Cleaning up the mess has been more tedious, more arduous than I could have ever imagined, slowed when an objet d’angst brings me the pain of reminiscence, tiny little crumbles and broken things. What is it I should remember…
Y’know, the more I think about it, the more I realize that as kids we were arrogant and foolish to think we were inventing new theories of transcendence: we thought that thought-games would liberate us from redundant emotions and sentences to obscurity such as this. Venting anger on paper was supposed to cleanse us. It didn’t work. If anything it reinforced our rage.We must have written hundreds of angry, unfocussed poems that wound up in the trash. But I think when Paul Chelibi helped Marie Draper write a few, it wasn’t too bad.
I found something the other day. I had been doing a meditation on a stack of 45’s when I found a tightly crumbled up wad of paper in the center hole of a record. At first I thought it was a crude version of one of those plastic conversion discs that were used to change the large hole of a 45 to a small hole so you could play it on a 33 1/3 rpm turntable. Maybe, out of curiosity, I’ll try to play it, some other time, to see if it has any significance– hmm,”Lover’s Holiday” by Peggy Scott & Jo Jo Benson? Sort of scratched up…
I’ve unfolded the crumbled up center paper and even with all the dark black pencil scribbles all over it, I’ve managed to pick up the impression of the writing from the undersheet. So here’s one which I think was a tamed down version from an argument between Marie and her sister about who would make a better hypothetical Secretary General of the UN. It’s pretty mild and I think maybe the original rant was better. Paul broke up the fight, and by the time he and Marie decided to collaborate on a poem they were both too calm and too drained of passion. I’ll look and see if I can find some other draft, but for now here’s the crumbled up version:
Adze
by Marie Draper (with Paul Chelibi)
While resolutions were tabled
at the foot of war
peace was axed, and
the ancient evil growled
in the castle fortress
on the pimple of the world
The blond UN lady
knew I would blitz
up the hill with
my adze
for I had advertised
my attack with polish
that it was time to chop wood
Dreaming at the foot of twilight
the ancient house called
me to reform its recalcitrant wood
to etch a notch in the handle of my adze
by slaying the dragon
saving my son but
I had brass and so did he,
so I arrived to his triumph
kissed his success
as we cried for the dead
Kiss my adze blond lady
if you want to auction it
to the highest bidder who
chops down ancient trees
in the forest of the evil castle
where the Beast waits
to be transformed by
the Beauty of justice
at “twilight’s last gleaming”
If I would be as beautiful
as he is ugly
I might approach him
with reproach
but I polish
the handle of my adze
until I am pure of heart
and the wood is ready for carving
because death is the only solution
for the impudence of ignorant brutality
Only revenge now
when evil breathes fire
Tasty is the barbecue
that roasts on the
spit of freedom
And speaking about rage, here’s one by Doug:
Killing Dad
by Douglas Gilbert
Justice, I called on you
to shield me
from my father,
a hanging judge
self appointed
child critic
who made me
an orphan from love
as he had been one
in fact and for me
de facto. TURNING AWAY,
a scientist, giving me
a time machine,
let me go back to pre-mean.
Seeing my Grandmother
hit by a random stone
I lured her into a trap, thought to
let the crowd stone her to death
a method ensured to suggest
to Fate that my Father never be born.
Told I could not come back
as I wouldn’t exist,
I visited myself as a child,
had him kill, but
it took an extra day for
his Mother and him to dump the body,
never did tell his friend Becky
to check out the museum where
she was to meet her future husband,
father of the world’s greatest healer.
If it was my fate to suffer
I was convinced these paradoxes
made time traveling circuses
dreams not to be had
as I know I woke up from
somewhere unreal,
but next time I’ll
introduce Becky,
then kill him
except…
I could have gotten help
when Justice I called on you
but you were dead;
I am Justice alone.
———————————-
I didn’t want to do any spring cleaning because bringing back memories is so painful. I’ve been finding all kinds of stuff.
I found an odd note from Jack Chelka: “I’m sorry I left in such a hurry, so if you find any of my poems, could you please burn them. Well, OK, I know you never listen to me, so, could you give them to Doug in case he ever publishes anything. He can do whatever he wants with them. I’m going somewhere — maybe Australia. You are groovy Ziohat… and don’t take this the wrong way but you have been so cool and I love your… nevermind… peace and love,
Jack Chelka, 1969
p.s. Marie Draper says, ‘Right on.’ “
Well yeah, great guy, and I’ve found at least one poem that was to be burned:
Not A Fair Match
This last affair
not a fair match
in the clinches
Saving the ring and little else
only one tissue an eye
dampened
dripped insufficient
last box
Only
a tissue in each corner
to watch her die
stifle a scream
sing a lullaby
put my voice in her
to ring out hush tones
wring out tissues
silhouetted shreds in a box
———————————–
