September 2005 | back-issues, Jack Swenson, nonfiction
My barber, Frank, is the world’s most talkative human being. He is a tall, skinny man with straight blonde hair, big ears, almost no chin, and the bluest eyes you’ll ever see.
Frank is smart, forthright with opinions on an endless variety of subjects, and unburdened by the handicap of a formal education. When you sit down in a chair in his shop, you never know what else you are going to get in addition to a haircut. Last week it was a lecture on Intelligent Design.
“I get a kick out of these religious folks,” Frank offered after he had draped me with an apron and wet and combed my hair. “Trying to sneak God into the schools by the back door.”
“I’ve been reading about that in the newspaper,” I said. “I heard that the President put in his two cents worth on the subject yesterday.”
“Yes,” Frank said. “Did you read the story about it in the [I]Chronicle[/I] today?” he asked.
“No,” I said.
“You know what the folks in the Department of Education in Sacramento call Intelligent Design?” Frank asked.
I confessed that I did not, which pleased Frank no end.
“‘Creationism Lite,'” he said. I could see his reflection in the wall mirror, and he was grinning from ear to ear.
“It’s not that I think it’s a dumb idea; I don’t. There’s got to be something out there running the show. It’s just that I think God could have done a better job. I mean, why did he have to make two headed cows and babies joined at the hip? Why did he make Republicans?”
“Well, you’ve got a point there,” I said.
“I mean, they should call it ‘Design for Dummies.’ That would make more sense.”
“So you really think there’s something to it? Creationism, or whatever else they’re calling it now?”
“I do,” said Frank. “I’m not a Christian. I don’t go to church. Natural selection makes sense to me. I just think that somebody or something had to start the ball rolling. I don’t care what you call it. God, Allah, The Great Spirit, The Big Enchilada–it makes no difference to me. What gets me is the feud that’s going on. The Darwinists and the Creationists calling each other names. Is there anything that makes less sense than a couple of experts with Ph.D.’s arguing with each other?”
I didn’t answer, but that didn’t put an end to Frank’s harangue. He was on a roll.
“You know what Ph.D. stands for, don’t you?” he asked.
“Doctor of Philosophy,” I said.
“Piled higher and deeper,” Frank said.
“Seriously,” Frank continued, “why can’t they just say look, science is science and the Bible is poetry, beautiful words and a hell of a good message, and let it go at that? Nobody really knows what’s what, so why not stop fighting and get to work on doing what we’re supposed to be doing, making this a better world.”
“Frank,” I said, “You’re a philosopher.”
“Damn right,” he said. “I mean, does anybody really know what happens when we die? Is there a heaven or a hell? I don’t know. Do you?”
“No,” I said.
“Did you hear the one about the priest who died and went to heaven?” Frank asked.
“I don’t think so,” I replied.
“Well, he opened his eyes and looked around, and the first thing he said was, ‘My God! It really is true!’ The guy who told me that story is a priest.”
“I don’t know, Frank,” I said. “I think I have to go along with Darwin on this one.”
“Let me tell you a story,” Frank said. “I know a guy who’s in A.A. He’s one of my customers. He said when he first got into the program, he was one of those, whadayacallit, not an atheist, somebody who doesn’t believe in God but doesn’t disbelieve either?”
“An agnostic,” I said.
“Right,” said Frank. “Well, anyway, this guy said he knew he was in trouble when he joined AA because they told him that to quit drinking, he had to believe in a Higher Power. Somebody or something had to remove the obsession to drink because nobody could do it by himself.”
“Is that how it works?” I asked.
“Yes,” Frank said. “That’s what this guy told me. Well, he hemmed and hawed around for awhile, and then he had an idea. ‘What happens if I cut myself?’ he asked, and he told himself that he could put a bandage on the cut, or if it was bad, he could go to a doctor and he would put in a couple of stitches. Now, in a week’s time or maybe a little more he could take off the bandage and the cut would be healed. Did he do that? The doctor? No. There was a healing force, some kind of process of nature, which enabled him to recover from the injury.
“So this guy said he reasoned that if there was a healing force for wounds, maybe that force could also cure him of his alcoholism. So that became his Higher Power. And you know what? It worked. The guy was into the shop the other day, and he told me that the day before he had celebrated his AA birthday. He has been sober for fifteen years.
“So some unseen power cured him?” I asked.
Frank nodded. “It was pretty strange,” he said. “One day all he could think about was having a drink, and the next day the obsession was gone. It was a miracle,” he said.
I asked Frank if he thought his friend was telling the truth, and he said oh, yes. No doubt about it. “I believe in miracles,” Frank said. “Don’t you?”
July 2004 | back-issues, poetry
1.
~ Basho & Hemingway ~
I ponder several times
over Basho’s Haiku,
“The temple bell stops–
but the sound keeps coming
out of the flowers.” *
I surmise he was
six feet underground when
he heard above sound.
It was for both a contrecoup
for whom the bells tolled.
A sort of ego contredance.
~~~
Alex Nodopaka June©2004
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2.
~ I Con.Template ~
NB: desirable to center formatted.
I Con.Template
my
n
a
v
e
l
while my belly
e~x~~p~~~a~~~~n~~~~~d~~~~~~s.
By way of fat
I feel Buddha.
~~~
Alex Nodopaka Apr©2004
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3.
~ I read a book of poems ~
I wonder if anyone
Has read it before me
The way I have.
The top corners of pages
Sixteen through twenty-one
Were still sealed.
I carefully spread them,
Not disturbing their virginity.
Peaked in between at an angle.
What I read was worth the visit.
I’ll pass it on to another
In the same configuration.
I wonder if they’ll read it
The same way I did.
~~~
Alex Nodopaka July©2004
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4.
~ Picasso butts Seurat ~
Propelled by soaring breeze
The boy at the end of the string
Is towed by swooshing parallelepiped
Zigzagging high in the sky.
Pelican-like, now and then
It bomb-dives and scatters
Children below.
One runs along the shore.
Between his toes sand tickles
And makes him giggle.
He is high as a kite.
Seurat, paints this tableau.
Meticulously and feverishly
Dots his canvas with a rainbow
Of assorted monotone particles.
Tediously, a polka dot boy materializes.
Picasso, standing somewhat back,
Known for his erotic shenanigans,
Ducks under girls amply bouffant skirt.
Under her knickers he snickers
About Georges ridiculous technique.
Busy with the ladys triangles,
Pablo senses geometry is the answer.
~~~
Alex Nodopaka Jul©2004
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5.
~The Speed of Fundamentalism~
I am greatly interested
in Christian and Muslim
fundamentalist perspectives.
Particularly the latter of late.
Except that like summer beetles
they spout their fundamentalism
at high speed head-on
against my windshield
while I speak on my cell phone.
My mind is in a tizzy
now I better learn quickly
speed-reading hieroglyphs.
It is a dangerous world.
~~~
Alex Nodopaka July©2004
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July 2004 | back-issues, poetry
Don’t
© paddy gillard-bentley
I think back to that night
a dark rainy Thursday in November
crummy run down
apartment building
where you lived
in New York City
the aroma of ethnic food
coming from their tiny worlds
arranged in rooms
600 square feet of universe
The smells drifted into the dark stairwell
in the midst of our colloquial frenzy
spitting truths and lies at each other
sordid and foul
a back drop of graffiti smeared walls
like primitive cave paintings
her face peaked over the rape chain
worried
the key hidden in ample bosom
so you grabbed my hand
and pulled me up the stairs
you kicked
hinges exploded
we stood on the roof
a show down
as if we stood on the Alps
screaming our rage
into the cold rain
your words biting into my heart
after you had blown away
the thick layer of dust
with your sweet words
and passionate sentiment
and I
vulnerable
Then
rough bricks
biting at my back
maybe your finger nails
my feet off the ground
you thrusting deep enough
to wound my soul
struggling to possess me
even the carpet crawlers know
you’ve got to get in to get out
my mind still screaming at you
my body responding
me hating you
loving you
my tongue licked at your soul
like barbed wire
the steel door closes
and you couldn’t see my tears
as they were mingled with the rain
I don’t know why I wanted you to bleed
I don’t know why I wanted you to cry
I don’t know why I wanted you
I don’t know why I wanted
I don’t know why
I don’t know
I don’t
Don’t!
Why do some men want to fuck you
when you just need to be held?
July 2004 | back-issues, poetry
The Wind Egg
© 2004 paddy gillard-bentley
an apparent uncomplicated egg
the soul of the philosopher
also the serpent
and the mysteries of life
in ritual of initiation
the shell is shattered
man emerges from the nascent
of physical existence
length and contour
represent the soul’s desire
to secure a position within
the heavenly kingdom
long and sharp at the ends
from such an egg
a male becomes manifest
a thing of virtue
broad or round an egg
represents aspiration in ephemeral things
formed from such a pitiable ovum
is a weaker work…a female
such hope is dulled
obscured from light
because it prefers darkness more
not seasoned with the flavor of wisdom
when I read these things
I reflect upon the idea
that men only attempt to oppress
that which they fear
and the women are sent together
to bleeding huts
when the moon is dark
so the men feel safe
blood is magic
and they were afraid
of the power women yield
to conjure blood with no consequences
his possession – naked candy
wrapped in his sexual desire
packed in a hand basket
sent on her way
while eons of fury
scorned and hidden from the sun
cloistered in lies
hell is a neophyte
an eye for an eye
tooth for a tooth
unless you are a woman
turn the other cheek
vast inner strength
intuition and wisdom
where does the power lie
when the rabbit dies?
and people ask me why
women are into ritual
why they include the Goddess
in their prayers
July 2004 | back-issues, poetry
Chrysanthemums and Marigolds
Monsoon has wrapped my house,
Dank air and dull light,
Amid the halo of a full blown summer,
She had planted marigolds,
Said, ‘festive season is not far’
A commentary of tending and watering, withered,
As some unknown disease, sucked them lifeless,
That morning, staring at sticklike corpses
She cried ‘ my hand is cursed’
As though she had known all along…
Now, In the heart of a futile harvest,
I heard my neighbor tell,
‘During monsoon, earth is fertile like a young virgin’,
Abruptly a cornucopia of hope swelled
Uprooting striations in earth of dead marigolds,
I found her digging small pits into the moist soil,
‘Chrysanthemums’, she said,
Engraving reflections of a season, changing.
