Since Life is unfair, and many of my fellow Arizona voters are delusional and/or stupid, the dedicated Katie Hobbs may well lose the Arizona Governor’s race to the predatory, vicious Kari Lake. That would be a crying shame. Ms. Hobbs is too much a shrinking violet to fight Kari Lake’s firebrand, slash&burn fight. But I appeal to every Arizonan voting in this election to consider helping Ms. Hobbs, who has worked from the ground up in state politics since 2011, become victorious and win the office she so more richly deserves than the insidious Kari Lake. The choice is clear: Decency or Indecency. Please vote responsibly, Friends!!
Katie Hobbs
Kate, she’s great, I Ah and OoH And I V O T E D for her toO Taking on that Witch that SloB It has been an uphill joB Ever low key never fusS
needer needer needer (First posted on my Facebook timeline)
every last one of us is a needer oxygen, water shelter from excess radiation carbs, protein, fat, trace minerals companionship (except for a haywire few)
some of us have needs symptomatic of wrong for instance those who seek alcohol to fill an unfillable well and some have need of pistoning action could be cars could be sex could be fistfights
my deceased younger brother needed needles judging from the dozens of needles found in his hovel and car after he died and that need made him homeless for years put healed abscesses on his flesh that looked like put-out cigarette burn scars gave him hep c and deep sympathy for his sisters and brothers on the street left him with a mouthful of dentures and a need for the love of God and Jesus
he fought bravely and constantly but with two major cancer surgeries and unremitting agonizing back pain he lost his war at the age of 62
and i his brother also have a war on for i am his brother in addiction mine involving cards and dice and a little ball that rolls and clatters and ends up in one of thirty-eight slots
i am winning the war now but am no less a needer and every day is a skirmish every week a new battleground every month one more tally mark of victory or not
Here is a drawing I’ve been working on and off on for several days. It started as a study of chicken bones, and then the wishbones seemed to want to talk to each other and the Universe, so element by element the drawing came to stochastic life. It told me to have implied stories here and there, and I did my best to oblige. The last thing it told me was to sign it and stop, and think of it kindly as a possible future painting. It feels unfinished-yet-not, as if “in medias res” is essential to its being. If I do make a painting of it the strategy will be alla prima in bluish violet–maybe.
This post is titled “faux tableaux” because the implied stories are not part of a play nor historical description; also, with Faux being four letters and Tableaux being eight, the title lends itself to the Acrostic poetic form I have been specializing in for more than a decade. Usually I include the poem on the image, but the image is busy enough as it is, so I’m going hyperdimensional and letting it stand separately below.
faux tableaux
far-flinging tenancy undue adds more to addled syn&tax – a unit’s cubic aperçu x-rays the law and says relax
Now, what does that all mean? Well, “far-flinging” might be referring to the implied Disc Golf game in progress in the image; but Far-Flung colloquially means a deviation from reality. Tenancy is an official melding of being and location. Undue implies both unexpected and unwanted. Put them all together and they feed the next line’s “adds more to addled syn&tax” with the made-up wordmash “syn&tax” having a first syllable connoting both Synthetic and Sin, the last syllable connoting both a surcharge and a burden, and the ampersand gluing them together. Meter and rhyme are preserved by the appended dash and indefinite article; read aloud, the third line would begin with “A.” “A unit’s cubic aperçu” shows both the glory and the shame of my quasi-acrostic construction. “Unit” was chosen because it starts with a U and yet must phonetically start with a consonant; otherwise “A” would have to be “An.” And “aperçu” was chosen to rhyme with Undue (though it doesn’t, quite, English speakers unfamiliar with French will impart the Ooh sound to the last syllable, and not the French U sound, which is “ooh” with a hint of “ee”) and also because I flat-out love the word, with its magic cedilla and its densely-packed meaning of “a comment or brief reference that makes an illuminating or entertaining point” into only six letters. As a composer of acrostic poetry I have leaned on “aperçu” often as a line-ending word. I don’t apologize. I’m grateful to have it to use.
The third line feeds into the fourth. “A unit’s [someone’s] cubic [adding a third dimension] aperçu [spoken perceptive observation] x-rays the law {analyzes codified custom] and says relax [things ARE chaotic but are not as gruesome as they seem].”
A classmate of mine recently disparaged me as a “third-rate poet” who does “weird drawings.” To my knowledge he does not write poetry at all, and by his admission he can’t draw his way out of a wet paper bag. (To his credit, he publicly apologized later, saying he was retaliating for some unkind remarks I made about his selfies.) The truth is I’ll take Third-Rate over Nonexistent, and Weird over Nonexistent as well, any day. No one else on Earth is doing what I am doing, the way I am doing it, and it keeps me sane and out of trouble to boot. Bonus! 🙂
On my Facebook feed there was a post from a friend of mine saying to the world, “What are you up to? Send a picture!” And what I was up to was composing a poem. So I took a picture of myself staring into the Heavens looking for the words, and attached it to my comment “Composing a poem” on her post.
But the picture…it was different from the other self-portraits I’ve done. So I drew it in HB pencil, and for background put some of the words and some of the self-instructions I’d come up with in the course of composing “Bouquet of Bouquets.” Here is the poem:
Bouquet of Bouquets
Spring wildflowers in a jam jar
FTD delivery twelve long-stemmed roses
A deliberately clumsy Picasso drawing
Cumulonimbus clouds carved by fighter jets
Coffee-charged notes with the nails
Fireworks bursts frozen in time
Acne rosacea on Grandfather’s bulbous nose
Football players breaking from a huddle
The grins of Clark Gable and some of his pals
Arpeggios in a Bach fugue
A dozen cocoons cracking open
A troupe of ballerinas with emotional issues
Flowering
May be empowering
And well-timed bouqueting
Spiritually swaying.
****
Just another day in the life of an oldish codger who every so often takes the pressure off the urge to express by looking into the Heavens, writing down stuff, and sometimes illustrating what he’s written.
the new shoes are good but they will get better when my feet teach them to relax
shoes have a life cycle: breakin steady state golden age pronation sole pebble sensitivity ow trashcan farewell
if the shoe is not quadruple-E wide “side-slopover” obtains
between “golden age” and “pronation sole”
shod or not we get a feel of the Earth through our feet and the best shoes can sense the magma churning away deepdown and feel the energy and draw power from it
the worst shoes feel wrong disown the Earth and lead you astray into that badly hicked town Blisterville and her sister city Straitjacket
these new shoes are young promising pups that keep the dogs from barking whilst embarking
Once again Elizabeth Valenzuela renders in poetic form a true slice of struggle and fulfillment in the world of the Unhoused.
Taylor by Elizabeth Valenzuela
The woman met Taylor During her visits with Dale at Affifa’s Adult Family Home
He sat on the front porch every Sunday Reviewing the Sunday Advertisements A magnifying glass in his hand
But still wearing his only pair of Eyeglasses Both lenses shattered and yellowed with age
Dale would sell him one cigarette for a dollar When Taylor asked him for one But only if he was feeling generous
The woman started handing Taylor Cigarettes behind Dale’s back Sometimes one or two cigarettes and On special occasions A full pack
In return Taylor Who always had a pocketful of Werther’s caramels Would slyly pass her a caramel When she walked past him on her way out
After Dale died The woman continued to stop by and see Taylor
He had never had a visitor in all the years he lived there Having been previously unhoused This is how the friendship started and it Continued after James moved into Dale’s old room Serendipity in action Déjà vu on display
In December Taylor showed her an ad A remote control race car He said he was Saving money to buy one
Santa brought him one for Christmas He and James played with that remote control car
Then Taylor had a heart attack
He was taken to the hospital He was unresponsive He was in a coma for many weeks No family came forward
The Hospital petitioned the Court to remove Life support Only the woman that stopped by for a daily visit Stood vigil by his bed
The day the Court Order was issued They transferred him to another room And with him his photo And information the woman had posted
So the hospital staff Would know that Taylor was loved
The next few days The woman sat by his side Gently holding his hand And telling him that she would be there if he lived And that he would be ok If he went Toward the love That was Waiting for him On the other side
That it was all good That he was loved
He was perfectly still in that hospital bed Machines had been unplugged two days prior
One tear fell down his face Silence As the woman leaned in To kiss his forehead
The next morning when she stopped by His bed was empty
James and Taylor at Affifa’s Adult Family Home playing with Taylor’s remote control carTaylor Doughty
“I wake to sleep, and take my waking slow…” Roethke
What a restless Night!!! Oh, dear Ah, well–we will persevere Keep the fate and make the mess Ever hoping ever blest
Afterword: What does it mean to keep the Fate and not the Faith? Adam Clayton Powell, long ago, said “Keep the faith, Baby…and spread it gently.” My late, great Outlaw Uncle, Paul, sent me a condolence note in 1983 after my father died, and he hand-wrote “Keep the faith Gary” in it. Keeping the Fate is as close as I can get: keeping vertical, plugging away for betterment, trying to enjoy and engage and become to create the best Fate I can. Here’s hoping you also do joyful Fate-Keeping, Friends.
Note: Both “James” and the preceding poem “Dale” featured in my last blog post are collaborations. Elizabeth Valenzuela and I have known each other for more than half a century. When I rented a car and made a road trip to the Great Northwest recently, Elizabeth arranged for my lodging in Seattle, and we had many conversations during my stay. Time and again, when Elizabeth told me of her work with the homeless (whom she calls “unhoused”–I probably will too once I get used to it), I thought to myself, “I really should have an audio recorder going.” Before I left Seattle I did a draft of the poem “Dale.” Elizabeth read it and made some important revisions, correcting errors of fact and providing more context, and contributed the photos of Dale’s memorial leaf and the pic of them both. Then she wrote a draft of “James,” adopting the style I’d used for “Dale,” and then it was my turn to revise, mostly for cadence and consistency with “Dale.” When Elizabeth asked me to post “James” to my blog I told her I would need to use her name, since she was the author. She graciously gave me permission to do so.
James by Elizabeth Valenzuela
Two weeks after Dale passed Dr. Goodman called the woman Who had brought Dale to her
“Would you be willing to meet James After you have taken the time to recover From Dale?”
The Doctor had known Dale When he was wild Well before he became “Sweet Dale” Under the woman’s care
The woman took a deep breath And she said “I’ll meet him this week.”
So James became the new Dale.
James had no known family Unhoused Body and brain ravaged By Huntington’s
James was kind and sweet
He called the woman Hot Lips (His ashes were laid to rest under an evergreen Perennial Salvia, commonly known as “Hot Lips”)
He smoked constantly
He walked away From his new Adult Family Home Any number of times At all hours of the day and night The police drove him home a few times
He loved all things baseball The Mariners especially But smokers were not allowed To smoke at Mariners games
So James swore to stop If the woman took him to a game Had his last cigarette Before he boarded the train
And got a Mariner’s Jersey and hat And a seat at the game And never smoked again Never even had to be reminded of his promise
Back from the game He was transferred to a secure house Which was for Level 3 Sex Offenders
James was not a sex offender But housing For the terminally ill unhoused Was scarce
The woman went to see him Every other day Put on a brave face Made it clear That James was off limits And she was most definitely off limits
James was languishing Forlorn in body and spirit
The woman found him another placement That would provide hospice care When the time came
(James Sparks’s final cigarette)
And James loved his new place And thrived
The woman found James a program That provided transportation To an Activity Center twice a week Where he found a girlfriend Then promptly had to be medicated To stop the hypersexuality That is sometimes associated With movement disorders such as his Huntington’s Chorea
He was young and enjoyed this Time in his life
Then James needed hospice care
He died peacefully Curled up on his side Next to the woman Who kept vigil
A van came at 1:00 a.m. They put James in a black body bag And he was gone
Afterword
About James: he was born in 1978, possibly in Pennsylvania or Indiana. His full name is James Hamilton Sparks.
Huntington’s Chorea is a genetic disease. If a person has it, their offspring have a 50-50 chance of getting it as well. The most famous American to be so afflicted was Woodie Guthrie. His son Arlo was spared his affliction.
