Crabgrass

Earlier today, while out picking up the mail, which immediately led to a few crab-grass pulls out of the lawn, I heard a voice.
“Why so unfriendly?” the voice said.
I turned quickly but no one was there. Thinking I must have caught a stray snippet of conversation on the wind, I returned to plucking the crabgrass.
“You know, if everyone is as nice as you, country hospitality is gonna get an awful name,” the voice said. Quickly, I turned again. Still no one. Was I crazy? And why did this voice sound like Coach Dale from Hoosiers?
And again, “Why don’t you like me?”
This time the voice was at my feet. I looked down to a clump of crabgrass. I bent low and looking around to make sure no one was watching, asked the clump, “did you say something?”
At first the crab grass said nothing, and convinced I was nuts, I stood up. But just as I did, the weed said again, in kind of a scolding tone, “I said, Why don’t you like me?”
I crouched again and stared at the clump. It wasn't out of the ordinary: gangly, disorganized, with runners sneaking under the grass.

“You talk?” I said to the weed.
“Yes. So why don’t you like me?"
“Well, you’re a weed?”
“A weed? Hmm," the crabgrass said. "I think it was Ralph Waldo Emerson who said, ‘What is a weed? A plant whose virtues have not yet been discovered’”
“He did?” I said awestruck. I mean, here was a clump of crabgrass that could not only talk, but could quote lines from Hoosiers and Emerson. “Virtues? But how do… how did? What are you? You can speak.”
“Well, perhaps if I told you, you wouldn’t be deleting my existence from your yard. You’d appreciate the variegated look of a lawn with a few strands of crabgrass; perhaps if….”
Here I interrupted: “Now hold on,” I said. “A few strands? A few strands and suddenly it’s the whole goddamn yard. You've got undiscovered virtues? My ass. You crowd out the good grass, you spre….”
“Ohhhh, the good grass. Here we go. I see. So what makes your regular old Tom, Dick, fescue and rye any better than me and my kind? Good grass my ass. We have fancy names, too, you know. There’s Polish millet, goosegrass, fingergrass, pigeon gra…”
“But you spread and lay waste. You don’t stay within the confines. You’re like the fucking Crips and Bloods… I give you an inch or I let you spread unchecked and pretty soon you’re in the nicer parts of my lawn. And frankly, you’re not that good looking. And you know what? I can't depend on you.”
“Ouch! Jeez, take it easy. Pfff. You really know how to hurt a guy. Man. What about the wild fox grape creeping around your back yard? Better watch out, it's a weed and it's parasitic; talk about "crowding out.' And that black locust by the garage? That'll bury your house if you give it a chance. How about that little jaunt you took a few weeks ago to check out the 'fragrant' honeysuckle blooms? That stuff is way worse than any yard weed. And, hello? The clover? Look at the stuff! Don't get me started on the clover. And there's dandelion, chickweed and plantain? Shit, plantain...you may as well lay down a Slip-n-Slide over your entire yard. And what do you mean you can't depend on me?”
"First of all it's wisteria, not black locust. What are you an idot? And I'm working on the wild grape. Second... wait, how did you know we went out to see the honeysuckle? Nevermind, anyway, you're not dependable because you’re an annual. You’re like a tourist. You come in here, you make a big goddamn mess. I feel like the mayor of Springbreak Town, trying to keep you in line. And then boom, first frost and you’re gone, leaving dead grass in your wake.”
“Well, we actually…” the crabgrass paused, choking up a little. “We actually die off.”
“Oh please. You're annual, get over it. You know, the Circle of Life, Freddy the Leaf, blah blah blah. Listen I gotta go. I wont ‘weed’ you today but tell your buddies that I’ll take ‘em out if they wander into the middle of my lawn.”
"I think you need more fiber in your diet. You're awfully touchy. Ever have a crabgrass muffin? That'll do the trick."

Liberal Tyrants Have it Better

Thinking of the Reagan speech got me to thinking about protests and what/who is acceptable as an icon these days. Now, I voted for Reagan once (I wasn't old enough the first time around) and I won't claim to have loved the guy as much many people do. He's kind of like Elvis in this context: I appreciate him and his accomplishments more now that he's gone.

But what if I were to walk around with a Reagan t-shirt, the image of which was made to look like a Che t-shirt? Or Mao or Stalint? I would get grief from a few people; maybe even a lot of people here in NY. Yet, if I wore Che or Mao or Stalin? Three poster-children of the communism-socialism idea? Not a lick of protest. Not an iota of reproof. Nothing, even though these three so-called icons represent a defunct concept that over the course of 70 years was directly responsible for the death of, hmm, 200 million people, 300 million? I mean, you may as well be wearing a Hitler t-shirt. He actually killed fewer people than Mao, Stalin, and the rest.

But that's just it. Hitler was right wing, a fascist, a Nazi, a horrible man, a mass murder. But he's not marketable like the other mass murderers. Not panda cuddly like mass murding Mao, or Tiger Beat handsome like Che/Castro. Nor is he somehow (incredibly) sympathetic (!!??) like mass murderer Stalin (Dude! he was just a maaan, man! Just a few flaws, a few warts). No, you can't have a righty on a t-shirt! Mao? Sure! Pinochet? No! Che, Castro? Si! Hussein, that poor bastard? Sure! Baby Doc? No! Kadaffi? Yes! Bin Laden? Daniel Ortega? Yes!

And of course, if you put on a shirt any Republican president of the past 30 years? A big fat "No!"
Hmmm...

Berlin Hot-Airlift

Wow, what a syrupy sweet batch of words Barack Obama strung together in Berlin yesterday. Unbelievable. The hubris of it all. He's not president yet; and certainly, if Europe wants him to be president, then it should make him its president. At this point in the campaign season, I can't decide if Obama is Icarus, the hare or the 2007-08 New England Patriots.

And this pandering to Europe! Again, unbelievable. Who cares what Europe thinks? Why do we need its respect? When has Europe ever liked us? Never? When Reagan gave his "Tear down this wall" speech in 1987, there were 10,000 riot police teargassing thousands of protesters (protesting Reagan, the US, etc). And in my travels around the world in the 80s, everywhere I went, people tried to engage me in some sort of argument about the US, its policies, its culture, its food, and even its beer for godsakes. America has always been distasteful to the rest of the world. We're tough to swallow. T'was ever thus.

In any case, if the US tried to gain the respect of Europe the Obama way -- saltwater taffy speeches -- it would be like parents trying to gain the respect of a their 16-year-old by letting him do whatever he wanted. As far as I'm concerned, we earned Europe's respect during two World Wars; or perhaps paid for is more accurate -- paid in blood and treasure. We've been babysitting Europe now for more than 50 years, maybe it's time to bring those troops home (or send them to Iraq or Afghanistan). Why should we be paying for its defense any longer (Germany spends approx 1.5% of GDP on defence vs. 4.5% for the US)? Speaking of which, why is it OK to spend half a century and untold trillions defending Europe, but not OK to try to do the same thing in Iraq? Racism perhaps? Probably; along with laziness and a "It's too hard!" attitude. But that's for another post.

We don't need Europe's respect. We do need its cooperation. Nor should we act like them. We're not a small country, nor can we act like one. We're not socialist-leaning, institutionally anti-semetic, pro-tyrant, etc. We are the world's policemen. We're the world power, the hall monitor, the great and powerful Oz, the grand poobah, etc. Therefore, no one will really ever like us. It's the way it is. It's not hubris, it's just fact. And you know, the rest of the world has every right to hate us. But we shouldn't listen to it. It's not our problem.

Let's Drink!

By Ashton Peveril
We mattered
We were bold
Now we're battered
And we're old
(Let's Drink!)

We took wisdom
Where we could get it
Now we hear shit
Then forget it
(Let's Drink!)

Who's to say
You should be happy?
When you're low
And feeling crappy
(Let's Drink!)

For life stinks
Of sour clover
A couple blinks
Then it's over
(Let's Drink!)

So here's some advice
Keep it near
You roll the dice
In constant fear
(Let's Drink!)

Daily Lie

By Thicket Breen
Who should I lie to today? asked he.
Who should I lie today?
Should it be me?
Should it be I?
Or to the world, I pray?

For he knew that to muddle through
And to keep the façade intact
He must continue to lie
And mustn't be shy
About presenting the fib as fact

Portrayed this way day after day
Helped him in his daily pretense
Piling it thick and piling it high
It was exquisitely crafted nonsense

But where would it lead, how would go?
How would his life get traction?
Constantly shirking, lying and lurking
His soul married to enduring inaction

"Doom and gloom's where it ends," said he.
"Gloom and doom's where it shall stand.
For once y'start down th'perjurer's road.
The devil's got your life neatly planned."

As Claustrophobia

By Ashton Peveril
Plied games and halls of young
Diamonds, fields on which were sung
Ardent, mannish hymns of old
Which since yore, soul was sold
But being parcel of the few
One day deepest agony flew
That was the day,
That was the day that knew
Darkest pitch of deep-sea blue
No escape its brutish pen
Closed to all closest friends
Dankest murky walls of fright
Leaned in heavy noon and night
Pressed chest, panicked breath
'Til only peace seemed death
Death in mind all too often
Life like confines of a coffin
Cool pine box, nary plush
Muted sounds, kind of hush
Bones and skin once so brash
Soon to worm and hoary ash

Mostly, Never

By Wilbur Varken
There are no epiphanies
(In most lives)
Just cascading daggers of regret
Disappointment

There is no chance
(In most lives)
Just long columns of routine
Ennui

There is no providence
(In most lives)
Just human endeavor
Weather

There is no time
(In most lives)
Just a string of instances
Suns

There is no peace
(In most lives)
Just desire, struggle
Unhappiness

A slice

The Metal Detector
It's a warm Saturday in September. An old man slowly waves a worn metal detector back and forth over the sand and wood chips covering the school playground. Dressed in standard small-town old-man attire -- a dirty white and red plaid shirt and gray Dickey pants held up by stretchy red suspenders -- he occasionally stoops to pick up a dime or nickel; sometimes a quarter.

The dimes and nickels he gives to my daughter Dee and her cousin Lisi, both of whom are following the codger, trying to figure out what he's up to. The quarters he keeps for himself.

Dee and Lisi and my youngest daughter, Jojo, had been at the playground a few minutes when he showed up. The playground is at the grade school I attended as a kid, down the street from where I once lived and where my parents still live.

As the old man passes by where I am sitting, amongst abandoned school-kid stuff, he comments on the mess of clothing -- sweatshirts, shirts, coats, baseball caps -- and lunch boxes left behind. And he's right, the playground does have that dirty bedroom look, articles of clothing strewn about on fences and the grass.

Waving his metal detector, the old man shuffles off, kids in tow. After a few more minutes, or about 15 cents, the kids head off for something more interesting, like the jungle gym. Sometime later we wander down to a lower playground at the school.

The old man drifts by me again. We start chatting about the history of the area, where he lived and his history. He was in the Navy, a Seabee, which is the Navy's construction battalion. His tour was about to end on the eve of WWII. But during his stint, he helped build an airstrip in the Philippines, then worked in Pearl Harbor in Hawaii. He said he left Pearl for San Diego the day before the Japanese bombed the place.

He pauses after this and looks off. “Wow,” I say. He's not finished, so I say nothing more. He then tells me that in the ensuing chaos of gearing up for war against the Japanese, a US Navy plane crashed at the San Diego Naval base where he’d arrived a few days before. He was out walking and a truck full of marines, about a dozen or so, passed by. He remembers waving to the guys, they all waved back. About a minute later a Navy fighter roared overhead, so close he had to dive to the ground. The plane clipped a supply hut about 100 yards away, then crashed into the truck carrying the marines, killing them all. As he describes this part of incident his voice cracks and he seems just about to cry; he's choking up. He quickly recovers, though, and finishes his story in a normal tone. There was a big ball of flame, he says, then everyone went running toward the crash. “Those poor fellows,” he says. “Those poor things.” He says no more; just stands there a little while longer, gazing at the ground, slowly shaking his head, no doubt reliving those horrible moments 65 years ago but surely still fresh today.

"Well, gotta go," he says, and wanders off looking for more coins.

Road to Dystrophic

By Learned Irvine
I lost my soul to empty sweat
With a short look and a tin ear
My tresses thinned by time and blood
I turn older
And starts my spirit to molding

To deceive and ripen a sour age
To regret plucking
The low-hanging fruit too early
And now what's left
Too high to harvest

Suddenly a desert road
A moon-gray stretch flanked by Mars tones
Under a glaring sun and infinite sky
The short sharp bleats of tires straining to hold the road, stop-
A van weaves and takes violently to the scrub, stop-
The angles of human existence,
stop-
And the rounder contours of nature,
stop-
Meet,
stop-
Dust doesn’t settle,
Instead, a liberated puff hangs a moment
Then tilts at the air in search of better quarters

A tangled tan van, births a man,
With non-working legs
Wages of an accident long passed
Crawling around the burning wreckage,
Trying to save his similarly hobbled friend.
Misunderstood, then taken away
In a fit of misunderstanding

He thinks of spiders on strings that bounce
From electrical wires
Strung over the driveway of his thicker days

As we join the show in progress
Self esteem earnestly ebbs
Sense of power peters
Confidence cuts a rocky retreat
When man starts brushing
The limits of his talent
Caressing
The limits of his talent
Straining
The limits of his talent

With a world-beater heart
Lodged deep within
Aging packets of soft tissue
Lashed to the bones of a bruised hull
I attack the world with a light, white feather
A downy touch where a ball-peen is better used
I save the flinty strike
For the organs within
And make my world-beater world-weary

Undulating Logic

By Ashton Peveril
He was mad
Category: stark-raving
Beard rutted and mangy
He never looked while shaving

His hair
No better
And I am sorry to report
His head looked like
The mountain
Of a western ski resort

He began a firm
Amid growing heat
And proclamations of line toe-ers
All the fruit he could eat
From his own “Maine Orange Growers”

Is it navel gazing?
Or life examination?
Moth or butterfly?
Will there come a determination?
As clear as the blue sky?

Avoided the grind
Only to be ground
Like a pound
Of Arabica coffee
Now to be left
Bemused, bereft
In a state of nullity