SA once <span style="color: #060b20;">played General Matthew
Ridgway for a CCTV (Chinese) TV series</span>, and despite the repression and
danger there, the on location Bob Denver Fan Club made sure that SA was not
left wanting. In the late 90s, born of an egg my son Zenith Star won in a
biology class raffle at East High, I even owned a pet duck, who lived four
years in my backyard, named Doobie. Ok, that’s with two <i>o</i></span><span style="font-family: Georgia;">’s instead of one; nonetheless, the allusion to Mr.
Gillis is apparent! I mention these beat firsts and bohemian references in my
life because in some ways the cultural revolution triggered by Kerouac’s <i>On
The Road</i></span><span style="font-family: Georgia;"> incited one of the
greatest shifts in American thinking ever, a shape-shift which reflected my own
from Philly street tough to Colorado artist. Without the Beats there might
never have been the peace movement that ensued, and we might still be watching
the War in Vietnam on the six o’clock news, but I digress.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Georgia;">When
I arrived in Denver in the mid-70s, a poet making the rounds of hipster
hangouts, it was the Beatniks who remained who embraced me as a brother. Not
the hippies, not the street poets, not the new technocrats, not the world of
academia. It was the Beatniks: Larry Lake, Jimmy Ryan Morris, Tony Scibella,
Gypsy (himself a minor character in <i>On The Road</i></span><span style="font-family: Georgia;">), Lucy McGrath, and others. This family of
like-minded hipsters took me in, adopted me as it were, despite the fact that I
was beardless, had never thumped a bongo (or any musical instrument for that
matter), did not know that <i>Bird</i></span><span style="font-family: Georgia;">
was Charlie Parker’s nickname, did not know the character of <span style="color: #1c1c1c;">Dean Moriarty in </span><i>On The Road</i></span><span style="color: #1c1c1c; font-family: Georgia;"> was based on Denver’s own car thief,
Neal Cassady, </span><span style="font-family: Georgia;">knew little of the
artistic merit and history of the Beat movement in Denver or America, and found
Kerouac wanting in comparison to my go-to hero, Bob Dylan. In fact my first
introduction to things one might call Beat, has little to do with poetry and
novels and abstract expressionism, and more to do with WWII, Nazi machine guns,
two of my mother’s older brothers (she was one of thirteen siblings), American
spies (both domestic and on foreign shores), and two of my older sisters, Carol
and Ginny.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Georgia;">One
evening in 1959 I was watching <i>The Many Loves of Dobie Gillis</i></span><span style="font-family: Georgia;"> when the phone rang. In those days people
(especially a child like myself) actually answered a ringing phone. The caller
was one of my many cousins on my mother’s side of the family, Jack Daly, the
twenty-two year old son of a deceased uncle who died before I was born. Jack
was calling from somewhere in Delaware and apparently Jack would be passing
through Philadelphia, because he was, as it were, “On The Road,” with two
friends and they were hoping to connect with my sisters, Carol and Ginny: maybe
for drinks at a bar, a dance or skate at the local Roller rink, or coffee at
The Gilded Cage, a Rittenhouse Square coffeehouse whose backroom stage served
as the pulpit for all things beat and folk and left of center in Philadelphia.
When Jack arrived with his pals an hour or so later, he sported the first
goatee of my life. His pals, similarly unshaven, immediately took up flirting
with my sisters, both of whom I like to say “were more beautiful than
religion.” The three guys’ attempts to impress Carol and Ginny included humming
some bee-bop jazz, showing off their fashion (turtlenecks and blue jeans) and
their speech was peppered with phrases such as “Daddio,” “Dig it,” and
“Craaazy!” Even square-ass Jack had the jive down pat and he had masked his
slight Southern accent with his faux Beat linguistics. <i>Faux</i></span><span style="font-family: Georgia;">, as you’ll come to understand, is the operative
word here. Recently trained in the art of deception, these gentlemen from
Alexandria Virginia had facial hair that was beatnik, they spoke like beatniks,
they dressed like beatniks; but I knew better. For I knew Jack to be a highly
trained member of the CIA, his professional family, as well as a member of my
Irish Catholic one. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Georgia;">As
I said my mother had many siblings, many brothers. Two, Jimmy and Vincent, had
been in Army Intelligence during World War II. Vincent and Jimmy had parachuted
behind enemy lines in Yugoslavia, an act which cost Jimmy his life (one bullet
through the heart while parachuting) and Vincent his appearance (strafed with
machine gun fire he lived, but his body thereafter, its appearance was a horror
of scar tissue). Luckily and with much stealth, the wounded Vincent escaped
capture by the Nazis and recovered enough to fight along side of and become
best of friends with a resistance fighter by the name of Josip Broz Tito,
leader of the Yugoslavia Partisans. As you might recall, Tito eventually went
on to rule Yugoslavia as a soft line communist (benevolent dictator, if you
will) while keeping the Russian hard-line communists at bay for thirty years.
Bosnians and Serbs went to war only after Tito died. Sometimes it takes a
charismatic dictator to keep fundamentalist religious racists from slaughtering
each other in fits of ethnic cleansing. Fact is: the only Americans Tito ever
trusted or spoke with were my uncle Vincent and his nephew, my cousin Jack, who
Vincent had later introduced to Tito. Trusted <i>frenemies</i></span><span style="font-family: Georgia;"> they were. After World War II, Vincent was a first
round draft pick – if you will – for America’s newest three-letter team, the
CIA. Both his children and his deceased brother’s children – a slew of my
cousins (after all we are Irish) – all joined that same team because the
original CIA was indeed a family affair. Posing as a Southern bumpkin with his
wife, whose cover was being a trailer trash talking Virginia hillbilly redneck,
my uncle Vincent traveled the world as a spy with gadgets James Bond and
Hollywood never imagined. He’d wow us at thanksgiving dinners, demonstrating
the sneaky uses of assorted spyware. My cousin Jack eventually traveled the
world as an assistant to Assistant Ambassadors in numerous European capitols.
His children living in so many European nations spoke a dizzying array of languages,
great training for their CIA careers that followed. In fact when Tito (who was
never allowed on American soil because of his communist politics) gave a speech
in Toronto, it was my once fake beatnik cousin Jack standing next to him at the
podium, making sure the Canadian translators got Tito’s speech right. All this,
of course, came after Jack had served his time on the road as a clandestine
operative spying on American civilians, which, to put it mildly, was well
outside the scope of the CIA charter. Jack attended college for over a dozen
years, wearing his hipster attitude, all the while spying and informing on his
college contemporaries, fingering anyone wearing red or black or psychedelic
colors. Chances were, if anyone at a student meeting or a peace rally or union
drive was eating anything other than apple pie, Jack was taking their picture
with one of those neat little gismos issued by the CIA. He’d click as he
scratched his Vandyke goatee with his miniaturized camera that looked like a
fountain pen. By the time Jack moved on to CIA roles in foreign embassies, the
FBI, to keep us safe from ourselves, had taken over the reigns of illegally
spying on American citizens for political reasons. Now we have newer letter
teams spying on us: like NSA and TSA and others whose names we’ll never know. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Georgia;">All
this just goes to prove how prophetic and insightful it was, what the king of
LA Beat poets, Stuart Z Perkoff wrote in a poem he read on Denver Public Radio
back in the early 70s, Stuart was actually on Groucho Marx’s <i>YOU BET YOUR
LIFE</i></span><span style="font-family: Georgia;"> as a beatnik poet and
endeared himself to Groucho and America when he quipped in answer to Grouch’s
assertion that Groucho’s notes claimed that Stuart was a writer: “Groucho, I
write home for money every week.” Stuart’s voice was also captured on an early
FBI’s reel-to-reel tape-recording of a drug deal, a deal that netted Stuart
hard time in a California prison. Stuart’s words:<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>our times are fast<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>they’re crowded<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>we’re
crushed<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>we’re lost<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>mirrors are broken<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>i.d. cards torn<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>faces are stolen<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>disguises are worn<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>no order! all
chaos!<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>all turmoil! no peace!<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>but we can rely on the secret police!</span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<!--EndFragment-->Edwin Forrest Wardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09239907046852195219noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8534379790827614432.post-51397882013248107422014-12-10T10:52:00.001-07:002014-12-13T11:15:31.261-07:00NO GOING BACK<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
</div>
<h2>
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjw-tfRAeyfNVzWp7mJC3JogoEPhdFO6Rjz3ebzzZmOkfT4L6ys1sStUQ6V2V1Ay34KLsUo1HjCGlWlK_VjqVJZ6cLvXEqZkd2a_S8QFCFvtDQC_HnZ6PfPjxB6CffoVmFgZMngPfNtA2o/s1600/NO+GOING+BACK+FB.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjw-tfRAeyfNVzWp7mJC3JogoEPhdFO6Rjz3ebzzZmOkfT4L6ys1sStUQ6V2V1Ay34KLsUo1HjCGlWlK_VjqVJZ6cLvXEqZkd2a_S8QFCFvtDQC_HnZ6PfPjxB6CffoVmFgZMngPfNtA2o/s1600/NO+GOING+BACK+FB.jpg" height="320" width="209" /></a></h2>
<h2>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 24px;"><br /></span></h2>
<h2>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 24px;">No Going Back</span></h2>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
as always, for Marcia</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
I arrive in Denver on the fourth day of July in 1975 after
twenty-seven years of East Coast life. My girlfriend (let’s call her “Crazy”)
had at the time wanted to experience Kerouac and Cassady’s “the West,” and so I
had resigned from my life and tenured position in Jersey and moved here to
accommodate her wishes. We found a second-floor one-bedroom apartment at 14<sup>th</sup>
and Elizabeth and set about reinventing ourselves. I found work as a waiter
making more money than I had as a teacher and commenced the life of a Bohemian,
writing poetry and starting work on my “great American novel,” activities the time constraints of my
career as a teacher and union organizer had precluded me from indulging in. I
found great pleasure in my disassociation from all that been before and reveled
in my newfound anonymity. Writing in long hand on the built in table of my
walk-up apartment, such things as my teenage gang membership in Philadelphia,
my degree in physics, and my tenure as a professional educator had little to do
with this new life as an artist I was undertaking; quite aware I was that I
would never return to the life I’d known before. Sadly my girlfriend embraced
not the uncertainties of living in the West as an artist, and by October Crazy
was in NYC, never to return.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
During the time Crazy and I lived in our Congress Park pad
on the second floor of the Elizabeth Arms, we were friendly with a couple that
also lived there, Ric and Sandy. Ric was a folksinger and social worker and
Sandy was, well Sandy was a wee bit strange, as strange as she was beautiful.
Sandy and Crazy had been summer friends, a friendship based on the similarity
of their childhoods and upbringing, and, in retrospect, their apparently
fragile mental health. Both were sexy and exotic (Crazy was a Mediterranean beauty
and Sandy was archetypal Aryan), and both women expected men to take care of
the mundane matters of life – like making a living. Both had been raised by
very wealthy parents who lived in gated and exclusive enclaves, Crazy in
Wellesley Massachusetts and Sandy in the Bahamas. I especially enjoyed
eyeballing Crazy and Sandy from my writing table window as they sat, late
afternoons, on the front porch. My first fantasies of infidelity and “the other
woman” were incited by the vision of the two of them, smoking cigarettes and
drinking wine, rocking side by side on the porch glider, comparing notes, and
gossiping about Ric and me. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
Shortly before Crazy abandoned me and left Colorado, I
bought a house on Pearl Street and lost contact with Ric and Sandy. Crazy
leaving me was brutal, for I was deeply in love with the woman I imagined she
was, and I sought to numb my pain with alcohol and drugs. On my evenings off,
I’d prowl Congress Park and Colfax Avenue – places we had loved - on foot or in
my van in a nostalgic hunt for the ghost of Crazy, and one night I came across
a bewildered Sandy outside the 7-11 on York Street around the corner from my
old apartment. She lit up when she saw me, and the hug she gave me had a hint
of sexual innuendo that was hard to ignore. She clung to me like a child clings
to a favorite grandparent or a favorite toy. Like the lost to their savior.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
I asked after Ric, and Sandy told me he was in a hospital in
Thornton. Minor surgery had corrected a herniated disc but he’d be in recovery
and physical therapy for another week. She asked after Crazy and her eyes got
sparkly when I told her of my Ex’s return to the East Coast. I do believe she
actually licked her lips with a serpentine tongue, as she appeared lost in
thought. And then she asked if I’d give her a ride to the hospital sometime
soon as she had not been able to visit Ric. Public transportation, its
schedules and transfers, was beyond her ken.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
So, with a wee bit of lust lurking in the shadows of my
intentions, I arrive at my old apartment building the next morning. Sandy and
Ric lived on the ground floor across the commons from where Crazy and
I had lived, and she was waiting on the communal front porch. She bubbled with
excitement as she flew the length of the walk and climbed into my van. All the way
to Thornton she gossiped about Ric and his increasing demands on her abilities.
She practically hissed a litany of things that needed redress. Did Ric actually
expected to return home to an organized apartment, one without dirty dishes and
piles of laundry? Did he really expect her to keep track of her medication and
dirty clothes? Suffice it to say, Sandy was all over the map, mentally and
physically. She constantly changed stations on the radio, rolled her window up
and down, down and up, squirmed, one might say “writhed” in her seat, all the
while prattling on about Ric’s peccadilloes, his dislike of clutter and certain
sexual practices, his Zen stance on organization. His absurd talk of finances
and the future, as if money or tomorrow matter! She’d never cleaned house in
her life and she was not about to play maid, even though Ric brought home the
bacon. The entire trip was a harangue of non-sequiturs and unrelated trivial
chastisements of Ric and his maddening expectations. At the hospital there were
other telling revelations. Sandy had forgotten to bring Ric his Gibson guitar
as he’d asked. “Left it on the porch.” She’d failed to bring his checkbook.
“Couldn’t find it.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She’d not remembered
his request to bring him a few joints. “I don’t know how to roll.” She hardly
looked at Ric and when she left to use the restroom Ric confided in me his
assessment: “Sandy’s off her meds! Look out, Eddie. Her demons are as venomous
and real as she is beautiful and flighty.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
On the way back to Denver Sandy announced her intentions.
She’d be leaving Ric and the Elizabeth Arms. Tomorrow! “And could I,” she
asked, “move in with you?” - a tricky question, one I had no sure answer for,
to say the least. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
On the one hand, I was entranced by the blue-eyed blond
beauty that was Sandy. Even though I had been deeply in love with Crazy, I had
sensed an un-fulfilled desire in Sandy when I’d first met her and Ric, a
passion I imagined I might be able to satiate. I remember sensing Crazy had
picked up on my feelings about Sandy; my girlfriend had been especially
assertive making love her remaining time with me, going as far as to fake or
achieve multiple orgasms. And now here was Sandy coming on to me, bringing into
focus my loneliness and horniness and longing for what I’d had with Crazy. But
on the other hand there was Ric’s mention of Sandy’s demons and her
medications.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
So I played it safe. “Sandy, how about I come by tomorrow.
Last night, today, it’s been a blur of intoxicating emotions. Like a whirlwind
in my heart. I get it that you and Ric are done for, yet being with you, I
can’t help but think about Crazy. You two were like sisters. And I will admit
that even when I was in love with Crazy, I used to think of you. You are one
beautiful woman. Let’s do breakfast at Pete’s Kitchen in the morning. I need a
night to think about your moving in with me. And I’m not sure if you’re talking
as roommate or girlfriend.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
“If I move in I won’t be paying rent,” were her parting
words as she sashayed up the sidewalk to the Elizabeth Arms.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
Next morning I arrive at Sandy’s. Again, she’s waiting on
the porch. Again down the sidewalk to my van she flies.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
I’ve decided to give it a shot, taking up with Sandy, demons
and all, and I tell her as much. You might compare my lonely and horny and
bemused decision making to a car going ninety-miles an hour down a dead end
street with my dick in the driver’s seat and my rational mind blind-folded and
tied up in the trunk. All I know is that I’m game and I’m gonna get laid. Enough
said. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
After a passionate kiss initiated by her, Sandy tells me
she’s going to leave it all behind: her old clothes, her old life, her old
ways, and her old medicines. She wants to start her new life with me without
baggage. “All I need,” she tells me, “are a few things: make-up, tooth brush,
hair brush, boots. Be back in a minute,” and out the van she flies, up the
sidewalk and into the Elizabeth Arms. I await her return with all the
nervousness of anyone on a first date, of someone about to seal his or her
fate.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
Minutes pass and my nervousness increases. To what have I
committed? What exactly are the meds Ric spoke of? Who are the demons? More
time passes. I exit my van and make my way back towards the building where I
once lived happily with Crazy. Ascending the steps to the porch I see my first
hint of a demon at work: Ric’s Gibson guitar.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Behind the glider against the railing, its hollow body
splintered, its cat-gut strings gyring from the tuners like a nest of snakes,
it apparently had been rammed repeatedly by the glider: a gone guitar for sure.
More than a minor chill percolates below the surface of my skin as I step into
the building and approach Sandy’s apartment, the door to which is open. And
beyond the threshold is a nightmare. The former Zendo of a living space is
topsy-turvy with retribution and destruction. Broken unwashed dishes fill the
sink and clutter the kitchen floor and counters. Every closet and cabinet is
empty, as is the open refrigerator. Foodstuffs, in and out of packaging, and
cookware and clothing scattered helter-skelter from kitchen to living room
baseboard constitute a maze even Daedalus could not solve. No path anywhere.
The smell of sour milk mixes with the odor of soiled laundry, molding
washcloths, and rotting fruit and meats. Even the temperature of the apartment
is off the charts, in line with the thermostat setting that I note: 88 degrees
and rising! And then I sense her aside me, coming as she has from the bathroom
aside the kitchen. In her hands are the personal hygiene items she came back
for: her hairbrush, toothbrush and lipstick. She’s wearing white cowgirl boots.
She looks not at the destruction she has caused; rather, she looks piercingly
at me, as if there’s nothing in the world but me. She quickly and haphazardly
paints her lips with the purple lipstick in her hand then brushes her long
cascading hair slowly. All the while her eyes give me their full attention.
Then she unbuttons her blouse. She wears no bra. She empties her hands of
brushes and make-up, all of which join the mess on the floor. She steps forward
and falls to her knees in front of me unzipping my pants with the quick work of
fingers. I close my eyes to the scene around me, to the world I know, as she
takes me into her mouth. She swallows me ravenously, dead-set determined to
make me unaware of her demons, but standing there, as I approach orgasm, I see
in my mind’s eye unfolding visions of snakes and birds. They slither and
flutter all around as they escape from her mouth and leak out of her eyes. I
press the back of her head against my body in an attempt to escape the visions,
to return to the tactile, the sexual, the here and now, but my hand’s first
touch of the back of her head, my first skin to scalp, is met with a cruel
rebuke that kills more than my sexual buzz, a warning that she practically
squawks: “Don’t ever touch the back of my head. You can have the rest of me, my
breasts, my lips, my ass, but my head belongs to them. Then with her
side-winding arms slowly undulating, she flutters her fingers in such a way
that I sense for sure the nature of her demons, the vipers and raptors to whom
her head belongs. Her ophidian dance of arms and quivering flicker of digits
ends with her appearing catatonic as she kneels before me. Then she unwinds herself
cobra like as she coils to the floor asleep. When she awakens a little while
later, she is docile, almost penitent. She knows I won’t be taking her home to
my house. She knows I’ve seen her madness. Literally and figuratively. She asks
that I take her to Denver General, to the psychiatric ward. “They know me
there,” she whispers.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
I drive to Sixth and Bannock. We sit silent in the parking
lot for quite a while before she leaves me alone in my misery, bewildered,
bemused, bewitched, and now with visions of snakes devouring birds and raptors
ascending with talons full of snakes leaking out of my mind’s eye into my
memory. Two days ago I was simply lonely. Now I will be forever hungry to go to
a place to which I know I can’t return.</div>
<!--EndFragment-->Edwin Forrest Wardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09239907046852195219noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8534379790827614432.post-26786363334725552532014-06-09T16:39:00.000-06:002017-03-22T13:53:20.921-06:00RONNIE RITA & ME<br />
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
</div>
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjp3gQCF3-jSR2B23do7rNz_pbnm3aTW0OGJg0nRjhN_rMfUard4zt3zNN8YkhjRwuCPoDJb2VdEPuDj7bzWhLd3WBN0JiXNFGIERtMdXtRcZRovTfott6NZHbmVYr9Rt180eCp4Kx551c/s1600/RONNIE+RITA+&+ME+FB+cvr.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjp3gQCF3-jSR2B23do7rNz_pbnm3aTW0OGJg0nRjhN_rMfUard4zt3zNN8YkhjRwuCPoDJb2VdEPuDj7bzWhLd3WBN0JiXNFGIERtMdXtRcZRovTfott6NZHbmVYr9Rt180eCp4Kx551c/s1600/RONNIE+RITA+&+ME+FB+cvr.jpg" width="208" /></a>cover photo - Woolworth's Photo Booth circa 1965<br />
<br />
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
RONNIE RITA & ME<br />
<br />
as always<br />
for Marcia<br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
On my 50 cc Honda, a newly minted 1965 toy of a motorcycle, Glenn Quenzer and I, we are, after an evening of dipping into the folk music scene at the Gilded Cage in downtown Philadelphia, returning to Mayfair in the Great North-East. We’ve been pushing the envelope of loyalty to our hood and boyhood pals recently and have been hanging out with strangers: older kids, college girls wearing leotards, Ben Franklin-eyed men sporting goatees, elbow patches and berets, dilettantes quoting Rimbaud, and folkies singing Woody Guthrie. I’d developed a serious interest in the writings of Bob Dylan and had found the Gilded Cage in my search for poetry. Operated by Esther & Ed Halprin, the coffeehouse with backroom stage is ground zero for folk music and Bohemian pursuits in Philly. The first cover charge of my life I pay here. </div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
Glenn and I, we are still card carrying members of our teenage gang, “The Wall,” our gang’s moniker, a result of the location where we congregate: on and aside the low retaining wall in front of a large house on Walker Street at Hartel. It seemed there was a strange attraction between the girls of Holmesburg and the guys from Mayfair, and the stone wall served as a maypole of sorts, a touchstone for adolescent hearts to swing around and voices to harmonize a cappella in front of.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
Now because my interest in the poetry of folk music and Glenn’s interest in playing guitar and singing on stage are outside the common interests (mostly drinking and fist-fighting) of others in The Wall, Glenn and I have mostly kept our growing passions, our interest in the arts, to ourselves. This Friday, we have opted out of going with the rest of The Wall to a major dance at the Concord Roller Rink, a somewhat serious sin of omission, as you never know if there’d be trouble for someone of the Wall, given the events of my life the last three weeks, as my mouth and Glenn’s fists have always been part of The Wall’s arsenal. Should there be trouble, as often there is, we are surely to be missed.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
Heading east, hoping to rendezvous with Fiddles and Ebberly and Bauers and Dubuc and the girls when the dance lets out, we are cruising in and out of the electric buses and automobile traffic on Frankford Avenue. Debbie Marion in her customized 1964 and 1/2 powder-blue convertible Mustang recognizes me and my wheels and honks and waves as she revs her 210 horsepower, 289 cubic inch V-8 engine at the Robbins Avenue light. Part of me has always hankered for Debbie, because, after all, her tail bumper sports a sticker that reads BEATMEUCANEATME. </div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
Always the devotee of ice cream and custard, and knowing Glenn still has a few bucks left from his Grandfather’s stash, I downshift into the parking lot of Gino’s just west of Levick Street. The frozen treats here, they ain’t Breyers - they ain’t even Dolly Madison - but I got to say I crave sometimes the vanilla chocolate double swirl soft serve custard Gino’s serves. Glenn when he’s flush seems to go for the burgers and fries, which are outside my budget.</div>
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So we are standing at the walk up window enjoying, as always, the look and presence of unfamiliar people and places - for as I like to say, Who knows where love hides? - when a familiar and exceedingly unwelcome face appears, the face of my nemesis: Ronnie Ryan. He’s behind me in line tapping on my shoulder and he’s accompanied by his Bridesburg posse, some eight or nine thugs none of whom are smaller than me. I say “Unwelcome” because last month alone I was beaten pretty badly by Ronnie Ryan twice. First in Wildwood New Jersey and then in Wissinoming Park. All because the very woman I am hoping to rendezvous with after the dance lets out in an hour or so, Rita Romero, has been making out with both me and Ronnie, double dipping one might say, while, when alone together, professing to be going steady with each of us. Naturally, the seventeen-year honor code of 1965 dictates that we fight each other anytime we meet. Easy for Ronnie to subscribe to (at six two and 220 pounds) but not so easy for me (at five eight and 160 pounds). Not to mention, in all the fights I’ve ever had, I’ve never ever won. </div>
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The Wildwood deal went down brutally and foolishly after we’d encountered each other on the boardwalk in front of the Starlight Ballroom. Believe you me I was not keen on fighting Ronnie Ryan given his hulking size and cocky smirking glowering, but I had no choice if I was going to maintain my honor among my fellow gang friends with whom I had hitchhiked ninety miles to be here. Because fighting on the boardwalk would surely lead to being arrested, Ronnie and I decided to take our fight away from the eye of the police who maintained a heavy presence amongst the boardwalk throngs. We left our friends, his and mine, to trash talk each other and we headed west up Oak Avenue in search of a secluded spot to fight. The whole time we are strutting and posturing, I am wondering at the depth of my foolish pride for I know in my heart there’s no way I can win. Hell I’ll be lucky to get out of this with all my teeth. All I can hope for is a miracle or a lucky lucky lucky punch.</div>
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So into the dark side yard of a small summer cottage we go. Oddly we are surrounded by big beautiful full bloom roses on the perimeter of the yard. Hundreds of them. They will serve incongruously as the ropes of our ring. Not waiting for an imaginary bell to ring, I throw the first half dozen punches the instant he turns to face me. And I connect with enough force to raise a welt on his left eye, and my Saint Joe’s Preparatory Jesuit High School ring has cut his flesh and drawn a little blood below his right eye. I keep throwing punches most of which he blocks by crossing his arms in front of his face. I go for his mid section hoping for that miracle but I am already tiring after punching furiously and dancing to avoid his grasping me. Ronnie seems not to really have any boxing skills and simply appears intent on wrestling me to the ground. With all my remaining strength I throw a wild left hook and connect with the side of his head, but the Cyclopes that is Ronnie just keeps advancing. And then I’m done for as he gets his arms around me, trips me with a foot behind and smashes me to the ground. Soon he’s got my arms pinned with his knees and my body with his ass. His fists are now free to pound me, my face, at will. The full moon in the midnight sky behind his head forms an ironic halo, given the demon I consider him to be. His first punch lands not quite squarely on my mouth as, in utter panic, I squirm with all my strength beneath him, causing him to lose his balance atop me slightly, a result of which my eyetooth fang rips the flesh above his index knuckle. As he raises fist to deliver a second blow, his blood drips in my eye. He spits at me and just as he’s about to deliver what portends to be a knockout, the miracle I had not time to pray for happens. The yard lights come on and a tiny little woman with a voice as big as she is small let’s us know: “I’ve already called the cops. They’re on their way. Get the hell out of my yard.”</div>
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And off of me Ronnie Ryan flies, and before you know it, we’re both on our way back to the boardwalk as fast as our feet will carry us, Ronnie on one side of Oak Avenue and me on the other. Honor’s one thing; cops are another. When we get to the Starlight our friends surround us. From the look of things, Ronnie with his one shut eye, bloody cheek and hand, it looks as if I’ve won, although both Ronnie and I are aware of who was about to see stars. Surprised my teeth are still intact, I can’t believe what I say next. “Hey, asshole, this ain’t over yet. I want you Tuesday night. In Wissinoming Park. Nine o’clock. And then we’ll see who’s going steady with Rita.” </div>
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Now what prompted me to ask for another potential beating, I’ll never know. The only possible thing I could come up with is my belief in miracles. And my belief in love. But belief in miracles, like belief in hope, is not a strategy.</div>
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The next morning I hitchhike back to Philadelphia. Rita calls to tell me that she can’t believe that I actually fought Ronnie Ryan. That he looks so bad with a serious black eye and stitches on his cheekbone and knuckles. That she’s torn up about her mixed emotions. She goes so far as to confess to me in a whisper, whereas she and I have engaged in some pretty orgasmic petting, that she’s totally and especially confused because she’s “‘gone all the way’ with Ronnie (only once)” and she’s not sure she can still see me, even though she swears she’ll “always love me!” </div>
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And I’ve already scheduled another fight, a fight I’m destined to lose again, for there won’t be no little old lady turning on her lights in a rose garden.</div>
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Tuesday night arrives and I’m with my pals, The Wall. Ronnie Ryan arrives with his Bridesburg gang. There must be close to thirty of us milling around in the middle of the park. My honor, Rita’s honor, and Ronnie’s honor are on the line. Sad I am to know that winning the fight does not mean that I’ll be winning Rita. It would seem her woman’s heart is in the corner where sex lay. That she’d fucked him not me had taken me by surprise as the naïve seventeen-year old Irish Catholic in me had not seriously considered going that far, yet.</div>
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And then it’s me and Cyclopes. In the middle of a park. Fighting because we have to. Again, I land the first few punches, again damaging Ronnie’s eye, but alas Ronnie Ryan is intent on wrestling me to the ground. And soon he’s again got me pinned. Kaboom! And I literally see stars as I wonder is this what a concussion is? Kaboom again! And then, honor be damned, I concede. “You win, I give in, I give up!” To which he replies, “You ain’t nearly had enough.”</div>
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And then as he draws back his fist to slam again my exposed defenseless face, he is lifted (literally) up into the air with a picture perfect uppercut delivered by one of my posse, Bobby Brennan, who says, “Eddie said he’s had enough.” And then all hell breaks lose as The Wall and Bridesburg begin to rumble. Everybody’s swinging except Ronnie who appears to be walking about in a Cyclopes nightmare. One eye again puffed shut, the other staring blankly. And then it’s the sound of sirens followed by the sight of paddy wagons at the west end of the park. Everyone skedaddles and retreats into the Wissinoming neighborhood night including the befuddled Ronnie who is guided to a car by two of his buds. No one gets arrested. Twice now I’ve been saved from serious damage by the intervention of others. </div>
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And now here we go again as Ronnie Ryan stares me down. Outside a Frankford Avenue fast food joint that serves frozen custard! Both his eyes seem to be working. The stitches are gone. His balled up fists in the neon light are the size of cantaloupes.</div>
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The artist in me has already started cutting ties to my neighborhood gang, but now I am wishing all my pals were here, because my only friend, Glenn, well, he literally has a broken arm. We step out of the queue and I confer with him. I ask him quietly if he can drive my Honda with one hand. He nods in the affirmative and I slip the key to it into his arm sling. “Be ready;” I tell him, “I’ll be back.”</div>
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I approach Ronnie and his gang who are now clustered in between their cars. </div>
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“So what’s up?” I ask. “Do we have to fight again?” </div>
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And he responds, “No point in that. I’ll just kick your ass again. I want the motherfucker who hit me from behind.” </div>
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“That’s not what happened. It was a fair one we were having and when I said I’d had enough you should have been happy and quit. Instead you did not relent, wanting to hurt me some more, and my pal just put an end to it. His name’s Bobby Brennan. Lincoln High’s star fullback. If you want to know what he looks like, his picture’s in The Evening Bulletin. And if you’re looking for him, we hang at The Mayfair Bowling Alley. Come on by sometime. Believe me, Bobby Brennan won’t mind ringing your chimes again, seeing as you don’t obey the code of what’s a fair-one. When someone concedes, it’s over.”</div>
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I sense that Ronnie’s about to change his mind and go ballistic, so to get out of fighting him again, I peremptorily offer out the tallest of his pals. “Hey, how about you and me, asshole, across the street. Just you and me in the alley. You’ve come for blood. Let’s spill some. Yours.”</div>
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So here I go again. Fighting for a chick who’s fucked my enemy. Fighting for an honor code that I’ve abandoned. This skinny motherfucker I’m about to fight is so tall I’m not even sure I can even reach his face, so I put everything I got into body blows. My third punch knocks the wind out of him, and to the concrete on his knees he falls. I can’t believe I’ve actually won a fight! “Had enough, I ask? Man, come on, this is crazy. We don’t even know a thing about each other and here we are. Why?” And then his breath returns and he’s up on his legs and digging in a dumpster from which he retrieves a rather hefty piece of serious lumber out of which appears to protrude some bent and gnarly nails. He swings wildly at my head and when I duck he smashes the two by six into the brick wall behind me. So forceful is his swing, the stud snaps upon impact with the wall. His torque propels him to spin and I hit him with a roundhouse in the back of his ribs. He falls to the ground wailing.</div>
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“What the fuck, you don’t even know me and you might have killed me with those nails had you not missed. You’re fucking crazy man.” And I kick him in the head with all the arch and power of a forty-yard field goal attempt, as this has long since ceased to be a fair one. He rolls on his side holding his cracked ribs and I race back across Frankford Avenue just as Glenn wheels out of Gino’s parking lot. I hop on back and down the Avenue we fly. To the dance, where for the last time I am stood up by Rita who does not show for our rendezvous.</div>
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Well, after Ronnie Ryan gathered up his pal with the cracked ribs, they headed for the Mayfair Bowling Alley looking for Bobby Brennan and me. But as I said, The Wall was partying at the Concord Roller Rink where Jerry Blavit was hosting a dance. Upon arrival at the blowing alley the people Ronnie and his pals encounter are not The Wall, rather they are a somewhat older group of nineteen and twenty year old badass boys who occupied the inside of the bowling alley. Most are future cops and many have already been to Vietnam and back. The Wall deferred to them always and reverently and amongst ourselves we referred to them as “The Men.” Ronnie and his pals were unaware there were two groups of boys who hung at the bowling alley. So when they walked inside </div>
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as if they owned the place, demanding to know where Bobby and Eddie were, they were met with the fury of The Men who had no idea at all who Bobby and me were. The Men only knew we were from the hood and Ronnie and his pals weren’t. When the melee was over, Ronnie had two serious black eyes this time and I do believe even his Bridesburg pals were done with looking for me and Bobby and done with defending Ronnie’s and/or Rita’s honor. </div>
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Next morning I call Rita to put an end to my misery. “I give up,” I tell her. “Please, don’t ever say we’re going to meet again. After the dance, after school, or after you fuck Ronnie.” Her crying into the phone puts an end to my tirade. It’s the last time we speak for close to fifty years.</div>
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But in the end both Ronnie and I, we both won something for all our machismo foolishness. Ronnie went on to marry the beautiful two-timing Rita, and I went on to enhance my teenage reputation as one crazy and fearless motherfucker. A reputation of which I was and am still quite proud, for it’s an honor to live as such in the memory of boyhood pals.</div>
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<!--EndFragment-->Edwin Forrest Wardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09239907046852195219noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8534379790827614432.post-85345308212416977632014-05-10T13:34:00.000-06:002014-05-16T11:37:58.674-06:00GANG OF POETS<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCWQB3oo8-AAGrLhMcMieVflFx7uRM00WQoIYQUlt8hpfeXsAQ9TdehNdEt7TY_m950L1Ta73PFVYeNIdaLwEw977VIv69x0yiDWn4YdoThmOBlEC9KC1q13oo7xKUTeTknrjKQW1rDSw/s1600/Gang+of+Poets+FB.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCWQB3oo8-AAGrLhMcMieVflFx7uRM00WQoIYQUlt8hpfeXsAQ9TdehNdEt7TY_m950L1Ta73PFVYeNIdaLwEw977VIv69x0yiDWn4YdoThmOBlEC9KC1q13oo7xKUTeTknrjKQW1rDSw/s1600/Gang+of+Poets+FB.jpg" height="320" width="209" /></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 15px;">cover art – Michael Bergt</span></div>
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GANG OF POETS</div>
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as always</div>
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for Marcia</div>
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In keeping with Bohemian tradition, the poet and publisher,
Larry Lake, my good friend and mentor, first published my poems illustrated by
Michael Bergt as a broadside in 1979 entitled <i>affirmations</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> via his BOWERY PRESS. Likewise he published my first
collection of poems, </span><i>citysight</i><span style="font-style: normal;">,
also with illustrations by Michael Bergt in 1981. He was a great compatriot
(and at times enemy) who taught me to keep sacred the contract I had entered
into with my muse. I also learned from Larry that writing is a lifetime’s
commitment and that art is about serving one’s community, not one’s ego.
Another Lake wisdom is that brother poets are brothers forever.</span></div>
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So when the filmmaker, Continental Catterson - whose only
claim to fame was that he had produced a video documentary about an art opening
at Larry Lake’s Bowery Gallery in the early 70s entitled <i>The Bowery Gallery</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> – when Continental Catterson shot Larry twice, I
took it rather personally, as any victim’s brother would. </span></div>
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As far as the authorities and the Denver DA were concerned
it was a coin toss when it came to the criminality of Catterson’s actions: it
was either premeditated felonious assault or a Make My Day situation, for
Catterson had shot Larry as Larry reentered Catterson’s home after an earlier
argument about money and Catterson being eighty-sixed as the cinematographer in
a film that Larry had written about a couple of home grown revolutionaries who
intended to blow up Vail Colorado with a “minor” nuclear bomb that one of the
revolutionaries had stolen from Lowery Air Force Base in Denver. I think the
delusional Catterson might actually have believed that Lake actually possessed
a bomb capable of wiping out Vail, that Catterson might some day be witness to
an act of terrorism, because in preparing for his role as one of the film’s
fictional anti-heroes, Larry used to whisper conspiratorially in an aside to
friends and customers in his bookstore: </div>
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“Hey remember when John F Kennedy said that he was the only
person who could push a button that would launch a nuclear bomb? Well, he was
wrong. I have a tactical nuclear weapon that I stole when I was in the Air
Force and I have hidden it up at Sam Pace’s cabin in Evergreen.” </div>
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Production of the film was currently in limbo as winters in
Vail are hardly conducive to filmmaking and Michael Klein, Larry’s favorite
lens guy, would not be available to replace Catterson as cameraman until
sometime in March. </div>
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Now Catterson had been so rattled by his demotion from cameraman
to go-fer and lackey that the day before the shooting, Thursday, February 12<sup>th</sup>,
he had visited my wife, Marcia, at the studio where she worked and babbled to
her his evolving concern that Larry was going to shoot him on the morrow, as
Catterson owed Larry money for building and painting a backyard fence, and he
would not have the money on Friday as promised. That Catterson shot Larry a day
after asserting that Larry (who did not own a gun) would shoot him, put my
opinion of the entire incident firmly on the side of premeditated attempted
murder.</div>
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But for Larry there was a silver lining within the cloud of
doubt surrounding his being shot, as Larry left Denver General with an open
ended prescription for morphine to deal with the pain of the numerous surgeries
that saved his life. Given his predilections for narcotic vision and pain
relief, Larry much preferred morphine over the methadone he’d been using to
assuage his cravings. And he was happy. Larry eventually confided in me that
even though it was decidedly a premeditated assault, purposeful pay back of
sorts for Larry “using” Catterson for his cameras rather than his cinematic
skills and for Larry having slapped Catterson when Catterson claimed he had no
money at present to pay Larry for a week’s labor building and painting the
fence, Larry declined to press charges and opted not to pursue a civil suit as
he did not want to put his friend and art circles with which he was involved
under scrutiny, as the ripple effects of such investigation could reveal sundry
heavy-duty Bohemian drug connections. </div>
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But this story is not so much about Larry Lake and
Continental Catterson as it is about sloppy sloppy journalism. </div>
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At the time of Lake’s near death on Friday, February 13,
1981, <i>WESTWORD</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> was still in its infancy
or, you might say, toddler-hood. The original founders, Patty Calhoun, Sandra
Widener, and Rob (last name forgotten) were still hands-on and a little more
than three years into their publication of Denver’s alternative arts weekly.
Now </span><i>weekly</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> means tough, tight and
rapid fire deadlines and when a young journalist name of Ken Freed showed up
six hours before going to press with a story about the shooting of one of
Denver’s more infamous and note-worthy beatniks, they cut and pasted Freed’s
story into their layout on the spot without giving much thought to the content
of what Freed had written. Sad to say it’s diligence be damned when a deadline
demands.</span></div>
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Now Mr. Freed was a newly minted journalism graduate who had
edited the Metro State student newspaper, and hence his credibility with <i>WESTWORD</i><span style="font-style: normal;">. Unfortunately, he was a better student than he was
a journalist. His source for his take on the shooting, a used book and liquid
opium dealer named Bill Good, possessed no first or even second hand knowledge
of the events surrounding the shooting. Mr. Liquid O Good knew nothing of
tensions surrounding the making of the film about blowing up Vail, nada when it
came to Catterson’s demotion in the film’s hierarchy, zip about the fence and
the money owed. Good simply disliked Lake as Larry was, indeed, a gracious
charm-ster when he wished, a favorite of the women, bigger than life, and a
bad-ass Air-Force trained boxer to boot who had bad mouthed Mr. Good regarding
his greed around the liquid O he sold. So when Freed – under the influence of
Mr. Good – wrote that “Larry Lake deserved to be shot”
because “Lake was an art bully,” and </span><i>WESTWORD</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> ran the story, more than journalism ethics were
violated, and, in my Irish mind, some redress was in order.</span></div>
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Now at the time, I liked <i>WESTWORD</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> (and still do). Early on in May of 1979, </span><i>WESTWORD</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> had published a piece on Colorado poetics and had
spoken of Allen Ginsburg and myself as being central figures in Colorado
poetry, illustrating the story with Marcia’s photo of me reading at Café
Nepenthes where I hosted readings. Still it was </span><i>WESTWORD</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> that had dropped the ball as far as I was concerned
when it came to the fiasco of the Lake story. Freed and Good were petty,
talent-less small minds, minor players in the debacle, but the professionals,
Patty and Sandra and Rob, should have at least read and understood the slander
they were printing. They should have known better. </span></div>
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Now at the time, Marcia was some eight months pregnant (as
was Larry’s wife Barbara, who had introduced me and Marcia). Still, Marcia and
I took it upon ourselves to visit the second story Larimer Street offices of <i>WESTWORD</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> to express our outrage and to demand both an apology
and a rewrite of the story. In actuality I think Marcia feared what I might to
if I went alone, that’s how worked up I was over the story.</span></div>
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We ascended the stairs and huffed and puffed our way into
the one-room office shared by Patty, Rob and Sandra. I was so mad about the
defamation of my pal Larry, so full of pent-up anger and hostility, my one
hundred and sixty pounds upon my five-foot eight frame probably appeared more
like two hundred pounds upon a six-foot frame. First I flung a dozen copies of
the <i>WESTWORD</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> issue containing the story
in the general directions of all three editors. A tornado it seemed had entered
the room the way the pages of the paper vortex-ed and helicopter-ed in the air
before landing on the desks, their laps and floor. And then, without so much as
a howdy-do, I launched into a whirling dervish litany of accusations concerning
Patty and Sandra and Rob’s professional shortcomings and failures as editors to
fact check anything Freed had written (hell, he didn’t even have the location
of Catterson’s house correct) and highlighted their utter insensitivity to the
fact that a beloved artist and man and about-to-be-father, my best friend, and
a publisher like themselves, had been shot. With a gun. In the liver. With real
thirty-eight caliber bullets. By a man who had hidden the cocked and loaded
revolver behind his back. Shot twice, the second time in the thigh as Larry lay
bleeding on the floor; a third fired bullet had missed Larry’s genitals by
inches. By a pathetic excuse of a man, a faux hipster sociopath who hid a
loaded gun in every room of his house. A man who often expressed to those he
thought he might impress at gatherings and screenings and openings that he
looked forward to the day that some neighborhood kid, some teeny-bopper
gangster wanna-be, might break into his Five-Points bungalow so that he, Continental
Catterson, would have license to shoot and kill. And, I roared incredulously, </span><i>WESTWORD</i><span style="font-style: normal;">’s justification for this attempted Make My Day
murder is that “Lake was an art bully.” </span></div>
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Now I will admit I was a little over the top, dramatically
speaking. I will also admit to maybe speaking with something other than a
corporate inside office voice. Hell, I might have been speaking in tongues. I
will also admit to pointing fingers and threatening two things: one, that I
would contact every <i>WESTWORD</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> advertiser
and badger them into advertising somewhere else – maybe in Boulder’s </span><i>SOLDIER
OF FORTUNE</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> magazine - and two, that I would
blab to everyone I knew that Rob was quietly giving up his interest in </span><i>WESTWORD</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> so they he could pursue his current passion of
becoming “a fucking mercenary soldier in Africa,” something I bellowed in a
most accusatory tone, a tidbit of info I had gleaned via the Denver art-world
grapevine, something that I suspect that neither Patty or Sandra were aware of,
given the flush, the beet red complexion that overtook Rob’s visage with my
revelation of his intentions to become a trained killer.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Go ahead Rob, pick a side and feel
free to murder people on the other side, and, please, take Catterson with you.”</span></div>
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I think Rob wished he had a gun as I stared him down. Both
Patty and Sandra averted their eyes downward from Marcia’s and mine in a
sheepish admission of their complicity and guilt. After my tirade there were
more than a few moments of silence before Ms Calhoun broached an admission of <i>WESTWORD</i><span style="font-style: normal;">’s mistakes. Marcia and I soon left feeling some what
vindicated and satisfied, as Patty promised she’d publish a retraction or
apology written by someone other than Mr. Freed. She attributed </span><i>WESTWORD</i><span style="font-style: normal;">’s sloppy oversight to looming deadlines and hurried
late night corner cutting.</span></div>
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<br /></div>
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And, to <i>WESTWORD</i><span style="font-style: normal;">’s
credit, they published an apology in the next issue, lampooning both themselves
for their lack of oversight and Mr. Freed for the callousness and inaccuracies
of his story.</span></div>
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<br /></div>
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And then in 1987, on the tenth anniversary of <i>WESTWORD</i><span style="font-style: normal;">, Sandra Widener - who had left </span><i>WESTWORD</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> and was currently a staff writer at </span><i>NEWSDAY</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> in New York - submitted a piece for inclusion in the
silver anniversary edition of </span><i>WESTWORD</i><span style="font-style: normal;">. Basically Sandra admitted to being exceedingly scrupulous, indeed,
obsessed with fact checking and that she intermittently suffered nightmares as
a result of publishing the story of Larry Lake’s shooting. She said she would
sometimes awake in the middle of the night worried that that “gang of poets” –
her memory was that there were a half dozen or more angry poets - that the gang
of poets that filled </span><i>WESTWORD</i><span style="font-style: normal;">’s
office that day in 1981 would storm into her New York City walkup in the middle
of the night demanding redress for some failure on her part. Somehow I find it
funny, rewarding and empowering that Sandra remembered me and my eight-month
pregnant wife as a gang of a half a dozen poets.</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCWQB3oo8-AAGrLhMcMieVflFx7uRM00WQoIYQUlt8hpfeXsAQ9TdehNdEt7TY_m950L1Ta73PFVYeNIdaLwEw977VIv69x0yiDWn4YdoThmOBlEC9KC1q13oo7xKUTeTknrjKQW1rDSw/s1600/Gang+of+Poets+FB.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><br /></a></div>
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<!--EndFragment-->Edwin Forrest Wardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09239907046852195219noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8534379790827614432.post-66701230125702999042014-04-07T13:34:00.001-06:002014-04-12T09:01:18.822-06:00SAINTS AND SNAKES<br />
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<br /></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">cover photography - <i>Marcia Ward</i></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidn4q_XiUDAu_oCq3KdaZ8tiwLYRLApQtZ4rcwcdC-whDW6OB3gqSVS2UWGj5SZtMfKGrcXi_47BfM-0bl5oQK3NDROUWP1ELoZtNjyEUO5M3vGcGVfMFmqd06HdQIZ63LPrKTA3FlkHg/s1600/Saints+and+SnakesFB.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidn4q_XiUDAu_oCq3KdaZ8tiwLYRLApQtZ4rcwcdC-whDW6OB3gqSVS2UWGj5SZtMfKGrcXi_47BfM-0bl5oQK3NDROUWP1ELoZtNjyEUO5M3vGcGVfMFmqd06HdQIZ63LPrKTA3FlkHg/s1600/Saints+and+SnakesFB.jpg" height="320" title="" width="208" /></a> <br />
<br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Saints and Snakes</span><br />
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<br />
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<br /></div>
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as always</div>
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for Marcia</div>
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<br /></div>
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Back in the day when I became a journeyman – as opposed to
apprentice – poet, I met a rather talented young writer, pen name of “Snake,”
at a poetry reading on Seventeenth Avenue in Denver at which I was a regular attendee.</div>
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<br /></div>
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Snake was a tall handsome young man, early twenties, a mix
of Latin and European ancestry; Germany and Puerto Rico were his two principal
not-too-distant ancestral homelands. His poetry was Kerouac-esque, mellifluous
and chatter-y. He had picked up the ball that a drunken Jack had dropped, and I
could see Snake making a big score someday in the poetry arena. I introduced
myself and told him I’d love to share with him what I knew of the Bohemians, poets, and beatniks of Denver, that he should come to my house and listen to a
few outrageous tapes that I possessed, recordings of the late greats, James
Ryan Morris and Stuart Z Perkoff, and the living legend Tony Scibella, the Kid
in America, himself. “There are,” I told him, “other approaches to the poem
besides the one popularized by Jack Kerouac and Allen Ginsberg.” </div>
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<br /></div>
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So off to my home on Pennsylvania we go. It’s about midnight
and I know my wife and sons will be sleeping in our family bed, so it’s softly
and quietly we tread as we enter and get comfortable in my living room. Now my
wife Marcia grew up in Wyoming where silence (aside from the wind) is the song
of night, and I no sooner turn on the stereo to listen to Jimmy Morris when
Marcia, awakened by the recorded voice, walks, somnambulist like, into the
living room. She’s wearing flannel pajamas and she rubs her eyes before
stretching her arms upward and then forward to embrace me. Because she is not
wearing her contact lenses it takes her a moment to realize that I am not alone
in the living room, and when she does her modesty dictates that she not stay
and she returns to the bedroom. I join her and explain what’s going on with
Snake, assuring her that we will be as quiet as possible in the other room. She
frowns disapprovingly at my mention of the name of my new friend, but then
blows me a kiss before rejoining Passion and Zenith on the futon. She is asleep
again before I leave the room.</div>
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<br /></div>
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“Who was that creature?” Snake asks when I return to the
living room. The tone and subtext of his query, as I read it, indicates that
Marcia’s appearance was as charming and enchanting as it was brief. I think to
myself, “The boy is smitten.”</div>
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<br /></div>
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Well I sort of take Snake under my wing. I publish a poem of
his as a broadside, a full color affair. I illustrate his nostalgic words with
a collage I make with some of my own boyhood memorabilia: Holmesburg football
team photos, a black and white of my Mom, and me mugging with boyhood pals.
Snake winds up eating dinner with my family three, four, five times a week.
When I have an opportunity to move to North Denver into a sweet Victorian on 37<sup>th</sup>
Avenue, Snake follows and rents a second story walk-up apartment right next
door. I can’t help but think I’m living the poet’s life, mentoring young Snake
as I had been mentored by Larry Lake who had published my first broadside ten
years earlier. In fact, Snake is as close to family as it gets, given the
amount of time we spend together, and I share business and art opportunities
with him as well. He plays with my young sons and gets on well with my dog and
even my persnickety cat. Snake housesits when my family travels to Wildwood NJ
for a week at the beach. We share some very crazy 80s times as well, partying
with counterculture abandon. On more than one occasion, we dodge trouble together
with a capital <i>T</i><span style="font-style: normal;">, sidestepping
authority, attributing our luck to the purity of our dedication to poetry and our respective muses. Indeed, we are brother poets burning brightly. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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And then Snake hooked up with the love of his life, and we,
my family, didn’t see him for weeks. He wasn’t at home and he wasn’t at our
dinner table. And then as suddenly as he had come into my family’s life, he was
on his way to New Mexico with the woman who would become his wife. The day he
packed up his belongings, mostly books and artwork, we met his mysterious love,
Veronica Pinon. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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Veronica was an artist and teacher, the daughter of a
prominent highway contractor. Her family could trace its roots in New Mexico
back some two hundred years. She was not New Mexican, she was Spanish, she told
me more than once, with an air of distancing herself from any association with
the Native American/Mexican gene pool. Entitled, privileged, talented, a
go-get-er. Veronica took, for reasons unknown, an instant dislike to the
Bohemian that I am, as if I had been a poor influence upon her lover, no matter
I had published his poetry, nurtured his general entrepreneurial and artistic
spirit, had fed him home cooked meals the last few years, and granted him
access to the touchstone of family, mine. Well, Veronica was not the first
girlfriend of a friend to put the brakes on friendship with me as I have
generally lived my life with Irish abandon and often Steppenwolfed the road
less traveled. Outside my home on 37<sup>th</sup> Avenue, I wished Snake good
luck and bid him adieu when he drove off, enchanted with Veronica, to begin a
new life chapter in New Mexico.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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Months go by without any contact, and I must admit, I missed
Snake - moocher that he was - my apprentice, my friend, the younger brother
that I never had. And then, out of the blue, we receive in the mail an invite
to his wedding. In Santa Fe. In two weeks. And would Marcia bring her cameras
to photograph the nuptials?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Well
it’s no easy task leaving town, even for a weekend, when there are children, a
dog and cat, and a home where being vacant for days invites burglary. But we
get it together, the house and pet sitter, and Marcia even goes the extra mile
and rents over-the-top special lenses and purchases special low light film to
photograph the evening wedding. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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We leave for Santa Fe at midnight so our young sons will
sleep the bulk of the eight-hour car ride and we arrive early on the morning of
the wedding. The hotel where Veronica’s family from Albuquerque, Snake’s family
from Wisconsin, and some Denver friends are staying informs us that we can’t
check into our rooms until 11 AM; thus, I have the clerk ring Snake and
Veronica’s room to come up with a game plan. I’m figuring we’ll hook up with
them, maybe have breakfast together, catch up in general, and give Marcia and
Veronica time to figure out an approach to the wedding photos. But instead of a
warm welcome and invitation, Snake tells me that he and Veronica are planning
on sleeping in, after all, they were up late, and that we should simply hang
out in the lobby until we can check into our rooms. Walk around the plaza. And
please, don’t call again until the afternoon.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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Well, my first gut instinct is to return to Denver. Now! But
Marcia is really looking forward to photographing the wedding. In low light,
with her special film and her rented lenses. And her photography was to be a
wedding gift, to Snake, who had been a member of our family the last few years.
So, counter to what my gut and heart are telling me, I agree to stay for the
ceremony, and I swallow the pill of Snake and Veronica’s rudeness. Despite
being as tired as I am after the all night drive, I lead my family on a tour of
what I know of Santa Fe, for I had spent a week here some fourteen years
before. We visit the Loretto Chapel and I retell the tale of the spiral
staircase that coils its way from the ground floor to the mezzanine.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="color: #1f180a;">When the Loretto Chapel was
completed in 1878, there was no way to access the choir loft twenty-two feet
above. Carpenters were called in to address the problem, but they all concluded
access to the loft would have to be via ladder, as a staircase would interfere
with the interior space of the small Chapel. Story has it that the Sisters of
the Chapel made a novena to St. Joseph, the patron saint of carpenters, to
solve their problem. On the ninth and final day of prayer, a man appeared with
a donkey and a toolbox looking for work. A season or two later, the dovetailed,
magnificent spiral staircase was completed - without use of a nail - and the
carpenter disappeared. After coming up empty in their search for him, some
concluded that he was St. Joseph himself, having come in answer to the sisters'
prayers.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: #1f180a;">After our visit to the Loretto
Chapel, we take a short drive to Hyde Park just outside town along Little Tesuque
Creek in the Sangre de Cristo Mountains and have a picnic of a breakfast there.
I tell my sons that I live in Denver because while camped at Hyde Park in 1975
I happened to have a conversation with a Santa Fe politician who convinced me
Denver was better suited to my dream of opening up a bohemian coffee house
restaurant than Santa Fe, because Santa Fe locals, he told me, eat at home, and
visiting tourists eat in high end restaurants.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: #1f180a;">Back at the hotel we check in
and go to our room. We hope to catch a little sleep while Passion and Zenith
luxuriate in Saturday morning cartoons on the cable fed big screen. And we do.
Upon awakening, we again have the concierge connect us with Snake and </span>Veronica<span style="color: #1f180a;">’s room as Marcia needs to scout the wedding sight and reception
area for photo backdrops and get the skinny on how many group shots of family
and friends she will be taking. She wants to be sure to properly allocate her
film. She is hoping to shoot the bride and groom with her large format, four by
five, camera, and to do so when the light is at its low-in-the-sky, late
afternoon best. Her excitement with her task, however, morphs to frustration
and anger, when Snake tells her that </span>Veronica<span style="color: #1f180a;">
has decided that she does not want to have to organize any part of her wedding
day around photos. In fact, </span>Veronica<span style="color: #1f180a;"> would
prefer that Marcia not even bring her cameras to the ceremony, her reasoning
being that somehow a camera will rob the ceremony of its spiritual validity.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: #1f180a;">Impulsive decision maker that I
am, we’re on our way towards Taos on the High Road as soon as we pack up all
the gear that we had just unpacked. Never have we been treated so rudely. So
gracelessly. So disrespectfully. And we are clueless as to why? And never have
I ever felt so un-forgiving. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: #1f180a;">But forgiveness is a funny
thing.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: #1f180a;">Years pass and one day I am
graced with a letter of apology penned by Snake. He confides that </span>Veronica<span style="color: #1f180a;"> had always been jealous of our (mine and Marcia’s)
relationship with him. </span>Veronica<span style="color: #1f180a;"> disapproved
of my dropout beatnik approach to life and art. She was envious of Snake’s
admiration for Marcia as an artist and his self-confessed and unfulfilled
infatuation with “The creature that was Marcia.” She was scornful of my
counterculture entrepreneurial endeavors. My disrespect for authority. My Irish
nature. Snake tells me that over the course of their lives the last two years
in Germany where </span>Veronica<span style="color: #1f180a;"> had gotten a job
teaching art at a US Military High School, he’d gone straight and gotten a
college degree. They were planning to move back to New Mexico as </span>Veronica<span style="color: #1f180a;"> had secured an elementary teaching job in a small,
indeed, tiny Spanish Land Grant town, Cordova, on the High Road to Taos, north
of Santa Fe. He invited us to visit sometime this summer as they were hoping to
open up an art gallery where Snake hoped Marcia could exhibit her fine art
photography.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: #1f180a;">As I said, forgiveness is a
funny thing. And so, Marcia and I, trusting in the sincerity of Snake’s
apology/explanation forgave Snake and decided to reestablish a relationship
with my former<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>apprentice,
and the eight hour ride to Cordova became a yearly thing for my family.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: #1f180a;">Now Cordova New Mexico, home to
world-renown woodcarvers, is a very fecund place. The original village has a
wall around it, which had been built to protect the inhabitants from wandering
Mescalero Apaches. The first year we visited, a garage not a hundred yards from
where we slept was set a blaze and burned completely to the ground before the
fire truck from Truchas arrived. The cause of the fire: arson. The next time we
visited, Snake’s best friend in Cordova, a young wood carver who had introduced
Snake to the craft of making santos, Wally, he committed suicide. The third
time we visited, three dogs were shot-gunned point blank in the street by one
of Snake’s neighbors, his way of continuing what I was told was a forty year
old feud between two families. The fourth time we sojourned there, water for
the town dried up and National Guard trucks had to provide drinking water for
the four hundred plus residents. Our final visit to </span><span style="color: #404040;">Rio Arriba County</span><span style="color: #1f180a;">,
however, proved to be the craziest. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: #1f180a;">Marcia’s career as a
photographer had many phases: fine art ala Ansel Adams came first; then wedding
photography for a couple of years, and finally, straight up commercial
photography with the purchase of the business we have owned the last twenty-two
years. One of Marcia’s most successful clients was the sculptor, Glenna
Goodacre. Glenna has sculpted presidents; her life size bronze of Ronald Regan
stands in the Regan Library. Her Woman’s Viet-Nam Memorial adorns Washington
DC, and her Irish Memorial in Philadelphia sits just off the Delaware River
down the street from Independence Hall where her thirty-five life-size bronzes
greet the ghosts of Irish past who haunt the wharfs of Philadelphia at the site
where the émigrés landed in America fleeing the Irish famine. Glenna once lived
in Colorado and had her sculptures cast in Loveland and that’s how Marcia came
to photograph her bronzes, usually at the foundry before shipment to wherever
they were going. One year, after moving to Santa Fe, Glenna asked if Marcia
would come to New Mexico to photograph a recently cast monumental sculpture, a
large wall with children playing on it. She offered to put Marcia, me, and the
kids up for a few days at her guesthouse that sat on the estate that housed her
studio. The sculpture was going to be moved at summer’s end to somewhere in
California and she hoped Marcia could photograph it before then.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: #1f180a;">As it turned out one of my
nieces, Shannon, was planning to rendezvous in late July with my family that
summer in Chaco Canyon, a magical place just shy of two hundred miles west,
north west of Santa Fe. </span><span style="color: #252525;">Nearly a thousand years ago, Chaco Canyon was a major center of culture for the ancient population of the pueblos</span><span style="color: #252525;">. Chacoans quarried sandstone blocks and hauled timber
from great distances, assembling fifteen major complexes that remained the
largest buildings in North America until the 19th century. Archeoastronomy was
practiced there with many buildings<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>aligned to capture solar and lunar cycles, requiring
generations of astronomical observations and centuries of skillfully
coordinated construction. </span><span style="color: #1f180a;">We were going to
meet Shannon and then spend a week on a houseboat at Navajo Lake in southern
Colorado. Marcia and I decided to append the photo shoot with Glenna in Santa
Fe to the front end of our adventure and, while we were at it, maybe visit
Snake and Veronica. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: #1f180a;">The Pinons (for some reason
Snake had adopted Veronica’s last name as his own) had expanded their
gallery/home in Cordova and had even purchased the property east of their
house. It served as Snake’s music studio. My oldest son was playing saxophone
and my youngest played guitar and so after a phone call to Snake, a jam in
Cordova became part of our itinerary. After a camp-night at the Great Sand
Dunes National Monument, we’d spend a few days in Cordova, a few more at Glenna’s, some
time at Chaco, and then five days on the houseboat at Navajo Lake. It would be,
we hoped, a rich, on the road, unparalleled vacation, mixing family, friends
and business. It took a week just to organize and pack our Mazda minivan; we
even had to purchase and install a Sears’ cargo carrier on the roof to
accommodate the sundry photographic, music, camping, boating, and swimming gear
we’d need. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: #1f180a;">After camping Friday night at
the Great Sand Dunes south of Crestone, we spend a morning visiting Fort
Garland, the gateway to the San Luis Valley, before heading to the town of San
Luis itself, which happens to be the oldest town in Colorado. Now, unknown to
us, in late July, San Luis and the Parish of Sangre de Cristo organize a
festival, Santana Days, to celebrate and honor the mother of the Virgin Mary,
Santa Ana. It’s three days and nights of party party party, with a parade on
Saturday. As we arrive in San Luis we can’t believe our good fortune at having
arrived on the biggest day of the year in this charming little town –
population six hundred plus - where everyone knows everyone, if in fact they
are not actually related. Everyone for miles around is on Main Street, as are a
convention center’s fill of low-riders, motorcycles, antique cars, and horse
pulled farm relics. The air is alive with the sound of Spanish serenades, Bud
lite pop-tops popping, horns honking, radios blaring, Michoachan marihuana
sizzling, mariachi music marching, and Hispanic food, deep frying and
barbecuing. It seems San Luis is as happy as Mount Blanca to the west is
domineering: that is, big time. We spend the morning amongst the<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>celebrants then climb back into
our Mazda to head towards Taos New Mexico, some sixty miles south of the
Colorado New Mexico border. When we pull away from the curb I detect a ghost of
power loss as the transmission automatically shifts from second into third. A
light flickers on my dash. I am spooked, and as the festivities of San Luis
recede in my rearview mirror, I consider the wisdom of heading into the high
desert mountain wilderness between here and Taos with indicator lights flickering
faintly. Wisely, I turn around and head back into the thick of Santana Days,
because no sooner have I reached the south end of town than all power to the
engine ceases. The motor is running but it seems the transmission is useless, <i>kaput</i></span><span style="color: #1f180a;">, <i>finito</i></span><span style="color: #1f180a;">! We
glide to a stop. I turn off the ignition and attempt to restart the engine.
Again: <i>nada</i></span><span style="color: #1f180a;">. I exit the van and
assess the situation. There are three gas stations within sight, but all are
closed for the holiday and none appear to be full service garages. I’m guessing
the closest Mazda dealer would be back in Colorado Springs or further south in
Santa Fe or Albuquerque. And when I use a phone in a Main Street restaurant I
find my guess as to the location of a Mazda dealer was eerily correct.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: #1f180a;">Well, we are on a schedule and
people (Glenna in Santa Fe and my niece in Chaco Canyon) are counting on us.
Snake and Veronica are expecting us to arrive today. And then, on this holiday
of a saint, a saint appears, a stranger to us, but a saint, nonetheless.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: #1f180a;">“Car trouble?” he asks before
telling us, “From my window I watched you coast to a stop, saw you making phone
calls, and can’t help but note your obvious distress. Please know, I’d be happy
to help you depart this madness,” indicating with a wave of his hand the
revelry around us as the Santanna parade is now in full swing, with a marching
mariachi band progressing northward. “I deplore this holiday. By night there
will be drunken mayhem, a shooting or stabbing or two, and trash everywhere.
Hardly an appropriate way to honor the mother of God’s mother, if you know what
I mean. Trust me: she’s not smiling. I’ll tow you anywhere you want to go. My
cousin’s got a flatbed. He can be here within the hour. I’m happy to help.
Where would you like to go? Alamosa? Colorado Springs, or somewhere in New
Mexico? You pay for gas, buy me and my cousin lunch in Taos, and I’ll take you
all the way to Santa Fe, if need be.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: #1f180a;">Now I’m Irish and believe in
luck but this is almost beyond belief, miracle-like; nonetheless, our
benefactor, this blue-eyed, bearded Joseph – who could have served as a model
for many of Snakes’ carvings of Mary’s husband I have seen - proves to be for
real, and before noon my family is ensconced in the back seat of a Suburban to
which is hitched a flat bed trailer on which is strapped our mini van,
progressing southward on the High Road to Santa Fe.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: #1f180a;">Well as it turns out the Feast
of Santa Ana is celebrated not only in San Luis but in every Hispanic town and
Native American pueblo on the High Road between Colorado and Santa Fe: in
Questa, El Prado, Taos, Rancho de Taos, Placita, Penasco, Talpa, Picuris
Pueblo, Dixon and Truchas. Traffic snakes towards and through each of these
towns and crossroads, and what should have been a two-hour drive takes seven.
We pull off the High Road and down the hill into Cordova just as the sun begins
casting the shadows of the Jemez Mountains eastward. One can’t imagine how
happy we are to have arrived at the Pinon hacienda and gallery. Similarly one
cannot imagine how happy we will be to bid farewell to the Pinons a week from
now, as our time here is fecund with unimaginable strangeness and unmitigated
meanness that begins with my first conversation with Snake.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: #1f180a;">Now our new friends from San
Luis had not expected how heavy and slow-moving the traffic on the High Road
would be, and they are as weary and antsy to get on with their day, well their
night, as we are. Taos had been a madhouse of Santa Ana celebration and we had
not even stopped for lunch. Our Saint Joseph and his cousin are hungry and
thirsty and wishing they were in Santa Fe already. My hope is to leave the van
at a car dealer in Santa Fe after unloading all our gear, here, in Cordova.
Marcia and the kids will stay here while Snake and I escort Joseph and my van
to the dealership. We will go in Snake’s car so Joseph and his brother won’t
have to bring me back to Cordova and they can take I-25, rather than the High
Road back to San Luis. I figure Snake and I will catch up during the roundtrip
to and from Santa Fe, and maybe do a wee bit of Saturday Night partying in
Santa Fe as I am flush with vacation money to burn. So you can imagine my shock
when Snake tells me, “I’d rather not drive to Santa Fe tonight. I don’t like
going into Santa Fe on Saturday. Have Joseph bring you back here.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: #1f180a;">I look at Marcia. I look at
Joseph. I take Marcia aside and tell her we should just go with Joseph and stay
in Santa Fe. “Leave now!” as I sense another bout of wedding insanity,
disrespect and rudeness. But she disagrees and counters my argument: “Since Veronica
is pregnant, maybe Snake does not want to leave her here in Cordova without any
means of transportation.” I’m not buying it and am protesting with my body
language when the saint that is Joseph, overhearing our repartee and sensing my
dismay, tells me, “I’ll be happy to take you and your van to Santa Fe and then
return you here. I have relatives in Truchas and my cousin and I will spend our
night with family.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: #1f180a;">So off we go, Saint Joseph and
I, once again, on the High Road to Santa Fe. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: #1f180a;">Because celebrations honoring
Santa Ana are taking place in Espanola and at other Native American pueblos
between Cordova and Santa Fe, it takes close to three hours for the round trip.
When I finally bid farewell to Saint Joseph and his cousin in the full moon light
of the Pinon front yard, I am greeted by Snake who steps out of the moon shadow
of his apple tree. He tells me our wives and my boys are asleep and that we
should go up to his studio – which he had named Tibet – to relax and converse.
Imagine my annoyance when I spy a second car belonging to Snake parked there. I
know it’s his because of the Free Tibet bumper sticker. Marcia’s reasoning
surrounding Snake’s refusal to accompany me to Santa Fe had been wrong as there
would have been transportation should a sudden emergency with Veronica’s
pregnancy have arisen. But I’m too tired and spooked to pry; Snake and I drink
some wine and have an hour’s conversation about sundry subjects, including the
parochial nature of Cordova, without my bringing up my annoyance with his
rudeness.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: #1f180a;">Morning brings a new day and we
eat a simple breakfast of bananas and cereal after sleeping late. It is Sunday
and the dealership where I left my van will not open until Monday; meaning I
won’t get a diagnosis and an estimate of when I might get my van back until
then. This limbos our planned itinerary, leaving it in an uncertain state. We
had hoped to leave for Glenna’s on Tuesday morning but I realize we might still
be without our van. After breakfast I try to figure out what we might do. Sadly
and selfishly Snake and Veronica seem to imply that our problems are our
problems and they have no intention of getting involved. They seem to act as
though our car trouble was an assault on their convenience and daily life. They
assert again that they would rather not drive to Santa Fe, without offering any
reason why not. The only thing I can come up with is that they are afraid that
their home might be robbed if they leave it unattended. Espanola, the nearest
town of any size, is known nationally as the heroin capitol of North America.
But even this guess as to the reason for their reluctance does not make sense.
They have lived here five years and surely they leave their house sometimes.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: #1f180a;">Trying to save the morning, I
suggest that Passion and Zenith get their instruments and jam with Snake. I had
noticed a couple of beat-up, pawnshop Stratocasters in Snake’s studio and I
knew Zenith would appreciate a chance to play one. Sadly the jam turns out to
be a bust as Snake tells us his guitars are off limits, that Zenith would have
to make do with his Gibson. After an hour or so of being anything but groovy,
we return to the main house. I cannot help but notice that the kitchen has been
cleaned up and even the bowl of mangos and bananas that had sat so picturesquely
on the table was out of sight. My boys, ever hungry, ask after the fruit and
are told it had been put away for later. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: #1f180a;">Now next door to Snake’s house,
to the west, was the largest house in Cordova. Snake and Veronica had tried to
buy it, but Josephita who owned it refused the Pinon’s generous offers because
she wanted to keep it in the family, not exactly her blood family, but in the
Cordova family. As I discover later that morning in a conversation with George
Lopez, Cordova’s most famous woodcarver, Snake and Veronica would always be
considered outsiders, no matter that Veronica was the elementary school teacher
responsible for the education of the children of Cordova. The people of Cordova
were tight and their circle was impenetrable. Apparently Snake had really
alienated the town when he had taken up wood carving as that art was not
something to be practiced by an outsider. That Snake sold his carvings at his
gallery was insulting to the fifth and sixth generation wood carvers of
Cordova. Just how resentful the people of Cordova were about outsiders is
illustrated by a story Snake had told me the night before.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: #1f180a;">In March a couple from Boulder,
Colorado purchased a house across the road from the Pinon Gallery. They sold
their home there and were hoping to spend their golden years in Cordova, as
they simply loved the landscape and the proximity to Santa Fe and Georgia
O’Keefe’s Ghost Ranch in Abiquiu. They were O’Keefe fans and even owned a small
painting that they had purchased years ago from Gerald Peters. They made
arrangements to move their possessions to Cordova while they vacationed and
visited family in Arizona. Their plan was to arrive in Cordova the day after
their belongings were delivered to their new home. It had been a wet late winter
in New Mexico and when the Mayflower moving van from Boulder with its Colorado
plates left the High Road to head down hill to Cordova it got stuck in the mud
where the centuries old irrigation ditch was contiguous with the road. The
driver walked the last half-mile into Cordova in search of a phone or a tow,
and when he returned forty-five minutes later he found the van and everything
inside – including the O’Keefe - ablaze. The smoke billowing skyward was an
exclamation mark to the unexpressed village sentiment: Outsiders are not
welcome here!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: #1f180a;">But outsiders – a family from La
Cienega south of Santa Fe, had purchased Josephita’s house. I guess, in
actuality, Josephita, had a hidden agenda and for reasons of her own, simply
did not want to sell it to the Pinons. The new owners had fashioned Josephita’s
home into a Bed & Breakfast and ran a small café. Since Passion and Zenith
were hungry and the hidden fruit was “for later” I suggested I treat everyone
to lunch at the café. But for reasons known only to them, Snake and Veronica,
tell us they are not hungry; thus only my family and I head to the café. Now
keep in mind we are in a town of some four hundred residents and everyone knows
of everyone’s comings and goings. We don’t have to tell anyone anything because
the family running the café as well as George Lopez and his brother, conversing
over coffee in the corner, have seen us approach from Snake’s side door. All
appear leery of us, as if we are bringing some bad juju into the room. But
after a few minutes of my kids wowing everyone with their enthusiasm for the
food and the santos for sale in the display case, our association with Snake
and Veronica is forgotten or simply overlooked. We are not outsiders moving
here; we are simply tourists, and tourists are the economic lifeblood of
Cordova. We get friendly with our waitress, Magdalena, a seventeen year old and
chat her up about our car situation, mentioning Snake and Veronica’s reluctance
to drive to Santa Fe. Her facial expression informs me that Magdalena finds
this not surprising, her disdain for the Pinons apparent in the roll of her
brown eyes. I tell her that we’re feeling so out of touch with our hosts,
so alienated, that I’m thinking of hitchhiking into Santa Fe and renting a car
so we can keep our date with Glenna Goodacre while our car is being repaired.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: #1f180a;">“No need to hitchhike,” she
says, “I’ll drive you to Santa Fe when we close for the afternoon. In one
hour.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: #1f180a;">“Day two, Saint two,” I whisper
to Marcia.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: #1f180a;">So I refigure our itinerary.
We’ll go rent a car and then come back to Cordova for what we’ll need in the
short term: Marcia’s camera gear and clothes to wear until then. We will stay
in Santa Fe at another old friend’s geodesic dome, Eloi Hernandez’s home, a
night or two. And then a night or two at Glenna’s. Once we have our van back
and are finished photographing at Glenna’s, we’ll return to Cordova and get
what we must leave behind: the saxophone and guitar, our swim and boating
stuff, our suitcases and camping gear.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: #1f180a;">I tell Snake our plans and he
seems relieved that we will not be asking him to help. Soon we are on our way
to Santa Fe feeling pretty high as the Pinon hacienda fades from view. The last
twenty-four hours reinforced the notion that family is sometimes all you have.
I tell Marcia that maybe Cordova’s dislike of outsiders has possessed the
consciousness of Snake and Veronica. Paranoia can be a powerful disease, one
that leads to incivility and distrust. Why else would we have been treated so
rudely? And why, I still can’t figure out, are they afraid to drive to Santa
Fe?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: #1f180a;">Two hours later Magdalena is on
her way back to Cordova and we are sitting in the Tecolote Cafe awaiting the
arrival of sundry friends who live in and near Santa Fe: Eloi and assorted
members of his family and other artist friends. Eloi, a Yaqui Indian, was a
founding member of the Hog Farm, one of the first Hippie communes, and he had
had two wives and eighteen children. My son Passion’s godfather, the artist
Michael Bergt and his wife Tamara and daughter Sienna would be joining us along
with the poet John Macker and his wife Anne who were driving down from Las
Vegas. All of these friends I had hoped to introduce to Snake and Veronica but
their aversion to Santa Fe had denied me the opportunity to enrich their insular
existence. (And yes, I am aware how judgmental I sound.) After an afternoon of
eating and drinking and reminiscing, my friends all head home and my family
heads to the Plaza to partake of the scene there. As we wander amongst the
displays and blankets full of merchandise of the Native American artisans in
front of the Governor’s Mansion, I hear Marcia gasp and utter what sounds like
the word <i>snake</i></span><span style="color: #1f180a;">. Thinking she must
have come across a snakeskin belt or a serpentine fetish or a piece of jewelry
too snake-like for her tastes – after all: Marcia grew up in Wyoming where
rattlesnakes are central to every woman’s nightmares – I turn to see her
wide-eyed and seemingly dumbfounded. “Snake,” she says again and indicates with
her eyes and head gesture that I should turn around. “There," she says, “across
the plaza. It’s Snake and Veronica skulking around and spying on us. There,
slinking among the crowd in front of Loretto Chapel. It’s them. They’re here in
Santa Fe. Obviously following us.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: #1f180a;">Well, needless to say, we don’t
join them and we hightail it to a second story restaurant on the Plaza where
from our balcony table we can keep watch for our stalkers. Marcia is so shook
up by the presence of the Pinons in Santa Fe, that she drinks the first and
second Margaritas of her life. We catch our last sight of them, side-winding
their way among the tourists as they depart the Plaza. This turns out to be,
literally, our last sight of the slithering Pinons in New Mexico. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: #1f180a;">Resuming our vacation, we spend
two wonderful nights with Eloi Hernandez and his family. Passion and Zenith
enjoy the party spirit that pervades Eloi’s self-built dome, as people are
constantly coming and going and inventing merriment as only the children of a
commune do. My kids are up late nights with the adults as Eloi tells his tale
of being Jimi Hendrix’ bodyguard at Woodstock. We watch the film on VHS and
it’s high fives all around each time Eloi can be seen. And then it’s off to
Glenna Goodacre’s where we enter the personal universe of the world’s most famous
woman sculptor. Everywhere there are fabulous things: furniture and weavings
and rugs and paintings and beautiful bronze statues, many of which are based on
Glenna’s daughter, Jill, a Victoria Secrets model, who is married to Harry
Connick, Jr. The guesthouse where we stay is the other end of the universe from
Eloi’s 60s dome and Snake’s Cordovan hacienda. I estimate the art in the
guesthouse alone to be worth millions. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: #1f180a;">Anyway, as it turns out, we get
to retrieve our Mazda on Thursday afternoon. The transmission has been replaced
and, miracle of miracles, we are still on schedule to rendezvous with my niece
in Chaco Canyon on the morrow. We bid Glenna farewell, pickup our van, and drop
off our rental car, before heading back to Cordova to retrieve the gear and
belongings we had left behind. On our way thunderclouds develop and before we
pass the Nambe reservation a deluge of rain cascades from the sky. The wipers
can hardly keep up. But after a stop at Ortega’s in Chimayo to purchase a
couple of small weavings and to await the cessation of rain, it’s nightfall and
the moon appears amongst the scattering thunder clouds as we exit the High Road
to descend the hill into Cordova. Marcia remarks the scene is reminiscent of
Ansel Adams’ <i>Moon Rise Over Hernandez</i></span><span style="color: #1f180a;">,
the very photograph that had inspired her to become a photographer decades
earlier. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: #1f180a;">Snake and Veronica’s property
sits on the only road into town, and as we approach, we see their houselights
glowing in the valley darkness, as there are no streetlights in the village.
But when I turn into the driveway between the hacienda and Tibet, the lights in
the house go dark and my headlights offer the only illumination as a cloud has
swallowed the moon. As I exit the van and approach the front door up a muddied
flagstaff walkway, I see our belongings piled on the rain soaked sod aside the
house, covered with a soaping wet painter’s canvas drop cloth. I sense but do
not see eyes spying from behind the closed curtains of the gallery. It is
obvious that we are not welcome. Maybe never were. And to this day I have no
idea how or why a man who shared two years of my family’s life became the
slithering snake of every Wyoming girl’s nightmare. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: #1f180a;">And one more bit of strangeness.
After our visit to Chaco Canyon and Navajo Lake we headed back to Denver and
again drove through San Luis, hoping to thank Joseph again for his kindness
with a gift of one of the weavings we had purchased in Chimayo. At the
restaurant in front of which I had first encountered Joseph I ask about him.
After all, everyone in San Luis knows everyone else. I describe his appearance:
his tall slight build, his carpenter’s hands, his mustache and beard, his odd
blue eyes, and I speak of his cousin with the flatbed trailer and Suburban. No
one that we speak to has clue. They tell me: no blue-eyed Joseph lives in San
Luis.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<!--EndFragment--></div>
<!--EndFragment-->Edwin Forrest Wardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09239907046852195219noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8534379790827614432.post-55286390359093700592014-03-07T10:48:00.001-07:002014-03-07T13:26:13.062-07:0021 POEMS - Edwin Forrest Ward<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 19px;">21 POEMS -<i> Edwin Forrest Ward</i></span></h3>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
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<br />
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<br /></div>
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NIGHTS WITHOUT LOVE</div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
nights without love</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
I looted unlocked</div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
cars, drunk</div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
stumbled I upon</div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
lookin’ for</div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
a bride tossed garter</div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
I’d lost long ago or
a </div>
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bow for my broken
arrow</div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
in my ransacking ways</div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
I was an indian angel</div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
among the trinkets</div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
of glove box and
floor</div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
here a condom, there
some gum</div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
aglow on the
dashboard</div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
saint someone
protects</div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
the plunder from me</div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
I take little, just
read signs</div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
recycle debris</div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
these nights without
love</div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
make a barbarian of
me</div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
COUNTERMEASURES</div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
aside water pools and
water</div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
falls, stone beneath
four feet</div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
in places such as
this</div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
we pile rocks</div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
scribe names</div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
to make tomorrow weep</div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
carved intaglio,
ancient pine</div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
will fall in time
upon</div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
assembled spelling
stones</div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
eras leave no bone
unturned</div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
mountains tremble</div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
chasms yawn</div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
years from now</div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
arrives too soon</div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
love like ours</div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
nights like this</div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
the only
countermeasures</div>
<div align="right" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: right;">
<br />
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
A SERIOUS ADVENTURE</div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
longing</div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
risk</div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
the undress of a
waitress</div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
in morning</div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
coffee black and
cigarettes</div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
the silkiest lounging
attire</div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
TIME IS A PLACE</div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
it ain’t easy</div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
to quiet the world</div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
it ain’t easy</div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
to set the stage
right</div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
it’s a tease to look
me in the eyes</div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
it’s a tease</div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
to stand in such
light</div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
a bureau of cosmetics</div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
a nightstand of books</div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
the lamp off now</div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
the window outside</div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
a dawn bed of flowers</div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
time is a place</div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
a bouquet of earthly
locations</div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<br />
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
HEADSTONE</div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
death is the dilemma</div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
an epitaph cures</div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
write yours now</div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
THEY BURY IN PAIRS
WHERE I COME FROM</div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
it is always morning</div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
flesh against flesh
upon</div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
lush carpet in a poem
to promises kept</div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
Away Forever Swept</div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div align="right" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: right;">
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
</div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
SIMPLY SAID</div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
simply said</div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
sun enlightens earth</div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
even the moon needs</div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
sunlight to ride</div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
white across the
night</div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
is this not apparent
to all?</div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
I wonder</div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>in these days of art</div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
when upon the face of
it</div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
they paint a woman’s
flirt</div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
as if the sun were
flower</div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
come on! I know </div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
the anatomy of</div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
orchid and fire</div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
who brings light</div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
who is flower</div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
POEM FOR PASSION</div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
all right, kid</div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
put this in your
pocket</div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
with the house keys</div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
she will always be
younger</div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
than you</div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
with your ability</div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
to woo</div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
even in the city</div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
where quantity
obscures</div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
you’ll find her</div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
smooth face, bright</div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
shiver of light,
cupped</div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
flesh in your hands</div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
another key:</div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
what to do with it</div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
her youth and
willingness</div>
<div align="right" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: right;">
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
</div>
<div align="right" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: right;">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
TRUST</div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
trust</div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
it wasn’t easy </div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
to give up the many </div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
for monogamy’s one.</div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
I’d slide my eyes
along the lie</div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
of every passing
female thigh</div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
every woman met,
undressed</div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
for what attire
conceals</div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
the toss of eye</div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
the hair reveals.</div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
some say the face.
some say </div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
the verb of bending.
must </div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
needs be unending,
the</div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
tangle of reasons for
love.</div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
PUPPET POEM</div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
you need no ESP</div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
to sense the strings</div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
we’ve tangled</div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
the physics of the
world</div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
strings the
astronomical</div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
the small</div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
puppet to puppet</div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
with no puppeteer</div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
we, the lovers,
dance.</div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
I am rising</div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
you are rising</div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
too</div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<br />
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
THE DISTANCE TO HER
ALWAYS</div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
quicker. love</div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
puts lead in the foot</div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
the accelerator to
the floor</div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
it’s always a </div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
hurry-home</div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
to love<i><o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div align="right" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: right;">
<br /></div>
<div align="right" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: right;">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
A CONSPIRACY FOR TWO
IN EROTICALLY MAJOR<o:p></o:p></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
we do everything
together.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
sleep, cook, eat,
shower, water, weed and flower<o:p></o:p></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
play, empower, mistake,
parent, work, procreate<o:p></o:p></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
inspire, desire,
conspire<o:p></o:p></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
we do everything
together.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
now she primps as I
write.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
the perfect lay of
dungaree denim<o:p></o:p></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
announces her
intention<o:p></o:p></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
attracts my
attention.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
my lover has new <i>lucky</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> jeans.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<i>look how well they
fit,</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> she says<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<i>I’m dressing for
sex at the office today.<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
lucky for me we work
together.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
lucky for me we do
everything together.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
CROWN OF LIGHTS<o:p></o:p></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
upon my knees I look
up to see<o:p></o:p></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
a diadem of galaxies<o:p></o:p></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
vortex the cortex of
my love<o:p></o:p></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
incredulous she asks<o:p></o:p></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
how do we make the
sun go up and down?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
with our love, as
always, with our love<o:p></o:p></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
A STRUCTURE IN 13
LINES / A WEDDING SONG<o:p></o:p></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
this woman<o:p></o:p></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
like a poem needs<o:p></o:p></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
another’s hands<o:p></o:p></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
to make it tight<o:p></o:p></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
the love around the
braided hair<o:p></o:p></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
for this man<o:p></o:p></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
what’s to do?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
but tie the knot<o:p></o:p></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
or lift the hair<o:p></o:p></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
to kiss the face<o:p></o:p></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
that love would wear<o:p></o:p></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
to see the white
light<o:p></o:p></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
shining there<o:p></o:p></div>
<div align="right" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: right;">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
EVEN THE MOST KINDRED
SOULS <o:p></o:p></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
HAVE SEPARATE BODIES<o:p></o:p></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
love is couscous cake<o:p></o:p></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
with lemon curd, the<o:p></o:p></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
affections of an
afternoon’s kiss<o:p></o:p></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
giving up lust for
Lent.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
love bends an ear to
hear<o:p></o:p></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
a fantasy to sharpen
its<o:p></o:p></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
delights against and
asks<o:p></o:p></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
questions of fidelity<o:p></o:p></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
and the trust of just<o:p></o:p></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
one name between us.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
ah, drive time with
my Valentine.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
in the back seat, the
kids asleep,<o:p></o:p></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
and a picnic keeps,
as mountain towns<o:p></o:p></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
a century golden old
ghost by.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
the curves along the
creek<o:p></o:p></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
host an infinity of
light<o:p></o:p></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
sliced by jagged
peaks<o:p></o:p></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
as we fly in the face<o:p></o:p></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
of a suitcase of
facts against us<o:p></o:p></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
- we legatees of
outlaw mountain lore.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
recognize, we do,<o:p></o:p></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
the effect the music
has on us<o:p></o:p></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
as the road follows
water through the canyon<o:p></o:p></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
while centrifugation
creates<o:p></o:p></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
our lean of bodies<o:p></o:p></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
‘round snakes at
fifty-five<o:p></o:p></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
and switchbacks at
twenty.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
we babble our way
unto the next<o:p></o:p></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
descent and
reminisce,<o:p></o:p></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
taste the sweat of a
hot springs rendezvous<o:p></o:p></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
with you, your Pinto
winding west<o:p></o:p></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
across a valley so
high<o:p></o:p></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
‘twas lit by stars
that moonless night.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
one hand upon the
wheel I<o:p></o:p></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
keep one upon your
thigh.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
even the most kindred
souls<o:p></o:p></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
have separate bodies.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
even the most kindred
souls<o:p></o:p></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
have separate bodies.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div align="right" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: right;">
<br /></div>
<div align="right" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: right;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
THE POT QUEEN</div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
a ranch relic lust,
who but you</div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
o creatrix, could
sativa trust?</div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
who but you, shape
shaper of silver night?</div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
who but you insights
with light?</div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
in a small garden, in
a small place</div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
…no, that will never
do…</div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
in a valley vast the
mother of the harvest fires up</div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
another fecund
moment, a full moon swoon</div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
creeping through the
groin of earth itself.</div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
children gather
‘round her, their eyes, like</div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
adoring spacecraft.</div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
the moment is the
happiness of handing him, the</div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
partner, man</div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
a flower bigger than
his dick, bigger than a bird,</div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
bigger than his
appetite.</div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
the Pot Queen loves
the measure of his delight at</div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
his first sight of it</div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
anticipates the
pleasures of the making love he’s</div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
promised her for
later.</div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
the Pot Queen attends
well, charms again, this</div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
creature she has
captured.</div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
her radiance, the
pleasure of happy </div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
I am to see you.</div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
her world, one of
interested beings </div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
still interested in
being.</div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
her taste, the velvet
throat of imagination.</div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
her face, the verb <i>to
luster</i><span style="font-style: normal;">.</span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
NOW THAT STEVE IS
BACK </div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
(for Steve Wilson)</div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
now that steve is
back</div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
the plainer poems</div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
dressed like bookman</div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
scouting lawn sales</div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
the ass pocket a
jingle</div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
with miniatures of
vodka</div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
one shot per slug</div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
rambling a bit to
insure</div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
the territory’s
covered</div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
before opening the
bag</div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
that carries home the
pumpkin pie</div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div align="right" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: right;">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
IF EVERYONE BELIEVED
IN GHOSTS</div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
if everyone believed
in ghosts</div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
there’d be no lies</div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
fortune tellers would</div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
be out of business</div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
or in charge of the
future</div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
we could nothing to
connive</div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
what with all the
family watching</div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
we would just have
flower gardens</div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
and throw parties</div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
sculpting beautiful
statues</div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
of our selves</div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
for our children</div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
if everyone believed
in ghosts</div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
there’d be no bad
deals</div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
no short weight</div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
and very little
conversation</div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
in the government</div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
the pain would
slacken</div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
no stiff necks</div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
and love</div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
would be the subject</div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
of our experiments</div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
THE MAGICIAN</div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
nobody knows</div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
what he does</div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
inside the trick</div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
ever</div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
always</div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
he hides the strings</div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
she moves his hands</div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
IT’S NOT EASY</div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
it’s not easy</div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
to throw away</div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
old clothes</div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
the buttons alone!</div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
BILLY B – (for
William S. Burroughs Jr.)<o:p></o:p></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
billy b<o:p></o:p></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
he be dead <o:p></o:p></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
at thirty-three<o:p></o:p></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
(like a cypress tree
cut down<o:p></o:p></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
to clear the air
around<o:p></o:p></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
a stop sign<o:p></o:p></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
- the idiots!<o:p></o:p></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
something cute about<o:p></o:p></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>a pirate and a poet<o:p></o:p></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
funning themselves<o:p></o:p></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
on colorado boulevard<o:p></o:p></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
with me on the lark
to luck love<o:p></o:p></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
and the baby you
divined<o:p></o:p></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
and you<o:p></o:p></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
casually on your way
to early death<o:p></o:p></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
(aye<o:p></o:p></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
and sainthood in a
cutthroat heaven)<o:p></o:p></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
yes<o:p></o:p></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
we were <i>outriggish</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> as you said<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
the clothes the
hearts the hair<o:p></o:p></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
and you<o:p></o:p></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
on the hospital
morphine fly<o:p></o:p></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
so high<o:p></o:p></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
you’d pass out on a
toke of good weed<o:p></o:p></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
and I’d take you home
to your chair<o:p></o:p></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
where you’d smoke
your cigarettes<o:p></o:p></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
drink your beer -
schlitz malt liquor please - <o:p></o:p></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
and stare<o:p></o:p></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
at alice liddell<o:p></o:p></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
doc holliday<o:p></o:p></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
or joe frazier<o:p></o:p></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
maybe get your
strength back in a while<o:p></o:p></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
and throw a knife
into the wall<o:p></o:p></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
or bayonet the couch<o:p></o:p></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
I’d water your
philodendron<o:p></o:p></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
a tropical rarity you
claimed<o:p></o:p></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
for a year I was
gonna get <o:p></o:p></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
a new pot for it,
billy<o:p></o:p></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
and remember lili,
billy<o:p></o:p></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
an angel come to see
you<o:p></o:p></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’d hoped there’d be a meeting of the hearts<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 15px;"><i> </i></span></span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
and remember the day<o:p></o:p></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
you ernie and ray<o:p></o:p></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
dressed in wedding
bests<o:p></o:p></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
out the door at 9 am<o:p></o:p></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
catching a ride <o:p></o:p></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
to the finest
celebration of the summer, your last<o:p></o:p></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
tattooed children<o:p></o:p></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
actors and painters<o:p></o:p></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
cool jazz on the
balcony<o:p></o:p></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
beautiful dresses
across the floor<o:p></o:p></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
with booze on the
tables even<o:p></o:p></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
and mushrooms in the
bag<o:p></o:p></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
tony scibella was
throwing hats <o:p></o:p></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
off the edge<o:p></o:p></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
and you warned about
knives<o:p></o:p></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
and revenge in
relation to your hat<o:p></o:p></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
and that hillside<o:p></o:p></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
child-mad you were<o:p></o:p></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
defending your hat<o:p></o:p></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
and on the way back
that night<o:p></o:p></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
you wanted to stop at
mcdonald’s<o:p></o:p></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
but I didn’t have the
hour<o:p></o:p></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
it would take you to
eat<o:p></o:p></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
I dropped you off
hungry<o:p></o:p></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
in front of your pad<o:p></o:p></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
and pointed at<o:p></o:p></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
the jack in the box
across the street<o:p></o:p></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
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<!--EndFragment-->Edwin Forrest Wardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09239907046852195219noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8534379790827614432.post-78982972673412051962014-03-05T19:47:00.002-07:002014-03-13T09:28:04.470-06:00"In My Mother's Bed"<br />
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“In My Mother’s Bed”<br />
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as always</div>
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for Marcia</div>
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The great American poet, Robert Lee Frost, was once asked,
“What is the most significant event, the most important thing that ever
happened to you?” I’m sure the interviewer thought Frost’s response would have
something to do one of the following: with Frost’s recitation of his poem “The
Outright Gift” at the inauguration of John F. Kennedy on January 20, 1963, the
first time ever that a poet had the honor of reading at a presidential
inauguration; or being selected to be the Poet Laureate of the United States
from 1953 to 1959; or receiving the Pulitzer Prize for Poetry four times, in
the years 1924, 1931, 1937 and 1943; or receiving Yale’s Bollingen Prize for
Poetry in 1963; or his marriage to his high school sweetheart and
co-valedictorian, Elinor White on December 19, 1895; or the births of any of
his six children. Robert Frost’s answer, however, had nothing to do with any of
these important events and dates in his life; rather, his answer – “a road less
traveled,” if you will - had to do with Frost’s own birth in San Francisco on
March 26, 1874: “I was born in my mother’s bed.”</div>
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Now I’m not sure how I came to know this odd fact. My best
guess is that I heard it via a recorded interview with Frost that was broadcast
on early public - as in University of Pennsylvania - radio in the 70s, a decade
or so after his death. Regardless, it was an indelible tidbit etched on my hard
drive that I never forgot and which helped to inform my getting on board with
Marcia’s decision to pursue a homebirth when she became pregnant in July of
1980. Our first child was born on March 27, 1981, like Frost, in its mother’s
bed, in particular at 542 South Pearl Street in Denver one hundred and seven
years, plus three hours, after Frost was born. This is the story of that birth
and the fortunate happenstance of the five women, the midwives who assisted.</div>
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<br /></div>
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Marcia and I were not exactly trying to conceive a child
when we did. As with many of the important moments together in our lives, a
wedding played a part in Marcia’s impregnation. Indeed, our history as a couple
is wedding rich: Marcia and I met as blind dates at a wedding and we both have
spent decades working as wedding professionals, Marcia as a photographer and I
as a celebrant. Our own wedding in 1979 was so over the top personal that those
in attendance still speak of the poems burned, the mushrooms distributed, the
fact I wore no shirt, the motley tent made of sown together drapes that shaded
her family and my friends from the July noontime sun in our South Pearl Street
backyard, the severe frown on my father-in-law-to-be’s face. And much of what I
know of spirituality and ritual has been engendered by what I’ve experienced at
weddings. </div>
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Now the particular wedding connected to our first child’s
conception was the wedding of my boss at the time, Tommy Larkin. He managed the
Boston Half Shell where I waited tables. Thus it was an Irish/restaurant-worker
wedding with more than its fair share of fine food and drink; and I do believe
the alcohol offered and imbibed that day in Aspen Colorado played a significant
role in Marcia’s miscalculation of her ovulation cycle as we made love the
night of Tommy’s marriage. Nonetheless, when, a month or so later, it became
apparent that something was missing in Marcia’s life, the regular monthly
punctuation signaling all is as it has been, that she might be pregnant, we
both were ecstatic with joy at the prospect of parenthood and we embraced the
pink color of the test strip and the confirmation of her pregnancy with an
almost rabid fervor. It would seem that something I wrote in a poem after
attending Tony Scibella’s daughter’s wedding in 1979 – “At weddings, a woman,
sometimes two, will get pregnant” - had been prophetic. </div>
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<br /></div>
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And soon, Marcia and I were off in search of a midwife, not
an easy thing to do in 1980 as midwifery was generally frowned upon by most
practitioners of modern medicine and not the usual choice of young married
couples, even though humans have been born without hospitals, doctors and drugs
for over two hundred thousand years. Many of the people in our lives at the
time thought us a bit crazy, if not irresponsible, to pursue homebirth,
including Marcia’s parents who would never be on the same page, culturally and
spiritually, with their daughter and son-in-law. Marcia and I took to searching
the postings of community bulletin boards in the Bohemian establishments we
frequented: coffee houses and bookstores and what were then known as natural
food stores. Although practically everyone we knew characterized our search as
foolish, dangerous, and hippie-dippy, we thought it to be wise, natural and
empowering, if you will, “the road less traveled.” And the midwife we soon
hooked up with proved to be wise, natural and empowering as well. Rare would be
the woman who could say she had walked in her shoes. Her name was Gina and to
this day I consider us lucky to have found her because her underground network
of fellow practitioners of black-market midwifery was so large that a <i>curandera</i><span style="font-style: normal;">, i.e., a woman healer in Texas, her wisdom, was
largely responsible for solving a difficulty that presented itself during the
birth of our first child, and the elderly healer never even knew of us. </span></div>
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Marcia’s labor was exceedingly long, over thirty hours:
morning, noon, afternoon, evening, night, all night, into another morning.
Because Gina was an on-the-down-low teacher of midwifery as well as a
practitioner, there were three other midwives assisting Gina during the first
twenty-nine hours of Marcia’s labor, and a fourth arrived about twenty minutes
before our child was born. Ramona, the last to arrive – in the nick of time you
might say - had just returned to Denver after two months of study and training
with an elderly and legendary indigenous midwife, shaman and teacher who had
been present at and assisted with the births of some thousands of kids in rural
Texas. Upon arrival, Ramona had telephoned Gina’s house after departing the
Greyhound bus on Twentieth Street and had been told by Gina’s daughter that
Gina was attending a birth on Pearl Street. Informed that the birth most likely
was imminent, given that Gina had already been gone from home more than
twenty-four hours, Ramona took another bus, the Number 5, from downtown Denver
and arrived at my house with a backpack full of traveling clothes and a head
full of wisdoms recently learned. Still, she was quiet and calm and deferred to
the more experienced and older midwives in attendance as Marcia’s labor
progressed, that is, until things got dangerously complicated. </div>
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When my child entered the birth canal, there was a problem.
Gina told us the baby wasn’t breech, but its seemingly large head and shoulders
were positioned in such a way that, were this birth taking place in a hospital,
given the duration of Marcia’s labor, most attending physicians would call for
a surgeon to perform a Caesarian. I had all the faith in the world of Marcia’s
determination to see things through and immense confidence in the midwives
present, but I must admit I was apprehensive. Worried I was about the extreme
effort Marcia was putting into pushing, concerned about her understandable
exhaustion, disturbed by the gritty and growling moans that accompanied each
push, fearful of the fluctuating information of the fetal monitoring, anxious
about the time my child was spending in the birth canal. And then when Gina
said we might consider going to the hospital if the progress through the birth
canal remained impeded much longer, the young apprentice, Ramona, offered a
suggestion, something the elderly <i>curandera</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> had only spoken of, a technique Ramona had not actually observed or employed. </span></div>
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Marcia sat on our futon bed with her back to the wall. Gina,
monitoring our child’s vitals, squatted between Marcia’s legs. With a midwife
on either side of Marcia, Ramona, with the assistance of Fiona, Gina’s primary
assistant, did a handstand aside Marcia, the kind of handstand where one’s feet
are used to walk up a wall with one’s head facing the wall. Ramona then
sidestepped with her hands until she was centered over Marcia, an arm on either
side of Marcia’s outstretched legs. And then as Ramona’s legs walked further up
the wall above Marcia’s head, the three midwives lifted Ramona up, with their
hands under her upside down shoulders until Ramona could place her hands
lightly and gingerly on Marcia’s stomach, at which point she was literally
doing a handstand on Marcia’s fundus, although the accompanying midwives were
totally supporting Ramona’s weight and there was no pressure on Marcia or our
child within. After exploring the surface of Marcia’s stomach like a masseuse
and finding what she was looking for - our child’s rump I guessed - Ramona
directed the three who were holding her up to ever so slightly let her weight
come to bear on Marcia’s stomach. And as the women began to let the force of
Ramona’s upside down weight come into play, I heard the sweetest words I’ve
ever heard above the howl of Marcia’s final moan: “It’s a boy.” </div>
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After the birth of my son, I began writing letters to my
assorted governmental representatives advocating that midwifery be legalized in
Colorado. I wrote letters for thirteen years. Only one politician ever wrote
back, my state house representative, and he informed me I was dangerously
insane. Every year for more than a decade he told me the same thing. He was
dead set against midwifery. And then in 1993 he wrote to thank me for my
persistence as he had changed his mind and had voted to make midwifery legal in
the state of Colorado. </div>
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I guess I should have written to thank him, but I did not. I
simply burned the thirteen letters wherein he informed me of my lunacy, as I am
the kind of Irish who enjoys a shaman’s voodoo as much as holding a grudge. On
the other hand, I have been writing Thank You’s in the form of poems, novels,
plays and stories to Mr. Frost these last thirty-four years, thanking him
indirectly for the wisdom of his answer to the question of significance “I was
born in my mother’s bed,” words that have inspired me and others – Marcia,
Gina, Ramona, and many others – to take the road less traveled. And this tale
is one of those Thank-You-Mr-Frost letters that I wish Ramona and that Texas <i>curandera </i><span style="font-style: normal;">might read one day.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<!--EndFragment-->Edwin Forrest Wardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09239907046852195219noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8534379790827614432.post-76744314904145189242014-02-12T21:20:00.003-07:002014-02-17T12:36:12.343-07:00Valentine For Marcia<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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Valentine for Marcia</div>
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I make my living creating and conducting wedding ceremonies.
As the marriage officiant, I usually begin by assuring the gathered family and
friends of their importance in the lives of the bride and groom. I tell them in
my welcoming that “although the day belongs to the bride and groom, it is also
a tribute to all of you. For knowing you and interacting with you has helped to
make the bride and groom who they needed to be in order to find each other and
to find love.” I also generally entice both the bride and groom to secretly
write love letters to each other for the purpose of creating a little mystery,
for all true human ritual requires mystery as an element. So in keeping with
the notion of a wedding or Valentine love letter written in secret to be shared
with guests on the special day, this love letter, this story is for Marcia, all
of you, and everyone who’s played a part in the story of Marcia and Eddie. In
truth, the ingredients that go into the solution of anyone’s love-quest are
many: the quirky twists of fate, the circumstances of time and place, the
happenstance of accidental match makers, the players from both one’s inner and
outer circles, the unexplained coincidences, and the act of seizing
opportunity. My thirty-four year old marriage to Marcia, its beginnings,
involved more serendipity and luck than winning the lotto. It also involved a
wedding at which I was a last minute guest.</div>
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My biological clock was ticking. Above the clickity clack of
dice skittering across backgammon boards in nightclubs, above the roar of an
electric Bob Dylan on the stereo blasted through Advent speakers that filled my
bachelor’s abode, just outside the psychedelic musings of LSD inspired cosmic
starry symphonies composed on camping trips, through the sound barrier of fogs
engendered by Heineken and Grand Marnier excessively imbibed (most days),
beyond the orgasmic, satiated murmurings of the many women with whom I was
involved, louder than the pounding beat of powder up my nose, there was a sorry
sad song singing itself always on my auditory periphery, the dirge of a
childless future. All my lovers were great companions, and more than one I
could envision as wife, but none seemed right to be the mother of my children.
The Irish in me disliked the thought of buying into a song of no progeny, and
hence, no matter how happy or stoned or drunk or sober or sexually content I
was, I was always aware that I was yet to find my mate, my anima.</div>
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Earlier I mentioned camping trips, as camping is the one of
the principal reasons I live in Colorado. I had spent the summer of 1974
hitchhiking the West and had spent a couple of weeks camping at Rabbit Ears
Pass and the Strawberry Park hot springs outside Steamboat. I had the time of
my life and vowed upon my return to Philadelphia at summer’s end to return
someday to Colorado and set up camp for good. Camping, in a very round about
way, also helped bring Marcia to me. </div>
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Two months prior to meeting Marcia I had gone camping with a
good friend, his girlfriend, a girlfriend of hers, and three dogs, in my 1974
Dodge Tradesman van. On I-70 barreling down Floyd Hill on our way west, the
pistons of my 225 cubic inch slant six engine overheated and the engine block
cracked, because, as it was revealed, the oil reservoir was bone dry. You see,
because I owned a van and was part of the twenty-something generation of
Capitol Hill denizens who often moved from apartment to apartment, people were
always asking me if I and my van would help them move. Lugging couches and beds
and such up and down the stairs of low rent Denver walk-ups was not something I
enjoyed spending my free time on, and so I had devised a response to those who
asked for my help that was both selfish and helpful. “You can borrow my van but
not me. Just return it with a full tank of gas, and it’s yours.” The first two
years I was in Denver I probably loaned my van to a couple dozen friends and
friends of friends to enable them to move. Unfortunately I never realized that
hauling apartment furniture in my van consumed more oil than normal. And I had not required that the van be full of oil as well as gas
upon its return. And in the week prior to the demise of my engine, a former
roommate had moved a house full of possessions, including a disassembled baby
grand piano to Evergreen Colorado. He’d made five separate trips up the hills
to Evergreen, all with excessive, oil consuming loads.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
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After aborting the camping trip with my friend, the women
and the dogs, I had my van towed home and it sat in my garage for months. I
took up bicycling, taxis and buses. I would need a thousand dollars for the
installation of a rebuilt engine. Thankfully, as it turns out, I did not have a
thousand dollars because my lack of a vehicle was a pivotal step in putting
Marcia and I together. Who would have thought that the lack of oil would grease
the tracks to love?</div>
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A casual acquaintance, a cocktail waitress where I worked,
approached me after her shift one evening. “Ed,” she said, “I understand you
are an artist. I’ve seen the Isis you painted on the glass of your Pearl Street
front door. You might not know it, but I live but one block north of you. So I
have a favor to ask. I’m getting married in three days up in the Genesee
foothills and I’m hoping that one, you might attend my wedding, and two, you
might create a <i>Just Married</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> sign for our
car. The wedding is Sunday morning and the afternoon reception will be right
upstairs in Brooks Tower. So, even if you have to work Sunday night, you could
make it.” Now as I said, I was merely a casual acquaintance of my inquisitor, a
woman some ten years my junior. But always on the look out for adventure, with
the thought of meeting some one new, I answered my co-worker’s query somewhat
outrageously. “Barbara,” I said, “I’d love to attend your wedding and paint you
a sign. But my busted down van sits in my garage, three hundred dollars shy of
repair, and I have no way of getting to the mountains. But surely, you must
have a beautiful woman friend who might give me a ride. If so, I’ll dust off my
acrylics and paint a sign announcing your soon-to-be new status: JUST MARRIED."</span></div>
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Well, Saturday late nights in the life of a twenty-nine year
old bachelor getting off work can easily involve excess. And on the eve of
Barbara’s wedding, mine did. A midnight hour plus at The Lift in Glendale was
followed by a couple more hours at Muddy’s in The Highlands. Thankfully I had
painted Barbara’s sign on Saturday morning. So when Sunday morning came, quite
unintentionally, I overslept even though the day was to involve a blind date
with Barbara’s friend, a college student attending The University of Wyoming in
Laramie, name of Marcia who Barbara assured me was charming. I was exceedingly
hung over and showering when I barely hear the do-ray-me of my doorbell chimes
over Bob Dylan singing “I married Isis on the fifth day of May.” Out of the
shower I practically stumble and throw a threadbare bath towel around my waist,
hoping to exploit the sexual charge that is germane to the day of a wedding.
Through the translucent painting of Isis that adorns the beveled glass of my
front door I see my date for the day, Marcia, and immediately I wish my
faculties weren’t so fuzzy. </div>
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“Come in. Sorry I’m not ready,” I mumble as I gesture for her
to enter. “Give me a few minutes to shave and dress. I hope you like Dylan
‘cause that’s what’s stacked five high on the turntable. All I ever listen to.
Oh, and if you like, there’s some pot on the dining room table. Roll yourself a
joint.”</div>
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While showering and dressing I look in the mirror but my
memory of the woman in the other room is what fills my visual cortex. Blue
eyes, light brown hair, a smile as welcoming as my mother’s. A body to lie for.
A look in her eyes, a sparkle, to die for. And when I join her in the dining
room her catalogue of charms only gets better when she tells me, “I, too, love
Bob Dylan, and here’s what I prepared for the day,” as she hands me six
perfectly hand rolled joints. My entire consciousness smiles at her tastes for
Dylan and intoxicants. And later my hangover disappears completely when, on the
way to Genesee, she suggests I eat some of the Brownies she’s made for the
potluck reception. The fiber is Michoacan. The chocolate: Girardelli. The
pecans are from Georgia. </div>
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Well, it’s a pretty happy Eddie who spends the day with
Marcia. Many are the gentlemen at the wedding and the reception that follows
who have an interest in my blind date, especially when they are informed of her
baker’s skills. She invites many to partake of the joints she rolled for me.
Marcia and the bride’s brother, Robert, seem to know each other well and I’m
hoping not intimately. He has no trouble putting his arm around her when
everyone is posing for photos after the ceremony. I realize that of all the
subjects of our conversation on the ride up, her status (in a relationship or
not) was not one of them.</div>
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Not one to put all my eggs in one basket I half-heartedly
interact with other women after the wedding ceremony. Barbara has a couple
unattached sisters from both the East and West coast who are closer in age to
me, but I have already buried my heart in Laramie. Thankfully, when it’s time
to depart the ceremony, Marcia distances herself from Robert and the other
young bachelors sniffing around, and takes my hand as we head back to her Pinto
for the return trip to Denver. I cannot remember when holding a woman’s hand
was as exciting. I hope this gesture is as meaningful as it is casual, that it
is not to just gain better purchase on the rocky trail we walk.</div>
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Back in Denver at the reception, again I am faced with
competition for Marcia’s hand. Many men ask her to dance and she dances with a
knowledge of country dancing that frightens the 60s<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>dancer in me. I never could lead like Robert leads her,
but I could Bristol Stomp, slop, mash potato, and free style with the best of
the best; Hell, when I was sixteen I was chosen to dance on stage at the
Concord Roller Ring in Philadelphia as fourteen year old Little Stevie
Wonder<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>played his Motown rhythm and
blues hits <i>Fingertips</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> and </span><i>Uptight
(Everything is Alright)</i><span style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 13.0pt; font-style: normal;">. </span>But leading a woman at country two-step swing was
out of my comfort zone. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
When it was time for me to go to work downstairs at The
Boston Half Shell, I was thinking about calling in sick, for fear that Marcia
might end up dancing the night away. But when I told her I had to leave she
asked me to escort her to her car as she had to drive back to Laramie. She had
school in the morning. Before getting in her car, she bussed my cheek with a
quick kiss and whispered something along the lines of “If you’re ever in
Laramie, come play with me. Here’s my address.” To be truthful I had no idea
where Laramie was, other than somewhere in Wyoming, and my van was a month or
two away from being repaired. Not knowing how long the window to “come play
with me” would be open, that evening at work I arranged with the relief waiter
to cover my shifts for the next five days. In the morning I hitchhiked 155
miles from my South Pearl Street home in Washington Park to Marcia’s student
apartment in Laramie. It was the longest ten hours of my life, involving the
good will of a half dozen drivers whose names I never knew or don’t remember
but whose kindness played an essential part in my thirty-four year old
marriage, ten hours that ended with me spending my first night with my mate. A
mate I found because I painted Isis on my front door, because I freely loaned
my van to friends, and because I did not have the money to fix a vehicle.
Because a co-worker played matchmaker. Because I wanted kids and the moment I
met Marcia I saw the Madonna within. Had I contact info for the people who
originally turned me on to the Strawberry Park hot springs, and to the short
term, long forgotten friends on Capitol Hill who borrowed my van and did not
check the oil level, and for my benefactors who offered me rides on my way to
Laramie that September Monday morning in 1977, I most surely would have invited
them to my wedding in 1979, at which, coincidentally enough, like at the moment
I met Marcia, I was shirtless. Similarly, I would share with them tonight this
ritual love letter that I’ve written. For without them I might not have been
able to find love, to find Marcia.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<!--EndFragment-->Edwin Forrest Wardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09239907046852195219noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8534379790827614432.post-38907410488245228392014-01-14T20:43:00.000-07:002014-01-22T14:18:45.540-07:00FERRISLAND<br />
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhgTZCPieBogD2wpjSV0WHGcLbxnARPYUIm-DELLeaSds60M-uyLF80fGyXAwszO68FZfacsYuBvs-l69WJyYsnM2kNhigSQep0dB0dJUv6TXjJDMS6wLbJb9SX9ui28N5ad5Siy-Pvxo/s1600/FERRISLAND+FB.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhgTZCPieBogD2wpjSV0WHGcLbxnARPYUIm-DELLeaSds60M-uyLF80fGyXAwszO68FZfacsYuBvs-l69WJyYsnM2kNhigSQep0dB0dJUv6TXjJDMS6wLbJb9SX9ui28N5ad5Siy-Pvxo/s320/FERRISLAND+FB.jpg" height="320" width="200" /></a>FERRISLAND</div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
as always for Marcia</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I always wanted to be a shaman, a voodoo master, a high
priest with entrée to the divine, able to influence the luck of circumstances,
mine and others. As has been said, one better be careful about wishes for they do, sometimes, come true, although wishing is not a sure fire
strategy because, to paraphrase Ben Franklin: magic is diligence. Well, after
sixty-five years of being <i>au contraire</i>, looking inward not upward, walking
backwards, and an adulthood of scrupulous honesty, I am left wandering and
wondering. There is no knowledge I possess that sets me apart, nothing
glamorously glorious. No book of revelations will be written by me, although I
have been privy on occasion to some arcane understandings.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Some twenty years ago, my oldest son came down with chicken
pox. Already close to six foot, he was an adolescent young man living in an
already adult body. And the pox hit him hard as it can with adults. His body
produced anti-bodies to the <i>varicella</i><span style="font-style: normal;">
virus; unfortunately those anti-bodies ran amuck in their defense and attempted
to infiltrate his brain. Had the anti-bodies gained access, they would have
most likely caused death. Fortunately the brain has a defense in cases like
this. It swells with water to block entrance. The swelling of the brain,
however, caused my son to lapse into a coma that lasted almost week. During the
time my son was in a coma, my dreams were unlike any dreams I’ve ever had,
before or since. My extra-special dreams were many, but this story is about
just one of them and its consequences in the real world, consequences that
resulted from my having acted upon the information in my dream. And just so you
know, to alleviate your anxiety, my son recovered from his bout with post </span><i>varicella</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> encephalitis.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My revelatory dream begins with a fabulous rock and roll bus
parked outside our – me and Marcia’s – office and studio on 12<sup>th</sup>
Avenue in Denver’s Congress park neighborhood. Essentially a futuristic bus –
something the Rolling Stones might engage to tour – it was, what with its
racecar contours, pulsing electroluminescence at roofline, and almost soundless
- Could it be electric? - idling engine. According to its destination window it
is not headed “Further” or “Farther” but to “Ferrisland.” I can’t imagine what
this magical bus is doing parked before dawn in front of The ImageMaker. For
that matter, I can’t imagine what I’m doing here in the 5 am darkness. And
where the hell is Marcia?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
As I approach the front door of our studio it opens and out
steps Bobbi Blanc, the widow of the man who sold me and Marcia our photo
business. “You’re gonna make some money with this one,” she whispers
conspiratorially as she walks on by. “Marcia’s inside waiting on you.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Well, the inside of the studio is packed with people, dozens
and dozens of actor types, all dressed to the nines. It takes me awhile but I
eventually find my wife among the throng and she tells me that we are redoing
yesterday’s album cover shoot for the jazz band, Images. Images was founded by
a former roommate of mine, the pianist Lee Bartley, and the bass player, Rich
Sallee, over the years had become a close friend and occasional business
partner in sundry counter culture endeavors. Rich played bass for my 1979
Denver Poets Day performance and Lee had accompanied my poetry at numerous
venues over the years. I had arranged waiter jobs for both early in their music
careers when they needed to supplement their gig income. So it was only natural
that Marcia would be doing the photography for their latest record. What’s
unsettling in all this is that I can’t remember anything about yesterday’s
photo shoot, a disquiet that reminds me I am dreaming. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Now, not only is Rich the bass player for Images, but he is
also the band’s business manager. And for the purpose of the photo shoot, he is
also the art director. He tells me his concept in three words: <i>Above the
Crowd</i><span style="font-style: normal;">. That’s the album name and the
approach we are to take in creating an image. All the extras, some fifty or so,
are to form a field of faces. In the album cover final layout the faces of the
band mates will float “above the crowd.” My job will be to help get fifty faces
into one arrangement for Marcia to photograph. Not impossible but something
that will take time. I’m guessing we’re going to have to erect some sort of
bleacher-like contraption to get the actors heads and faces all in the same
plane of focus. I’m deep into the depth of field geometry of my thinking when
this dream takes a turn with Rich’s pronouncement.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Never mind, Ed. I think the shot from yesterday will work
after all," and he hands me a color 4x5 Polaroid from yesterday’s session. In
the photograph, a barefoot man lies in a coffin. The satin interior of the coffin
is psychedelic and flowery. The man is a rock and roll drummer named Larry with
whom I have but a passing acquaintance, a friend of Rich’s, but not the drummer
for Images. Strangely, the photo is of a younger Larry, Larry in his late
teens, not the forty-five year old Larry I know. I’m wondering who did the
make-up as this illusion of a youngster is down-right magical. Larry’s long
hair expresses a lion-like vitality absent in the present day Larry’s long
thinning hair. His clothes are 60s mod – very British, not 90s grunge or late
80s techno, an outfit Larry might have worn when he first stated drumming
professionally at age sixteen. No crow’s feet adorn his penny-laden eyes, no
wrinkles crease his forehead, no forty-five year old late night bar tan colors
his complexion. At the same time, he appears dead and sunny as a new born day. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Now I’ve maybe had two or three conversations with Larry in
my life, mostly when we would cross paths at Rich Sallee’s, although the last
time we spoke was right here in the studio some six months ago. Larry had
stopped in because he was auditioning with the Cherry Bomb Club, a techno band
that lived in a loft around the corner from the studio on Madison Street. We
patted each other on the back about still doing our own thing despite the
disappointing economics of being artists. I had showed him team photos of the
youth baseball league I ran, the CYRA. He told me how lucky I was to have such
a part in the lives of my sons. His relationship with his daughter had been
sketchy, as her loyalties were with her mother from whom he was bitterly and
long since divorced. His bar band salary had not been up to the task of
supporting a wife and child. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Anyway, Rich’s decision to use the shot from yesterday is
disappointing in that we have all these extras here, no small financial
investment on the record label’s part, and I was looking forward to helping
make the shoot happen. Additionally, Marcia has already loaded dozens of 4x5
film holders with color transparency film. And so, in attempt to save the
shoot, I ask, “What does a guy in a coffin have to do with being ‘Above the
Crowd’?” Rich’s nonsensical response – remember this is a dream – “The crowd is
on Abbey Road” closes the door on further discussion. Soon everyone is filing
out of the studio. All fit easily onto the bus. Dawn has broken. The bus driver
exits and checks on the luggage compartment that he opens, closes and locks
with a remote in his hand. I notice the casket from the Polaroid photograph
amidst the drum kit and guitar cases that fill the storage area. And then the
bus sans engine noise heads east towards the dawn just as the sun pops over the
apartment buildings on Colorado Boulevard. The sun’s rays in my eyes end my
dreaming and I awaken to a real dawn, in the hospital, beside my comatose son.
I jot down what I remember of this extraordinary dream and find myself
exceedingly annoyed that I cannot remember Larry’s last name as I make my
notes.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
A little later that morning I call Rich Sallee.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Without going into detail about my
son’s situation or the nature of my dream I simply ask about Larry’s last name,
which Rich tells me: “Ferris.” Rich also mentions that he hasn’t heard from
Larry the last few days, an odd thing, in that Larry spends most of his life
sitting at a table in his little one room crash pad above a garage in Park
Hill, rolling and smoking joints and talking on the phone, his way of self
medicating the manic depression that consumed him. Larry generally checked in
with Rich most days as Rich was very connected in the live music world of
Denver and Rich often hooked Larry up with one night engagements whenever a
band was in need of a drummer. Rich ended our conversation with “I think I’ll
give Larry a call.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The next morning Rich calls me. He’s astonished to tell me
where my inquiry concerning Larry’s last name led. Rich had called Larry a
couple of times yesterday but Larry never answered. And if Larry wasn’t playing
somewhere, he usually was home. That was Larry’s pattern and his practice, and
he always answered his phone. So Rich called Larry’s married daughter who also
lived in Park Hill. And when she went to check on Larry she found her father
unconscious, unresponsive, but still breathing, on the floor of his apartment.
Apparently Larry had suffered some sort of aneurism. He was still alive on some
level, but brain-dead. He stopped breathing shortly after the paramedics
arrived.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Now you might wonder why Larry appeared in my dream as he
lay dying. I spoke with Rich at length about it, and he told me that Larry had
always spoke admiringly of me, for he saw me as someone “above the crowd” who
had managed to keep the dream of being an artist alive while not succumbing to
what had laid him low: poverty, depression, the dissolution of his marriage,
the drugs, the alcohol, his ill health. Even though I never made it big, I had
managed to be a lifelong artist, and a husband, and a father. Hell, in my spare
time I ran a youth baseball league that allowed three thousand kids to play
organized baseball, something that, according to Rich, truly amazed Larry. I
guess, Larry somehow knew I’d take care of the business of having someone find
him so he could get on that fabulous rock and roll bus that was headed towards
the stars. </div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<!--[endif]--><br />
<!--EndFragment-->Edwin Forrest Wardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09239907046852195219noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8534379790827614432.post-71667290617634087212013-12-13T13:39:00.000-07:002013-12-16T14:40:06.564-07:00JOHN LENNON & ME<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<!--StartFragment-->
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhldwTvxZ13JuF9HKY_0TbsuFfOUJbE6Vf9_nSEYbL2exqk0qCafbyJPuGJjUTKnMfIXCiI-vVxOoP5ZdR-l1ouBo-5b6_TIigPXY2Z7AdXmjVAsOFw7s5chuBfV_hFvnpsmkJLT-2-kuk/s1600/John+Lennon+&+Me2+cvr+fb.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhldwTvxZ13JuF9HKY_0TbsuFfOUJbE6Vf9_nSEYbL2exqk0qCafbyJPuGJjUTKnMfIXCiI-vVxOoP5ZdR-l1ouBo-5b6_TIigPXY2Z7AdXmjVAsOFw7s5chuBfV_hFvnpsmkJLT-2-kuk/s1600/John+Lennon+&+Me2+cvr+fb.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: 10.0pt;">Cover Art – John Lennon<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">John Lennon and Me<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
as always, for Marcia</div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
ONE (1974)</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My first father-in-law, like my second, was not too keen on
my appearance. While my second dislikes my personal barbering (I've cut my own hair the last forty years), Al Rossi, a
union garment worker, thought I ought to dress better, and, man of action that
he was, Al informed me in 1974 that he had purchased for me a three-piece suit.
All I had to do was pick it out and up. I arrive at the address of the clothing
manufacturer and enter. A salesman greets me and is apparently aware of the
arrangements Al had made. “One of these, please,” he tells me with a gesture
indicating I should pick from about a hundred different suits that hang nearby.
“Pick what you like and I’ll find it in your size.” When he returns with my
choice of style and color, so that I can try on the suit coat, I ask him to
hold the book I carry, Daniel Kramer’s pictorial essay of a young Bob Dylan.
“Are you a Bob Dylan fan?” he asks. When I tell him that I am and that I even
teach a high school English class about Dylan, all salesman propriety
evaporates as he bellows, “Hey, Marty, come on down. There’s another Dylan
freak here.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Well, Marty is the owner of the clothing company and an
insanely serious Bob Dylan fanatic. He asks about my class and what Dylan
bootlegs I might own. Satisfied that he has what I have, he takes me to his
office, a cluttered room, the rear wall of which is covered with clothing
swatches, a couple hundred or so. He asks me to take a peek at what’s under the
more colorful swatches as he tells me of his Dylan fanaticism. He owns a dozen
copies (with shrink wrap in tact) of every Dylan album; three copies of every
book about Dylan, one of every brand and style guitar Dylan has been known to
play (including three Stratocasters like the one Dylan went electric with at
Newport); five original copies of the <i>New York Times</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> containing the Robert Sheldon review of Bobby D that
helped launch his star; and other artifacts that add up to an overwhelming
litany of Dylan memorabilia. He also speaks about his home recording studio
where he has rerecorded every published Dylan song with the help of
Philadelphia’s folk and rock and roll elite. He calls himself a Dylan parrot
with perfect pitch. But the most telling indictment of his kookiness is what I
find when I lift up my first clothing swatch: a photo of a teenage Dylan at a
birthday party! In fact under every colorful swatch I lift is a very personal
Dylan photograph. All are obviously not publicity photos. He goes on to explain
that he hired a couple of professional burglars to steal the photos from
Dylan’s Woodstock home, a photographer to reproduce them, and the US mail to
return the originals to Dylan. “Only a week from heist to home again!” he
quips.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>To buy my silence, he ends
our meeting with “On your way out, pick out a winter coat, on me!” which I did.
I was still wearing that coat in 1977 when I met another rock and roll fanatic
by the name of Nicki Indigo.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
TWO (1975)</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
When I left the East Coast and settled in Denver in 1975, I
bought a house on Pearl Street in the Washington Park neighborhood. It was the
consummate 70’s bachelor’s abode. I generally had at least two roommates, and a
card game or backgammon game was in the offing twenty-four seven. One night my
housemate David returned home from work with a boyhood pal, Nicki. Nicki was
deep into an <i>On The Road</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> adventure and
had crossed paths with David in La Place Pigalle, a cocktail lounge/party bar
in Brooks Tower adjacent to The Boston Half Shell where David and I worked.
David hoped that I wouldn’t mind if Nicki spent the night and crashed on our
living room couch. I was agreeable and we spent the night listening to records,
mostly Dylan bootlegs, smoking ganja and tobacco, drinking Heineken and Grand
Marnier, and telling stories, one story of which was the story of my winter
coat. Nicki left in the morning but not without telling me that the previous
evening had been one of the highlights of his travels: crossing paths with
David, meeting me, and listening to my tall tales. “I didn’t come across the
ghost of Neal Cassady as I had hoped, but I found you. Guess I’ll head back now
to New York,” were his parting words. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
THREE (1978)</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
A couple of years later, long after David had moved on, I
received a letter from Nicki addressed to David. Because I had no forwarding
address for David, I kept the letter as there was no return address on the
envelope, just the words <i>Nicki Eye</i><span style="font-style: normal;">. Once
a month for a year or so, another </span><i>Nicki Eye</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> letter would appear in my mailbox. After the
thirteenth epistle arrived, I decided to open one in the hope of finding a
return address where I might send them. The address I found was for a mental
institution in upstate New York. I gathered up all the </span><i>Nicki Eye </i><span style="font-style: normal;">letters, added a note of my own informing Nicki that
I had no idea of David’s whereabouts, and mailed the package to Utica State
Hospital. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
FOUR (1980)</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
In the fall of 1980, my wife Marcia was pregnant with our
first child. On an Indian summer November day, we were in the backyard of our
Pearl Street home putting our first summer garden to bed, turning over the soil
and spreading the year’s compost, when the door bell rang. Marcia and our three
dogs scampered into the house to see who had come calling. No sooner had Marcia
disappeared into the house than she reappeared. “You had better answer the
door. I have no idea who he is, but I don’t like his looks.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
When I arrive at the front door, my usually docile Malamute
is barking insanely. A translation from Malamute to English would be something
like “Come through that door and I will devour you like a snow shoe hare,
balls, ears, eyes and hair!” After quieting all three dogs, Maku, Dylan Dog,
and Cheiba Chieba, I step outside and greet an exceedingly strange looking
young man, strange because half of his head is shaved and the other half flows
to his shoulders, he’s wearing jump boots and camouflage, and tattoos seem to
bubble up his neck and onto his cheeks. For a third eye he sports a Hindu
swastika, and he’s holding in his left hand a duct taped cardboard portfolio
that has a shoelace for a handle.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
His rapid-fire speech must be pharmacologically induced:
“Hello Ed. Remember me? I’m David’s friend Nicki. You put me up one night a few years ago. You told the story of the Dylan burglary and your coat. I still have
those Bobby bootleg songs in my head. For three years I sung myself to sleep
with them in Utica. Upon release after winning my lawsuit I knew I had to come
and tell you “Thank You.” Thanks for returning my letters and thanks for
letting me sleep on your couch. No one has ever shown me such kindness. Not
even my lawyer who got me sprung and got me my small fortune. Really. Two days
ago I was in a mental institution and now I’m here to say ‘Thank you.’ I even
brought you a present.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Nicki hands me the portfolio and asks after David. My only
suggestion is that David liked the ladies at La Place Pigalle and perhaps one
of them might know of his whereabouts, a suggestion Nicki takes in earnest.
“Well thanks again. Bye, I’m off to La Place Pigalle.” </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Hey, Nicki, what about your portfolio?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“It’s my gift to you. Last night, after my lawyer doled out
my first ten grand in cash I went in search of a good time. Eventually I wound
up in lower Manhattan, Greenwich Village to be exact, in the wee hours of
morning. Even New York City is quiet and dark at 3 AM. That’s when I saw this
bookstore with its lights on with two men inside. Inside the windows I could
see that many of the bookshelves were covered in white butcher block paper and
one of the guys was pinning artwork to the paper. The door was locked but when
I knocked I was let in. Well, damn, you’ll never guess who the artist was. No,
it wasn’t Bob Dylan, but it was someone just as famous. It was John Lennon! The
owner of the store and John were good friends and both were extremely friendly
to me, despite my De Niro-does-Travis Bickle hairdo and duds. Apparently John
Lennon buys his books there because the proprietor guy was Lennon’s go-to-man
for reading recommendations. And because the bookstore was in dire need of a
financial infusion, Lennon was hosting on the very very down-lo a sale of left
over lithographs from his Bag Series, the series of fourteen lithographs he
created as a wedding present for Yoko Ono. No advertisements of the exhibition
and sale; just a chance for the regulars of the bookstore to obtain some Lennon
art and for the bookstore to obtain the funds necessary to avoid bankruptcy.
Hell, I bought two lithographs on the spot and John signed them: one of John,
Yoko, and the minister who married them, and one of John, Yoko, and their
lawyer in bed. I took a cab to Kennedy, bought a ticket to Stapleton, flew
here, and now I’ve said my ‘Thank you.’ Enjoy!” And off Nicki raced to catch
the Number 5 on his way to La Place Pigalle. My last image of Nicki is a half a
head of hair flowing out the open window of a bus.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Now, all through my meeting with Nicki on the porch I could
hear Marcia, who stood just inside the door, repeating a mantra of sorts in a
low voice. “Don’t let him in. Don’t let him in. Don’t let him in.” Now that
Nicki was gone she had changed the mantra to “Leave it on the porch; don’t
bring it in. Leave it on the porch; don’t bring it in.” Her pregnant woman’s
intuition - which I discount – proves, however, to be right on when I open the
portfolio. There are, indeed, two signed John Lennon lithographs inside; they
have, however, apparently been “altered” by Nicki. <i>Defaced</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> and </span><i>ruined</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> might be more accurate, for sometime between last night’s 3 AM
purchase in Manhattan and their 3 PM delivery to me in Denver, Nicki had taken
liberties with Lennon’s art, so much so that I couldn’t tell what was Nicki’s
art and what was John’s. Nicki had Magic Marker-ed the lithographs and glued
instamatic photographs of himself and the pornography of others all over the imagery.
Magazine cutouts of vaginas and David Bowie were glued helter skelter. Simply
said: the devil was in the added details.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Marcia’s response to our viewing was reasonable: “Get them
out of the house. Now!”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Now, I’m Irish. I never gave the Beatles much credence as
superstars – they weren’t even in the same universe as Dylan – and, besides,
they are English, and my prejudice against the British Empire runs
generational-ly deep. Still, I was not about to throw the destroyed lithographs
away. After all, they had been a Thank You present, no matter how perverse. And
because I believe there is a solution to every problem, I wracked my brain and
came up with an inspired one: I took the next Number 5 downtown, walked two
blocks east on Colfax Avenue to Jerry’s Records that was owned by a poet friend
of mine, John Loquidis, and pinned the lithographs to the ceiling of the record
store where they remained for the next twenty-five years.</div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
FIVE (1988)</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
In 1988, some eight years after the murder of John Lennon, a
Public Radio announcement caught my ear. Apparently Yoko Ono, whose daughter
lived in the Denver area, was hosting an art exhibition, “the first sale ever
in America of John Lennon artwork.” Well stickler for detail that I am, I knew
the hype to be false because I was privy to Lennon’s bookstore lithograph sale
that had occurred the month before his murder. And since the John Lennon Art
Show at The Oxford Hotel was but a short walk from my Wazee Street loft, I
decided to go and check it out in the hopes of learning what the lithographs
had looked like before Nicki Eye had enhanced them. So into the lobby of the
Oxford Hotel I go. It is summer and I’m sporting my Stetson Panama, karate
pants, Birkenstocks, and a Hawaiian shirt. I ask after Yoko. She’s not there. I
ask after the curator and I’m directed to a guy in a three-piece suit. In the
hopes of having a little fun, I begin by telling the curator that his
advertisement for the show is a wee bit misleading. “This is not the first John
Lennon Art show ever to be held in America.” He’s not simply defensive in his
rebuttal but angry as well: “This most certainly is and who are you to say it’s
not.” For the next minute or so I attempt to calm him down with my tale of the
lithographs I own ending with “They’re hanging on the ceiling of Jerry’s
Records, if you don’t believe me,” to which he responds with the snap of his
fingers and a mean-spirited directive, “Kick his ass to the sidewalk.” Two very
large men, body-guard types, appear out of nowhere and do as directed. My arms
are twisted behind my back and I am removed from the Sage Room on whose walls
hang the fourteen different lithographs comprising the Bag Series, guided
through the lobby, past the Cruise Bar, to the front door, and I am tossed to
the sidewalk by the two thugs who grin like Cheshire cats, their smile
intimating that the sidewalk burns on my face are nothing compared to the harm
I’ll suffer should I attempt re-entry. A fun-ster I may be but a fool I am not.
I returned to my loft and my family secure in my belief that someday I would
get to tell this story, and look here, I even brought along the lithographs!</div>
<!--EndFragment-->Edwin Forrest Wardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09239907046852195219noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8534379790827614432.post-38761403364292697422013-10-29T09:47:00.003-06:002013-11-01T18:49:27.111-06:00DIAPER DANCE<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMXikrRxc9-DS2bcdU9uktrecusrX92xUDkz2H7SlhEJQuU90Pyl8ffN2RdKHN_mH104ikyRAJ8Vt8ZVizOlUNOhrBoeN6AlDg-gWqjlKjf-r0QYzDDPHARP8Vz-Ip9xM8ZHnkZKl27nQ/s1600/Diaper+DanceFBcvr.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMXikrRxc9-DS2bcdU9uktrecusrX92xUDkz2H7SlhEJQuU90Pyl8ffN2RdKHN_mH104ikyRAJ8Vt8ZVizOlUNOhrBoeN6AlDg-gWqjlKjf-r0QYzDDPHARP8Vz-Ip9xM8ZHnkZKl27nQ/s320/Diaper+DanceFBcvr.jpg" width="209" /></a><span style="font-size: 10pt;">Cover photo: </span><span style="font-family: 'Handwriting - Dakota'; font-size: 11pt;">Marcia Ward</span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 21px;"><i> </i></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 15px;"> </span><br />
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<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: 16.0pt;"><i>Diaper Dance<o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
as always</div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
for Marcia</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
My first son was born at home thirty-two years ago when I
was thirty-three. In an attempt to reinvent myself after six years of teaching
followed by six years of waiting tables, I broke all the common sense rules of
getting ahead. I was so Be Here Now / in the moment, at this time in my life,
so into my belief that I had somehow been anointed, that I sold my house, quit
my job, burned a decade’s worth of unfinished manuscripts in a fifty-five gallon
drum, stowed a few cherished house hold items (Bob Dylan records, a blender, a
dozen or so artworks) with my sister-in-law, and yardsale-ed the bulk of my
(i.e., our – me and Marcia’s) belongings. Zen-ing out we called it, this
approach to a less-is-more lifestyle. In search of a new home in some other
place, we planned to hit the road for a year or so in my van with the money I
had made on the sale of our Washington Park home and live off of the interest
of the owner-will-carry loan I’d made to the buyer. So to celebrate my wife’s
twenty-fifth birthday, the first three months of our son’s life, and our
seeming good fortune, we went on a waiter’s holiday of sorts to a neighborhood
restaurant, The Plum Tree, on Pennsylvania Street. We hoped to eat the best
food Wash Park had to offer at a place outside the envelope of our new parent
lives. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
We arrive at The Plum Tree with a pocket full of cash and
baby in arms. Among the happiest people in the world we could be counted as we
approach the front door of The Plum Tree. I’m so fucking happy, in fact, that
the first hint of unwelcome-ness encountered I let ride, although I tuck it
away in my “un-pleasantries” file, when we are told by the maitre d’ that the
restaurant is not yet open. “We open at five; you’ll have to come back then.”
Well. I’m not into jewelry but I do wear a watch, a Timex inherited from my
father a dozen years ago, and it lets me know that it is four fifty eight,
almost four fifty-nine as the second hand is half way around the dial. It’s not
so much the information imparted that I find off-putting, but the antagonistic
and authoritarian tone of its delivery. This maitre de apparently is clueless
when it comes to any notion of “friendly service.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
“Well, we’ll be back in a minute,” I deadpan to the grump of
a host, adding, “I understand you have no liquor license but we can bring our
own; so I’ll just spend the next sixty seconds procuring a bottle of wine from
the liquor store across Bayaud and return when you are open,” careful to
exaggerate the pronunciation and longevity of the two syllables, “<i>O</i><span style="font-style: normal;">” and “</span><i>pen</i><span style="font-style: normal;">.”
My disdain is now rather transparent, as the maitre d’s strict enforcement of
The Plum Tree’s hours of operation has moved his gracelessness from the
“un-pleasantry” classification to one of aggressive, hostile prissy-ness.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
When we return from the liquor store with our wine (a couple
of bottles of Louis Jadot’s Beajoulas Villages – the same wine we drank four
years ago during the first night Marcia and I spent together (it was the only
red wine in Laramie that I could find that had a cork!) - I can’t help but
notice the maitre d’s continued unwarranted incivility when he attempts to seat
us in the completely empty restaurant at a back two top by the bathroom doors.
Ignoring his request to follow him I direct Marcia to a corner four top by the
front window where I spread our belongings - wine, Marcia’s serape, diaper bag,
and my Stetson Panama – about the empty chairs. When the maitre d’ realizes we
have not followed him his sigh of disbelief is as audible as is the clatter of
fine china, silverware, and crystal made by me as I gather up the two
unnecessary place settings and slide them to the side of the table top to make
room for Passion, our infant, upon his removal from the Snuggly Marcia wears.
Upon his awakening, propped up in my arms upon the French linen of the table
top he beams as only a recently changed, breast milk fed, well rested baby can:
beatifically. His cooing signals his appreciation for the newness of this
environment. Most things outside our Pearl Street residence in his young life
are “firsts.” Similarly, this is our first time eating out with him.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
Soon a waiter arrives, a nice enough fellow, who seems
unaware of the maitre d’s lack of appreciation for us. A bus boy removes the
extra place settings as the waiter opens our Beajoulas while detailing the
evening’s specials. We order extravagantly as, after all, we are on a waiter’s
holiday, something I let our waiter in on, going as far as to mention I’d just
resigned my position as head waiter at Denver’s premiere seafood establishment,
The Boston Half Shell, in downtown Denver, a remark which is overtly code in
the waiter world signifying that we are brothers of a sort and a great tip is
in the offing, information that is not lost on our waiter as he quickly returns
with a second round of warm bread without our asking. As I’ve said we are on a
waiter’s holiday and it is Marcia’s birthday so we have ordered sundry
appetizers, soup and salads, all of which we enjoy before we order our entrees.
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
Soon my Timex tells me it’s six and now the restaurant
starts filling up with both walk-ins and reservations. A party of eight is
seated next to us and I can’t help but notice that the maitre d’ pays them
especial attention, addressing some by name, leading me to believe that they
are regulars enamored of the trendy Plum Tree. With feigned aristocratic
formality, the maitre d’ asks if he should inform their waiter that, as usual,
they will be having two of every appetizer on the menu, all this while
unfolding the napkins that sit fanned across the dinner plates which he places
on the laps of all. When he turns away from the table to return to his station
at the door and looks inadvertently in my direction, my smirk and glare
shamelessly inform him that I found his fawning to be as pretentious as it was
shallow, reminded, as I am, of every ass kissing insincere suck-up I have ever
met. It’s amazing what an aggrieved countenance can reveal.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
Soon our main course arrives: veal scaloppini for me and
shrimp saltimbocca for Marcia. The smells are so flavorful that I ask that our
waiter compliment the chef on our behalf. The plated presentation is as
beautiful as the food is delicious. Unfortunately, I do not get to finish,
because as I attempt a second bite, my reverie is ruined as I become aware that
the maitre d’ is addressing me with a fervid hostility bordering on verbal
assault. “The smell of shit, sir, is pervading the restaurant; please remove
your child to the restroom.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
I look at Marcia. She is aghast and knows the maitre d’s
assertions to be a lie as not two minutes before she had breast-fed Passion
under the cover of baby blanket and serape and had Passion’s diaper been
fouled, she would have known. In fact, she knows he’s not even wet his diaper,
and this she silently mouths to me. “It’s dry.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
I stand abruptly and turn to face the maitre de behind me. I
announce to him most poetically, “I am deaf to all but truth and hence know not
a word you’ve uttered. Let’s try again. What did you say? Perhaps I can read
your lips, their lies.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
“The smell of shit, sir, pervades my restaurant. Remove your
baby to the bathroom or yourselves from this restaurant!” Time dissolves as
does place. I am everyman who has ever suffered prejudice, be it for any reason,
great or small. The spirit of an angry Metamora in the person of the tragedian
Edwin Forrest overtakes the waiter on a waiter’s holiday. All indignities ever
suffered at the hands of titled aristocracy inspire my next moves as I ask,
“You mean I do not get to eat this food?” And as the maitre d’ responds “That’s
right, now leave my restaurant,” I clear the table where I sat of wine and
water and their respective glassware, my veal and china, bread and bread plate,
forks, knives and spoon, and respond, “Well, if I don’t get to eat this food,
then no one will.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
Needless to say, my host is speechless and agog as I turn to
address the other diners in the room. “Excuse me, but I can not abide his lies.
The smell of shit does not pervade the room, just the odor of his lies and his
foppish pretentiousness. Come on, have we not the right to eat here, or are
children simply not welcome among such young professionals as yourselves.
Please, tell this man he’s crazy. What have we done that we should be ostracized
as he would ostracize us? Please stand up for us, the family that we are.” No
one does. All return to eating, ashamed or embarrassed to take a side in this
most inane confrontation. None know of our maitre d’s earlier passive
aggressive actions.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I look to
Marcia who has put Passion in the Snuggly. She intimates with eyes and tilt of
head that she would like to leave. I agree as who knows what could possibly
come of my sitting back down to eat at an empty table. To punctuate my position
that it is Marcia and I who have been wronged, I clear Marcia’s setting as
well. I leave a fifty-dollar tip for our waiter who stands dumbfounded at a
nearby table without asking for the check. Because Marcia’s wineglass did not
shatter when I swept it to the floor, I mazel tov it with my left Birkenstock
in a dramatic mockery of a goose-step. Its conversion from stemware to a
thousand shards makes an explosive noise similar to a gunshot, a sound which is
followed by the swinging kitchen doors exploding open and slamming against
decorative hammered copper of the doorway’s border through which passes a
gentleman I take to be the chef given the professional carving knife in his
right hand. Marcia and I make our way to the front door slowly as the chef
surveys the room, paying especial attention to our empty table surrounded as it
is by broken china, shattered glass, splattered wine, silverware, and upturned,
uneaten scaloppini and saltimbocca. We soon exit not without the help of the
chef’s left hand that pushes on my shoulder, so forcefully, that I stumble
almost knocking Marcia and our child to the sidewalk. The restaurant door can
be heard being locked behind us. Upon arrival at my van we catch our breath and
turn back to look upon The Plum Tree, the upscale trendy little eatery where we
had hoped to celebrate. The chef stands at the front door, still holding his
carving knife and glowering. Given the crimson glow of his countenance and the
fogged lenses of his eyewear I deduce that he’s as mad as I am - me for the
indignity I’ve suffered; him for the havoc with which I countered his maitre
d’s obvious prejudice against children. </div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
Marcia opens the side door of the van to stow the diaper
bag, but before she can close it I ask her to give me Passion’s diaper. Still
under the influence of my anger I am short with her when she asks “Why?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
“Just give it to me. I’m not finished with The Plum Tree.
Just give me the diaper and trust me. This is not over. In fact, please go next
door to the Health Food Store and bring some people out. I want witnesses for
whatever is about to go down.” Marcia lays Passion on the mattress in the back
of my van and changes his diaper. She gives me the unsoiled cloth diaper, which
I affix with a rubber band to the end of a folding umbrella that I carry in my
van’s side door. The umbrella is the staff of the cotton diaper flag that I
will carry into battle. I fearlessly approach The Plum Tree waving my white
flag of surrender, a visual proof that the maitre d’s assertion that Passion
had filled his diaper with something stinky was bogus. My body language as I
waive the diaper at The Plum Tree’s patrons through the window is obvious in
its demand that I receive an apology from someone, that at minimum, further
discourse is required.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
And then out he comes, the chef. He no longer holds the
carving knife but the language of his hands says that he wants to strangle me.
But as he approaches with his hands raised neck high, I poke the diaper in his
direction. It is a comedic dance we do as he feigns and lunges and I parry his
advances with a wag of the diaper to his face. Around and round we go as I
counter every move he makes, diaper to face with every lunge. Our unrehearsed
ballet lasts more than a minute before he rushes headlong with accelerating
speed into me, knocking me up against the side of my van. In my heart I know
I’ve Charlie Chaplin-ed him and he’s assaulted me. A half dozen witnesses stand
on the sidewalk outside the corner heath food store.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
He’d like to slam my head against the side of my van but all
he can really do, given the people on the corner, is threaten me. “Set foot in
my restaurant and I’ll kill you,” he says, to which I reply, “The only way I’ll
ever set foot in your restaurant is for you to buy me the dinner I did not get
to eat.” He turns to leave and as he does, I remove the diaper from the
umbrella and throw it at him. It unfurls like a parachute after passing the
zenith of its trajectory before ensconcing his head like a manta ray its prey.
Upon its landing he reacts as if he’s been shit upon. His head dances like a
hanged man’s in an attempt to remove the cloth without using his hands. His
comedy is as sad as mine had been ballet-like.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 16px;">Needless to say, the chef/owner of The Plum
Tree never does offer to buy us dinner. We both attempt to press charges with
the police against each other. He wants compensation for his broken dishes and
the dinners I trashed and I want him charged with assault. The police decide
not to get involved. Still I’d like to think my voodoo diaper dance was part of
the equation of The Plum Tree closing before Marcia’s next birthday. Like the
butterfly fluttering its wings in the Amazon that leads to a storm in Belize,
perhaps my waving of the diaper in June summoned the winds of recession that
bankrupted The Plum Tree in October</span></div>
<!--EndFragment-->Edwin Forrest Wardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09239907046852195219noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8534379790827614432.post-83658355277809242242013-10-09T12:35:00.002-06:002013-10-11T10:21:16.218-06:00A SAD SIMPLE TRUTH<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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A Sad Simple Truth</div>
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as always, for Marcia</div>
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The last time I was summoned for jury duty a sad simple
truth got me excused.</div>
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Arriving in the jury holding room, my number is selected and
I find myself in a pool of twenty or so prospective jurors that is to be whittled
down to twelve. The judge addresses us with a seriousness befitting the case:
“This trial concerns heavy-duty narcotics trafficking. You will be hearing the
testimony of police officers and confidential informants who the defense might
characterize as liars. So before we begin jury selection, I have a question to
ask of you all. Do any of you believe a police officer might lie while
testifying?”</div>
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I scan the room.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Everyone’s eyes are darting nervously as they look around the room. All
are wondering: Is this some sort of trick question? Does the judge really want
us to answer? I raise my hand and am called upon to speak.</div>
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“Your Honor, not only do I believe a police officer might
lie while testifying, I know for a fact that they do. I was a defense witness
in a case here in Denver back in 1979. One Charles Ross was charged with
assaulting a police officer. I was at the scene, not ten feet away. Two police
officers testified. As did I. Their accounts which dovetailed perfectly were entirely fabricated as I had witnessed the event, and I know what I saw happen.
Based on my testimony and other inane assertions on the part of the
prosecution, the jury acquitted Mr. Ross of all charges. As I said: I don’t
believe a police officer might lie, I know they do.” No surprise here: the
prosecution dismisses me. But before I am escorted from the courtroom seven
other jurors raise their hands to assert their belief that officers might lie
while testifying.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
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Here is the simple sad truth of Charlie Ross and his acquittal.</div>
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Charlie Ross was a student at the Jack Kerouac School of
Disembodied Poetics at Naropa University in Boulder and Allen Ginsberg’s
personal secretary. Poetry was our connection as I was heavily involved in
producing Denver Poets Day in August of 1979, an event that brought together
scores of poets from Denver and Boulder. I collaborated with the bassist Rich
Sallee that day and I must say we rocked, as did scores of others including
Allen Ginsberg, Larry Lake, my wife Marcia, Ann Waldman, Ken Babs, Andy
Clausen, Eileen Miles, and Charlie Ross. It was an exceedingly hot eight hours
in the sun as the event ran from 11 AM to 7 PM in Denver’s Civic Center
Amphitheater. It was a very emotional day as well. The previous Denver Poets
Day in 1978 had honored the notorious Colorado poet James Ryan Morris who had
died soon thereafter, and his widow, Diana, her presence at this year’s event –
a memorial of sorts for Jimmy - kept the specter of human mortality in play.
Tensions between poet egos – academic and street – combined with shade-less
triple digit temperatures also contributed to everyone’s exhaustion at day’s
end. Wrung out we were. To recuperate many participants decided to head to the
Satire Lounge on East Colfax for Mexican food, refreshment and more poetry
shoptalk, myself and wife included. Diana Morris asked if her seven-year-old
daughter Pagan could ride with me and Marcia as Diana planned on spending a
little adult time with and giving a ride to a group of her deceased husband’s
friends. Marcia and I agreed to look after Pagan until Diana regrouped with us
at The Satire.</div>
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Now it’s approximately 8 PM on a summer Saturday night and
Pete’s Satire Lounge is packed tight as an unopened pack of Camels. Marcia,
Pagan and I are among the first dozen to arrive, and we are seated at a large
corner table and the hostess is made aware that another dozen or so are likely
to join us. We agree to make the best of the crowded accommodations, assuring
the hostess and our waitress that we will stand and sit as need be. Charlie
Ross and I are more or less co-hosting this gathering, with Charlie welcoming
late arrivals from Boulder and me those from Denver. Pitchers of beer and
plates of nachos fill the table as people talk up a storm. A half hour or so
into the this impromptu poets rendezvous, above the din, I hear the agitated
voice of Diana Morris and I immediately leave the confab of poets and make my
way in her direction. A waitress, not ours, is telling Diana that she will have
to wait to be seated. When Diana, ignoring the request of the waitress, makes a
move in my direction, the out of the loop waitress with her body’s shoulder
blocks Diana’s path. She even stiff-arms Diana with her right hand while
holding a cocktail tray of drinks in her left. Both the body block and stiff
arm prove to be foolishly provocative moves, for Diana asserts with almost
divine authority, “No one keeps me from my daughter, bitch,” and throws a mean
right hook, knocking the waitress, the cocktails, and civility to the floor.
The crowd around the front door dissipates and Diana looms over the stunned
waitress. I spy the bartender picking up the phone and whisk Diana out the
front door and beg her not to reenter as I step back inside and tender an
apology to the waitress: “I’m sorry for what happened. You’ll never know the
circumstances surrounding this day. That lady just left a memorial for her dead
husband after eight hours in the sun, and you stood between her and her
seven-year-old daughter. Again, I apologize and am sorry. Here, please accept
this for your troubles, and I hand her a fifty-dollar bill, before exiting to
attend to Diana who I find on the sidewalk, contemplating the use of her gun.
Her right hand, inside her fringed vest, its fingers fondle the steel of her
thirty-eight that hides there. I know she never leaves her cabin in Wondervu
without it.</div>
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“Diana, you have to leave. The police are on their way. I
saw the bartender dialing. I’ll bring Pagan to you later. Please, I am your
friend and I’m begging you. Go, Pagan will be fine and we’ll meet up at Jesse’s
later.” Keep in mind; I am speaking to one of the most intense persons I have
ever met. Fierce, addled, capable, agitated, mean, gun-totting, upset, angry,
grieving, vindictive, vengeful, crazy, and on the verge of mayhem are but a
baker’s dozen applicable descriptions of the present and imminent danger with
which I am confronted on this hot summer Colfax Avenue sidewalk Saturday night.
Distant sirens grow louder as Diana contemplates her next move. “Diana, Pagan
does not need your being arrested. Please go before it’s too late.” Mention of
Pagan brings common sense into the mix and Diana thanks me as she gets into her
Subaru, which is parked illegally, blocking as it does the Colfax entrance to
the Satire parking lot. But instead of heading east Diana accelerates into the
parking lot at a high rate of speed and purposefully smashes into a Cadillac
parked diagonally on the west side of the lot, twice, seriously damaging the
rear quarter panel and rear end of the formerly cherry sedan. Then without
assessing traffic she backs out haphazardly onto Colfax and races east right
through red lights at Race, Vine, Josephine and York. I’m not sure if I am
dreaming given the last three minutes of my life. But, guess what, the
craziness is just beginning.</div>
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Back inside, I realize that I don’t want to be here when the
police arrive so I gather up Marcia and Pagan and suggest that Charlie and his
intimate crew (he’s got four Boulder poets and two children riding in his van)
follow me, as we had originally planned to convene back at Drew Becker’s house
after dinner to listen to recordings of the day, and Charlie did not know where
Drew lived. </div>
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Now both Charlie and I had parked our vans in the Satire
parking lot on the east side. Since we were going to head towards Elizabeth
Street where Drew lived and because the south east exit of the parking lot was
now awash in police activity, there were two squad cars and a couple of police
motor cycles clogging that end of the lot, I suggest to Charlie that we simply
back out onto Colfax and avoid the boondoggle at the Race Street exit. It will
be a hard maneuver so I tell Charlie I’ll guide him backwards when it’s safe to
do so. </div>
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I am behind his van guiding him rearward when a voice out of
nowhere that brooks no dissent barks out orders: “Stop right there. You just
backed into that Cadillac. Exit your vehicle with your hands up.” Now only two
people on earth know the circumstances surrounding the damage to Pete’s -the
owner of the Satire Lounge - Cadillac, and I am one of them. Furthermore, not
only does the officer ordering Charlie out of his van not know what I know, he
also is apparently unaware I am even present, standing between Charlie’s van
and the damaged goods that is Pete’s Caddy.</div>
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I make my presence known by stepping into plain view of the
officer who has come out of hiding and is now standing by Charlie’s door and
announce, “If this van just hit that Cadillac, I guess I’m an unsubstantial and
invisible man, a ghost, because it would have had to run me over in order to
hit it, seeing as how I’ve been behind it guiding my friend the whole time,” an
assertion to which the officer has no reply or rebuttal. It is apparent to him
that I am giving lie to his charge that Charlie hit Pete’s car. The silence is
as deafening as the situation is volatile. The electricity in the air has my
neck hair standing up. Where can this conversation possibly go from here? The
cop needs an out but can’t come up with one, so I do. Not pressing my knowledge
that I’ve caught him in a lie, I ask the officer politely to help us back both
of our vans out onto Colfax so Charlie can follow me, a request the cop takes
up without any further talk of Charlie having damaged the Cadillac. The officer
steps out onto Colfax blocking the right lane. I back up out onto the Fax and
head east with Charlie doing likewise. We do not run the red lights at Vine and
Race, as had Diana, but before reaching York I notice a police car in the left
hand lane motioning with siren and lights that Charlie (whose van is
immediately behind mine), that Charlie pull over to the curb. I do so as well
and exit my van to see what’s going on, as I fear further police
inappropriateness. I just caught one lying and can’t imagine any reason why
Charlie’s been made to pull over. I am all ears and eyes as I approach the
scene.</div>
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Charlie is clearly upset and bewildered. Angry as well. A
huge cop exits the shotgun side of the squad car and tells Charlie to exit his
vehicle. Charlie’s window is down and he asks, agitatedly,<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>why he’s being stopped. The officer
provides no answer and again tells him to exit his vehicle. Charlie hesitates.
Given that another cop had tried to pin an accident on him less than two
minutes ago Charlie is hesitant, reluctant, fearful, wide-eyed, and not ready
to comply. He is not about to simply roll over. Again, he asks why he’s been
pulled over and this time the cop comes up with a reason: “the George Carlin
poster in your rear van window is blocking your view and that makes this an
unsafe vehicle,” to which Charlie replies with unfettered disbelief and
exasperation, “Jesus Christ, I sometimes sleep in my van and the poster affords
me privacy. I live in Boulder and have been stopped for traffic violations and
no other officer has ever mentioned the poster. Hell, commercial vans have
spray painted rear windows, so thieves can’t see what’s inside and semis have
only side view mirrors” a retort which seems to infuriate the cop if his next
actions are any indication.</div>
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In one deft move the cop reaches though Charlie’s open
window with his left hand, depresses the handle and opens the van door. With
his right hand he grabs Charlie by his long hair and the back of his neck,
forcing Charlie to exit and move rearwards along the side of the panel van, out
of sight of Mary Lu, Charlie’s girlfriend, who rides shot-gun. Once Charlie is
toe to toe with him, the cop exclaims, “Well this ain’t Boulder, punk, and your
hippie van ain’t no big rig” and then the six foot six, two hundred and fifty
pound cop slams the five foot six, one hundred and twenty pound Charlie face
down across the hood of the patrol car, following up the slam down with a half
a dozen whacks to the back of the skull with a night stick he removes from his
utility belt. A bloodied and broken nosed Charlie is then handcuffed and taken
away in a second police car that has arrived because there already is a shadowy
third person in the back seat driver’s side, someone not in uniform, an earlier
arrestee, perhaps. This is the second act of utter bizarreness that again I
seem to be the only witness to, as neither the people in Charlie’s van nor the
officer driving the cop car, given his sightline, could see what actually
transpired. Only me as I stand in the street on the driver’s side of my van,
not ten feet from where Charlie was assaulted.</div>
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Later that night I bail Charlie out of jail. He’s been
charged with numerous offenses, crimes such as resisting arrest, assaulting a
police officer, disturbing the peace, but I note, not with driving with an
obstructed view. Well, to make a long story short, Charlie is offered a deal.
Plead to disturbing the peace or some such nonsense and all the more serious
charges will be dropped. Sounds easy, but poets are not a simple lot. Many, you
might say, are principled. And as Keats wrote, truth is beauty. Thus, Charlie poetically
tells the DA to take his deal and shove it up the ass of the officer who
attacked him, one Officer Brooks. Charlie wants a jury trial and he eventually
gets it. His girlfriend’s brother-in-law, a Denver lawyer, represents him. I am
to be the defense’s primary witness, along with my wife who can place me at the
scene. The DA is annoyed that Charlie did not take the offered deal and so he
plays hard ball, going as far as to sequester me away from Marcia
during the trial, as if a husband and wife would not be on the same page. The
DA has never bothered to depose me because, after all, he has two officers who
will testify that Charlie came out of his van swinging and that Charlie’s
injuries were a result of Officer Brooks having to subdue him. A third
prosecution witness, a wanna be cop police dispatcher, who was doing a Saturday
night ride-along in the back seat of Brook’s cruiser, will also testify that
Charlie came out swinging. This means that when I take the stand only Charlie’s
attorney is in the know as to what I will say.</div>
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First defense council exposes my background. A Jesuit
educated prep-ster, with a Bachelors Degree in Humanities and Technology from
Drexel University in Philadelphia, my recent six year stint as an English
teacher and president and contract negotiator for the Woodbury Teacher’s
Association present me as someone quite different from the long-haired
sleeping-in-his-van Texas hippie that Charlie appears to be. My testimony,
along with the rehearsed pat testimony of law enforcement, not to mention the
unbelievable assertion that skinny little Charlie would attack the hulking buff
Brooks, left little doubt that this hot Saturday night altercation was nothing
more than a machismo cop taking out his dislike of the brazen and long-haired
(and possibly of George Carlin as well) on an innocent kid who had the audacity
to be upset at being harassed. The cops’ rendition was perceived as the utter
fabrication it was and a jury of his peers exonerated Charlie on all counts.
It’s hard to believe that the DA had ever bought it; chances are he simply
resented Charlie for telling him to take his deal and shove it. And Charlie
Ross didn’t stop there. He later filed a civil suit against the officers
involved, alleging false arrest and assault, a case that would drag through the
courts for years. Unfortunately, during the time Charlie’s civil case snaked
its way about the legal system, we had a falling out – a separate story in
itself having to do with Gregory Corso, LSD, and a female black-belt bouncer at
the Blue Note on the Boulder mall – and we lost track of each other.</div>
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Then one day in late 1984 I get a call from Charlie on a
Sunday night. He informs me that earlier that afternoon he had learned that his
civil suit is going to trial on Tuesday, after having been postponed almost ad
infinitum. After all this time, after having been falsely arrested and beaten
by a Denver cop, not to mention, abused by a legal system that forced him to go
into debt to his lawyer, that he might win some satisfaction, not to mention
money, was a godsend to Charlie’s impoverished family. I mean poetry is truth
and beauty but it is neither food nor clothing nor rent. He was calling to see,
despite our differences surrounding the Gregory Corso affair, if I would
testify again. He was hoping to scrape up airfare from others in the commune
where he lived with Mary Lu and their four children.</div>
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“Of course” is my response. “Let me know when you’ll be
landing and I’ll even pick you up at Stapleton. You can stay with me and
Marcia.” He tells me he will call back in the morning once he knows his flight
info. </div>
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Now personally, I’m looking forward to Tuesday as I’ve
always wondered whether Officer Brooks ever came out of the S&M closet that
was his police uniform. My gaydar, no matter how inexact the science behind it, had
led me to believe that the police dispatcher in the back seat of Brooks patrol
car that August Saturday night had more than a love of blue in common with the
cop. At trial I had surmised that Brooks was showing off his sadism for the
benefit of someone, most likely his buddy in the back seat, who, along with his
partner in the front seat, had lied about Charlie’s beating and arrest. I know
that neither could see what went on between Charlie and Brooks given their
sight lines from the driver’s side of the patrol car. Yet testify they had!</div>
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Well anyway, Charlie never does call on Monday morning to
let me know when he’ll arrive in Denver. So Monday night I call him back to
find out the system had screwed the hippie in him once again. Apparently, his
lawyer, after all this time wanted money. For himself! The City of Denver had
offered a deal: settle for attorney’s fees, the city’s and Charlie’s, or risk
winning nothing. Charlie’s lawyer, now divorced from Mary Lu’s sister, told
Charlie that if he didn’t accept the deal, attorney’s fees without any
compensation to the plaintiff, he’d drop him as a client and sue Charlie for
payment of his fees, a situation Charlie couldn’t afford, given his alternative
communal lifestyle. Besides, Charlie admitted he had not been able to scrape
together airfare to come to Denver. Thus he took the deal, and everybody got
paid, everybody except Charlie, a lamentable and simple sad truth.</div>
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<!--EndFragment-->Edwin Forrest Wardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09239907046852195219noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8534379790827614432.post-2150476761900203102013-09-26T10:22:00.001-06:002013-09-27T10:22:55.129-06:00Larry's Lake Is Leaking<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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cover art: <i>Summit Lake</i> -watercolor inks- <i>Edwin Forrest Ward</i></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large; font-weight: bold;"><br /></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large; font-weight: bold;">Larry’s Lake is
Leaking</span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">as always</span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">for Marcia</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"> </span></div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">The way men meet surely colors the nature of their
friendship. This is the story of how I come to meet three of the more
influential men in my life: Larry Lake, Jimmy Morris, and Robert Alexander.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br />I meet Larry Lake at a poetry reading I host in Englewood
south of the Denver County line, at a bar a friend of mine manages just off
Broadway on West Floyd, the Casual Lounge. Half way through my roster of mostly
morose and self-absorbed poets, Lake injects himself one night into the somber
sobriety of words like a shot of ecstasy. Even though he’s come to mess with my
event, I take notice and am inspired by what happens. I appreciate the way he
settles onto the backless barstool, cigarette dangling from the corner of his
mouth one moment and dancing in his fingers the next. After fumbling in his
ditty bag to produce a handful of small press poetry chapbooks that he places
reverently on the cocktail table in front of him, Lake says nothing while he
stares around the room, slowing time almost to a standstill, smoking the next
in his perpetual chain of unfiltered Camels.<br /><br />Lake begins speaking with an irreverent diss on one and all:
“There’s not a poet in the house. You all know nothing. So listen up, pay
attention and learn!” before presenting some of the finest poetry I’ve ever
heard. Ignoring my agitation at his assertion, I’m enchanted by his delivery,
its meter, cadence, tone and imagery, its candor and originality. Nonetheless,
I’m still pissed, as this reading - of which I am the host - is the product of
my and Marcia’s very hard work. I’d drawn and hand-lettered a dozen posters
that, after bicycling from the Highlands to Wash Park, we’d hung in scattered
bars and hipster hangouts in the hopes of gathering together those interested
in poetry. And we’d succeeded, if fifty people in the side room of an Englewood
bar are any measure. And here’s this arrogant, albeit talented, bearded cross
of a boxer and an artist, one third hippie, one third beatnik, one third US Air
Force asshole, dumping on my scene. His countenance (a cross between Al Pacino
and Charlie Manson) and physical presence (broad chest-ed and muscular) invite
no rebuke from me or anyone else in the room, and Larry Lake leaves the lounge
after his performance without anyone challenging his contention that we all are
clueless.<br /><br />Returning home with Marcia, I stay up late turning my anger
into art and write one of the first fine poems of my life, the first lines of
which I still remember although the poem itself was lost years ago in a fifty
gallon drum fire I’d set to un-clutter my life: “Larry’s Lake is leaking/ a
puddle of piss in an adolescent bed sheet.”<br /><br />The month after Lake’s first appearance at POEMS LIVE, he
returns and attempts a redo of his challenge and put down: same smoke and
spreading of chap books, same delay and stare, but after his assertion that
“there is not a poet in the house,” I leap upon a cocktail table in the middle
of the room and rattle off from memory my “Larry’s Lake is Leaking<i>”</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> poem with a blistering ferocity that brooks no
dissent. My five-minute attack without benefit of burning cigarette is
delivered with smoke and awe, so much so that Lake abandons the stage and
leaves the room, the bar, and Englewood, but not without first catching my eye
and oddly winking.<br /> </span><br />Not long after this defense of my authority as a poet,
things happen for me in the literary world. I’m offered a gig as the host of a
bi-monthly poetry series at a downtown town all night coffee house, Café
Nepenthes. The new art magazine in Denver, <i>WESTWORD</i><span style="font-style: normal;">, publishes a story about poetry in Colorado wherein
Allen Ginsburg and I are characterized as the figureheads of two flourishing
and complementary literary scenes. But most importantly, I am asked by Denver’s
Society for the Advancement of Poetics to do a feature reading with one James
Ryan Morris, one of Colorado’s most celebrated poets, his infamy equal to the
fame of Thomas Hornsby Ferril. Morris’ face can be seen on the side of the
Colorado Convention Center’s tile mural homage to the men and women who have
shaped Colorado culture. In the mural Morris hangs with Neal Cassady, Corky
Gonzales and Stan Brakhage.</span><br />Now I had heard James Ryan Morris read twice, once at a
reading in Boulder as a substitute for William Burroughs who had been
hospitalized after an overdose and at Denver Poets Day in Civic Center when
Morris read mano mano with no one other than my personal poetic nemesis, Larry
Lake. Apparently Lake and Morris were old friends who had published and edited
Denver’s first alternative art newspaper, <i>The Mile High and Underground</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> in the late Sixties. Both times I heard Morris
recite, it was so archetypal and powerful, I had looked hard at my own
abilities as a writer, leaving me to wonder: Do I have anything really to say?
Morris was the perfect modern poet, his art characterized by his exacting use
of the vernacular wherein less was certainly more, the antithesis of the
Whitman-esque long line espoused by most contemporary poets. To this day I use
a Morris poem, “A Poem on Love”, in all my wedding ceremonies:</span><br /><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>She
said:“you’re sexy<br /><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>and
I dig you.<br /><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I
sd:<br /><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“you
too, and I’ve eyes.”<br /><br /><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Now
I ask you,<br /><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>what
can come of that?<br /><br />Now let me tell you, when I was asked to share the stage
with Morris I couldn’t fit my head through my front door as it swelled with
pride and a false sense of accomplishment. But then, as it always does, reality
set in: that I was but a novice, hardly even a journeyman, compared to the
master poet Jimmy Morris, shrunk more than my head. I mean the night I heard
him read in Boulder, Morris was the Big Bang compared to the Black Hole that
was Gregory Corso and Antler, the poets he shared the stage with. And at Denver
Poets Day where I thought I had burned brightly, Morris’ poetry - and Lake’s likewise
- so overshadowed mine that I never again performed any of the material I had
presented that day.<br /><br />Knowing that we were going to read together at Global
Village I took it upon myself to go meet Morris and, unannounced, I showed up
at his bookstore, Croupier Books, on 17<sup>th</sup> Avenue a few blocks east
of The Brown Palace Hotel. Having biked from my Washington Park abode on South
Pearl Street, I walked into Morris’ storefront still wearing a mask, a
surgeon’s facial dust mask, an act which prompted Morris to un-holster a
thirty-eight and aim it in my general direction. Desi Arnez and Lucille Ball
were cracking wise on a small black and white in the corner of the sparsely
appointed bookstore; still I could hear the cocking of the trigger above the
canned laughter. No one ever removed a mask as quickly as I did before raising
my hands as a show of submission. Morris had the bluest eyes I’ve ever seen on
a human being as well as the most intense stare. His body language asked “Are
you crazy?” Coincidentally he reminded me of my father on a very archetypal
Irish level, especially given the hat he wore and the importance of alcohol in
his life. Well, to quicken the story of two poets meeting, we made short work
of getting acquainted, not to mention sharing the drugs of which we were in
possession.<br /><br />In the weeks leading up to our reading, I visited Morris
many times, all the while knowing my work was not even in the same universe as
his. Intimidated with a capital <i>I</i></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-style: normal;"> is
what I was. And rightly so. I filled all my spare time trying to create new
work but knew it all to be contrived and vain and sophomoric. But as fate would
have it, I never got to fail in comparison to Jimmy, as I never got to share
his stage because Morris overdosed on alcohol and barbiturates and died a week
before our scheduled reading. For me, that I was let off the hook of having to
read poetry with Morris was the silver lining in the cloud that was his death.
I did however attend his funeral a result of which was that Marcia and I became
acquainted with his widow Diana and other denizens of Denver’s older bohemian
scene.</span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><br /></span></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">A month or so after Morris death, my ex wife, a Hollywood
film producer -<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Frank Stallone was
her leading man in a half dozen films she produced -<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>contacted me. Apparently Dylan Dog, a female bearded collie
Carol and I had raised in Jersey and whose ownership Carol won in our divorce –
had taken a vicious dislike to her second husband, a wealthy and cocaine addled
talent scout who filled the contestant slots on sundry television game shows.
The dog just knew the devil in him, I guess, because D Dog snarled and growled
whenever Mr Talent Scout came in the room.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Carol had called to inquire if I wanted Dylan back as she
could no longer keep her. For Carol it was either her husband or the dog and
for the dog it was either Denver or a shelter. Although I already had two large
dogs, a black lab and a blue-eyed Malamute that a short term girlfriend had
saddled me with upon her departure from our relationship – after conferring
with Marcia – I agreed to come to Los Angeles and rescue Dylan Dog.<br /><br />Now when our new friend, Diana Morris, learned of our plans
to travel to Los Angeles to retrieve D Dog, Diana insisted that we visit one of
her deceased husband’s good friends in Venice, Baza Alexander. Baza, the
founder of The Temple of Man – the religious organization in which I would
eventually be ordained as a minister - was quite famous as an artist and a
beatnik and a minister. On the day I arrived in Los Angeles when I rang the
bell of Baza’s door, I had no idea of what to expect: perhaps a shooting
gallery or an orgy, as I associated both scenarios with Jimmy Morris. But what
I found was Baza, the artist (his collage and print work are in the
Smithsonian) who immediately treated me like a brother. A few minutes after
informing him of what was up with mutual friends in Denver (Diana Morris, Steve
Wilson, Stan Brakhage and Angelo di Benedetto) he suggested I visit Frank Rios,
one of Jimmy’s best friends and connections, who lived in the neighborhood.<br /><br />Five minutes and a short walk later Marcia and I are in the
living room of Frank T. Rios, one of Los Angeles’ most famous poets. I’m
filling Frankie in on what’s doing with the people he knows in Denver, when he
interrupts and calls out: “Hey Larry come here. There’s a friend of Jimmy’s
here from Denver who you might know,” a request that heralds the arrival from
the kitchen of one Larry Lake, who passes through the beaded curtain of the
doorway like a bear through beetle kill pine: effortlessly and with no regard
for civility or damage done, barking, “Hey, I hear there’s a guy in Denver who’s been goin’around
reading a nasty poem about me. Do you know anything about him?”<br /><br />“That would be me,” I respond as I look him in the eye and
wink, somehow knowing that we will become the best of friends, which we are -
on and off - for the next ten years.<br /><br />In fact, I introduce Larry to his last wife and the mother
of his only child. Lake publishes my first book and broadside and nominates me
for ordination in the Temple of Man. He sees to it that I am given the very
first Tombstone for Poetry an annual award given by the James Ryan Morris
Memorial Foundation. After Larry is shot twice by the film maker, Continental
Catterson, in an argument over art, it is my hand Larry holds upon awakening
from surgery, and it is I who convince the docs to double his post surgery
morphine dosage given my knowledge of his tolerance for opiates. Marcia and I
attend the home birth of his only son. On the dark side, the boxer in him sucker
punches me only once, an act I respond to in kind and two-fold. Our families on
occasion spend holidays together and summers we watch our sons play little
league. There are those times we do acid together welcoming dawn from the roofs
of different downtown Denver skyscrapers (you’d be surprised how easy access
is). As brothers in ministry, we drive non-stop together eighteen hours to
visit a dying Baza Alexander, and, most importantly, Lake teaches me the duties
of being an artist, things Morris had taught Lake, things Morris – like my own
father - would have taught me had not their addictions laid them low and early.<br /><br />Indeed, I could say, Jimmy Morris gave me insight into what
it means to be a poet and artist and Larry Lake leaked passion all over that
perspective.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Together with Baza
Alexander, Larry Lake and James Ryan Morris produced the contract I signed with
my muse.<br /><br /><br /> </span><br />
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<!--EndFragment-->Edwin Forrest Wardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09239907046852195219noreply@blogger.com0