Got Mashed Potatoes

Carmody catches the bait with bare
hands, holds it up for the nightly news.

And I can still hear what you said:
About how forests can be mapped
to show relevance, the symmetry of eyes
break up a speech: opening, body, closure--
we're not as old as we’re out of surprises.

I feel the hook in the cheek,
define the difference,
Christ on the cross
and every forgiveness out of time.

Everyone wonders what I found,
beside the name Carmody,
beside water boiling,
beside weather being,
if I ever made anything last
longer than a flopping fish
bucket.

Here’s the difference:
the nails in his hands
never drew blood like his words,
the hills never closed us in or out.

It’s never too late for exceptions
to everyone’s wishes,
with enough time to hold
you in place with your words,
lock up the meaning of serious
nobility beyond nights.

It’s a beautiful Sahara to walk,
With no straight lines,
save memory,
and the words will pour
out of me
like when we were young—
holding you in place,
a statue for all to admire.
Can you hear me smile,
great nothing to take back,
every past promise sticking to you
for all time this time,
everyone remembering you
as I remember you.

I go to this downtown used book shop as often as I can get there. The goal has been to replace a book of poetry with a new one as soon as I finish one. And I'd prefer going to the used place rather than the unconsciously stuffy poetry bookstore in the city's neighborhood west of the Milwaukee river. That place has the best selection in the city, but you have to have read everything in there in order to breath the air of that place.

So I go to this other place which has -- while not that many poetry books -- maybe the most books of any store in the city. The problem is finding them. They're everywhere. On the walls, on the floor, in boxes, piled on windowsills. Everywhere.

This place has more code violations that maybe any other business in the state, but it's still alive. I found out how they stay that way. It's often locked. I'll walk up the steps, pull on the door, and it's locked. So I almost walk away, thinking I'm out of luck, when the trusty owner appears out of the darkness to unlock the door and let me in. After I'm in, he locks her back up again -- gotta keep those city inspectors out.

Walking through the dusty, mess of a mammoth store (which has three levels of books), it's kind of sad and depressing because it's easy to see what it could be. But then again, it's his store. If he doesn't want to put his money into the place, that's his decision. And I feel a bit of sympathy for the little guy who's fighting city hall -- which would like nothing more for this guy to be out on his ass so the city could develop the building, whose property is worth a mint.

I was walking out the other day, when I heard the owner on the phone: "If you sent the bill, then I probably just threw it away, so you can send another if you want . . ."

My dad's reading all these business books now. For pleasure. So, you got it right: he works a longer-than-40-hour week; upon leaving for home he takes more work home with him; and then when he's got pleasure time . . . he reads books about how to turn a good company into a great one.

Damn it, I know that if it makes him happy, I should just shut up about it. But enough's enough. That's not the point. The point is, he still likes movies. He's kind of at that Jay Leno phase of movie-watching. He wants an uplifting film. He knows what he likes. He knows what he doesn't like. He wants to see, "A good picture." He wants to see something that's "not too far out there", meaning, none of that comic book or fantasy or horror stuff. He wants to see something with a good message. He doesn't want something depressing or graphic. "A nice picture."

Fine. There are still plenty of nice pictures. Just because he's narrowed his movie choices shouldn't leave him with business reading. How are these two things connected? Well, I don't know. I'm making this point up as I go. It's a free site, who are you to complain? Anyway, the point I'm making is there IS something out there redeeming beyond non-fiction business reading.

Maybe he needs some Steinbeck. You can't lose with Steinbeck. A craftsman of words, but none of that showy business. Always a "nice story" but not carrying any of the schmaltz that Hollywood lugs. Father's Day's coming up. I may be onto something.

There's this guy I know -- we'll call him Koe -- who always has to beat everyone. Funny thing is, he knows of other people like him who always have to win too. He knows of these people, yet he continues his life of one-ups-manship. Nobody I know has the guts to say, "Shut up about how you think -- you never say, you only allude -- to how you're the best. Oh, sure, you admit against the big picture that you're nothing special. But then you go along and trumpet yourself up again."

I used to see this woman on the bus, when I used to take the bus to work. And she was so big that she had a hard time getting on the bus. It was the kind of thing teenagers laugh at. I always felt bad for her as she tried -- unsuccessfully -- to squeeze into a seat . . . everyone watching her. So when I think of Koe, I think he should Freaky Friday trade places with her. Then again, it would probably do a lot of people some good to do that.

I've read so many definitive advice columns lately. Black and white. And they all say the same When Harry Met Sally thing: men and women can't be "just friends". Acquaintances, maybe. But not friends.

My first inclination -- which I have for any such absolute statement -- is to scoff. Psh! "Men and women can be friends without sex!" Then again . . . I can't think of one female friend I have. "Well . . . there's got to be someone!" There's my wife's friends. But those are really her friends. And if we ever divorced, I'm sure they'd be the people giving me the dirty looks as I threw my drums into the back of the moving truck.

"Well, then," my logic goes, "there are certainly the wives of my married friends." But that, too, is not a very good example. Sure, there may be one or two wives of my friends who like me. But these are not friends. "Like" may even be a bit kind. They tolerate me. I can imagine the conversations: "Oh, we're going to see him there? Oh. Well, hopefully his wife will be there so I won't have to talk to him."

So if I go by personal experience, I suppose I have to agree with the masses: it just can't be. There can be the nice conversations, the shared humor, the easy agreements. But that's all. Because according to the rule, everyone is transfixed by sex. That blond girl that walks by in her frilly, white shirt that doesn't show any cleavage, but gives just the right impression, just the right form -- she's thinking the same thing about me. Or maybe she saw the ring -- that anchoring of all other relationships.

I should really just stop playing the game. Why leave the impression that I'm this well-mannered, polite, intelligent person? The bottom line is that when I'm done with my cereal in the morning, I pick up the bowl and drink the rest of the milk straight from the bowl. No matter who I live with, once I pass that level of comfort -- I'm drinking from the bowl. I like the sugary milk, and it's annoying to have to spoon two dozen spoonfuls of milk into my mouth.

I know my life would have been so much easier up until this point, if only all the women I ever met knew this. Right now, you're thinking, "What the hell is he talking about? It's only cereal."

Yeah. Sure. It's only about cereal. Like it was only about her white shirt I'm still thinking of.

It was driving home from Kill Bill, the other night, that I was reminded of my favorite customer service experience. It goes all the way back to when I worked at a little place called Upper Crust Pizza. During the golden days of Upper Crust, the place was run by a guy named Jeff, though everybody called him Wade Boggs. See, everybody had a baseball name. The owner -- Antonio -- he was Big Stein. Me? I was Billy Joe Robideaux. Eh, what can you do?

So there was this regular customer who would always come in for a pick-up (we were a strictly pick-up or delivery joint). She was a 50-something woman who was very straight and strict and liked her pizza ready now and thank you very much. But every time she came in to pick up her pie, I couldn't do it -- I couldn't bring it out to her and take her money because I was laughing too hard. And that's kind of a constant in customer service -- not a great idea to laugh at the customers.

No one else could do it either. Not anyone else there could take this woman her pizza, which is when, of course, Wade Boggs stepped in. When the order came in that fateful Wednesday at 5:00, we all told Wade Boggs, "I'm not doing it. I can't." So to stick it to us, he says, "All right. I'll show you how easy it is."

It was about 15 minutes later that the woman with the unfortunate name of Mrs. Kuntz walked into the Upper Crust.

"Pizza for Kuntz, please."

The poor bastard manning the register just stumbles into the back, holding in the laughter. Wade Boggs runs out front.

"Was that a pizza for Koontz?" he says, real fast, straight-faced, already moving back to the kitchen. To this day, I don't know how he did it.

"It was a pizza for Kuntz."

From the kitchen, now, out of her sight: "Oh, pizza for Koontz?"

"Kuntz!"

Louder now, from the back of the kitchen, with the rest of us cooks and drivers rolling on the floor or hiding in the walk-in freezer: "Was it Koontz?!"

"KUNTZ!"

I went from having no job to working all the time. Which is great for the folks at Bank of America, as they'll actually be getting some of the $6,000+ I owe them soon. And that fact relieves me, strangely enough. At this point, I'd prefer to keep this simple job with its minimal pay--stop.

About the pay. I like the pay. I know it's minimal. I have friends -- not all my friends. But I have some -- a couple -- friends who ask people how much money they make. It interests them to know. They don't think this may be taken as a rude question. To them it is important. They need to know where they stack up next to this other person. "Do I make more? Or do I make less?"

If most people knew what I made they would laugh. Those who previously respected me would probably feel a lot better about themselves. But with that said--

It seems like a lot of money to me. Even though I know it isn't, I'm just amazed that that paycheck has my name on it. And the second shift schedule is beautiful, allowing me to give my writing the best hours of the day.

But overtime has taken its toll on the writing, lately. I'm 50 pages from finishing draft 2 of STFL, and they're the 50 toughest pages. It should only take two weeks, but coming home from work drained, waking up tired, coming to the keyboard with nothing . . . has made for slow progress.

I do look forward to finishing it so I can start a new book. The new book has very few bounds right now, so I would not be really held or pressured to any storyline or deadline, other than creating, which is nice. I also don't plan to try to sell it, unlike STFL, which has an agent request in.

Poetry-writing has taken the back-burner in these work-filled days, too, and that's fine. I've a nice string of historical ideas that can just sit. In the meantime I've been entertained with the rest of Wisconsin -- we've got our own girl who cried wolf, and she's already inspired another.

And then there's the other missing college student who turned up in the river, as one or two do each year in west-central Wisconsin. My uncle once told me, "Everything seems so important in college. But when you get older, it all seems much smaller." That's true, but what of how one represents oneself? What of at least leaving behind something to be proud of -- or better yet -- to not be ashamed of?

I wonder if they were surprised when they pulled him from the river, eighth in seven years. Like the end of "On My Honor". The river is nature's last stronghold in the city. It happens in Milwaukee, too. Every spring, the Kinnickinnic River, with its cement-lined bottom, rises, someone slips in, the current catches, and it's all anyone can do but scrape and slide along the bottom, with nothing to hold onto, just to pray someone leaps in after them, like last year, when a man standing watch dove in to save the kid speeding away with his hands splashing up out of the rushing water. He caught him, just in time, pushing him to shore . . . only to be swept away himself, pulled out days later at the head of the dam.

there is little faith left
in white american men—
those who approximate machines,
clean, polished, sunglasses, blue jeans.

they show new teeth in fast cars,
they swing cynical to sarcastic.
but one can only pose
with an electric guitar for so long.

he who connotes years with theme parks,
whose hopes are listed in history books,
who has always known the answer
before the question, blaming
making educated rape able
and available to laugh at everything,
as if believing was being

suffers time to grow a confidence
to smirk from inside coffins.
we laugh as john henry dies—
as the cord that carries
him out-paces the sound,
leaving us to smirk,
scratch our necks: find
a broken lace, our crucifixion
displaced

• She won't mention him to the other ones.

• She says 'no' to see if he'll ask again.

• She wants to do it to fall in love.

• She associates love with an Enrique Iglesias song.

• She really wants to, but then she doesn't, 'Ya know?'

• She begins confiding her yearning for a child.

• She can no longer hide her bitterness.

• She claims no one understands her.

• She wears a glow-in-the-dark crucifix.

• She giggles, breathes heavily, and breaks eye contact.

• She cannot be reminded of means or dimensions.

• She thinks it will be beautiful.

• She will let him.

Sometimes I go to real web logs -- the ones that are true diaries. You know -- the "this is what I did today" logs. So many of them come to those frustrating days in which they end up writing, "Didn't do much today. Just kind of sat around." Instead of linearly entering all this bore, why don't they just enter one average sentence after another, each having nothing to do with the last, so that the post forms a kind of theme, kind of like how a book of poetry works? Except, as Basil Bunting says, 'he who collects his poems nails together the boards of his coffin". Here are a few boards:

• The white men on the radio danced round and round until they became a single blur.

• The morning man seemed a bit sad today, and for no reason.

• On the phone, people talked past each other politely.

• I need to call someone soon.

• All the cheapskates kept their mouths shut.

• My wife and I are waiting hesitantly -- no, it's not what you think.

• And in the middle of everything, he mentioned Cartesian logic.

• I said things only because I had to.

• The web queen is getting tiresome.

• Some say they will riot in Milwaukee if the election goes against their color.

• Everyone who knows him agrees he complains too much about everything, but no one has the guts to tell him. Myself included.

• Frederick Buell says, even in Full Summer, snow gathers.

I get home and she says to me, "We're going to dinner," as if there can be no argument.

So we get dressed and drive. We sit down in the wooded dining area, full of old suits of armor and dull swords, and I think that I am glad that I am in this place with this girl because none of the other girls, not one of them, not all of them together, are worth this place with its perfectly old wood and heavy silver and fish without any of that fishy flavor and even a bit of almond crunch to it.

And we order everything we could ever want to eat, then we eat it, proving that stupid cliche wrong. And Jessica speaks in the Russian accent of that woman she knows, and I laugh without thinking, and for those moments our lives are not much different than any depicted on the pictures on the walls, than any of the other people sitting.