The Poetry of Science (The Science of Poetry)

[BrianIsSmilingAtYou]

Just a Few Words

I wrote an American Sentence
while sitting on the toilet seat.
Seven hours later, I have no sense
of it; my thoughts are incomplete.

I’m incoherent; I want to write
a little ditty, a small piece.
Satisfied or not—aye!—tonight
I did my duty: squeaky wheels, grease.

Other things stand in my way again—
just a few words: seven plus ten.

----------------------

BrianIs AtYou (and trying to remember that American Sentence; it wasn't bad, and I've never done one before.)

[BrianIsSmilingAtYou]

Media Icons


Hank, Chile Dane, Garrett and others at Plum Street Mall

“Chile Dane and I have our picture in the Town Talk!”
Hank, retired teacher—balding, loquacious—
and his deaf dog, Chile, a harlequin Great Dane—
white and black like a Dalmatian, with blue eyes
and a quiet disposition—are Media icons.

Hank signs to Chile: Sit!—and he sits.
A man walks by with his young son.
“Hankster! It’s Joe Kowalski; I was in your class,
like, twenty years ago! Can my son pet your dog?”
“Sure, Joe,” says Hank, “What’s your boy’s name?”

“My boy is Joe—Joe junior, of course!—and how about the dog?”
“The dog’s name is Chile, like the country," says Hank, "He’s a rescue dog.
He was abandoned on the Appalachian Trail in West Virginia
before his rescue. We found him online on the rescue website
a day before he was due to be put down, which would have been a shame—

after all he'd been through—and drove out straightaway.
The best guess is that the original owners didn’t know that he was deaf,
and beat him for being disobedient,
and then dropped him in the wilderness. Sad.
It was good to save him, but finding him helped save us both:

People ask me why I don't golf, or move to Florida,
instead of staying here in Media, PA,
now that I'm retired. What can I say?
I’m a Philly guy! A people person!
I was a teacher for forty years! I'd go crazy

out on the links! I'd miss all my friends!
I get more exercise walking Chile
up and down the streets of Media—
and meet more friends, old and new—
than I ever could out at a country club,

chasing a god-damn ball!—
or, worse, sitting on a beach in Miami,
sipping Piña Coladas and Margaritas!
And the kids love Chile Dane!
I meet old students, some visiting home from college,

or back in town with new jobs,
or even with kids of their own now! Like you!”
“That’s great, Hank!” says Joe. Hank leans down to give
Chile a kiss. “I was just telling the folks about our picture
in the Town Talk, Joe, you should look it up.”
 
Joe junior pets Chile. “Let's go son!”
"Dad!" The dog leans in toward the boy.
Hank gives Chile Dane the sign for “handshake”,
and Chile extends his massive paw to the young boy,
who shakes it, wide-eyed and amazed. “You can go now.”

Hank turns to the regulars. Some of the usual crowd is here—
Garrett, ‘Oop’, me—chewing the fat,
solving the world’s problems, disputing trivia—
through energetic parliamentary argument,
and the power of Google to settle things.

But most folks have gone home,
and others have gone to the open mic
down the street, where I’m headed.
“The picture is for the ‘Bark for Life’,” Hank exclaims,
as much with his hands as his voice.

Chile is calm; he enjoys the cool evening air. He leans against me,
looking for someone to pet him, now that young Joe is gone:
if Chile leans against you, you're “in”—
if he sits on your feet, you’re his best friend of the moment.
He gazes at Garrett and ‘Oop’, sitting there

in the late evening air of Plum Street—Garrett with a good cigar,
and a new cushion on his wheelchair. “Life is good!” he says,
“Brian! We got to get together tomorrow!
Did you see the Flyers against New York last night: Bums! With a capital ‘B’!
Just like them to make it to the NHL post-season, and then screw the puck up!

And don't get me started on the Phillies! New season! Bah!”
‘Oop’ breaks in: “Who's that guy that played in The Lawman?
Wasn't it John Russell? Can you look it up on The Oracle?”
I go to pull out my iPhone, and Google it. “Forget it,” says Hank,
“You got the Town Talk, ‘Oop’? I'm in there with Chile

concerning the ‘Bark for Life’ at the park this Sunday.
All proceeds go to the American Cancer Society.
The lady at the library showed me the picture. You gotta see it!”
‘Oop’ pulls the paper out of his coat pocket,
where he'd had it neatly folded.

Hank grabs it and starts scanning the pages.
“Where the hell is it?” He pulls open each section,
even the advertising flyers, and lays them
on the brick walk, leaning over everything spread out on the ground.
“Man, it's hard to see when the Sun goes down;

where are my glasses?” He ties Chile's leash
to one of the chairs. Chile leans against me again,
sits on my feet. Garrett stubs his cigar ash
against one of his wheels. “Are you sure it's in there?” he asks.
"I'm sure," says Hank, “I just saw it! The lady at the library

showed me just before they closed for the night.”
Hank gets on his knees, peering over the newspaper
spread on the ground. He opens his jacket,
and two more copies of the Town Talk fall out
(souvenirs, no doubt, that he'd forgotten he'd put there).
 
“Where the hell is it? Super Sunday! Easter Egg Hunt!
Planning commission! News! Ads! Police blotter!
Classifieds! Where the hell is it?
There's everything in here except porn, and Jimmy Hoffa,
but I can't find the picture!”

A lady walks up to me, “Is that your dog? He's beautiful!”
“Oh, no, that's Chile Dane. That's Hank's dog.”
I point to Hank on all fours, squinting and staring
at newsprint spread all over the brick walk
of the Plum Street alleyway. “It's a long story. He gets excited.”

I grab one of the copies of the Town Talk,
and look it over. On the bottom of page one,
below the fold, there's Hank and Chile—beaming—
in a full color photograph
with the other dogs and owners.

The caption lists Chile as “Grand Marshall” of the “Bark for Life”,
(in small print: all proceeds to go to the American Cancer Society).
“Here it is, Hank! On the bottom of the front page, no less!”
Hank gets up from all fours. I hand him a crumpled copy of the Town Talk,
folded as neatly as possible after the severe “examination”.

He shakes his head. “Mr. Science, how do you do it?” he asks,
brushing off his knees. “Scientific method,” I say,
“Start at page one, and look at the whole page, carefully.”
“I'll be damned,” Hank shakes his head again,
and looks at the picture, folding the paper over.

‘Oop’ frowns at Hank: “What did you do to my newspaper?!”
“Don't worry,” says Hank, “You can get a new one. It's free, you know.”
“I know that—but still!” ‘Oop’ glares.
Chile looks to Hank for a treat.
Garrett chimes in, “I think ‘Oop’ needs a treat more than Chile!”

“Anyway," says Hank, turning to the rest of us,
"If you can come, the ‘Bark for Life’ is Sunday at the park.
It's great fun, and for a good cause.”
Hank signs to Chile. Sit!—and he sits. Hank pauses,
reaches in his pocket, pulls out a treat for Chile:

“We might even get our picture taken.”

https://www.facebook.com/chile.dane
https://www.facebook.com/barkpamedia
Bark for Life

------------------------------

BrianIs AtYou

[prooftheory]

There is more than a touch of Robert Frost in Media Icons but it isn't exactly an American Sentence. Nice poems.

[Steven]

Hi Brian, I really enjoyed the ride through 'Making Do'. I think that's something well worth taking through revision.

I'm impressed by the effortless quality of the metrical verse; it seems natural and instinctive. 'My Geeky Science Girl' was playful and fun, and had an authentic, 'school' experience.

I also like the way in which you write about US culture. 'Brooklyn, Grandpa and 67 years of Jackie Robinson' is an example of a poem that I felt drew me in on what it means and how it feels to grow up in the USA, to absorb its special customs. Baseball has always seemed to me one of those particularly precious sports that are loaded with memorabilia and things that inspire plenty of nostalgia. I also enjoyed the poem about Uncle Artie for the same reasons, it just has that evocation of life in the USA that I find instantly recognisable from the various books, films and plays I have taken in.

The blue eyes poem was beautiful, a very enviable image.

[PClem]

No Lie! was a great piece of tall tale telling. 67 years of Grandpa and Jackie was very enjoyable. When Hasselhof Just Won't Do - does he ever? Just a Few Words - made me laugh. Enjoyed reading you again.

[kristalynn]

No Lie! made me laugh. These are fun to read. I will dip in again. I really hope that American Sentence comes back to you! I'd love to read it.

[Dunc]

Brian

I enjoyed your pictures and reportage and reflections in Making Do I. You tell a good strong story.

How truly I agree with your Hasselhoff thesis! The expendable man,

Just a Few Words is a lot of the story of NaPo. Ya nailed it.

And Media Icons may be a bit long but it has a nice warmth to it.

Regards / Dunc

[Andrea345]

I completely forgot about the "Periodic Table of Elements" poetry list until I read your "Periodic Table" bits. It's parts like, "Our Lady CI's rather queer // an irritating gal" which positively made me smile out loud (winks). So much fun stuff here, Brian, I love the "bounce" of "Geeky Science Girl".

[billdozer]

Brian, you are always a wizard with forms, rhymes, and humor. The character and slice of life work feels like it's building toward an extended work. Have you been thinking about plays and novellas? This is not to question how the long pieces work as poems. By any standard they are good reads and will become fully realized when you fine tune them. But the characters and relationships start to get too big for a line driven approach. So much is going on in Media Icons that I want to get lost in the narrative and ignore the presentation. Thanks for your efforts and many fine rounds of NaPo support.

[BrianIsSmilingAtYou]

There is more than a touch of Robert Frost in Media Icons but it isn't exactly an American Sentence. Nice poems.

Thanks. I think the Frost may be a bit in the tone, since I am using free verse, but I can see where you are coming from.

Hi Brian, I really enjoyed the ride through 'Making Do'. I think that's something well worth taking through revision.

I'm impressed by the effortless quality of the metrical verse; it seems natural and instinctive. 'My Geeky Science Girl' was playful and fun, and had an authentic, 'school' experience.

I also like the way in which you write about US culture. 'Brooklyn, Grandpa and 67 years of Jackie Robinson' is an example of a poem that I felt drew me in on what it means and how it feels to grow up in the USA, to absorb its special customs. Baseball has always seemed to me one of those particularly precious sports that are loaded with memorabilia and things that inspire plenty of nostalgia. I also enjoyed the poem about Uncle Artie for the same reasons, it just has that evocation of life in the USA that I find instantly recognisable from the various books, films and plays I have taken in.

The blue eyes poem was beautiful, a very enviable image.

Thanks, Steven. I'm having a rough time at times, as I haven't written in a while. I'm glad you like 'Brooklyn, Grandpa and 67 years of Jackie Robinson' and 'Dear Artie' (who is a cousin, not an Uncle, but much older than me. His father was my father's half-brother. His father was the eldest son of my grandfather's first wife. My father was born to my grandfather's second wife. As such, there was a generation between my father and his half-brothers, so even though Artie was closer in age to my Dad, he was, in fact, my Dad's nephew, and my cousin, not my Uncle.)

I really struggled with the Jackie Robinson piece, and though I like the tone, I am not yet happy with it. There is so much more that could be said, a richness of history and nostalgia that is only hinted at in the current piece.

No Lie! was a great piece of tall tale telling. 67 years of Grandpa and Jackie was very enjoyable. When Hasselhof Just Won't Do - does he ever? Just a Few Words - made me laugh. Enjoyed reading you again.

Thanks, PClem. I was a little uneasy about posting "No Lie!"

Before I became a "serious" poet (whatever that means), I used to write a lot of limericks (including my own Nantucket series). This is a child of that heritage.

See my notes above to Steven on Jackie Robinson.

"Hasselhof" immediately suggested itself to me when I saw Howard's original "hasenpfeffer" prompt.

No Lie! made me laugh. These are fun to read. I will dip in again. I really hope that American Sentence comes back to you! I'd love to read it.

Thanksm kristalynn. That's two thumbs up on "No Lie!" All of my American Sentences are turning into Novels.

Brian

I enjoyed your pictures and reportage and reflections in Making Do I. You tell a good strong story.

How truly I agree with your Hasselhoff thesis! The expendable man,

Just a Few Words is a lot of the story of NaPo. Ya nailed it.

And Media Icons may be a bit long but it has a nice warmth to it.

Regards / Dunc

Thanks, Dunc. "Making Do" has done well at several public readings and open mics already.

I've continued working on "Media Icons", and it is now three times longer, with a lot more character development, and detail. I don't know if that's a bad thing. To me, the original lacked proper pacing, and by putting in more detail. characterization, and humor, and generally breaking things up, it improved the pacing, so even though it is three times as long, it feels like a quicker read.

I completely forgot about the "Periodic Table of Elements" poetry list until I read your "Periodic Table" bits. It's parts like, "Our Lady CI's rather queer // an irritating gal" which positively made me smile out loud (winks). So much fun stuff here, Brian, I love the "bounce" of "Geeky Science Girl".

Thanks, Andrea. I started doing the elements myself forgetting that as well. I haven't look it up, although I've listened to Tom Lehrer's Element Song several times.

I started on Period 4 with Potassium and it got out of control. I still need to return to that.

Brian, you are always a wizard with forms, rhymes, and humor. The character and slice of life work feels like it's building toward an extended work. Have you been thinking about plays and novellas? This is not to question how the long pieces work as poems. By any standard they are good reads and will become fully realized when you fine tune them. But the characters and relationships start to get too big for a line driven approach. So much is going on in Media Icons that I want to get lost in the narrative and ignore the presentation. Thanks for your efforts and many fine rounds of NaPo support.

Thanks, Bill.

I've been deliberately working on the character and slice-of-life stuff. I started writing a short story (or novella, or novel, not sure yet) inspired by a former NaPo science fiction poem.

See Beyond the Whirling Stars, and try to imagine me working out the backstory, alien culture, and plausible reason for the connection between the poet/narrator and the alien creature. Yeah. I'm going crazy.

I'm tempted to post excepts from that.

With "Media Icons", there was so much to the story (based on a true incident) that I wanted to tell, that it ended up in the short truncated form that you see here. I've continued work on it, and I am actually going to post the longer version as my next entry. It is approximately three times as long (in lines), but I think that a lot of the re-write actually makes for a quicker read, since I broke up the telly expository material at the beginning much more effectively, and added more characterization and local color.

-----------------------

Thanks, again, everyone. I hope my quoting of responses did not miss anyone. If I did, it was not deliberate.

BrianIs AtYou

[BrianIsSmilingAtYou]

Media Icons (extended re-mix)


Hank and Chile in the Town Talk, promoting the "Bark for Life"

Hank storms from State Street
into the Plum Street alleyway
as the trolley rumbles by:
“Chile Dane and I have our picture in the Town Talk!”
Garrett, ‘Oop’, and I—we turn to Hank as one, “What did you say?”

He repeats himself, louder,
and when the trolley rumble fades,
I say, “Cool!—you guys are Media Icons!—
The deaf dog that everyone loves—
and the man who loves to talk!”

“I do love to talk,” Hank agrees, “but, tell me, Mr. Science—
tell me—why has our weather turned cold again?
I’ve got Chile half-covered with his winter warmer,
and no one can see his lovely black and white coat.
Can your science explain that?”

Hank’s right—and it’s a shame, too. Chile’s a harlequin Great Dane;
his coloration is much the same as a Dalmatian’s—
and his colors, and his blue-eyes, are a marker for deafness, to those in the know.
But Chile Dane doesn’t know that he’s deaf. His silent world is the only world he knows.
He compensates for deafness with keen attention, alert eyes, and a cool demeanor.

“I haven’t heard anything,” I say,
“It might be Global Warming,
or Global Cooling, or Climate Change—who knows?”
“What about this picture?” asks Garrett, turning his wheelchair.
“’Oop’ picked up the Town Talk. We need to have a look.”

“Just a minute,” says Hank, turning to Chile Dane.
Hank signs to Chile: Sit!—and he sits.
Hank starts to turn to ‘Oop’,
when a man walks by with his young son.
“Hankster! Oh my God! It’s me, Joe Kowalski!—

I was in your class, like, twenty years ago, class of ‘94!
Can my son pet your dog?”
“Sure, Joe,” says Hank, “What’s your boy’s name?”
“My boy is Joe—Joe junior, of course! —
and how about the dog?”

“The dog’s name is Chile, like the country,” says Hank,
“He’s a rescue dog. Hard life before we found him.”
Young Joe, seven, puts his arms around Chile,
and starts a friendly wrestling match.
Chile seems to be getting the better of it.

Hank laughs. “Like father, like son, eh?”
“Yeah, I still have my high school trophies in the TV room at home.
Me and my boy are always watching WWE.
He thinks that’s what I did in high school.”
“Hey, Garrett! I’ve got another wrestler here!” says Hank,

“I think he came along a few years after your illustrious career
ended at graduation, but you guys might want to talk shop.”
Garrett puts his hand out. “A wrestling man—
I could show your son a few moves, I bet. I never let the wheelchair stop me,
not in high school, not now! It’s the world I live in, and I live it to the full!”

“Man, I heard of you! The only wrestler with cerebral palsy in the division! Maybe the country!
I heard your opponents would hesitate sometimes,
facing up against a man who had to walk on his hands—
but if they weren't fast, you'd just sweep
their legs out from under them!

I heard you had tough going, and didn't win much,
but you never gave up—
and you made quite a name for yourself!
I had a name, too: Joe ‘The Wall’ Kowalski!”
He strikes a pose: “Try and knock ‘The Wall’ down! Arrrgh!”

He laughs, “Oh, my back! Body slam in my last match did me in.”
“Great stuff, man!” laughs Garrett,
“Good name! A real so-bri-quet! You sound like a pro!”
The two men exchange a few more words,
as little Joe continues his hold on Chile.

“Joe junior seems to love Chile,” says Hank,
“And Chile loves the attention. He was starved for affection once.
He was abandoned on the Appalachian Trail in West Virginia,
and animal control was called; he was found half dead from literal starvation.
The Great Dane Rescue put him up on their website for adoption,

but no one wanted a dog with his history.
We found him on the site just by chance,
a day before he was due to be put down,
which would have been a shame—after all he’d been through—
and we drove the three hundred miles across Pennsylvania in a heartbeat.”

“Wow,” said Joe, “Who would put a dog out to die?”
“I don’t know.” Hank gives Joe junior a treat for Chile.
Hank signs Wait!—And Chile waits, mouth open.
“OK, give him the treat now, little Joe,” says Hank.
“You know, Joe, something like that is hard to say.

The best guess is that the original owners
simply didn’t know that he was deaf;
a lot of people don’t know about the significance
of the harlequin markings that go with congenital deafness.
There’s evidence, however, that they beat him,

thinking that he was disobedient,
rather than deaf,
and then they dropped him in the wilderness.
Sad. Shameful.”
“That was mean of them,” says Joe junior, “Can I ride him?”
 
“Sorry, little Joe, you can pet him, but no rides,” says Hank,
“Isn’t this great, Joe? I love this!
I remember when we first brought him back to Media:
he was so thin.
Me and my wife, we nursed him back to health.

We saved him.
It was good to save him,
but finding him helped save us both.”
Hank pulls out a handkerchief,
and blows his nose.

People ask me why I don’t golf—
or why I don’t move to Florida,
instead of staying here in Media, PA—
now that I’m retired. What can I say?
I’m a Philly guy! A people person!

I was a teacher for forty years! I’d go crazy
out on the links! I’d miss all my friends!
I get more exercise walking Chile
up and down the streets of Media—
and meet more friends, old and new—

than I ever could out at a country club,
chasing a goddamn ball!—
or, worse, sitting on a beach in Miami,
sipping Piña Coladas and Margaritas!
And the kids love Chile Dane!

I meet former students,
some visiting home from college,
or back in town with new jobs,
or even with kids of their own now!
Like you—and Joe junior!”

“That’s great, Hank!” says Joe,
“Man, those years go by fast!”
Hank leans down to give Chile a kiss.
“They do. When we first got Chile,
we had to bulk him up. Skin and bones.

We’ve had him over five years now.
He was probably already two when we adopted him.
The average life span of a Great Dane is six to eight years
so I try to make them the best years that I can.”
He stops for a moment, grabs the handkerchief again—
 
then he blurts out—“Oh! Oh! Oh!
I was just telling the folks here
about our picture in the Town Talk, Joe—
you should look it up.
Me and Chile—Media hounds.”

“Great! I will!”
Big Joe checks the big clock across the street in front of the Plumstead.
“Let’s go son! We’ll be late to meet your mother. Hank, it was good to see you.”
“Dad!” protests little Joe,
as Chile leans in towards him.

Hank gives Chile the sign for “handshake”,
and Chile Dane extends his massive paw.
The young boy takes it, and shakes it, wide-eyed and amazed.
“It’s OK, little Joe,” says Hank, putting away his handkerchief,
“Come again sometime. We’re out almost every night.”

Hank turns back to the regulars—
we few, watching the scene unfold.
Garrett, ‘Oop’, me, there from the beginning—
and Dino, too, freshly come from the Beanery,
where he’d set up for the open mic.

While Hank had been speaking, we’d listened a bit—
having heard all—or most—of it before. Alternatively, we chewed the fat:
solving the world’s problems, dissecting trivia—
through energetic parliamentary argument,
and the power of Google™ search to settle disputes.

But most folks had gone home,
and others are simply God-knows-where.
“Where’s Keith? He’d like to see this,” I say,
“Probably out on his bike somewhere—
but he usually picks up the Town Talk for himself.”

“Chris was around earlier, singing with his Walkman,” says Garrett,
“I don’t know where the heck he went.
He’s a big fan of Chile Dane. I think he’d like to see it, too.”
“And what about Letitia, Sue, Mike and Bill?” I add,
“Hank’s gonna have to make the rounds tonight.”

As we talk, passersby make their way past, some to the Seven Stones café,
others down to the open mic at the Beanery (where I’m headed soon).
“Hey, Dino!” I call out, “How’s the crowd at the Beanery tonight?”
“Pretty good, a lot of the regulars,
Nathan, Don and Dora, Silver Wind, and some new guys, too.”

“Did you see the picture in the Town Talk?” Hank asks Dino,
as much with his hands as with his voice. Chile looks up at Hank’s hands.
“They usually have the Town Talk at the Beanery, don’t they?”
“Nah, too busy to check it out,” says Dino, “Setting up the open mic.”
Chile is calm: his eyes studiously watch Hank’s hands for signs;

he enjoys the cool evening air.
He leans against me,
and lolls his tongue out,
looking for someone to pet him,
now that young Joe is gone.

If Chile leans against you, you’re “in”—
if he sits on your feet, you’re his best friend—
at least, for the moment. I’m the one for now.
I give him a few pats on his broad back,
and stroke his coat on the back of his neck.

Chile gazes at Garrett and ‘Oop’,
sitting there, waiting on Hank,
in the late evening air of Plum Street—
Garrett, with a new cushion on his wheelchair,
a freshly-lit cigar in his hand, becomes rhapsodic—

“Life is good!” he says, “Brian! We got to get together tomorrow!
Did you see the Flyers against New York last night? Bums! With a capital ‘B’!
Just like them to make it to the NHL post-season—
a chance to win the Stanley cup!—and then screw the puck up!
And don’t get me started on the Phillies! New season! Bah!”

‘Oop’ breaks in: “Who’s that guy that played
in Lawman back in the fifties? Wasn’t it John Russell?
Can you look it up on The Oracle?”
I pull out my iPhone®, and start a Google™ search.
“Forget all this nonsense,” says Hank,

“You got the Town Talk, ‘Oop’? I’m in there with Chile
promoting the ‘Bark for Life’ at Rose Tree Park this Sunday.
All proceeds benefit the American Cancer Society.
The lady at the library showed me the picture. You gotta see it!”
‘Oop’ pulls the paper out of his coat pocket, where he’d had it neatly folded.

Hank grabs it, and starts scanning the pages.
“Where the hell is it?” He pulls open each section,
even the advertising flyers, and lays them
on the brick walk, leaning over everything
spread out on the ground.

“Man, it’s hard to see when the Sun goes down;
where are my glasses?”
He ties Chile’s leash to one of the chairs,
and fumbles with his pockets.
Chile leans against me again—sits on my feet.

Garrett stubs his cigar ash against one of the big back wheels of his chair.
“Are you sure it’s in there?” he asks.
“I’m sure,” says Hank, “I just saw it! The lady at the library showed me
just before they closed for the night.”
He pauses, and says in a friendly mocking tone:

“If you’d ’a been at the Library, Garrett,
I’d ’a shown ya’ there. Where the hell were ya’? Ehhh, buddy?”
Garrett lets out a puff, points his cigar at ‘Oop’,
cocks his head. “I was here with ‘Oop’,” he says.
“I think we solved Global Warming—this time, for sure—“

“It’s all a conspiracy,” interrupts Dino, waving his hands,
“You ain’t solved nothin’!” he adds, matter of fact,
“The oil companies control the media.”
He bends over, picks up a plastic bottle
from the ground, and throws it in the recycle bin,

growling, “I can’t believe these people! What a mess!”
Garrett looks at Dino, and back to Hank,
takes another puff from his cigar,
and smiles a gap-toothed grin:
“Besides, Hank, I got a hug from a gal I know—“

He and ‘Oop’ do a fist-bump.
I give him a thumbs-up, from where I stand by Chile.
“She’s gettin’ married—but…
…not to me. Her loss.” He smiles again.
“She’ll be back in a year. I guarantee it.”

“She sure was a hottie,” says ‘Oop’, “You should ‘a
cooked her dinner sometime—or something, ya’ dope!”
‘Oop’ turns to Hank, “So where is it? The picture?
Are you just making papier-mâché out of my newspaper,
or what? I need that ad from Cabella’s!”

Hank turns away from the rest, and gets on his knees
to peer over the newspaper spread on the ground.
He opens his jacket, and two more copies of the Town Talk fall out
(souvenirs, no doubt, that he’d forgotten he’d put in there).
The wind comes up, ruffling everything, filling the alleyway with paper.
 
“You look like a freakin’ piñata!” yells ‘Oop’.
“What the hell d’ya’ need my paper for?”
Hank grabs at the wind-blown leaves of paper
with furious determination: Left knee on front page,
right wrist on classifieds, chin on police blotter, elbow— Twister®!!!!

“Where the hell is it? Super SUNDAY! Easter EGG Hunt!
PLANNING commission! NEWS! Ads! POLICE blotter!
Classifieds! Where the HELL is it? GIRLS in glossy BRA ads
that’d POKE your eyes out! There’s everything in here but PORN!—
EVERYTHING but the GODDAMN picture!”

He turns the pages, grabbing at wayward newspaper
caught up in the wind of a passing trolley, then stops—
he stares for a minute, then hands me a page—
taps it hard with his finger. “Here it is!”
I look: all I see are pictures of kids at the Easter Egg Hunt in Brookhaven.

“Is that Chile Dane in the Easter Bunny suit?”
I ask, a note of sarcasm in my voice,
“Or you? I don’t think this is it.”
Hank grabs the page back, and stares again.
“What? Where are my glasses again?”

Hank turns back to the swirling maelstrom,
and I walk back to Chile, who’s been sitting quietly the whole time,
cooler and calmer than a cucumber as gentle snow flurries fall,
just wanting to be petted, hoping for treats—
his deafness the perfect antidote to Hank’s more emphatic moments.

‘Oop’ glares at Hank, and mumbles
a sharp imprecation beneath his breath.
Garrett laughs between puffs:
“I should ‘a been at the library, he says!” He turns to ‘Oop’.
“Ha! If I had, I would ‘a missed this! I love my life!”

Dino chuckles, and wags his finger at Hank—
who’s muttering and flailing his arms by now.
Dino leans toward him with an impish grin: “You’d better clean that up
when you’re done, young man! I just washed the graffiti
from the walls last week! Or it’s dee-tention for you!”

A young couple, on their way to Seven Stones Café,
walks by on the other side of the alley, casting sidelong glances
at Hank and the erupting volcano-piñata of paper, pretending not to look.
“Do—do you th-think the k-kitchen is still open?” the man stutters
to his girlfriend, arm around her, speeding his gait.

A lady in a jogging suit walks up to me,
“Is that your dog? He’s beautiful!”
“Oh, no, that’s Chile Dane.
That’s Hank’s dog.”
I point to Hank,

spread out on all fours,
squinting and staring at scattered newsprint,
spread hither and yon across the brick walk
of the Plum Street alleyway.
“It’s a long story. He gets excited.”

I grab one of the copies of the Town Talk that the wind blew my way,
and I look it over. On the bottom of page one, below the fold,
there’s Hank and Chile—beaming—a full color photograph
with the other “star” dogs and their owners, who sport light blue T-shirts
with large lettering: “PUTTIN’ THE BOW-WOW IN LUAU”—a Hawaiian theme this year.

The caption to the photo, among other things, says:
“Hank Hangsterfer with Chile, Bark for Life Grand Marshals”,
and the article below reiterates: all proceeds benefit the American Cancer Society.
“Here it is, Hank! On the bottom of the front page, no less!”
Hank gets up from all fours, panting like a dog.

Glossy bra ads stick to his elbow.
The police blotter slips from his chin.
The wind blows the front page—
which had been covered by his knee—
up against the fading mural on the wall.

He brushes himself off,
and straightens up. “What’s this?”
I hand him a crumpled copy of the Town Talk,
folded as neatly as possible
after the severe “examination” to which it had been subjected.

He shakes his head. “Mr. Science, how do you do it?” he asks,
brushing off his knees again. “Scientific method,” I say,
“Start at page one, and look at the whole page, carefully.”
“I’ll be damned,” Hank shakes his head again,
and looks at the picture, folding the paper over.

‘Oop’ frowns at Hank:
“What did you do to my newspaper?!
There’s like three Town Talks here,
shredded, stuck together, out of order,
and they won’t fit in my pocket!”

“Don’t worry, Ned,” says Hank, calling ‘Oop’ by his given name,
“You can get a new one. It’s free, you know.
They have them at the library.”
‘Oop’ glares: “I know that—but,
still!—the Cabella’s ad is shredded!”

Chile looks to Hank for a treat, and Garrett shifts in his wheelchair,
motioning his cigar hand towards ‘Oop’:
“I think ‘Oop’ needs a treat more than Chile!”
‘Oop’ turns away; he pretends not to hear,
stuffing shreds of newspaper in his coat pocket.

“Anyway,” says Hank, turning to the rest of us,
“If you can come, the ‘Bark for Life’ is Sunday at the park.
It’s great fun, and for a good cause.”
Hank signs to Chile. Sit!—and he sits. Hank pauses,
reaches in his pocket, pulls out a treat for Chile, smiles:

“We might even get our picture taken!”






--------------------------

BrianIs AtYou

PS

For more on Garrett's remarkable career as a wrestler (and more, fodder for future poems in here) with cerebral palsy see:
http://articles.philly.com/1993-09-1...f-sister-media
http://articles.philly.com/1987-02-0...hair-wrestlers
http://archives.timesleader.com/2001..._ROAD_FOR.html

[BrianIsSmilingAtYou]

So on Infinitum

Following Einstein’s brave footsteps on light,
our Louis de Broglie had cleverly shown
electrons are waves—just as light waves are particles-—
so on infinitum.

Then Schrödinger used it to show Bohr was right,
(but for reasons that Bohr couldn’t have known)—
all things are connected—so he says in his articles—
so on infinitum.

----------------------------

BrianIs AtYou

[Donner]

Brian,

Re: Media Icons

*faints*

Re: Media Icons (extended re-mix)

*faints again*

Donner

And I resent the implication that one can write a decent AS while sitting on the toilet. Well, one can. But still.

[Harry R]

Hey Brian, I’ve read through your thread, and there’s lots of good stuff, but this is still what stands out for me:

My father cannot feel his legs. That hidden sense
we never think about—the body's internal sight of itself
that Police Officers test when you are drunk. Close your eyes,
and touch your nose. Your body knows where are its bones,


its sinews, its tendons—beneath the surface of the skin.
We do not need to see it.

Properly striking.

[cookala]

jeez Brian, it's amazingly awesome - the sheer girth of Media Icons (remix) is mindboggling, let alone during napo. holy crap. I also greatly enjoyed your tribute to grandpa and Jackie very much. good stuffs all.