08-05-2024, 11:23 PM
Hello Dale- this probably the longest piece I've ever seen by you and it contains some very decriptive images that held my interest.
The hot, dry, “nowhere to go, and going nowhere” place,”
I grew up in, is still there, going nowhere,
but doing so quicker these days. love this observation
“The Last Picture Show” remnant, Don't know that this is relevant, but it does suggest the time period
thick as the bricks that people took away as souvenirs: HA!
just as practical, and just as dull: still rises
like an old derelict ship in a sea
of rust colored blood dust, rattlesnake sea serpents,
and mesquite bush, faded as are
the once green interstate signs,
as though an insane eraser dust fairy,
had dusted everything with a layer of white chalk. wonderfully descriptive section
The chalky washed out signs, and the rusted-blood soil,
reflect the two kinds of folks who exists here:
church-goers and sinners, although an outsider looking in
would have a hard time telling one from the other.
But, whether you’re working or not you’re still “some kind of bum,” Another HA! moment for me
if you don’t go to church three times a week,
(the real test of faith coming on “Super Bowel Sunday,” Probably a typo, but super funny
and being able to find the smallest earplug
so no one realizes that you are listening
to the game during Sunday evening services), you still have me, as you move the narrative forward
keeping the local haberdashery in the “black,”
by giving Mom’s and Daughter’s easy choices for
Birthdays, Christmas Days, and Father’s Days.
Someone’s got to sell all those suites and ties
for the “good” men to wear to church three time a week.
Because of all this church going, someone, somewhere,
has a job making long flat, narrow boxes
with a bumpy-shiny, enamel-white surface. perfect description of the tioe boxes
These “tie coffins” are bought by all the local clothing stores, yet another HA! moment
who display the names from people long dead,
or who never lived at all upon the street facing façade,
“Turner’s” “Johnson’s” and “Chatterley’s.”
Lining Main Street, their half glass doors open
with a loose and dented brass knob onto
almost oily, overly worn, dark tongue-n-grove floors,
outrageously high ceilings and
an old slow moving black ceiling fan,
which has turned faithfully for the past sixty-five years: another section with vivid place setting imagery
probably much longer than the current descendant-owner
has been turning and at a considerable faster pace.
Each store has at least one person
whose specialty is to wrap those
enamelized, bumpatized, boxes in a crisp
professional way, making a special bow
that you “can’t buy in any store,”
each “tie coffin” gets its own unique topping,
then sealed by the gold, “store identifying” sticker.
The “Wrapper ‘Ar-teest’,” is the only unique practitioner
of art in a town of ubiquitous stultified interactions, interesting job description for a dull town
where carvers carve the same.
“Cowboy on Horse with Rattlesnake,” again and again,
turning art into a rubber stamp industry,
until it’s time to rack the tools, shower, shave,
and put on the latest same new suit, given last Christmas:
along with the two pairs of overalls, and four chambray work-shirts,
which had been put on six months “layaway same as cash!”
Then time to tie on the last “whatever’s day” “silk” tie,
freshly removed from the shiny white oblong box,
which will later get its own special place on the
battery operated electronic revolving tie holder,
but no coat (its Wednesday night). funny as hell detail
Hurrying on down to the “prayer meeting” at the
ponderously heavy overly Romanesque columned,
always on the corner “House of God”
(sitting catty cornered across from that “other church”)
where he will rendezvous with the Misses and the kids,
and distractedly pray for those who need God’s
help at the moment as they recover from whatever
operation they just had at the hospital.
Also praying for their own souls, hoping they are
“Saved” from the fiery abyss of Hell,
(where their best friends are all headed,
because they go to that “other church”),
not realizing that since slightly after
high school graduation, when all their
pre-graduation dreams died,
that is exactly where they all have been living! don't think you need the '!'
This has all of the qualities of a 'shaggy-dog-story' served up as a poem. The line lengths move this one along quite nicely. (did I just say "nicely" ?)
I'll leave it to you to decide how much dust to shake off of this one. It could easily have been posted in the FUN forum due to its dry humor (of which I am a fan).
The development of images is what drives this poem, and those descriptions allow a reader to get a feel for the people and place described.
I'm not sure that line-by=line critique will even work for this one, buit I hope I gave you a general sense of my take on it- it left me with the impression of a ghost town that is still occupied.
~ Mark
The hot, dry, “nowhere to go, and going nowhere” place,”
I grew up in, is still there, going nowhere,
but doing so quicker these days. love this observation
“The Last Picture Show” remnant, Don't know that this is relevant, but it does suggest the time period
thick as the bricks that people took away as souvenirs: HA!
just as practical, and just as dull: still rises
like an old derelict ship in a sea
of rust colored blood dust, rattlesnake sea serpents,
and mesquite bush, faded as are
the once green interstate signs,
as though an insane eraser dust fairy,
had dusted everything with a layer of white chalk. wonderfully descriptive section
The chalky washed out signs, and the rusted-blood soil,
reflect the two kinds of folks who exists here:
church-goers and sinners, although an outsider looking in
would have a hard time telling one from the other.
But, whether you’re working or not you’re still “some kind of bum,” Another HA! moment for me
if you don’t go to church three times a week,
(the real test of faith coming on “Super Bowel Sunday,” Probably a typo, but super funny
and being able to find the smallest earplug
so no one realizes that you are listening
to the game during Sunday evening services), you still have me, as you move the narrative forward
keeping the local haberdashery in the “black,”
by giving Mom’s and Daughter’s easy choices for
Birthdays, Christmas Days, and Father’s Days.
Someone’s got to sell all those suites and ties
for the “good” men to wear to church three time a week.
Because of all this church going, someone, somewhere,
has a job making long flat, narrow boxes
with a bumpy-shiny, enamel-white surface. perfect description of the tioe boxes
These “tie coffins” are bought by all the local clothing stores, yet another HA! moment
who display the names from people long dead,
or who never lived at all upon the street facing façade,
“Turner’s” “Johnson’s” and “Chatterley’s.”
Lining Main Street, their half glass doors open
with a loose and dented brass knob onto
almost oily, overly worn, dark tongue-n-grove floors,
outrageously high ceilings and
an old slow moving black ceiling fan,
which has turned faithfully for the past sixty-five years: another section with vivid place setting imagery
probably much longer than the current descendant-owner
has been turning and at a considerable faster pace.
Each store has at least one person
whose specialty is to wrap those
enamelized, bumpatized, boxes in a crisp
professional way, making a special bow
that you “can’t buy in any store,”
each “tie coffin” gets its own unique topping,
then sealed by the gold, “store identifying” sticker.
The “Wrapper ‘Ar-teest’,” is the only unique practitioner
of art in a town of ubiquitous stultified interactions, interesting job description for a dull town
where carvers carve the same.
“Cowboy on Horse with Rattlesnake,” again and again,
turning art into a rubber stamp industry,
until it’s time to rack the tools, shower, shave,
and put on the latest same new suit, given last Christmas:
along with the two pairs of overalls, and four chambray work-shirts,
which had been put on six months “layaway same as cash!”
Then time to tie on the last “whatever’s day” “silk” tie,
freshly removed from the shiny white oblong box,
which will later get its own special place on the
battery operated electronic revolving tie holder,
but no coat (its Wednesday night). funny as hell detail
Hurrying on down to the “prayer meeting” at the
ponderously heavy overly Romanesque columned,
always on the corner “House of God”
(sitting catty cornered across from that “other church”)
where he will rendezvous with the Misses and the kids,
and distractedly pray for those who need God’s
help at the moment as they recover from whatever
operation they just had at the hospital.
Also praying for their own souls, hoping they are
“Saved” from the fiery abyss of Hell,
(where their best friends are all headed,
because they go to that “other church”),
not realizing that since slightly after
high school graduation, when all their
pre-graduation dreams died,
that is exactly where they all have been living! don't think you need the '!'
This has all of the qualities of a 'shaggy-dog-story' served up as a poem. The line lengths move this one along quite nicely. (did I just say "nicely" ?)
I'll leave it to you to decide how much dust to shake off of this one. It could easily have been posted in the FUN forum due to its dry humor (of which I am a fan).
The development of images is what drives this poem, and those descriptions allow a reader to get a feel for the people and place described.
I'm not sure that line-by=line critique will even work for this one, buit I hope I gave you a general sense of my take on it- it left me with the impression of a ghost town that is still occupied.
~ Mark