In Algonquin, before the dawn
before they’re clouds, the fog rises
tucked under the echoing loons
above the fat smell of wet soil
before the day becomes day
before you are a person
and the light of day breaks
the green sky casts a hue
incubating the lake
until life becomes life
until you become human

On January 20th, according to police and CBSChicago website, a 40 year old Algonquin, Illinois woman shot her 50” Panasonic flat screen TV with a rifle while her 3 children watched.  She didn’t like what they were watching and she thought they watched too much TV in general.  Makes complete sense to me.  I mean if you just unplugged it those **** kids would probably just plug it in again.   Elvis also used to shoot TVs.  Allegedly the King would grab a handy pistol and shoot out the TV every time Robert Goulet was on.  He probably had to be a better shot than the lady from Algonquin.  I don’t think they had 50” flat screens back then.

Seems like the Boss couldn’t find anything worth watching on TV:

So I bought a .44 magnum, it was solid steel cast,
And in the blessed name of Elvis, well, I just let it blast,
'Til my TV lay in pieces there at my feet,
And they busted me for disturbing the almighty peace.
—Bruce Springsteen, "57 Channels (And Nothin' On)"

Who could forget Henry John Deutschendorf, Jr.’***** song about finding peace?

Blow up your TV, throw away your paper, go to the country, build you a home.

Plant a little garden, eat a lot of peaches, try and find Jesus on your own.

Come on, EVERYBODY knows John Denver’s real name!

So it wasn’t like the lady from Algonquin, Illinois was hearing voices or anything crazy like that.  These were real people telling her what had to be done.  I mean there was PRECEDENT set!

And I think that maybe the lady, though a bit extreme, and now answering to DCFS, is onto something.  Maybe TV is the source of all the world’s problems and unrest.  Maybe we should all exercise our God Given right to bear arms (hold off there big fella, that’s a whole nuther issue).  Maybe we should all just unplug the TVs for an hour or a day or a week or a month, and see what happens?!  World Peace?

Well I know that this is a poetry site, and except for some lyrics from a couple of old songs I haven’t written any poetry, so here goes:

Better OFF

Tonight I turned the TV off.
And it was better off.
And I was better off.

I called my daughter asked her how she was and we talked for an hour ‘bout stuff.
I told her I loved her and she said it back and the emotion was real enough.

And my son called from Texas, said his car needed a tire and he asked me what I thought he should do.
So I asked him if he had a usable spare, he said no, I said better buy two.

Then I made me a sandwich (the TV still off!) and I picked up a book and I READ!!
The plot started to thicken, my pulse started to quicken, but by then it was near time for bed.

So I didn’t watch ‘Wheel’ and I didn’t watch news and I didn’t watch Late Night at all.
I didn’t watch weather, though through the window, I could see the snow starting to fall.
I didn’t watch Stars Dance on anyone’s toes, didn’t watch ******* give some girl a rose.  
Didn’t watch re-runs of sit-coms I’ve seen, and I didn’t watch Judy the Judge being mean.

Tonight I turned the TV off.
And it was better off.
And I was better off.

Come home from eagle-throated distance,
The canoe-tip of the crescent moon scuds
Into the silted, mud-bed of heaven.
Her face-dream beside the pine trees
The mollusc of purpled wampum beads shining.  

Bury my hands, ninidji, in the eagle’s nest,
Carry my feeling words to her on wings.
Let her mix roots, berries, clay
and the feather of my hands
To paint her face with my words and these trees.

Or let my hands ripple like flat-fish
Above the silt-bed of her slim stomach,
Held there in radiant scaled warmth.
Lappihanne, the rapid water of our river heart,
Like an arrow that glides from the bow,
My people where the tide ebbs and flows.

To us both, the dark, golden edge of woods whispers, kuwumaras…
And the water arrow will never land,
But carried in my eagle’s hands,
I say kuwumaras, my love, and pierce through all darkness
To the empty path made full with the ripples of all who have passed.
My nika, swan of the woods, let us dive into the dark, golden sea
Of forever in the hills.

walking down park  
amsterdam
or columbus do you ever stop
to think what it looked like
before it was an avenue
did you ever stop to think
what you walked  
before you rode  
subways to the stock  
exchange (we can’t be on
the stock exchange  
we are the stock  
exchanged)


did you ever maybe wonder
what grass was like before  
they rolled it
into a ball and called  
it central park
where syphilitic dogs
and their two-legged tubercular
masters fertilize
the corners and side-walks
ever want to know what would happen
if your life could be fertilized
by a love thought  
from a loved one
who loves you


ever look south
on a clear day and not see
time’s squares but see
tall Birch trees with sycamores  
touching hands
and see gazelles running playfully  
after the lions
ever hear the antelope bark
from the third floor apartment


ever, did you ever, sit down
and wonder about what freedom’s freedom
would bring
it’s so easy to be free
you start by loving yourself  
then those who look like you  
all else will come
naturally


ever wonder why
so much asphalt was laid
in so little space
probably so we would forget  
the Iroquois, Algonquin
and Mohicans who could caress  
the earth


ever think what Harlem would be
like if our herbs and roots and elephant ears  
grew sending
a cacophony of sound to us
the parrot parroting black is beautiful black is beautiful  
owls sending out whooooo’s making love ...  
and me and you just sitting in the sun trying
to find a way to get a banana tree from one of the monkeys  
koala bears in the trees laughing at our listlessness


ever think its possible
for us to be
happy


Nikki Giovanni, “Walking Down Park” from The Selected Poems of Nikki Giovanni. Copyright © 1996 by Nikki Giovanni.

My father used to sing this ditty for us:

"Columbus sailed the ocean blue
in 14 hundred 92
He sailed as far as Chicopee Falls
...and there he left his overalls"

When my teacher asked where Columbus landed,
I knew exactly where! Out of my seat, hand waving in the air... "Oooo ooo me! I know!"

"Yes, Liz..."

"Chicopee Falls!!" ...and I argued the accuracy, VEHEMENTLY.

At least Chicopee was a genuine Native Algonquin word, meaning violent waters.

Thanks Dad!

He stands on the stage with muscles tensed and mind relaxed.  His ability to perceive anything at once is employed.  And there are twins in the hall, a frog in the toilet, and nowhere (out of sight) is the aphrodisiac named Lenny.  A common misconception is the conception of any order at all, and everything you want to exist now, or ever existed, a priori: this is the meat-muscle, the excreting weener, of Cain.
"Nowhere, man," states the deaf mute with essence, "must have a musk, a muse."  An Algonquin replied, "Stay away from that horrifying ontology."
The man on the stage is at the same time becoming less inquisitive, more unconcerned and fallow, and now he watches their amusement from off-stage!
Now, those poor, poor people on the balcony--watching him, recording every minute--they do not cow him, for he watches them as an aside only, for the figure on the stage rises, mimicking an immense marble statue.  His spine stretches, as the calls of his own voice call out, in his own voice emit, for the figure on the stage, especially when he calls, little or no recognition.  The only voice, obviously, is this unrecognizable, willful voice that once belonged to him.  Although it cannot be, it can.  Although it is not possible (that it is not), it is.  His personal translation beckons concern.
With all his initial reactions lost, no longer won, no longer controlled, he is, by those very two filters, totally unmediated.  But steadfast guile and limitless misery become his (one-two) weapons.  The elations, employed at last year's performance, are absent.  Crying, he becomes, just as defeated as a whim.  But his legs move around, and he jives and jives and jives, like a crazy set of legs, as if almost no technique is being spared.  Tonight.  Tonight he is earning his pay.  Pray.  Prey.  Tonight!  But only a willful moneymaker, a master of his control, in this reality, earns him his pay.
"Sing!  Sing!  Sing!  Sing!  For I'm praying you!" screams an old man in the orchestra pit, "For I'm paying you with my best!  Tonight!  In all ways, I am yours!"
The dancing marble man looks up.  He looks at the world.  And from the smoke, a seed believes its lofty purpose lost, in a mournful message, in a reluctant admission to that unforeseen realm, of communiqué.

I’d worked late each night that summer,
I had some free cash in Eighty Nine.
So, it was only natural
when I needed to unwind.
I’d grab a meal and have a glass
(or two) till final call
Then show up in the morning for
my stint at Broad and Wall.

The Blue bar at the Algonquin
was always my first choice.
Steve Ross was singing in the oak room,
I recall his lovely voice.
The bartender and the waiters
knew my wants without a word.
As I waited for my supper
a distinctive voice was heard.

Even in her eighties, Garbo struck a
regal tone.
Despite cancer's indignities
She would have honored any throne.
.

She knew I’d recognized her,
though I never said her name.
I 'd been just a child when she
had her last brush with fame.


She knew me from the brokerage house
Her account was with my boss.
We’d sometimes spoken on the phone
about a gain or loss.

I asked if she would like a drink
when next the barkeep came.
She eyed the Bourbon in my glass
and said “I’ll have the same.”


We were two people, both alone,
She famous, me, obscure.
For me it was her solitude
that acted as a lure.

I knew she’d never married
though there were lovers and affairs.
It was as if the single life
was answer to her prayers.

“You know I never really said:
‘I want to be alone.’
Its just I knew I had the strength
to be out on my own.”

She knew I had just lost my Dad,
The pain was very keen.
She said “I lost my Father back
when I was seventeen.”.

“I appreciate your kindness...
It‘s going to take some time.”
“If you know where your heart lies,”
She said,” You’re going to be fine.”

I paid the bill and we stepped out
into a  warm and humid  night.
I hailed a cab for her
and then we said our last good Night.


I never saw her face again
or beheld those striking eyes.
It was just a few months later
We got word that Garbo died.

I’d worked late each night that summer,
before the crash in Eighty Nine.
So, it was only natural
when I needed to unwind.
I’d grab a meal and have a glass
(or two) till final call
Then show up in the morning for
my stint at Broad and Wall.

The Blue bar at the Algonquin
was always my first choice.
Steve Ross was singing in the oak room,
You may recall his tenor voice.
The bartender and the waiters
knew my wants without a word.
As I waited for my supper
a distinctive voice was heard.

Even in her eighties, Garbo struck a
regal tone.
Despite age’s indignities
She would have honored any throne.
.

She knew I’d recognized her,
though I never said her name.
I was just a child when she
had her last brush with fame.


She knew me from the brokerage house
Her account was with my boss.
We’d sometimes spoken on the phone
about a gain or loss.

I asked if she would like a drink
when next the barkeep came.
She eyed the Bourbon in my glass
and said “I’ll have the same.”


We were two people, both alone,
She famous, me, obscure.
For me it was her solitude
that acted as a lure.

I knew she’d never married
though there were lovers and affairs.
It was as if the single life
was answer to her prayers.

“You know I never really said:
‘I want to be alone.’
Its just I knew I had the strength
to be out on my own.”

She knew I had just lost my Dad,
The pain was very keen.
She said “I lost my Father back
when I was seventeen.”.

“I appreciate your kindness...
It‘s going to take some time.”
“If you know where your heart lies,”
She said,” You’re going to be fine.”

I paid the bill and we stepped out
into a  warm and humid  night.
I hailed a cab for her
and then we said our last good Night.


I never saw her face again
or beheld those striking eyes.
It was just a few months later
We got word that Garbo died.

four strapping teens surveying a map
the adventure of a lifetime in waiting
an expedition through backcountry

    10 days 4 portages backpacks at the ready
    paddles yearning to be dipped into glossy waters
    an excruciating two hour drive for excited trekkers

launching canoes with but a trail & compass
crackling fires stoking companionship
seeking warmth from the crisp nighttime air

    tents hoisted while listening to nature’s rhythm
    crawling into sleeping bags serenaded by croaking frogs
    exhaustion from a day of paddling bringing deep sleep

bright sunny dawn the wakeup call for rising
roaring campfire ready for pots and pans
breakfast cooked on an open flame a treat

    time to pack amidst an onslaught of mosquitoes
    drizzling day a reminder to the voyageurs of the past
    portages carrying canoes overhead long & arduous

standing on the shores of turbulent Lake Opeongo
her challenges
beckon us

Andreas Simic©

“I have seen the movement of the sinews of the sky, And the blood coursing in the veins of the moon.”
– Allama Iqbal


In September,
the harvest moon,
named by the Algonquin people.

A gift to the earth;
endowed for corn, beans, squash, sunflowers,
and received in bright
thankfulness.

When, finally, the time arrives
for an autumn moon
to take its place between the earth and sun,
swooping as close to earth
as bright fireflies filling the sky.
Lunar scheduling;
a time to deliver scoops of light to
the shadowy earth.

Human faces staring upward
at the inky sky.
Stars dimmed by the golden moon
that shines on prairies, sand, on city streets;
glowing its song of moonlight;
offering a nocturne to the silent ground.

Each upturned face,
waiting to be christened with moonlight;
a conduit of heavenly fire
that moves from face to face circling
in contra dance around the rocky earth.

And each up tilted face
in Calgary and Cairo, Belarus and Brazil,
rhymes with golden light.

As the moon glow wanes above, it waxes here below;
endowing our faces with moonlight, a celestial loan,
leaving the moon with only orange and red,
while September yellow clings to us on earth.

The sound of light brushing our faces,
settling into place,
with sweetness of chamomile,
fragrant with the end of summer.
Whispers of the autumn equinox,
and the earth keeping promises.

Soon we must return
the borrowed lightening,
the buttery splash,
to the orange-red moon.

And we pay.
Not with regret,
but gladly.
All we who have seen the hushing of the moon;
we hold forever in the particles that make ourselves,
the seeds of moonlight.

Pieces of the moon.

Many long winters have passed
since I was a young brave.
My skills are now faded
with the light of my eyes.
In the great domain
of the Algonquin Tribes.
I hunted with my father
a wise and kind chief.
He taught me the love
of all the ways of the Great Spirit.
Who provides all we will ever need
to sustain our people.
The great buffalo
in their numbers too large to count
Would feed our people
until the end of all moon and stars.

Our ways were a gift of life
the ways of our lineage from start of days.
The newcomers took our land and our talk
The buffalo was wiped from the land
by their sticks of fire.
Their bodies left to rot in the sun.
What was the gift of Manitou they stole away.
The water in our rivers
is as poison from their waste.
The fish are sick and
cannot be eaten by our people.
What was our pride, they scorned.
Our children they took
to teach them new ways
Our blood they spilt
into the soil of our heritage.
Now we are imprisoned
on the land of our freedom.
I stay in my tipi old and frail
my face lined with many years.
I dream of a clear sky
an eagle flying to the mountain.
The herds of buffalo
thundering again on the plains.
To sit around the fire with the pipe again
telling the deeds of our forefathers.
No peace will ever rest my mind

Native Lament
A Story of Innocence Lost
By
Jude Kyrie*

Many long winters have passed
since I was a young brave.
My skills are now faded
with the light of my eyes.
In the great domain
of the Algonquin Tribes.
I hunted with my father
a wise and kind chief.
He taught me the love
of all the ways of the Great Spirit.
Who provides all we will ever need
to sustain our people.
The great buffalo
in their numbers too large to count
Would feed our people
until the end of all moon and stars.
Our ways were a gift of life
the ways of our lineage from start of days.
The newcomers took our land and our talk
The buffalo was wiped from the land
by their sticks of fire.
Their bodies left to rot in the sun.
What was the gift of Manitou they stole away.
The water in our rivers
are as poison from their waste.
The fish are sick and
cannot be eaten by our people.
What was our pride, they scorned.
Our children they took
to teach them new ways
Our blood they spilt
into the soil of our heritage.
Now we are imprisoned
on the land of our freedom.
I stay in my tipi old and frail
my face lined with many winters.
I dream of a clear sky
an eagle flying to the mountain.
The herds of buffalo
thundering again on the plains.
To sit around the fire with the pipe again
telling the deeds of our forefathers.
No peace will ever rest my mind again.

exile is our fate
looking for a way home
even if we’ve never been home

exiled from my pulitzer
from my place at the algonquin roundtable
barred from the scotch of st. james 1966
john lennon’s holding my throne for me
but i can’t get in the club

exiled from our world conquests
our lives of leisure
exiled from the parents of our past
our children and ourselves as children
from the summertime of youth
and in the end
exiled from this ****** earth

Lean on
Dream on
Gleam on
Scream on
Ream on
Team on
All gone
in the Algonquin
Yeah Juan
and John
and an ex-con
and the man called the Fonz

My dearest Anne,
I am living by a lake
with a young man
I met one week after you died.

His beard is red,
his eyes flicker like cat’s eyes,
& the amazing plum of his tongue
sweetens my brain.
He is like nobody
since I love him.
His **** sinks deep
in my heart.



I have owed you a letter
for months.



I wanted to chide
the manner of your death
the way I might have once
revised your poem.
You are like nobody
since I love you,
& you are gone.



Can you believe
your death gave birth to me?
Live or die,
you said insistently.
You chose the second
& the first chose me.
I mourned you
& I found him
in one week.



Is love the sugar-coated poison
that gets us in the end?
We spoke of men
as often as of poems.
We tried to legislate away
the need for love –
that backseat ****
& death caressing you.



Why did you do it
in your mother’s coat?
(I know
but also know
I have to ask.)
Our mothers get us hooked,
then leave us cold,
all full-grown orphans
hungering after love.



You loved a man who sopoe
“like greeting cards.”
“He ***** me well
but I can’t talk to him.”
We shared that awful need
to talk in bed.
Love wasn’t love
if we could only speak
in tongues.



& the intensity of unlove
increased
until the motor, the running motor
could no longer power
the driver,
& you, with miles to go,
would rather sleep.



Between the pills, the suicide pills
& our giggly vodkas in the Algonquin…
Between your round granny glasses
& your eyes blue as glaciers…
Between your stark mother-hunger
& your mother courage,
you knew there was only one poem
we all were writing.



No competition.
“The poem belongs to everyone
& God.”
I jumped out of your car
suicide car
& into his arms.

Your death was mine
I ate it
& returned.



Now I sit by a lake
writing to you.
I love a man
who makes my finger ache.
I type to you
off somewhere in the clouds.
I tap the table
like a spiritualist.



*** is a part of death;
that much I know.
You voice was earth,
your eyes were glacier-blue.
Your slender torso
& long-stemmed American legs
drape across
this huge blue western sky.



I want to tell you “Wait,
don’t do it yet.”
Love is the poison, Anne,
but love eats death.

Lake Char­gogg­a­gogg­man­chaugg­a­gogg­chau­bun­a­gung­a­maugg




Th­e story goes:

This is a name made for fun by Webster, Massachusetts newspaper editor Laurence Daley to lengthen the Algonquin name,

Lake Chaubunagungamaug,

English name is “Webster Lake”.



With Daley’s version the lake’s name is the longest place name in the U.S.



Let’s make up a few words doing the reverse,

Taking long words and making them shorter.



“Encyclopedia”: “pedia”, as has been done with Wikipedia.

“Thermostat”: “stat”.

“Consciousness”: “shuss”.



Perhaps we can get good at this and learn to continually make life simpler,

More comfortable,

Healthier.



I think we’re already oriented this way

And I think this style of living is becoming more popular:



Let’s keep sharing what we learn.

Very much sharing.