I followed Delvos down the trail until we could see the mouth of the mine. The life and energy of the surrounding birches and sentential pines came to a still and then died as we left the trees shelter behind and walked closer, closer. The air was cold and dark and damp and smelled of mold and moths. Delvos stepped into the darkness anyways.
“Well, girl, you coming or aren’t you?”
I could see his yellowed tobacco teeth form into a smile as I stepped out of the sun. It was still inside. The canary chirped in its cage.
“This tunnel is just the mouth to over two hundred others exactly like it. Stay close. Last thing I need this month is National Geographic on my *** for losing one of their puppet girls.”
“Delvos, ****. I have two masters degrees.” I pulled my mousey hair up into a tight ponytail. “I’ve experienced far more fatal feats than following a canary in a cave.”
He rolled his eyes. “Spare me.” He trotted off around the corner to the left, whistling some Louis Armstrong song.
“I survived alone in the jungles of Bolivia alone for two months chasing an Azara’s Spinetail. I climbed the tallest mountain in Nepal shooting Satyr Tragopans along the cliff faces. In Peru I…” Suddenly I felt the weight of the darkness. I lost track of his lantern completely. I stopped, my heartbeat picked up, and I tried to remind myself of what I had done in Peru. The mine was quiet and cold. I wiped my clammy, calloused hands on my trail pants and took a depth breath.

In through the nose. Out through the mouth. This is nothing. I followed a Diurnal Peruvian Pygmy-Owl across the gravel tops of the Andes Mountains, no light but the Southern Cross and waning moon above. I am not scared of darkness. I am not scared of darkness.
I stopped to listen. Behind me I could hear the wind cooing at the mouth of the mine.
Taunting? No. Reminding me to go forward. Into the darkness.
I shifted my Nikon camera off my shoulder and raised the viewfinder to my eyes, sliding the lens cap into my vest pocket. This routine motion, by now, had become as fluid as walking. I stared readily through the dark black square until I saw reflections from the little red light on top that blinked, telling me the flash was charged. I snapped my finger down and white light filled the void in front of me. Then heavy dark returned. I blinked my eyes attempting to rid the memories of the flash etched, red, onto my retina. I clicked my short fingernails through buttons until the photo I took filled the camera screen. I learned early on that having short fingernails meant more precise control with the camera buttons. I zoomed in on the picture and scrolled to get my bearings of exactly what lay ahead in the narrow mine passageway. As I scrolled to the right I saw Delvos’ boot poking around the tunnel that forked to the left.
Gottcha.
I packed up the camera, licked my drying lips, and stepped confidently into the darkness.

When I first got the assignment in Vermont I couldn’t have been more frustrated. Mining canaries? Never had I ever ‘chased’ a more mundane bird. Nonetheless, when Jack Reynolds sends you on a shoot you don’t say no, so I packed up my camera bag and hoped on the next plane out of Washington.
“His name is John Delvos.” Jack had said as he handed me the manila case envelope. He smiled, “You’re leaving on Tuesday.”
“Yes sir.”
“Don’t look so smug, Lila. This may not be the most exotic bird you’ve shot but the humanity of this piece has the potential to be a cover story. Get the shots, write the story.”
I opened the envelope and read the assignment details in the comfort of my old pajamas back at my apartment later that night.
John Delvos has lived in rural Vermont his entire life. His family bred the canaries for the miners of the Sheldon Quarry since the early twenties. When “the accident” happened the whole town shut down and the mines never reopened. . There were no canaries in the mines the day the gas killed the miners. The town blamed the Delvos family and ran them into the woods. His mother died in a fire of some sort shortly before Delvos and his father retreated into the Vermont woods. His father built a cabin and once his father died, Delvos continued to breed the birds. He currently ships them to other mining towns across the country. The question of the inhumanity of breeding canaries for the sole purpose of dying in the mines so humans don’t has always been controversial. Find out Delvos’ story and opinions on the matter. Good luck, Lila.
I sighed, accepting my dull assignment and slipped into an apathetic sleep.


After stumbling through the passageway while keeping one hand on the wall to the left, I found the tunnel the picture had revealed Delvos to be luring in. Delvos reappeared behind the crack of his match in a side tunnel not twenty yards in front of me
“Do you understand the darkness now, Ms. Rivers?” He relit the oily lantern and picked back up the canary cage. “Your prestigious masters degrees don’t mean **** down here.”. He turned his back without another word. I followed deeper into the damp darkness.
“Why were there no canaries in the mine on, you know, that day?” The shadows of the lantern flickered against the iron canary cage chained on his hip and the yellow bird hopped inside.
“I was nine, Ms. Rivers. I didn’t understand much at the time.” We turned right into the next tunnel and our shoes crunched on jagged stones. All the stones were black.
“But surely you understand now?”
The canary chirped.

When I first got to Sheldon and began asking about the location of the Delvos’ cabin you would have thought I was asking where the first gate to hell was located. Mothers would smile and say, “Sorry, Miss, I can’t say,” then hurriedly flock their children in the opposite direction. After two hours of polite refusals I gave up. I spent the rest of the first day photographing the town square. It was quaint; old stone barbershops surrounded by oaks and black squirrels, a western-themed whiskey bar, and a few greasy spoon restaurants. I booked a room in the Walking Horse Motel for Wednesday night, determined to get a good night’s sleep and defeat this town’s fear of John Delvos the following day.
My room was a tiny one bed square with no TV. Surprise, surprise. At least I had my camera and computer to entertain myself. I reached into the side of my camera bag, pulled out my Turkish Golds and Macaw-beak yellow BIC, and stepped out onto the dirt in front of my motel door and lit up. The stars above stole all the oxygen surrounding me. They were dancing and smiling above me and I forgot Delvos, Jack, and all of Sheldon except its sky. Puffing away, I stepped farther and farther from my door and deeper into the darkness of Vermont night. The father into the darkness the more dizzying the star’s dancing became.
“Ma’am? Everything okay?”
Startled, I dropped my cigarette on the ground and the ember fell off. “I’m sorry, sir. I was just, um, the stars…” I snuffed out the orange glow in the dirt with my boot and extended my hand, “Lila Rivers, and you are?”
“Ian Benet. I haven’t seen you around here before, Ms. Rivers. Are you new to town?” He traced his fingers over a thick, graying mustache as he stared at me.
“I’m here for work. I’m a bird photographer and journalist for National Geographic. I’m looking for John Delvos but I’m starting to think he’s going to be harder to track than a Magpie Robin.”
Ian smiled awkwardly, shivered, then began to fumble with his thick jacket’s zipper. I looked up at the night sky and watched the stars as they tiptoed their tiny circles in the pregnant silence. Then, they dimmed in the flick of a spark as Ian lit up his wooden pipe. It was a light-colored wood, stained with rich brown tobacco and ash. He passed me his matches, smiling.
“So, Delvos, eh?” He puffed out a cloud of leather smelling smoke toward the stars. “What do you want with that old *******? Don’t tell me National Geographic is interested in the Delvos canaries.”
I lit up another stick and took a drag. “Shocking, right?”
“Actually, it’s about time their story is told.” Benet walked to the wooden bench to our left and patted the seat beside him. I walked over. “The Delvos canaries saved hundreds of Sheldonian lives over the years. But the day a crew went into the mines without one, my father came out of the ground as cold as when we put him back into it in his coffin.”
I sat in silence, unsure what to say. “Mr. Benet, I’m so sorry…”
“Please, just Ian. My father was the last Mr. Benet.”
We sat on the wooden bench, heat leaving our bodies to warm the dead wood beneath our legs. I shivered; the star’s dance suddenly colder and more violent.
“Delvos canaries are martyrs, Ms. Rivers. This whole town indebted to those tiny yellow birds, but nobody cares to remember that anymore.”
“Can you tell me where I can find Mr. Delvos and his, erm, martyrs?” The ember of my second cigarette was close to my pinching fingertips.
“Follow me.” Ian stood up and walked to the edge of the woods in front of us. We crunched the dead pine needles beneath our feet, making me aware of how silent it was. Ian stopped at a large elm and pointed. “See that yellow notch?” he asked. Sure enough, there was a notch cut and dyed yellow at his finger’s end. “If you follow true north from this tree into the woods you’ll find this notch about every fifty yards or so. Follow the yellow and it’ll spit you out onto the Delvos property.”
“Thank you, Ian. I really can’t begin to tell you how grateful I am.
“You don’t have to.” He knocked the ash out of his pipe against the tree. “Just do those birds justice in your article. Remember, martyrs. Tell old Delvos Ian Benet sends his regards.” He turned and walked back to the motel and I stood and watched in silence. It was then I realized I hadn’t heard a single bird since I got to Sheldon. The star’s dance was manic above me as I walked back to my room and shut the door.

The canary’s wings and Delvos stopped. “This is a good place to break our fast. Sit.”
I sat obediently, squirming around until the rocks formed a more comfortable nest around my bony hips. We had left for the mines as the stars were fading in the vermillion Vermont sky that morning and had been walking for what seemed like an eternity. I was definitely ready to eat. He handed me a gallon Ziploc bag from his backpack filled with raisins, nuts, various dried fruits, and a stiff piece of bread. I attacked the food like a raven.
“I was the reason no canaries entered the mines that day, Ms. Rivers.”
Delvos broke a piece of his bread off and wrapped it around a dried piece of apricot, or maybe apple. I was suddenly aware of my every motion and swallowed, loudly. I crinkled into my Ziploc and crunched on the pecans I dug out, waiting.
“Aren’t you going to ask why?”
“I’m not a parrot, Mr. Delvos, I don’t answer expectedly on command. You’ll tell me if you want.” I stuffed a fistful of dried pears into my mouth.
Delvos chuckled and my nerves eased. “You’ve got steel in you, Ms. Rivers. I’ll give you that much.”
I nodded and continued cramming pears in my mouth.
“I was only nine. The canaries were my pets, all of them. I hated when Dad would send them into the mines to die for men I couldn’t give two ***** about. It was my birthday and I asked for an afternoon of freedom with my pets and Dad obliged. I was in the aviary with pocketfuls of sunflower-seeds. Whenever I threw a handful into the air above me, the air came to life with wings slashing yellow brushes and cawing songs of joy. It was the happiest I have ever been, wholly surrounded and protected by my friends. Around twelve thirty that afternoon the Sheriff pulled up, lights ablaze. The blue and red lights stilled my yellow sky to green again and that’s when I heard the shouting. He cuffed my Dad on the hood of the car and Mom was crying and pushing her fists into the sheriff’s chest. I didn’t understand at all. The Sheriff ended up putting Mom in the car too and they all left me in the aviary. I sat there until around four that afternoon before they sent anyone to come get me.”
Delvos took a small bite of his bread and chewed a moment. “No matter how many handfuls of seeds I threw in the air after that, the birds wouldn’t stir. They wouldn’t even sing. I think they knew what was happening.”
I was at a loss for words so and I blurted, “I didn’t see an aviary at your house…”
Delvos laughed. “Someone burnt down the house I was raised in the next week while we were sleeping. Mom died that night. The whole dark was burning with screams and my yellow canaries were orange and hot against the black sky. That’s the only night I’ve seen black canaries and the only night I’ve heard them scream.”
I swallowed some mixed nuts and they rubbed against my dry throat.
“They never caught the person. A week later Dad took the remainder of the birds and we marched into the woods. We worked for months clearing the land and rebuilding our lives. We spent most of the time in silence, except for the canary cries. When the house was finally built and the bird’s little coops were as well, Dad finally talked. The only thing he could say was “Canaries are not the same as a Phoenix, John. Not the same at all.”
We sat in silence and I found myself watching the canary flit about in its cage, still only visible by the lanterns flame. Not fully yellow, I realized, here in the mines but not fully orange either.

When I first walked onto John Delvos’ property on Thursday morning he was scattering feed into the bird coops in the front of his cabin. Everything was made of wood and still wet with the morning’s dew.
“Mr. Delvos?”
He spun around, startled, and walked up to me a little too fast. “Why are you here? Who are you?”
“My name is Lila Rivers, sir, I am a photographer and journalist for National Geographic Magazine and we are going to run an article on your canaries.”
“Not interested.”
“Please, sir, can I ask you just a few quick questions as take a couple pictures of your, erm, martyrs?”
His eyes narrowed and he walked up to me, studying my face with an intense, glowering gaze. He spit a mouthful of dip onto the ground without breaking eye contact. I shifted my camera bag’s weight to the other shoulder.
“Who told you to call them that?”
“I met Ian Benet last night, he told me how important your birds are to this community, sir. He sends his regards.”
Delvos laughed and motioned for me to follow as he turned his back. “You can take pictures but I have to approve which ones you publish. That’s my rule.”
“Sir, it’s really not up to me, you see, my boss, Jack Reynolds, is one of the editors for the magazine and he...”
“Those are my rules, Ms. Rivers.” He turned and picked back up the bucket of seed and began to walk back to the birds. “You want to interview me then we do it in the mine. Be back here at four thirty in the morning.”
“Sir…?”
“Get some sleep, Ms. Rivers. You’ll want to be rested for the mine.” He turned, walked up his wooden stairs, and closed the door to his cabin.
I was left alone in the woods and spent the next hour snapping pictures of the canaries in their cages. I took a couple pictures of his house and the surrounding trees, packed up my camera and trekked back to my motel.

“You finished yet?” Delvos stood up. The mine was dark, quiet, and stagnant. I closed the Ziploc and stuffed the bag, mainly filled with the raisins I had sifted through, into my pocket.
Delvos grunted and the canary flapped in its cage as he stood again and, swinging the lantern, rounded another corner. The path we were on began to take a noticeable ***** downward and the moisture on the walls and air multiplied.  
The lantern flickered against the moist, black stones, sleek and piled in the corners we past. The path stopped ahead at a wall of solid black and brown Earth.
The canary chirped twice.
It smelled of clay and mildew and Delvos said, “Go on, touch it.”
I reached my hand out, camera uselessly hanging like a bat over my shoulder. The rock was cold and hard. It felt dead.
The canary was fluttering its wings in the cage now, chirping every few seconds.
“This is the last tunnel they were digging when the gas under our feet broke free from hell and killed those men.”
Delvos hoisted the lantern above our heads, illuminatin

I followed him down the trail until we got to the mouth of the mines. The life and energy of the surrounding maples and birches seemed to come to a still and then die as we walked closer, closer. The air was cold and dark and damp and smelt of mold and moths. Delvos stepped into the darkness anyways.
“Well, girl, you coming or aren’t you?”
I could see his yellowed tobacco teeth form into a slimy smile as I stepped out of the sun. It was still inside. The canary chirped.
“This tunnel is just the mouth to over two hundred others exactly like it. Stay close. Last thing I need this month is National Geographic on my *** for losing one of their puppet girls.”
“Delvos, ****. I have two masters degrees.” He rolled his eyes.
“Spare me.” He trotted off around the corner to the left, whistling.
“I survived alone in the jungles of Bolivia alone for two months chasing an Azara’s Spinetail. I climbed the tallest mountain in Nepal shooting Satyr Tragopans along the cliff faces. In Peru I…” Suddenly I felt the weight of the darkness. In my blinding anger I lost track of his lantern. I stopped, my heartbeat picked up, and I tried to remind myself of what I did in Peru.
I followed a Diurnal Peruvian Pygmy-Owl across the gravel tops of the Andes Mountains, no light but the Southern Cross and waning moon above. I am not scared of darkness. I am not scared of darkness.
I stopped to listen. Somewhere in front of me the canary chirped.

When I first got the job in Vermont I couldn’t have been more frustrated. Mining canaries? Never had I ever ‘chased’ a more mundane bird. Nonetheless, when Jack Reynolds sends you on a shoot you don’t say no, so I packed up my camera bag and hoped on the next plane out of Washington.
“His name is John Delvos.” Jack said. He handed me the manila case envelope. “He’s lived in rural Vermont his entire life. Apparently his family bred the canaries for the miners of the Sheldon Quarry since the early twenties. When the accident happened the whole town basically shut down. There were no canaries in the mines the day the gas killed the miners. His mother died in a fire of some sort shortly after. The town blamed the Delvos family and ran them into the woods. His father built a cabin and once his father died, Delvos continued to breed the birds. He ships them to other mining towns across the country now. We want to run a piece about the inhumanity of breeding animals to die so humans won’t.” I stood in silence in front of his deep mahogany desk, suddenly aware of the lack of make-up on my face. He smiled, “You’re leaving on Tuesday.”
“Yes sir.”
“Don’t look so smug, Lila. This may not be the most exotic bird you’ve shot but the humanity of this piece has the potential to be a cover story. Get the shots, write the story.”

“Do you understand the darkness now, Ms. Rivers? Your prestigious masters degrees don’t mean **** down here.” Delvos reappeared behind the crack of his match in a side tunnel not twenty yards in front of me. He relit the oily lantern and turned his back without another word. I reluctantly followed deeper into the damp darkness.
“Why were there no canaries in the mine on, you know, that day?” The shadows of the lantern flickered against the iron canary cage chained on his hip and the yellow bird hopped inside.
“I was nine, Ms. Rivers. I didn’t understand much at the time.” We turned right into the next tunnel and our shoes crunched on jagged stones. All the stones were black.
“But surely you understand now?”
The canary chirped.

When I first got to Sheldon and began asking about the location of the Delvos’ cabin you would have thought I was asking where the first gate to hell was located. Mothers would smile and say, “Sorry, Miss, I can’t say,” and hurriedly flock their children in the opposite direction. After two hours of polite refusals I gave up. I spent the rest of the first day photographing the town square. It was quaint; old stone barbershops surrounded by oaks and black squirrels, a western themed whiskey bar, and a few greasy spoon restaurants interspersed in-between. I booked a room in the Walking Horse Motel for Wednesday night, determined to get a good nights sleep and defeat this towns fear of John Delvos tomorrow.
My room was a tiny one bed square with no TV. Surprise, surprise. At least I had my camera and computer to entertain myself. I reached into the side of my camera bag and pulled out my Turkish Golds and Macaw-beak yellow BIC. I stepped out onto the dirt in front of my door and lit up. I looked up and the stars stole all the oxygen surrounding me. They were dancing and smiling above me and I forgot Delvos, Jack, and all of Sheldon except it’s sky. Puffing away, I stepped farther and farther from my door and deeper into the darkness of night. The father into the darkness the more dizzying the stars dancing became.
“Ma’am? Everything okay?”
Startled, I dropped my cigarette on the ground and the ember fell off.
“I’m sorry, sir. I was just, um, the stars…” I snuffed out the orange glow in the dirt with my boot and extended my hand, “Lila Waters, and you are?”
“Ian Benet. I haven’t seen you around here before, Ms. Waters, are you new to town?”
“I’m here for work. I’m a bird photographer and journalist for National Geographic. I’m looking for John Delvos but I’m starting to think he’s going to be harder to track than a Magpie Robin.”
The stars tiptoed in their tiny circles above in the silence. Then, they disappeared with a spark as Ian lit up his wooden pipe. It was a light colored wood, stained with rich brown tobacco and ash. He passed me his matches, smiling.
“What do you want with that old *******? Don’t tell me National Geographic is interested in the Delvos canaries.”
I lit up another stick and took a drag. “Shocking, right?”
“Actually, it’s about time their story is told.” Benet walked to the wooden bench to our left and patted the seat beside him. I walked over. “The Delvos canaries saved hundreds of Sheldonian lives over the years. But the day a crew went into the mines without one, my father came out of the ground as cold as when we put him back into it in his coffin.”
I sat in silence, unsure what to say. “Mr. Benet, I’m so sorry…”
“Please, just Ian. My father was the last Mr. Benet.”
We sat on the wooden bench, heat leaving our bodies to warm the dead wood beneath our legs. I shivered; the stars dance suddenly colder and more violent.
“Delvos canaries are martyrs, Ms. Waters. This whole town indebted to those tiny yellow birds, but nobody cares to remember that anymore.”
“Can you tell me where I can find Mr. Delvos and his, erm, martyrs?” The ember of my second cigarette was close to my pinching fingertips.
“Follow me.” Ian stood up and walked to the edge of the woods in front of us. We crunched the cold dust beneath our feet, making me aware of how silent it was. Ian stopped at a large elm and pointed, “See that yellow notch?” Sure enough, there was a notch cut and dyed yellow at his finger’s end. “If you follow true north from this tree into the woods you’ll find this notch about every fifty yards or so. Follow the yellow and it’ll spit you out onto the Delvos property.”
“Thank you, Ian. I really can’t begin to tell you how thankful I am to find out where to find this elusive Mr. Delvos and his canaries.”
“You don’t have to,” he knocked the ash out of his pipe against the tree, “Just do those birds justice in your article. Remember, martyrs. Tell old Delvos Ian Benet sends his regards.” He turned and walked back to the motel and I stood and watched in silence. It was then I realized I hadn’t heard a single bird since I got to Sheldon. The stars dance was manic above me as I walked back to my room and shut the door.

The canary chirped and Delvos stopped.
“This is a good place to break out fast. Sit.”
I sat obediently, squirming around until the rocks formed a more comfortable nest around my bony hips. We left for the mines as the stars were fading in the vermillion Vermont sky this morning and had been walking for what seemed like an eternity. I was definitely ready to eat. He handed me a gallon Ziploc bag from his backpack filled with raisins, nuts, various dried fruits, and a stiff piece of bread. I attacked the food like a raven.
“I was the reason no canaries entered the mines that day, Ms. Waters.” Delvos broke a piece of his bread off and wrapped it around a dried piece of apricot, or maybe apple. I was suddenly aware of my every motion and swallowed, loudly. I crinkled into my Ziploc and crunched on the pecans I dug out, waiting.
“Aren’t you going to ask why?”
“I’m not a parrot, Mr. Delvos, I don’t answer expectedly on command. You’ll tell me if you want.” I hurriedly stuffed a fistful of dried pears into my mouth.
Delvos chuckled and my nerves eased, “You’ve got steel in you, Ms. Rivers, I’ll give you that much.”
I nodded and continued cramming pears in my mouth.
“I was only nine. The canaries were my pets, all of them. I hated when Dad would send them into the mines to die for men I couldn’t give two ***** about. It was my birthday and I asked for an afternoon of freedom with my pets and Dad obliged. I was in the aviary with pocketfuls of sunflower-seeds. Whenever I threw a handful into the air above me, the air came to life with flickering yellow brushes and songs of joy. It was the happiest I have ever been, wholly surrounded and protected by my friends. Around twelve thirty that afternoon the Sheriff pulled up, lights ablaze. The blue and red lights stilled my yellow sky to green again and that’s when I heard the shouting. He cuffed my Dad on the hood of the car and Mom was crying and pushing her fists into the sheriff’s chest. I didn’t understand at all. The Sheriff ended up putting Mom in the car too and they all left me in the aviary. I sat there until around four that afternoon before they sent anyone to come get me.”
Delvos took a small bite of his bread and chewed a moment. “No matter how many handfuls of seeds I threw in the air after that, the birds wouldn’t stir. They wouldn’t even sing. I think they knew what was happening.”
I was at a loss for words so of course I blurted, “I didn’t see an aviary at your house…”
Delvos laughed. “Someone burnt down the house I was raised in the next week while we were sleeping. Mom died that night. The whole dark was burning with screams and my yellow canaries were orange and hot against the black sky. That’s the only night I’ve seen black canaries and the only night I’ve heard them scream.”
I swallowed some mixed nuts and they rubbed against my dry throat.
“They never caught the person. A week later Dad took the remainder of the birds and we marched into the woods. We worked for months clearing the land and rebuilding our lives. We spent most of the time in silence, except for the canary cries. When the house was finally built and the birds little coops were as well, Dad finally talked. The only thing he could say was ‘Canaries are not the same as a Phoenix, John. Not the same at all.”
The canary chirped, still only visible by the lanterns flame. Not fully yellow, I realized, here in the mines, but not fully orange either.

When I first walked onto John Delvos’ property on Thursday morning he was scattering feed into the bird coops in the front of his cabin. Everything was made of wood and still wet with the morning’s dew.
“Mr. Delvos?” He spun around, startled, and walked up to me a little too fast.
“Why are you here? Who are you?”
“My name is Lila Waters, sir, I am a photographer and journalist for National Geographic Magazine and we are going to run an article on your canaries.”
“Not interested”
“Please, sir, can I ask you just a few quick questions as take a couple pictures of your, erm, martyrs?”
His eyes narrowed and he walked up to me, studying my face with an intense, glowering gaze. He spit a mouthful of dip onto the ground without breaking eye contact. I shifted my camera bag’s weight to the other shoulder.
“Who told you to call them that?”
“I met Ian Benet last night, he told me how important your birds are to this community, sir. He sends his regards.”
Delvos laughed and motioned for me to follow as he turned his back. “You can take pictures but I have to approve which ones you publish. That’s my rule.”
“Sir, it’s really not up to me, you see, my boss, Jack Reynolds, is one of the CEO’s for the magazine and he...”
“Those are my rules, Ms. Waters.” He turned and picked back up the bucket of seed and began to walk back to the birds. “You want to interview me then we do it in the mine. Be back here at four thirty in the morning.”
“Sir…?”
“Get some sleep, Ms. Waters. You’ll want to be rested for the mine.” He turned, walked up his wooden stairs, and closed the door to his cabin.
I was left alone in the woods and spent the next hour snapping pictures of the little, yellow canaries in their cages. I took a couple pictures of his house and the surrounding trees, packed up my camera and trekked back to my motel.

“You finished yet?” Delvos stood up and the memory of his green and brown wooded homestead fled from my memory as the mine again consumed my consciousness. Dark, quiet, and stagnant. I closed the Ziploc and stuffed the bag, mainly filled with the raisins I sifted through, into my pocket.
Delvos grunted and the canary flapped in its cage as he stood again and, swinging the lantern, rounded another corner. The path we were on began to take a noticeable ***** downward and the moisture on the walls and air multiplied.
The canary chirped.
The lantern flickered against the moist, black stones, sleek and piled in the corners we past. The path stopped ahead at a wall of solid black and brown Earth.
The canary chirped twice.
It smelt of clay and mildew and Delvos said, “Go on, touch it.”
I reached my hand out, camera uselessly hanging like a bat over my shoulder. The rock was cold and hard. It felt dead.
The Canary was flitting its wings in the cage now, chirping every few seconds.
“This is the last tunnel they were digging when the gas under our feet broke free from hell and killed those men.”
Delvos hoisted the lantern above our heads, illuminating the surrounding gloom. All was completely still and even my own vapor seemed to fall out of my mouth and simply die. The canary was dancing a frantic jig, now, similar to the mating dance of the Great Frigate Bird I shot in the Amazon jungle. As I watched the canary and listened to its small wings beat against the cold metal cage I begin to feel dizzy. The bird’s cries had transformed into a scream colder than fire and somehow more fierce.
The ability to fly is what always made me jealous of birds as a child, but as my temple throbbed and the canary danced I realized I was amiss. Screaming, yellow feathers whipped and the entire inside of the cage was instantaneously filled. It was beautiful until the very end. Dizzying, really.
Defeated, the canary sank to the floor, one beaten wing hanging out of the iron bars at a most unnatural angle. Its claws were opening and closing, grasping the tainted cave air, or, perhaps, trying to push it away. Delvos unclipped the cage and sat it on the floor in the space between us, lantern still held swaying above his head. The bird was aflame now, the silent red blood absorbing into the apologetic, yellow feathers. Orange, a living fire. I pulled out my camera as I sat on the ground beside the cage. I took a few shots, the camera’s clicks louder than the feeble chirps sounding out of the canary’s tattered, yellow beak. My head was spinning. Its coal-black eyes reflected the lantern’s flame above. I could see its tiny, red tongue in the bottom of its mouth.
Opening.
Closing.
Opening, wider, too wide, then,
Silence.


I felt dizzy. I remember feeling the darkness surround me; it felt warm.

“I vaguely remember Delvos helping me to my feet, but leaving the mine was a complete haze.” I told the panel back in D.C., “It wasn’t until we had crossed the stream on the way back to the cabin that I began to feel myself again. Even then, I felt like I was living a dream. When we got back to the cabin the sight of the lively yellow canaries in their coops made me cry. Delvos brought me a bottle of water and told me I needed to hit the trail because the sun set early in the winter, so I le

1969 Hartford art school is magnet for exceedingly intelligent over-sensitive under-achievers alluring freaks congenital creeps and anyone who cannot cut it in straight world it is about loners dreamers stoners clowns cliques of posers competing to dress draw act most outrageous weird wonderful classrooms clash in diversity of needs some students get it right off while others require so much individual attention one girl constantly raises her hand calls for everything to be repeated explained creativity is treated as trouble and compliance to instruction rewarded most of faculty are of opinion kids are not capable of making original artwork teachers discourage students from dream of becoming well-known until they are older more experienced only practiced skilled artists are competent to create ‘real art’ defined by how much struggle or multiple meanings weave through the work Odysseus wants to make magic boxes without knowing or being informed of Joseph Cornell one teacher tells him you think you’re going to invent some new color the world has never seen? you’re just some rowdy brat from the midwest with a lot of crazy ideas and no evidence of authenticity another teacher warns you’re nothing more than a bricoleur! Odysseus questions what’s a bricoleur teacher informs a rogue handyman who haphazardly constructs from whatever is immediately available Odysseus questions what’s wrong with that? teacher answers it’s low-class folk junk  possessing no real intellectual value independently he reads Marshall McLuhan’s “The Medium Is The Message” and “The Notebooks of Leonardo da Vinci” he memorizes introductory remark of Leonardo’s “i must do like one who comes last to the fair and can find no other way of providing for himself than by taking all the things already seen by others and not taken by reason of their lesser value” Odysseus dreams of becoming accomplished important artist like Robert Rauschenberg Jasper Johns Andy Warhol he dreams of being in eye of hurricane New York art scene he works for university newspaper and is nicknamed crashkiss the newspaper editor is leader in student movement and folk singer who croons “45 caliber man, you’re so much more than our 22, but there’s so many more of us than you” Odysseus grows mustache wears flower printed pants vintage 1940’s leather jacket g.i. surplus clothes he makes many friends his gift for hooking up with girls is uncanny he is long haired drug-crazed hippie enjoying popularity previously unknown to him rock bands play at art openings everyone flirts dances gets ****** lots of activism on campus New York Times dubs university of Hartford “Berkeley of the east coast” holding up ******* in peace sign is subversive in 1969 symbol of rebellion youth solidarity gesture against war hawks rednecks corporate America acknowledgment of potential beyond materialistic self-righteous values of status quo sign of what could be in universe filled with incredible possibilities he moves in with  painting student one year advanced named Todd Whitman Todd has curly blond hair sturdy build wire rimmed glasses impish smile gemini superb draftsman amazing artist Todd emulates Francisco de Goya and Albrecht Durer Todd’s talent overshadows Odysseus’s Todd’s dad is accomplished professor at distinguished college in Massachusetts to celebrate Odysseus’s arrival Todd cooks all day preparing spaghetti dinner when Odysseus arrives home tripping on acid without appetite Todd is disappointed Odysseus runs down to corner store buys large bottle of wine returns to house Todd is eating spaghetti alone they get drunk together then pierce each other’s ears with needles ice wine cork pierced ears are outlaw style of bad *** bikers like Hell’s Angels Todd says you are a real original Odys and funny too Odysseus asks funny, how? Todd answers you are one crazy ******* drop acid whenever you want smoke **** then go to class this is fun tonight Odys getting drunk and piercing our ears Odysseus says yup i’m having a good time too Todd and Odysseus become best friends Odysseus turns Todd on to Sylvia Plath’s “The Bell Jar” and “Ariel” then they both read Ted Hughes “Crow” illustrated with Leonard Baskin prints Todd turns Odysseus on to German Expressionist painting art movement of garish colors emotionally violent imagery from 1905-1925 later infuriating Third ***** who deemed the work “degenerate” Odysseus dives into works of Max Beckmann Otto Dix Conrad Felixmulller Barthel Gilles George Grosz Erich Heckel Ernst Ludwig Kirchner Felix Nussbaum Karl *******Rottluff Carl Hofer August Macke Max Peckstein Elfriede Lohse-Wachtler Egon Shiele list goes on in 1969 most parents don’t have money to buy their children cars most kids living off campus either ride bikes or hitchhike to school then back home on weekends often without a penny in their pockets Odysseus and Todd randomly select a highway and hitch rides to Putney Vermont Brattleboro Boston Cape Cod New York City or D.C. in search of adventure there is always trouble to be found curious girls to assist in Georgetown Odysseus sleeps with skinny girl with webbed toes who believes he is Jesus he tries to dissuade her but she is convinced

Toby Mantis is visiting New York City artist at Hartford art school he looks like huskier handsomer version of Ringo Starr and women dig him he builds stretchers and stretches canvases for Warhol lives in huge loft in Soho on Broadway and Bleeker invites Odysseus to come down on weekends hang out Toby takes him to Max’s Kansas City Warhol’s Electric Circus they wander all night into morning there are printing companies longshoremen gays in Chelsea Italians in West Village hippies playing guitars protesting the war in Washington Square all kinds of hollering crazies passing out fliers pins in Union Square Toby is hard drinker Odysseus has trouble keeping up  he pukes his guts out number of times Odysseus is *** head not drinker he explores 42nd Street stumbles across strange exotic place named Peep Show World upstairs is large with many **** cubicles creepy dudes hanging around downstairs is astonishing there are many clusters of booths with live **** girls inside girls shout out hey boys come on now pick me come on boys there are hundreds of girls from all over the world in every conceivable size shape race he enters dark stall  puts fifty cents in coin box window screen lifts inside each cluster are 6 to 10 girls either parading or glued to a window for $1 he is allowed to caress kiss their ******* for $2 he is permitted to probe their ****** or *** for $10 girl reaches hand into darkened stall jerks him off tall slender British girl thrills him the most she says let me have another go at your dickey Odysseus spends all his money ******* 5 times departing he notices men from every walk of life passing through wall street stockbrokers executives rednecks mobsters frat boys tourists fat old bald guys smoking thick smelly cigars Toby Mantis has good-looking girlfriend named Lorraine with long brown hair Toby Lorraine and Odysseus sit around kitchen table Odysseus doodles with pencil on paper Toby spreads open Lorraine’s thighs exposing her ****** to Odysseus Lorraine blushes yet permits Toby to finger her Odysseus thinks she has the most beautiful ****** he has ever seen bulging pelvic bone brown distinctive bush symmetric lips Toby and Lorraine watch in amusement as Odysseus gazes intently Tony mischievously remarks you like looking at that ***** don’t you? Odysseus stares silently begins pencil drawing Lorraine’s ****** his eyes darting back and forth following day Lorraine seduces Odysseus while Toby is away walks out **** from shower she is few years older her body lean with high ******* she directs his hands mouth while she talks with someone on telephone it is strange yet quite exciting Odysseus is in awe of New York City every culture in the world intermingling democracy functioning in an uncontrollable managed breath millions of people in motion stories unraveling on every street 24 hour spectacle with no limits every conceivable variety of humanity ******* in same air Odysseus is bedazzled yet intimidated

Odysseus spends summer of 1970 at art colony in Cummington Massachusetts it is magical time extraordinary place many talented eccentric characters all kinds of happenings stage plays poetry readings community meals volleyball after dinner volleyball games are hilarious fun he lives alone in isolated studio amidst wild raspberries in woods shares toilet with field mouse no shower he reads Jerzy Kosinski’s “Painted Bird” then “Being There” then “Steps” attractive long haired girl named Pam visits community for weekend meets Odysseus they talk realize they were in first grade together at Harper amazing coincidence automatic ground for “we need to have *** because neither of us has seen each other since first grade” she inquires where do you sleep? Todd hitches up from Hartford to satisfy curiosity everyone sleeps around good-looking blue-eyed poet named Shannon Banks from South Boston tells Odysseus his ******* is not big enough for kind of ******* she wants but she will **** him off that’s fine with him 32 year old poet named Ellen Morrissey from Massachusetts reassures him ******* is fine Ellen is beginning to find her way out from suffocating marriage she has little daughter named Nina Ellen admires Odysseus’s free spirit sees both his possibilities and naïveté she realizes he has crippling family baggage he has no idea he is carrying thing about trauma is as it is occurring victim shrugs laughs to repel shock yet years later pain horror sink in turned-on with new ideas he returns to Hartford art school classes are fun yet confusing he strives to be best drawer most innovative competition sidetracks him Odysseus uses power drill to carve pumpkin on Halloween teachers warn him to stick to fundamentals too much creativity is suspect Todd and he are invited to holiday party Odysseus shows up with Ellen Morrissey driving in her father’s station wagon 2 exceptionally pretty girls flirt with him he is live wire they sneak upstairs he fingers both at same time while they laugh to each other one of the girls Laura invites him outside to do more he follows they walk through falling snow until they find hidden area near some trees Laura lies down lifts her skirt she spreads her legs dense ***** mound he is about to explore her there when Laura looks up sees figure with flashlight following their tracks in snow she warns it’s Bill my husband run for your life! Odysseus runs around long way back inside party grabs a beer pretending he has been there next to Ellen all night few minutes later he sees Laura and Bill return through front door Bill has dark mustache angry eyes Odysseus tells Ellen it is late maybe they should leave soon suddenly Bill walks up to him with beer in hand cracks bottle over his head glass and beer splatter Odysseus jumps up runs out to station wagon Ellen hurriedly follows snow coming down hard car is wedged among many guest vehicles he starts engine locks doors maneuvers vehicle back and forth trying to inch way out of spot Bill appears from party walks to his van disappears from out of darkness swirling snow Bill comes at them wielding large crowbar smashes car’s headlights taillights side mirrors windshield covered in broken glass Ellen ducks on floor beneath glove compartment sobs cries he’s going to **** us! we’re going to die! Odysseus steers station wagon free floors gas pedal drives on back country roads through furious snowstorm in dark of night no lights Odysseus contorts crouches forward in order to see through hole in shattered windshield Ellen sees headlights behind them coming up fast it is Bill in van Bill banging their bumper follows them all the way back to Hartford to Odysseus’s place they run inside call police Bill sits parked van outside across street as police arrive half hour later Bill pulls away next day Odysseus and Ellen drive to Boston to explain to Ellen’s dad what has happened to his station wagon Odysseus stays with Ellen in Brookline for several nights another holiday party she wants to take him along to meet her friends her social circles are older he thinks to challenge their values be outrageous paints face Ellen is horrified cries you can’t possibly do this to me these are my close friends what will they think? he defiantly answers my face is a mask who cares what i look like? man woman creature what does it matter? if your friends really want to know me they’ll need to look beyond the make-up tonight i am your sluttish girlfriend! sometimes Odysseus can be a thoughtless fool

Laura Rousseau Shane files for divorce from Bill she is exceptionally lovely models at art school she is of French descent her figure possessing exotic traits she stands like ballerina with thick pointed ******* copious ***** hair Odysseus is infatuated she frequently dances pursues him Laura says i had the opportunity to meet Bob Dylan once amazed Odysseus questions what did you do? she replies what could i possibly have in common with Bob Dylan? Laura teases Odysseus about being a preppy then lustfully gropes him grabs holds his ***** they devote many hours to ****** intimacy during ******* she routinely reaches her hand from under her buns grasps his testicles squeezing as he pumps he likes that Laura is quite eccentric fetishes over Odysseus she even thrills to pick zits on his back he is not sure if it is truly a desire of hers proof of earthiness or simply expression of mothering Laura has two daughters by Bill Odysseus is in over his head Laura tells Odysseus myth of Medea smitten with love for Jason Jason needs Medea’s help to find Golden Fleece Medea agrees with promise of marriage murders her brother arranges ****** of king who has deprived Jason his inheritance couple is forced into exile Medea bears Jason 2 sons then Jason falls in love with King Creon’s daughter deserts Medea is furious she makes shawl for King Creon’s daughter to wear at her wedding to Jason  shawl turns to flames killing bride Medea murders her own sons by Jason Odysseus goes along with story for a while but Laura wants husband Odysseus is merely scruffy boy with roving eyes Laura becomes galled by Odysseus leaves him for one of his roommates whom she marries then several years later divorces there is scene when Laura tells Odysseus she is dropping him for his roommate he is standing in living room of her house space is painted deep renaissance burgundy there are framed photographs on walls in one photo he is hugging Laura and her daughters under big oak tree in room Laura’s friend Bettina other girl he fingered first night he met Laura at party is watching with arms crossed he drops to floor curls body sobs i miss you so much Laura turns to Bettina remarks look at him men are such big babies he’s pitiful Bettina nods

following summer he works installing displays at G. Fox Department Store besides one woman gay men staff display department for as long as he can remember homosexuals have always been attracted to him this misconception is probably how he got job his tenor voice suggesting not entirely mature man instead more like tentative young boy this ambiguous manifestation sometimes also evidences gestures thoroughly misleading after sidestepping several ****** advances one of his co-workers bewilderingly remarks you really are straight manager staff are fussy chirpy catty group consequently certain he is not gay they discriminate against him stick him with break down clean up slop jobs at outdoor weekend rock concert in Constitution Plaza he meets 2 younger blond girls who consent to go back to his place mess around both girls are quite dazzling yet one is somewhat physically undeveloped they undress and model for Odysseus radio plays Roberta Flack’s “Killing Me Softly With His Song” both girls move to rhythm sing along he thinks to orchestrate direct decides instead to let them lead lies on bed while curvaceous girl rides his ******* slender girl sits on his face they switch all 3 alternate giggle laughter each girl reaches ****** on his stiffness later both assist with hands mouths his ****** is so intense it leaves him paralyzed for a moment

in fall he is cast as Claudius in production of Hamlet Odysseus rehearses diligently on nights o

I am painting word pictures today
tasting hot incoming Autumn  breezes
transforming splendor
dreary rain filled moments pass
bidding adieu
and welcome my rustic bamboo
fare thee well to Summer's sun
now in this Burning September

Entrancing
as the
dancing trees
in changing multicolored hues...
skies of crystal clear blue
cut outs of rolling hillsides
and lush Green mountains
in that endless and seamless quilt
sheltering the storms

My eyes are drawn
past the still lively green leaves
as the burning umber
and cardinal tipped ones
radiating
hat tipped
as chlorophyll ...
choking the beauty outward
from the petiole
like greedy verdant fingers...
the palm of my hand
I linger ...a moment
they wave in soft winds
...and I wave back

I remember
old-time Vermonters
like my Father
didn't care for the Sumac trees
thought perhaps a ****
only beautiful to look at
& they are so very lovely

These happy helpers
say hello to Fall
stick around
when everything else
already brown
holding down
needy dry hillsides
from erosion
growing fast and tall
turning into thickets...
for woodland critters
providing borders
unsung heroes beckon
along railroads,
highways ,
pastured Meadows
and Orchard edges
these beauties...
never really go away.

A harvesting moon
giving seasons
  five months
from the time
the leaves fall off
until they grow back
in the spring time
  serrated leafy knives
cut into the sky
a bittersweet
and bashful goodbye
sighing...
to drunken apples
and their dropping dried leafy friends

Surprisingly scrumptious
providing
we are foraging and gleaning
I make a lovely citrusy
sour and fruity tea
like wild cranberry juice...
imaging the Joy
inviting clusters of crimson know

Providing more than food
for winged ones
a sugar depository
loaded with antioxidants &
spreading sunshine
in darker months

Attracting  lovely colorful winter birds
my winsome friends
seed eaters
small singing kindred spirts...
tempted by seeds pods
of the Staghorn Sumac
and remaining wildflowers
bursting like burgundy globes
scarlet and brick reds
mellow yellows
  turning burning
blazing bright oranges
as the seasonal butterfly dreams
unfolding it's summertime schemes
right before my wondering eyes

  European and English
Gardens know
varieties
I can only close my eyes to see
accentuating loose,
textured landscapes
stunning gardens
& fern-like cousins
across the world
A Middle Eastern grind
of this crimson spice
from those crushed dried drupes
while they prepare rice for dinner

I so appreciate
what a gift we have to share
time is running short before
as told to me in times of yore
we brace as one for Winter's Bone
though I am not alone
Vermont it is my earthly home
all I really want to say
thanks for sharing with me  ...
on this perfect picturesque
Vermont September day.

Cherie Nolan © 2016

A FUNERAL IN VERMONT

we went to Vermont  over the weekend
not for leave peeping, but a somber occasion
a funeral; funny it did not seem,  or so we thought

here to see extended family on these seemly
un-rare occasions more and more, every where
death with a couple weddings thrown in

the weather was bright, crisp in the morning
but gradually warming, for Vermont that is; something new
a heat-wave in October- climate change in effect

while never having been to a Vermont funeral before
my memories run the gamut on other stuffy affairs, overbearing
and hard to breathe even, scary and hard to take

we got to the church, the crowds milling about, smoking
everyone dressed like having got off work at 5, it was 10:30 AM
leaving shifts from the garage or the mines, we were overdressed

none the less we were welcomed, with open arms
by members of the immediate family, still we were all family
the service was filled; hymn singing, mixed with salty laced stories

afterwards everyone ate, in rows of communal tables
set up passing food back and forth, everyone brought a dish
with more salty stories and laugher, more laughter such

heart- felt laughter then i have heard in my life time which
made me stop to think, change my point of view about death
to be reminded, our journey is but a continuation of a well life lived

By Michael Perry

Her name was Vehemently Vermont
she did get whatever she did want
her name was everywhere
in Curious Towns square

That woman could sing the dead out of their beds
take birds **** and turn it into unleavened bread
she was one of a kind, that bird of mine
my cheerio girl sweet Vehemently Vermont

She was a star within a star
and lord and lady of Mars
and I loved her till her end
as Vehemently Vermont I did send


By Christos Andreas Kourtis aka NeonSolaris

Two bottles of Southern Comfort, Black Keys on iTunes, profile picture with sister, stir-fry, 30 Rock, Gorillaz poster, pancakes at 3 am, spontaneous lunch at Barone, friends with benefits, need a hug, Columbus Day, touch my ****, too much tongue, crumpled into wall in the morning, Urban Outfitters for a t-shirt, silver medal, free Dominos, Workaholics at 12, secret sleepover #2, ******* because i thought that's all he wanted from me and i wanted him to stay, hickey on my neck, studying in a room with the round table, drew a horse on the whiteboard, fill out a police report, Redgates from Firehouse, he looks cute today. Tackled into metal, did I break my back? Jump on it, it's not funny, I'm crying, cold beer, kiss on the porch, stop kissing me in 12, *******, more kissing, blood everywhere, come over, comb through hair. you can stay over again, skips class, uses my shower, makes the bed, come with me to doctor. Vermont secret, Batmobile, on Prius, dune buggies, Phantom Menace, brother-in-law, supermarket in Newfane, stir-fry, statement at 6am. Hurricane, in my basement, halloween at the fire station, knitted scarf headpiece, mother's phone number, red gate sandwiches by Citi Bank across from library. Confirmation party, Chartruese, Coldplay at Mohegan, Torches, enchiladas, screaming, stuffed wolf, comic book finishing touches at 1 am, new roommates, L.O.L., I was going to propose to you - in the hallway, 3 month long orchids, Vermont trip #2, no riding allowed, nap by the fire, bare butts touching over unscented blanket, sapphire ring too big under lamppost in parking lot, happy. Sarasota, hide my eyes with Mosley Tribes, take a walk without me, Game of Thrones, cold sand, hair dryer joke, need eye drops, Ringling Mansion, gator bites, silent walk by traffic, kayak in shallow water, families too different, bike ride to tune of Star Wars, nervous about the summer, panic into shoulder on flight home. ******* in the middle of the night, drive around campus, leave me alone, pack up N-64 games, fight before final presentation - only one group gets an A, instant milkshake and magazines to pass the time, make a pizza, here let's make out again - apparently that isn't so bad, almost forgot my friesian mug and vase by the trailer. Texting *****, sick stomach, Lord of the Rings, try smoking, Magic: The Gathering, first communion, wedding, Chip's Family restaurant, high school graduation that I couldn't sit at, Miya's with the mini *****. Fireworks on hill through trees. Retna laptop with blue cover, HGTV's Next Design Star, I have to leave. this is where I stop.

I moved a few years ago
To the upper state of Vermont
Although the place is beautiful
At times it can be one great big yawn

That's when we put our heads together
Me and my best friend Shawn
And came up with the great idea
To start a Hippie Farm

Our noggins were a knocking
Not sure how this could be done
Do Hippies come from packs of seeds
Or like flowers, in a bunch

And can you start them off by grafting
Like they do on Apple Farms
Where you get rows and rows of Hippies
From just a single one

That's when Shawn remembered this mail order magazine
That we took out and took a look inside
It came with an assortment of Hippies
From Raw to Roasted to Highly Deep Fried

So we sat and weighed all of our options
And ordered a bushel of Hippies alive
Then we set out cultivating the fields
Till the day our Hippies arrived

The package  arrived a few days later
In an old beat up VW Bus
With psychedelic smoke pouring from the windows
Pretty sure they all came buzzed

Of course Hippies don't come with instructions
Only bell bottom jeans and old Jefferson Airplane tapes
Can't tell you how many Hippies we went through
Before we learned from our mistakes

Like don't plant a Hippie face first in the dirt
They need a bit of air to breath
And they don't like to be over watered
Just dust them off when you feel the need

Now that the farm is up and running
We seem to have come into our own
We've even come up with  a way of branding
Some of the Hippies that we've grown

We started selling them in flavors
Like Ben and Jerry's down the street
From our Abbie Hoffman Radical Cherry
To our Hendrix Hazy Purple Berry Treat

But it's our Groovy Rainbow Roundup Hippie
Whose sales have never let us down
In fact I'd put that Hippie up against
Anybody else's Hippie in town

I've never been much of one to brag
But we're known on the East coast, up and down
We've had people as far away as Florida
Come and buy our Hippies by the pound

So next time your up in Vermont
Stop in and take a tour and watch us grow
Don't forget to stop by our gift shop
And purchase your very own Hippie to take home

There might have been a time
When I wasn’t full of fear so topped off
Like a gassy sombrero
like a burrito left in the
Sun to bake and there might have
Been a
Time
When I hadn’t yet eaten a burrito
landlocked
In New England, locked in a small state of
Fear and knowing that knowing
just isn’t
Enough.
There might have
Been
A time when luxury was a nickel
apiece paperback
Book at the Unitarian Church fall sale
to raise funds for
Their roof.
To raise their
Roof.
And there
Might
Have been a joy in my spark
Plugs,
A joy
In my canter
A Joy in
My legs that preceded my
Fears.
There might
Have
Been a time:
When I would pick one of the seven records we owned
And delicately put it on the turntable, thinking I will
Have my own money and
buy my own music.
When I idly lift the leaded paint
from the 200 year old wood
And scratch it to smell its sweet aroma.
And put my hand on the glass pane
Think hard enough and open your eyes and it will be
1838 again.
Oh where are the people?
Oh where
when there might have been a time
Did I not see who they are?
Or they did not register.
I must have watched them everyday
Observant
so keen to be seen
Is it possible to feel so much
for feeling so little?
Or did I feel gulfs of embrace
that were not there?
I wanted and I desired and I dug.
I craved and thought and speculated
and clung.
And there might have
Been
A time when I roared on my Schwinn down the long empty
Roads of my town.
Invoking our gods.
Invoking my claims.
There was a time when I stuttered with
Compassion and could
feel a touch observed
There was a time:
Across the street in a
lit house at dusk.
Their curtains are open, their lights are on.
Oh, the sun has settled down
There is that time, golden, when I
Look into your kitchen, and the wallpaper is
Blue and harvest gold with small pictures of oil lamps on
Them and your walls are mustard gold.
Your plates are unbreakable
I see them lustre in the
Overhead light, fashioned like a wagon wheel.
Guns ablazin’.
Trails awash.
There might be a time when I can slip back
Into your kitchen
lick the plates and then
Run my fingers over
the wall paper.
Tracing the outline of the oil
lamps imprinted.

The summer like a rajah dies,
And every widowed tree
Kindles for Congregationalist eyes
An alien suttee.

The first time a man ever pointed a gun at me and asked me to love him was at Granny's Kitchen in Greensboro, North Carolina.

The waitress, a soft spoken white woman with her hair pulled back in a bun, had just dropped off my plates --- a simple mix of scrambled eggs, two pieces of greasy bacon, and a short stack of pancakes. Now, no matter how cheap, I always feel like I'm cutting loose at breakfast places for the sheer abundance of plates. While I'm sure the eggs and bacon could have shared real estate, each component had its own china.

The waitress lingered at my table, her fingers fidgeting with straws in her apron. I made eye contact. Well, my eyes contacted hers; she was staring at my lips.

Sure I can't get you something to drink? she asked.

This was approximately the tenth time she'd made sure. She was uncomfortable that I had supplied my own beverage -- a Big Gulp. But even more than that, she was uncomfortable by the deep red stain taking over my lips. Contents of the Big Gulp: merlot, boxed.

(That is an unnecessary detail. I've only written it so I never do it again.)

Before Greg hopped up on a table and announced to the restaurant, If I could have your attention, my name is Greg and this will only take a second, blah, blah blah, I poured a copious amount of syrup on my pancakes. Then I moved the bacon to my pancake plate. In my experience, very little in this life is better than syrup on bacon.

I shut my eyes for that first bite, just like the commercials. The syrup dribbled a bit onto my beard, and when I opened my eyes, I discovered it had also landed on my shirt. I grabbed a napkin. Heard a chair slide backwards. I started with my beard, peering around the diner, making sure no one saw. I think I heard someone gasp. But I was busy, working that napkin then against my shirt. Jesus, I thought. My grandma, who's got a splash of the Parkinson's, could eat with more grace.

If I could have your attention, my name is Greg and this will only take a second, a very official voice boomed behind me.

I turned around to see if I recognized him as one of those cuffed jean-sporting, wild plaid-loving NPR hosts. He wasn't one of those. He was a sunburn with mop hair in a black tank top and hemmed jean shorts. He did, however, have a cleft chin. That's actually worth noting. Don't see a lot of them these days.

I know you guys are busy, he said. I know that like me, you guys are probably broke as hell. I mean no offense Granny's, I love this place, but it ain't exactly four stars. Or three. Anyway, all I want from each of you is five dollars. If you ain't got five, give me four. Ain't got four, three. And so on.

He started with the stringy Japanese couple on the west side of the restaurant. Nobody really seemed scared, not the freckled brat in canvas sneakers, not the liver-spotted gentleman with a copy of that day's paper.

My old friend Jerome used to say that white folks are the only romantic criminals. He tacked it up to that whole Bonnie and Clyde crap. Greg, it seemed, was privy to that information, too. He smiled and thanked each person as he robbed them of a few presidents. The victims, smiling back, seemed to be thinking of their names tagged at the end of some newspaper dialogue. A few even gave more than he asked.

Here, take fifteen. Times will get better.

Aren't you just a charmer.

It was all very moving.

So he gets to me, and of course, I don't have any cash. I carry a debit and an arsenal of credit cards like a normal American. I don't know how he made it to me before running into this particular problem.

No, I don't have one of those iPhone card swipers, he said. Well, you gotta give me something.

I offered a gift card to Harold's Clothes for Men, it had like two bucks on it, but he wasn't interested.

What's your name?

Henry.

How much do you weigh?

Enough to keep me prohibited from most amusement park rides.

I like you, Henry. Well, let me ask you something. Have you ever loved a man? he asked, pointing his smudgy revolver just past my ear.

I shook my head no.

Me neither. I've always been curious, though. You been curious?

There was a time when I was thirteen -- Blake Hinton was changing after basketball practice -- and I remember thinking, that is an incredible chest. These lines just sprawled from his sternum, lines leading to these almond *******, and I specifically remember wanting to eat them like, well, almonds. But that hardly counts as curious. So, I said, No.

To which Greg responded: Get curious, boy. You're coming with me.


In the spirit of honesty, I was in a bit of a haze before Greg made me climb into his beat up Cavalier. Not just from the Big Gulp brimmed with merlot, no, I hadn't slept in two days prior to the whole gun-in-face incident. Reason being, I was, as Greg would say, broke as hell, and the rent was due. I stayed up both nights conspiring (and drinking). So, really I was pretty thrilled to be kidnapped away from the whole situation.

I had visions. I guess from the lack of sleep. Maybe they weren't visions, maybe just dreams, or fever dreams, I don't know. All I know is I blinked, and we were in the Appalachians. And there was a grey longbeard in the backseat rattling on and on about how change is easy, movement is easy; it's that whole nesting thing that takes courage and strength, blah, blah, blah. I told him to be quiet. Greg told me to get some sleep. I blinked.

We were in a karaoke bar in Madison, Tennessee. There was a gin and tonic in front of me. I took a drink. There was a water with lime in front of me.

Greg asked, Where did you go?

I told him, your dreams, trying to be cute. He turned and asked the bartender for a Yeager bomb. Reaching for the server in -- granted -- an overly dramatic gesture, I said, Make it two. We made it three. We made it four. Seven. Then some vague, but perfect number, because my head rang right. The words came right. And I was a journalist, asking Greg all the right questions.

I'm not a criminal, he said.

I was just bored, man, he said.

You see, I was in a rut, he said. Last month I put up a personal on Craigslist. I know, it's pretty ******* desperate. I've read the kind **** people put on there. But mine was different. I just wanted some time with my ex-wife. Some couch ***, you know? We hadn't done it on a couch since I dropped out of college, and I hadn't even really thought about it until a couple weeks after the divorce. Then it was all I could think about.

A black woman, whose teeth glowed under the black light, began singing "Wild Horses." Then he read my mind, I think.

Yeah, she answered it. Did our thing on her sofa. It was nice and all, and like all nice things, you just want more, but she said I couldn't have no more, this was a fluke, a one-time, or no, a one-off thing, she said. Had to relocate, so that's why I did that whole thing at Granny's.

You ever get it on a couch? he asked.

No, I said. I've see a bra though --- two actually.

He took that as a joke, which was good.

Though wild horses couldn't drag me away, a gasoline horse could.


He handed me a courtesy breath mint after I finished throwing up. The Nashville skyline looks perfect, he said. Especially at night.

My stomach was gravel in a washing machine. Masculine love. At gunpoint, I had agreed to indulge it. I was going to make love to a man -- not just a man -- a criminal. Not something to write about on a postcard.

Mr. Winters, my esteemed landlord,
Apologies about the rent. Got kidnapped by a *******, and I'm presently banging and being banged by him in Music City, USA.

I blinked.

We laid on opposite ends of the queen-sized mattress.

I always liked Super 8s, Greg said. I don't see the point in spending so much on a hotel. A bed is a bed.

And I tried to be funny with something about the confidentiality of dark bedsheets, but it fell flat.

Greg cried. I love my ex-wife, he said.

Can I help?

Will you hold me? he asked.

The air conditioner kicked on in the already freezing room.

I'm sorry. You don't have to, he said.

I scooted against him. He smelled pleasant in a family-vacation-kind-of-way, like a fresh pretzel covered in salt. I put my arm under his neck. He buried his face into my shoulder. I blinked.


The front end of his Cavalier was held together with copper wire and coat hangers. It was a two-door. Both doors dented from, according to Greg, hit-and-runs. It had a Vermont plate on the back. It was red. I mention all of this to say: if we kept moving, we were bound to get pulled over.

In the parking lot of 3B's Breakfast, Burgers And Beer, Greg asked me to retrieve his revolver from the glove compartment. You kinda have to uppercut it, he said. And I did.

I don't want to do it again, but we have to. I'm not staying put, not until I hit the ocean. But don't worry, I'm not going to hurt anyone.

He showed me the revolver. No bullets. I nodded, in approval, I guess.


The second time a man ever pointed a gun at me and asked me to love him was at 3B's Breakfast, Burgers And Beer in Bellevue, Tennessee. Of course, it was the same man, Greg, but the circumstances were a little different.

I went with two orders of biscuits and gravy --- or B & G as my dear friend Chance affectionately calls it. Four bites in and I'd yet to hit biscuit. For a moment, I wanted to tell Greg, C'mon man, ***** the ocean. Tennessee does gravy the way God intended. Nobody would find us in this suburb. We could be sharecroppers. Do they still have sharecroppers?

Do you like fresh corn? I asked. It was the first crop that came to mind.

Greg didn't answer. I noticed his plate of hash browns and eggs -- sunny-side up -- were untouched. You okay?

He was, he said, trying to get in the zone, that's all.

Alright.

Our waitress looked like a poster child for ******'s Youth. She couldn't have been much more than sixteen. She had blonde -- almost white -- hair. Her eyes changed color with the intensity and direction of light, a gradient between seaweed and dark ocean blue. She appeared to be an amish girl gone defective, and I was about to inquire into that very supposition when Greg stood on the table, and said, If I could have your attention, my name is Greg and this will only take a second.

Tennessee is not North Carolina. In North Carolina, they got a healthy aversion to firearms. In Tennessee, however, once a babe can walk, the *******'s got a BB gun and an endless supply of empty soda cans for target practice. I say that, to say this: when Greg stood on the table, so did three other men. Their three guns pointed right at him.

Lower that gun, brother. You ain't gettin' any money out of us.

Hate to shoot you in front of your boyfriend.

Coffee spilled and ran off the tray our waitress held. She shook so hard, it wasn't clear how many women she was.

Greg's cleft chin centered on one gunman, than the other, than the other.

Just drop the gun, *******.

We don't want to ruin no one's breakfast.

Fellas, I said, he doesn't have any bullets in his gun. We need a little money that's all.

That ****** is just trying to protect him.

I'm calling the cops, a purple-haired old woman yelped from under her table. Silverware clanged against the floor. Then the buzz of a fly. Then the pop of fries drowning in grease. Then the bell chimed as some idiot walked inside.

Greg's arm was shaky as he pointed the gun at me. Do you love me? he asked.

I blinked.

And I was at 3B's in Bellevue, Tennessee.

I blinked.

And I was at 3B's in Bellevue, Tennessee.

I blinked.

And I was at 3B's in Bellevue, Tennessee.

I put my arms up. Slid my chair back a ways. Stepped on the chair, then unto the table.

Do you love me? Greg asked.

His breath smelled like last night's alcohol and that morning's coffee. He was a child, a sunburnt child with a cap gun. He wasn't going to hurt anyone.

I put my hand on top of the revolver and lowered it. He crumpled, as if I were scolding him. They still pointed their guns at us. But for the first time in my life, I felt secured, tethered to a space.

I lifted Greg's chin up with my index finger. Covered his eyes with the palm of my hand. And I kissed him. I kissed him, keeping my eyes closed tight.

As I drove through Vermont
where a ****** only south in Elizabeth
that I would come upon her scenery
and there it made me dream nostalgically

Where she was as divine by candlelight
and we both liked to chat at their In Corner now a pitch so shrill
that adulation was entirely blue,

There is a quite town
in the quite state of Vermont.

Not much happens there,
but it is the place to be.
The place to think
and the place to breathe.

All I want rests there,
while all I need to get
away from lives here.

In the summer, the sun shines
and in the winter, snow falls.
Which is just like it is here.
But, it is the 2nd least populated state,
which gives me less of a chance
of running into you.

Somewhere in Vermont
I see the sky
Stars scattered
like lighting bugs back home

Clouds drift,
Cold breeze,
Threatening rain

Shaped like an unfamiliar constellation
Headlamps shine
Some red, some blue, some yellow
Some bright, some dim

There's a presence here
Neither scary
Or threatening

Or even mysterious

People breathe,
A guitar sounds,
Pens scribble
Each in unity with the other

Somewhere in Vermont
People write
Separated by space
Their own thoughts
Spilling around them

Combining as one
Yet still
Individual

Brought together
By happenstance

They breathe together
as
One

another nail driven into the bad news coffin
another nail driven by our hands -
inconsequential as it may be

the rusty patched bumble bee has been marked for
endangerment.  and though Rusty Patched
stretches his wings over vermont

way and though I've never seen a vermont
sunrise I know that it does.  and I know
it's the same as carolina's.  and I've

never met a person from vermont in
person, but I know that they like
flowers, blueberries, tomatoes

and that Rusty is a good friend of
theirs because of that.  planting his
pollinating pixie stick into receptive pistil

and flowers flowering, blueberries
blueing on bush, tomatoes tip
toeing to life on the vine

thank Rusty.  and vermont, Bernie
Sanders and all, thank Rusty with
a new spot on the great pesticide

death list.  whose bright idea was it
to grow our food with ******?
I think I missed that city council

meeting.

I don’t sing anymore.
Ever since I quit the music ministry
and later the church all together.
I stopped singing because
the band and microphones
weren’t mine so they had to stay at the church.
That store-front wreck
slightly glazed over with peach spackle
to shoo away any indication
of its poverty or its emotional members.
And emotion was all everyone
ever heard or saw.
Even our baffled neighbors
in the two story  apartments behind us—
were subjected to a blunt
steady annoying hollow drum beat
accompanied by an old wooden rusty *****
being played by—get this---
the biggest **** I ever saw
with a parade of effeminate brothers
to the right all singing (or screaming)
to the Glory of God!
All singing…everyone
A congregation full of people
ready, anticipating the presence
of God so they could get buck-wild
jump, shout, and run down the aisles---
or at least until the organist hits E flat
(which of course is the universal
Church queue for “Y’all got 30 seconds
to give God a crazy praaaaissseeeee!”)
And crazy was exactly what took precedence.
Guys shouting themselves
right out of their britches
sisters shouting off their sweaty weaves
hollering, high pitched screeching “**’s!”.
Mytika in the back of the church
standing on a white plastic folding chair
blowing the hell out of her holy whistle
while waving a white cotton handkerchief
round and round above her head.
And all of this chaos was somehow
glued together by a subtle soothing
baseline humming ----
doom-doom-doom-doom--doom---
doom-doom-doom-doom--doom---
do­om-doom-doom-doom--doom----
doom-doom-doom…
Amongst all the noise and commotion
I was the only oddity to be found.
The only white looking person
who had the audacity to be singing into a Mic.
People falling out, shaking, rolling on the floor
was never out of the ordinary there.
But having an un-black person
a part of their unfortunate country club…was.
Out of all the paranormal spiritual metaphysical
manifestations –I turned out to be the
scariest **** they ever saw.
Because to me God wasn’t a game
or a religion or a face or a person
or a symbol I hung around my neck.
He just was—and still is—
so I could be.
I didn’t buy into the lopsided myth.
The let’s have church,
throw all our worries out the window
and act like we lost our **** minds-
Myth.
And after singing
or at least trying to sing
I had to quit.
Because after all the weird-*** ****
I had to endure and put up with----

I apparently was the only *******
there out of tune.

fill the entire page
with snowy enlightenment
fool nobody else


five five five five five
seven seven seven oops
five five five five five


contentment I guess
can only be recognized
from its shadow, cast


direction is offered
by the learned minds afar
it’s a time machine


a houseboat with pool
a brown pigeon on a leash
a dumb dream again


snows a comin’ up
a ledger of snow, in banks
I now coin this phrase


so bright very white
crystals fall from the gray sky
shoveling diamonds


pick an argument
forget yourself for awhile
then just go away


too many people
smoking piles of well meaning
it tempts the silence


sixty divisible
one through six ten twelve fifteen
twenty and thirty


imagination
a substitute for answers
all we do is dream

We look for Satan with the same intensity
that my mom and dad looked for God.

In retrospect
my parents were always pushing me to expand my consciousness
by huffing glue or gasoline
or chewing peyote buttons.
Simply because they'd done their time,
wasted their teen years
lolling in the muddy fields of Vermont
and the salt flats of Nevada,
naked except for rainbow face paints
and a thick coating of sweaty filth,
their heads festooned
with fifty pounds of fetid dreadlocks,
teeming with crab lice
and pretending to find enlightenment...
That does NOT mean I have to make the same mistake.

Sorry, Satan,
once again I've said the G-word.

Without breaking stride,
Leonard nods and points
to indicate the former deities of now-defunct cultures,
now warehoused in the underworld.
Among them: Benoth,
a god of the Babylonians;
Dagon,
an idol of the Philistines;
Astarte,
goddess of the Sidonians;
Tartak,
the god of the Hevites.

My suspicion
is that my parents treasure their sordid recollection
of episodes at Woodstock and Burning Man
not because those pastimes led to wisdom,
but because such folly
was inseparable from a period of their lives
when they were young
and unburdened by obligation;
they had free time, muscle tone,
and their futures still looked like a great, grand adventure.
Furthermore,
both my mother and father had been free of social status
and therefore had nothing to lose by cavorting ****,
their swollen genitals smeared with muck.

Thus,
because they had ingested drugs and flirted with brain damage,
they insisted I should do likewise.
I was forever opening my boxed lunch at school
to discover a cheese sandwich,
a carton of apple juice,
carrot sticks,
and a five-hundred-milligram Percocet.
Tucked within my Christmas stocking
--not that we celebrated Christmas--
would be three oranges,
a sugar mouse, a harmonica,
and quaaludes.
In my Easter basket
--not that we called the event Easter--
instead of jelly beans,
I'd find lumps of hashish.
Would that I could forget the scene at my twelfth birthday party
where I flailed at a piñata,
wielding a broomstick in front of my peers
and their respective
former-hippie, former-rasta,
former-anarchist throwback parents.
The moment the colorful papier-mâché burst,
instead of Tootsie Rolls or Hershey's Kisses,
everyone present
was showered with Vicodins,
Darvons, Percodans,
amyl nitrate ampoules,
LSD stamps,
and assorted barbiturates.
The now wealthy,
now-middle-aged parents
were ecstatic,
while my little friends and I couldn't help
but feel a tad bit cheated.

That,
and it doesn't take a brain surgeon to understand
that very few twelve-year-olds
would actually enjoy attending
a clothing-optional birthday party.

Some of the most gruesome images in Hell
seem downright laughable
when compared to seeing an entire generation of adults
stripped **** and wrestling on the floor,
grasping and panting in frantic competition
for a scattered handful of codeine capsules.

Dense, hugging fractal frenzy
O green queen
Rooted soul, in tune universally
Quiet earthly whispers
Still
And not afraid to be naked
Grouped, but never identical
I admire you, you are my idols

I was sitting on the steps of the wrong building —
two blocks over from The Vermont
awash in gold and the noble lights of the Avenue.

I was drunk,
or, there-abouts.

Isobel was coming.

I was sitting on the steps of the wrong building,
pulling the collar of my Burberry coat against my jaw and ears;
it was November and the concierge came out to ask me
if I’d like to come inside and wait —

“No, I’m good, Sir.”
“Thank you, Sir.”

What was two blocks?

I pull out my cellphone —

“Where are you?”
“My mom’s drunk.”

Code for: “I’m playing therapist.”

I’m almost out —
out of brain cells (really?”
out of patience
out of love
out of “it”
out of time — but,

the curious thing is,
I’m never almost out of money.

I notice him when he stops on the step
I sit on.

He’s a sterling silver chain,
the thin, delicate kind that breaks with a soft tug.

He looks down at me, eyes
the colour of darkened ice,
not softened by the yellow lights
raining down from under the awning.

“Do you live here?”
“Where is “here”?”

He laughs. Smiles. “The Florence.”

He’s beautiful,
the way a poppy is beautiful,
transparent,
saying so much with his flushed cheeks
and dark eyes,
so full of life and resembling something or, someone, dead —

“Lest we forget,” whispered the corpse,
ouvert,
in the slush of Alsace-Lorraine.

He sits beside me, shoulder warm,
firm — he’s a guy, but he’s so ******* beautiful —

I want to touch him,
brush his cheek as if he’s a rose protruding
from the briar, the thorny path —
not pick him, because he’s too beautiful,
too tragic, and I don’t want to **** him; —

“Where do you live?”

He’s smoking like a flower.

I want to lie. I don’t.

“The Vermont.”

His expression doesn’t change,
remains soft, his eyes stay ice.

He looks away.

I’ll uproot him and plant him in richer soil,
I won’t be looking into ice,
no more mirror,
but, the sky after rain,
the soft fragrant grey,
so much light.

“What’s that? Two blocks?”
“Yeah.”

He rubs his face.
He has sensitive skin,
red upon contact with the cuff
of his wool coat.

“I’ll walk you.”
“Please.”

I stand up slowly and breathe in cold air
and vapour.

Out comes alcohol.

“You’re drunk?”
“I was.”
“Your laces are undone.”
“Are they?”

I look down at him,
he’s laughing,
lowering his head at my knees
and I feel something despite myself —

warmth in my chest,
accompanied by a warmth in my abdomen,
tensing.

“I’ll fix them.”

I watch him, shoulders moving under his coat,
and I imagine him higher,
on his knees and,
a little higher,
stop myself with:

“I’m not a child.”

He stops — I stop him.

He looks up;
his lashes are like glass.

“I want to kiss you.”

You're having a bad day
not everything is good?

Yes, that's very true...
come in and sit down.

You haven't eaten?

Well...
you came to the right place.

Here is a nice armchair,
my Grandmother's from Ethen Allen
yes...
a beautiful deep burgundy color
with goldenrod yellow twirling paisley
in a burning orange background...
lovely she is
her shapely curves...
rugged, straight lines
carved into flowers
her cherry stained legs
worn edges...
so soft, comfortable and weathered

I agree
she is very reliable and sturdy
and she is kind
so forgiving...yes?

Oh, fresh coffee ...
ahhhh you smelled it,
of course
here you go
a steaming cup of hopeful dreaming...
brilliant,
in a aromatic plume of Tahitian Hazelnut
swirling ribbons of fresh Vermont cream
cinnamon rolls in the oven
sugary love smells intoxicating...
yes?
glazed sugar awaiting

as cool crisp dried leafy breezes
flow through waiting drapes of warm white linen

Yes, so very  poetic this place...
A gift...why I'd say!
I love this time of year
very much...
especially the trees...
floating in the air
the leaf dancers drift silently
waving Goodbye in the Fall winds

Welcome to my  Vermont
to the beautiful Green Mountains
in splendid peaking colors
panoramic splendor
The natives so
oh...you know

They call 'em verdant visions
again come springtime
come on, stay awhile
put on a friendly smile
a welcome done in style
my home is your home
take your hat off what's the hurry?

Cherie Nolan © 2016

"The question should not be in what ways writing and utterance trope each other, but how both are involved with number. Without relating the technology of writing to number (as opposed to sound or drawing), it is impossible to discuss it meaningfully as an aspect of versecraft."

          Courage to write and courage to not write. Read
          The great poets and highly accomplished letters
          Of leaders. Yet the war and the book have lives
          Of their own. Vacuum house, analyze mankind.
          His idea of himself. Ideas subsumed by
          Better ones unite people in melting pots.
          I watch from my little bowl of nuts. Watch
          The one red squirrel and the many gray.
          Watch the nuthatch pair, platoon of chickadees.
          Here is what I say: When we can go
          From planet to planet on nothing but air,
          Leaving behind a drop of water,
          No burger bags blowin’ in the sun,
          I’ll love my sons, and my dogs will be happy.

"What is needed is a way to pry apart the polar, mimetic fiction that undergirds discussions (even sympathetic ones) of writing and versification, and see how we can relate writing to measure. Roy Harris’ investigations into the origin of writing make this connection possible."

          Electronic millennium. A long silence
          Wouldn’t hurt. Not that the national debate
          Should cease, it should proceed, passionate
          And furious. Those who have studied the matter
          And have something to say should write cogent
          Opinion pieces on the totalitarian
          Tendencies of minaret Islamists,
          The terminal contradiction of advancing
          Democracy with the unitary military.
          George Washington would not have approved
          And even Lincoln vacillated between
          The practicalities of preserving union
          And the ideal of freeing slaves. The president
          Carries his burden of matter, the physics
          Of existence cannot change our aloneness
          Or the butterfly’s importance, the very
          Last insects at the screens of August.
          It is life we face and death we meet.

"He argues that the origin of writing did not lie in the drawing of figures, or attempts to imitate speech, but in the recording of number. According to Harris, the oldest ‘writing’ that we have, like that on the 11, 000-year-old Ishango bone, is in ‘lines.’ The surface is scored with rows of short, parallel strokes, which probably served a numerical function. We still use such scoring systems today on occasion."

          OK, different strokes. But reading North’s poems
          And his predecessors’ in which noun and verb
          Are so far separated by modifiers,
          Post-positioned prepositions, diversions
          Into ditches, gardens, heavens, I don’t know
          What to do laugh or put the book down and eat
          Several cookies. In other words, anything goes,
          There truth resides. 1/3 life in suburbs,
          1/3 on the subway, and the last third
          On the mountain. A fourth hallucinating
          In heaven. That’s how it goes. You get what you believe.
          Bones in mud. It’s always possible I suppose
          That for nine months analogous or symmetrical
          With gestation our souls wander call it limbo,
          Doing the limbo and harassing the living
          With unanswerable questions, finally accepting
          Free molecular rent in a cubic meter
          Of interstellar space, a rose hip.
         
"Harris speculates about counting by scoring:"
'What is relevant for our present purposes is the fact that counting is associated in many cultures with primitive forms of recording which have a graphically isomorphic basis... The iconic origin of such recording systems is hardly open to doubt: the notch or stroke corresponds to the human finger...'

          Partridgeberry, mugwort, mats of raspberry,
          Cranberry, bearberry, autumn eleagnus,
          Autumn Nocturne, Autumn Leaves, the changes
          To the tunes and the scientific names.
          When it doesn’t matter what you do
          You’re probably doing something new.
          That’s a woodpecker. That’s a moth. I’m bounded
          By my surroundings, I feel at home.
          Could be Schenectady. Could be Troy.
          One of many small cities in which to
          Await my anonymity. Be specific.
          Not asphalt but impermeable surface.
          Not trees but mature stems. Quercus rubrus—
          Quality veneer. Into such a garden
          Have a victor and a fool penetrated.

'In short, the rows of strokes are graphically isomorphic with just that subpart of the recorder’s oral language which comprises the corresponding words used for counting. It makes no difference whether we ‘read’ the sign pictorially as standing for so many fingers held up, or scriptorially as standing for a certain numeral.'

          In a crowded world every action results
          In an equal and overwrought reaction.
          Yet, all the energy recycles
          And there is not one thermal unit more or less
          When all is said and won. Even when the tribes
          Were isolated behind mountain ranges
          And rushing rivers, they sought each other out
          For trading and for taking. Humanity
          Is lonely. Humor is the only remedy
          And going to your daily discipline
          The only way past Monday. Join the torrential
          Flow of words, emotion, wit and erudition.
          It is embarrassing to see a good writer
          Work himself into a lather, having
          Something to say. A system of beliefs
          To illustrate, characters dressed accordingly.
          Gardens and wilderness in which to wander.
          A cave with a view. The plumbing problem never
          Resolves. But we will do what we can and
          Some things we shouldn't because that is human.

"Along with other evidence, this leads him to argue that the invention of writing–or the division of writing and drawing into separate functions–occurred when the graphic representation of number shifted from the token-iterative system that appears on the Ishango bone, to type-slotting."

          Electricity is occult enough for me.
          Excessive classifying could be fascist!
          Yet how else can one organize people
          Into contexts. By their associations.
          Family, work, habits, each assigned
          A day of the week, moon of the month.
          Poets rhyme, jazz musicians count time.
          There is more than one way to make war. By
          Declaration, by punishing offenses
          Against the law of nations, by granting letters
          Of mark and reprisal, by making rules
          Concerning captures on land and water, by
          Suppressing insurrections and repelling invasions,
          Erecting forts, magazines, arsenals,
          Dock yards and other needful buildings. Today
          I face the blank page between the finished pages.

"Harris gives the following example of what he means:"
'The progression from recording sixty sheep by means of one ‘sheep’ sign followed by sixty strokes to recording the same information by means of one ‘sheep’ sign followed by a second sign indicating ‘sixty’ is a progression which has already crossed the boundary between pictorial and scriptorial signs.'

          When my grandmother considered it favorable
          That I would be a writer, she had in mind
          Clear commentary from which many people
          Would derive meaning. No such luck. My writings
          Are like the flicking tail of that flycatcher,
          And I am the flycatcher, weighing but an ounce.
          My grandfather’s rough-hewn peasant chairs
          Are well known by my sons though they never knew him
          And the chairs were not hewn, just owned by him.
          One is in a corner of the room and two
          Are scrimmaged around a computer screen.
          Computers post-date him and cars post-date
          His father and so on. If the grid collapses,
          The crops fail and the roads close, some will be forced
          Across boundaries among boulders, naming snakes
          And stars according to memory.
          They will be hungry, mortal and strong.

'A token-iterative sign-system is in effect equivalent to a verbal sublanguage which is restricted to messages of the form ‘sheep, sheep, sheep, sheep...’, or ‘sheep, another, another, another...’, whereas an emblem-slotting system is equivalent to a sublanguage which can handle messages of the form ‘sheep, sixty’.Token-iterative lists are, in principle, lists as long as the number of individual items recorded. With a slot list, on the other hand, we get no information simply by counting the number of marks it contains.'
"When this change occurred it opened ‘a gap between the pictorial and scriptorial function of the emblematic sign’, which had been previously inseparable in the counting represented by rows of slashes."

          No book I know tells if blue cohosh
          Caulophyllum thalictroides—a barberry—
          Is edible. Other barberries are
          But that blue berry looks risky to me.
          And May-apple—Podophyllum—other
          Than the fruit itself which is definitely
          Sweet. So I read, not sure of myself.
          There is a patience with which to wait out anger,
          And a patience with which to endure ignorance.
          The job is everything. It is freedom
          And purpose and religion. It is acceptance
          And shelter and sustenance. Last night
          We were watching Tweet’s show: groveling before
          The rich pharisee’s judgements. I said no
          Amount of money could make me grovel
          Before that guy. His toupe’s gayer than his lisp.
          But who am I? You think bullets won’t ****?
          I’m the guy they put before a wall and shoot
          Then eat lunch. But that feeling passed quickly.

"This semiological gap, made writing possible because it meant that signs could be manipulated to ‘slot’, or identify, anything whatsoever. The open-ended quality of the scriptorial sign was a necessary precondition for the development of writing systems."

          Lately I’ve been copying wholesale
          From the great poems, lines and ideas not my own
          Or owned by all? It’s ok, I can be ignored
          Or appreciated in a future city,
          By a future shore. The honest man can
          Only recognize what he loves and point to it.
          That Borges poem called In Praise of Darkness.
          Emerson and snow. A meditation
          That bumps serenely, with acceptance,
          Between things and thoughts. It is said one should
          Know for whom, to whom one is writing.
          These are letters to those who love letter writing.

"As Harris points out, no writing system is accurately phonetic. Even the alphabet only highlights certain phenomena in the speech stream. The reason for this is that alphabetic writing did not begin as a simpler or more accurate way to record speech than other writing systems, but as an easier way to write."

          A possible cancer had taken me
          To the edge of my endurance. Pokeweed,
          Poisonous, became attractive. Red stems
          And juicy black berries. I had packed warm clothes
          And pain killers. Why the warm clothes if this
          Was to be my last walk? To die in comfort
          Without a fly’s buzz. Overlooking a ravine,
          Sea of mountains, dawn. But it proved a false alarm.
          Now Sunday will be a holy day of plant
          Identification. Nothing better
          Than lying in leaf litter, skin drying
          To a taut drum. Ravens stay away!
          Until cougar’s had his fill! Instead
          I showed the boys pokeweed growing among blackberries
          And taught them the differences and uses.

"Through a radical reduction in the number of signs, the alphabet simplified the scriptorial system in and of itself. The evolution of writing therefore may look like this: simple forms of counting preceded the complications of pictorial representation, which in turn led to simplification of the writing system in cultures that adopted the alphabet."

          I was running uphill, parallel to
          The Taconics extending northward into
          Vermont (I find Vermonters in their jalopies
          Annoying but admire them for planning
          To arrest the president for war crimes) when
          I happened upon a flock of cedar waxwings—
          Said to be a gentle and politic bird—
          Sharing—very orderly—dried frozen grapes
          On the vine. (Rose hips, buckthorn, ash, pokeweed.)
          I tried one, too, the two seeds in my mouth
          Keeping me company down the mountain.
          I see no downside whatsoever
          To compensating for global warming,
          Constructing the green energy economy.
          New inventions may facilitate
          Our transportation to other planets.
          Yesterday a young man, Barack Obama,
          Won Iowa. I’m hopeful he will
          Articulate an international vision,
          A world order in which each neighborhood’s
          Good as another. I have no particular
          Love for writers; they’re a dime a dozen.
          But so are chickadees and I love them!

"Discussing the power of inscriptions of number, Harris points out:"
'Counting is in its very essence magical, if any human practice at all is. For numbers are things no one has ever seen or heard or touched. Yet somehow they exist, and their existence can be confirmed in quite everyday terms by all kinds of humdrum procedures which allow mere mortals to agree beyond any shadow of a doubt as to ‘how many’ eggs there are in a basket or ‘how many’ loaves of bread on the table.'

          True, nature would be a stern, unforgiving
          Mistress too, and man is but her right hand
          Acting on her command. How cold! How hot!
          The individual doing what he loves or not.
          Trees and cities. Herons, hawks. What we fail
          To govern in ourselves, nature will.
          We caught the killer and his gorillas,
          Now let’s go home, let the “innocent” choose
          Up sides. A good thing was done but the tyrant
          Should’ve been undone through global governance.
          Writing is divination using rhymes
          And estimations. Words like mammals
          Come near your sleeping head. Last night I emerged
          From the hum of our refrigerator
          Under a hazy, phaseless moon. The peepers
          Were an exact expression of my happiness.

"Or, one might add, for how many stanzas there are in a poem, or lines in a stanza, or stresses, feet, or syllables in a line, or occurrences of particular syntactical or grammatical patterns, and so on. As every serious student of versification has always understood, versification is about counting language."

          5:30-6 write poetry,
          6-7 ****, shave and shower, stretch
          Then get dressed, 7-7:30
          Clean house, 7:30-8 drive to work
          8-6 work (except Monday and Friday
          Work 8-4, basketball 4-6)
          6-7 drive home, shop, help make dinner
          7-8 eat dinner, read paper,
          Watch McNeil-Lehrer News Hour,
          8-9 play trumpet, study plants, type poems
          9-10 watch TV Mon: Murphy, Cybil,
          Tues: Frazier, Grace, Wed: Roseanne, Ellen,
          Thurs: Seinfeld, Friends, Fri: go out to dinner,
          10-11 read, except Tues watch
          NYPD Blue, Fri: Friday Night Lights,
          11 sleep. I could send this to the networks,
          Get a gizmo in my box. I hope my
          Schedule won't be interrupted for war.
          My dentist asked had I seen this morning’s
          Press conference, didn’t it just scare the ****
          Out of you. I said your bill is what scares
          The **** out of me. But here I am, writing
          And the sphere’s still turning. Or should I say
          Burning. As long as you write one poem per day
          You’ve left a little litter in the world.

"The reason to write verse is less to score the voice than to imbue words with the magical quality of counting. That is why meter, or measure, is at the heart of debates over all verse forms, including free verse."

          Vigorous wind, voracious ocean,
          Many merciless hard frosts, hurricanes.
          The bed of a human, its smell and warmth
          36 teeth, 46 chromosomes, 2 feet, a loose dime,
          61 summers, some soot, some sand,
          Thunderstorms. I wake up to a lightning strike
          And my dream incinerates. When they say
          Life is but a dream, that’s what they mean.
          The writer working hard, telling the story
          Of what happened yesterday or yesteryear,
          A man’s born to a country not his choosing,
          Let labor flow like capital, of mere being!
          Pomegranate juice, broccoli, arugula,
          Brussel sprouts, cabbage, cauliflower,
          Collard greens, kale, radishes, turnips,
          Garlic, leeks, scallions, onions, 2 lbs
          Swordfish, tomatoes (8 medium),
          3 cups almonds, carrots, a sweet potato,
          Winter squash, cantaloupe, mangoes, watermelon.
          2 daily writing exercises,
          50 words on any subject: complaint, headache.
          The imagination applies a
          Countervailing pressure to reality.
          Writing badly is the best revenge.

"Number is one of the creative grounds of poetry, and the idea that writing grew out of counting is the missing link in studies of the graphic in versification. It is almost uncanny that lines of verse look exactly like the most primitive ways of counting–parallel scorings that can be numbered."

          What you do to one side of the equation
          You gotta do to the other. Isolate
          The variable. Combine like terms. Metaphors
          And analogs are reduced to least common
          Denominators. Multiply through (parentheses).
          Write a new equation after each operation.
          Inscribe neatly. Check your work. Imagine
          That if you’re wrong, the astronauts burn.
          Change the signs which will avoid going
          The wrong way down the number line. Zero
          Is the middle of your universe.
          There it is, calm, comfortable as an egg
          On a spoon. That is, before possibilities
          Become probabilities. This is just
          Another equation manipulated
          With opposable digits. For at the ends
          Of your guns is the earliest calculator
          A magical machine which converts
          Numbers to words and words to numbers,
          Measures the mists, frequency and wavelength,
          Of the material penumbra.

"Verses are countable in exactly the way that token-iterative digits are countable, from either end of the sequence. Each one indicates only its singularity, not a number. Every poem in lines effaces, or predates, the distinction between writing and drawing in the same way as the lines on the Ishango bone."

Somewhere,
out in the middle of nowhere,
there is a space,
where bare bones performance's
are nightly taking place,
like theatre at its best,
thrilling energy
a chill in the air,
you are creating
unique worlds on a stage
& I hear it's all the rage
a modest audience,
captivating you are
so utterly charming and memorable,
I can get lost in your woods
in that beautifully familiar rural spot,
harvesting &
catching hay fever,
running through the barns
in empty old bays
of long vacant farms,
while the cattle graze placidly,
my usung heroes beckon,
along split rail fences,
haunting..
along the old railroad beds,
down unknown highways
& on little know by ways
& drifting in skyways
through the years & the tears
as the last of the Summer flowers,
bloom and bow their head,
in the rain & the pain,
and the words you gently hear
whispered softly in your ear,
spoke clearly to the sky
as they sadly say goodbye
& promised I wouldn't cry,
I listen to exactly what they said
as they are applauded for their stamina,
& bravery, as the chlorophyll,
chokes out the beauty
in everything else,
a way to take in the natural beauty,
**** a big breath in
& waiting to exhale,
I'm hiking home, ...
to my poetic theater,
with tables scattered  about,
& mushroom stools,
a wonderland of  creatures
around weaving arts,
threads spun in gold,
of my everyday life
again it  is told,
like in a romantic candlelit
dinner date,
we sit beneath an glowing
incandescent Moon,
we are a rare & lucid,
sighting, two stars
two colors merged
from a Gods crayon box,
or a well thought out picnic
with a very special friend
farm to table wonders
delicious in every way,
you close your eyes to dream,
& all you ever need,
is an element of trust,
a sense of adventure,
appreciating the sacrifices
the pleasure fills the air
I'm traveling past,
as is if without a care
swimming in the frigid clean
& cold waters,
rolling mountains protect me on every side
come along for the ride,
down grey gravel roads,
with the heaviest load,
where trees still have some color,
as the pines & ever-greens brag,  
& envious poison ivy,
climbs the silo
in burning fiery furnace red,
golden amber browns
& deep golden mustards
crunch beneath tires
as wood is drying out
& is readied for the fires,
beyond ****** meadows
& the bog where the Moose hide
that mysterious house,
perched pretty on the hill
weathered perfectly,
seasoned & mature,
looking wise & reminiscent,
of a different era,
and a show like this
would only cost 55 cents...
World War 2
in the Pacific just after it...
you moved to Vermont
and live like a hippie,
smoking our chimney
sitting silently
in classic melodious splendor,
a tune is playing
as wheat is swaying,
a fiddle, out in the middle
of my favorite fields
counting the bounty yield,
admiring the tractors parked
for the year
some think,
your just a farce
though I know the fear,
you're not a a travesty,
in shambles
your multi tone shingles
craving a dose of stain,
your old rocking chair
never earning the critical acclaim
you deserve & desire,
  so lovely in your period costume,
as you sit there,
with ease and comfort,
awaiting patrons,
with your zany characters,
with open doors & cracking windows,
a sadness radiating,
from a broken style,
looking out at everything
glad with a frozen smile,
waving at yesterday's poets,

Getting ready for another show
and time is now, for another snow,
your solid pane's,
cheering others on saying
"way to go"...
and if...

If you ever find this place,
you don't know exactly,
what all the fuss is about,

ignoring the change of weather
pulling out that old red sweater
coming to this wonderful,
magical time
a little homestead theater
generationally strong
and melodramatic
with perfect comic timing
a delight
in the night,
I'll happily play the housemaid
delivering a tray of tea
with honey and cream
answering the doorbell
inviting you in
have a seat
giving you something to eat
and this is my treat,
I'll gladly greet the guests
make them comfortable
at our beautiful little venue
our ***** little nest
as the curtains open and close
for the shows,
730 it comes and goes
in the center of my universe
caught in a time warp,
so much good fun and laughter
inspired moments in a perfect ensemble
cast by my ancestors,

I had no idea it would taste,
so amazing,
this bittersweetness,
and so very delicious
my feet ache...
worn,
tired, relieved at last
I am,
coming home to you,
at last I hear,
you say,
welcome back.

Cherie Nolan© 2016

The rumbling motorcycle pulled in
The Cowboy entered the luncheonette
And Doctor Boss was sitting there waiting
They licked their lips, shook hands and that was it
This is the Legend of The Cowboy and Doctor Boss
Two stones untouched by complacent moss
Together they made a deal
His satin suit and His Cuban heeled boots
This is how it began

Doctor Boss was a respected physician
Shaved, shampooed and conditioned
Wore a stethoscope, had tongue depressors in jars
The Doctor had a gold tooth and fancy cars
But he was crooked as the day was long
Had no regards for right and wrong
Just as long as he was making a buck
He had connections to the cartel down in Mexico
And they lined his pockets with rising dough

Back in 1955 he was peddling dope in med school
Made the junkies line up and the women drool
Until he was challenged to a switchblade duel
Got his right ring finger sliced off and throw into a pool
He turned around and killed that man
Slashed him in the face and punctured his gut
He packed his trunk and headed north and ran
Darted toward the Jersey Horizon
On the way he picked up gun and a phony medical license

You would think a ****** would weigh on a man’s conscience
But not the Doc his mind was on motel options
He got a room and went to a local hole in the wall
A smoky, run down biker bar
“Dewar’s and water” said a pretty little thing
Boss looked at her, downed his drink and suffered whiskey sting
“Hey there beautiful, what’s your name?” “Lillian” she said
“What’s yours?” “Well, Lillian that’s not important but I’ll tell you what is”
“I got a motel room all to myself and I need some company”

Paper thin walls and a moaning women
The mattress squeaks as the vacancy signs flashing
The next morning Lillian awoke
Just to see The Boss had hit the road
She got dressed and went on her way
The motel bill remained unpaid
She wished he would have stayed awhile
But he was miles away by then
And starting a new life
This was the origin of Doctor boss
Wayward bound and identity lost
How a boy became a man
From check ups to drug trafficking now
This is how it all began

Now The Cowboy thought life was a game
A wild child that wouldn’t be tamed
He lived his life against the grain
Behind his aviators was repressed pain
He never knew his dear old dad
And his mother, run over by a drunken cab
Broken home launching pad
The kid went mad and hopped on his bike
He began his quest to quench his thirst for an exciting life

He raced and robbed from Cali to Michigan
He broke every law from Dallas to Vermont and back again
Until the day when he wasn’t fast enough
They tackled him down and put him in cuffs
He was charged and sentenced to five years in Cook County
An extensive criminal record by the age of twenty
But as soon as he was behind bars he busted out before anyone knew
Off to continue his life of debauchery
Of freedom and existential ecstasy

He was an escaped convict with a bounty on his head
The warden of Cook County didn’t want him alive but dead
But The Cowboy went on his merry way, making deals and getting laid
Getting ******, kicking *** and taking names
He was just looking for a good time
He was searching for a new trail to ride
All he wanted to do was live
Do everything in the world there was to do
To him every day brought something new

On a faithful day, The Cowboy came to Hacketts
The city where Doctor Boss opened up his practice
The tired traveler went to go get drunk
Over in the corner of the bar he was slumped
The Doc strolled in and everyone paid their respects
But there was something The Cowboy didn’t get
“Why are they kissing the ring of this nine fingered quack?”
He pulled out a knife on The Doc and a bottle went smash!
Over the poor Cowboy’s head and he blacked out

“Now, son I know that’s not how you say hello”
“And you seem to be a nice young fellow”
“So how bout I cut you a break”
“And we’ll go over to my office and I’ll clean up these scrapes”
The Cowboy agreed and got to his feet
They walked to Boss’s office just down the street
And The Doc sewed up his head
“Say, boy where you from I never seen you around here”
“It doesn’t matter you three piece suite wearing queer”

Doctor Boss chucked then pushed The Cowboy down by the throat
Pulled out his gun ,“I can **** you now but I won’t”
“No, you’re gonna do me a favor you little ****”
The Cowboy couldn’t breathe but Boss wouldn’t quit
“I got a package that needs to go to Georgia”
“If you take it there , they’ll be four grand waiting here for ya”
Now how could The Cowboy resist such an adventure?
Not to mention the grip Doctor Boss had on his Adam’s apple
He let him go and began to cackle

“Now around here, I run things”
“I’m free to do as I please”
The Cowboy was amazed at this man, he was right
He owned a gun and  got involved in a bar fight
Could this man be in the mob?
“Boy, you can call me Doctor Boss”
“Well Doc, they call me The Cowboy”
“So tell me, where am I going?

Doc Boss loaded up The Cowboy’s bike
With Mexican white powdered dynamite
“Now that’s four kilos, you got there”
“You get the money and bring it back here”
“You got it Boss, I’ll be back by Tuesday night”
And off went The Cowboy out of sight
The Doc new he could trust him
He had that look in his eye the he did those years ago
The one when you yearn to search for the unknown

This was the origin of The Cowboy and Doctor Boss
They paid no attention to consequence or cost
They saw themselves in each other
Just trying to reach one height after another
Cowboy respected a man so free
And Boss saw his prodigy
Together they became filthy rich
They shook hands and that was it

there was a blanket made of rust
spread on the couch made of stone
that was when i had no flesh

back then i was made of glass
and my bones were made of blood
you can imagine how ridiculous i looked

but that's how things were
i watered the plants
he picked the weeds

that evening, i developed a callous
on the insides of my palms
the glass melted away

the blood hardened and i was born
the king gave me his crown
the water turned to vapor

there was an orange light on the wall
it reminded me of your *****
and the way she talked about Vermont

no, i have never been to Vermont
no, i have never seen you as an animal
no, i have never been alive before

you are softer than the sound of the shofar
when i woke up in the rain-stained parking lot
and saw your knees in a puddle

there was a blanket made of teeth
spread on the couch made of sand
how was your trip to Vermont?

Sun rises on the day,
and incinerates the night before.
Bodies stumble to the kitchen,
jello legs drag across the floor.

Silence hangs in the air,
as we sip on our open drinks.
We hate us now, sick and tired,
but one day we'll think...

Think of the drunken friends,
all the spilled drinks,
all the puked out brains,
all the drinking games,
all the endless laughs,
and all the times we crashed,
and all the love we shared,
under one small roof.

Fires burn all night,
it's been so long,
since we've all seen one another,

As dancing flames lick the air,
pulling an all nighter,
a willing sacrifice,
is offered,
to the heating God,
a Soapstone fireplace,
made locally,

In her lovely sturdy black cast iron,
she's rugged that baby,
cooking everything perfectly,
in the kitchen,
& heating everything else in the house,
to perfection too,

Warmed hearts beat,

A single tear falls,
as we survived the day,
a load off my mind,
some relief from the grind,

Again,
I'm soooo,
satiated,
from my,
middle Eastern dinner,
sharing the love,
& the brilliant composition,

WOW I hear -
A-mazing chef, truly,

Ahhhh t'was nothing really,
but thank ya,
emmm...
roasted root veggies,
prepared,
with a lovely maple glaze,
spicy and sweet,
but really such a filling treat,

A cherry glazed ham,
arugula, herb & green salad,
homemade oat rolls with fresh Vermont butter,
melted,

Yum,

I'm a piece of Vermont,
my capable hands,
handed down to me,
making Wintry
M A G I C
in your kitchen,
cuz' I'm just a guest tonight,
in this house anyway,

The twinkle lights in the room,
look just like dragonflies to me,
gold and orange shining,
so glad they  stopped in,
everyone,
all day,

Good people,
good food,
good times,

GREAT memories,

It must be 80 degrees in here,

I'm roasting in this place,

As a lone candle is left flickering,
into a small mountain of wax,
as it is dripping down the side,
permanently changing the mantel,

My alter,
just for you,
is adorned with crystals & stones,
as I hold a crucifix & bones,

I pray another day like this,
folded hands don't lie,
early till late,
finally a reprieve,
I try to believe,

As tired grateful hands and bellies,
my "fandamnly"
are all in jammies,
& tucked in tight,
love you all I say goodnight,
sweeeet dreams sweet poets,

All in flannel and the like
as our boots & mitts dry out,

A busy fire,
is doing so much,
a fan is whirring,
all are,
resting so peacefully,
a mother's true joy,
a lover, & a friend,
on whom you can depend,

I love you all so very much,

I miss you too,

I'm watching that beautiful man sleep,
and snore so low,
watch him breathe again,
I say please don't go,

As the heavy wet snow,
blankets these Green mountains,
covering my world tonight,
it cleans the sins of the day,
& yesterday,
wash us clean,
in that pure white,

Low music,
is playing,
into the still,
it was left on,
I remember it all with you,
& I probably always will,
cheers my love,
wherever you are,
so very very far above,

My head is down on a soft pillow,
warm sheets and blankets,

As I set to see you again,
in my dreams,

Gently closing my eyelids,
you bid me adieu,
 again I'm reminded,
reminded of you,

Yup,
pulling an all nighter with your memory again,

As I,
just,
          d
              r
                 i
                  f
                     t
                     .
                       .
                          .
                             .
                               .          
    
Cherie Nolan © 2016

Lancaster bore him—such a little town,
Such a great man. It doesn’t see him often
Of late years, though he keeps the old homestead
And sends the children down there with their mother
To run wild in the summer—a little wild.
Sometimes he joins them for a day or two
And sees old friends he somehow can’t get near.
They meet him in the general store at night,
Pre-occupied with formidable mail,
Rifling a printed letter as he talks.
They seem afraid. He wouldn’t have it so:
Though a great scholar, he’s a democrat,
If not at heart, at least on principle.
Lately when coming up to Lancaster
His train being late he missed another train
And had four hours to wait at Woodsville Junction
After eleven o’clock at night. Too tired
To think of sitting such an ordeal out,
He turned to the hotel to find a bed.

“No room,” the night clerk said. “Unless——”
Woodsville’s a place of shrieks and wandering lamps
And cars that shook and rattle—and one hotel.

“You say ‘unless.’”

“Unless you wouldn’t mind
Sharing a room with someone else.”

“Who is it?”

“A man.”

“So I should hope. What kind of man?”

“I know him: he’s all right. A man’s a man.
Separate beds of course you understand.”
The night clerk blinked his eyes and dared him on.

“Who’s that man sleeping in the office chair?
Has he had the refusal of my chance?”

“He was afraid of being robbed or murdered.
What do you say?”

“I’ll have to have a bed.”

The night clerk led him up three flights of stairs
And down a narrow passage full of doors,
At the last one of which he knocked and entered.
“Lafe, here’s a fellow wants to share your room.”

“Show him this way. I’m not afraid of him.
I’m not so drunk I can’t take care of myself.”

The night clerk clapped a bedstead on the foot.
“This will be yours. Good-night,” he said, and went.

“Lafe was the name, I think?”

“Yes, Layfayette.
You got it the first time. And yours?”

“Magoon.

Doctor Magoon.”

“A Doctor?”

“Well, a teacher.”

“Professor Square-the-circle-till-you’re-tired?
Hold on, there’s something I don’t think of now
That I had on my mind to ask the first
Man that knew anything I happened in with.
I’ll ask you later—don’t let me forget it.”

The Doctor looked at Lafe and looked away.
A man? A brute. Naked above the waist,
He sat there creased and shining in the light,
Fumbling the buttons in a well-starched shirt.
“I’m moving into a size-larger shirt.
I’ve felt mean lately; mean’s no name for it.
I just found what the matter was to-night:
I’ve been a-choking like a nursery tree
When it outgrows the wire band of its name tag.
I blamed it on the hot spell we’ve been having.
’Twas nothing but my foolish hanging back,
Not liking to own up I’d grown a size.
Number eighteen this is. What size do you wear?”

The Doctor caught his throat convulsively.
“Oh—ah—fourteen—fourteen.”

“Fourteen! You say so!
I can remember when I wore fourteen.
And come to think I must have back at home
More than a hundred collars, size fourteen.
Too bad to waste them all. You ought to have them.
They’re yours and welcome; let me send them to you.
What makes you stand there on one leg like that?
You’re not much furtherer than where **** left you.
You act as if you wished you hadn’t come.
Sit down or lie down, friend; you make me nervous.”

The Doctor made a subdued dash for it,
And propped himself at bay against a pillow.

“Not that way, with your shoes on ****’s white bed.
You can’t rest that way. Let me pull your shoes off.”

“Don’t touch me, please—I say, don’t touch me, please.
I’ll not be put to bed by you, my man.”

“Just as you say. Have it your own way then.
‘My man’ is it? You talk like a professor.
Speaking of who’s afraid of who, however,
I’m thinking I have more to lose than you
If anything should happen to be wrong.
Who wants to cut your number fourteen throat!
Let’s have a show down as an evidence
Of good faith. There is ninety dollars.
Come, if you’re not afraid.”

“I‘m not afraid.
There’s five: that’s all I carry.”

“I can search you?
Where are you moving over to? Stay still.
You’d better tuck your money under you
And sleep on it the way I always do
When I’m with people I don’t trust at night.”

“Will you believe me if I put it there
Right on the counterpane—that I do trust you?”

“You’d say so, Mister Man.—I’m a collector.
My ninety isn’t mine—you won’t think that.
I pick it up a dollar at a time
All round the country for the Weekly News,
Published in Bow. You know the Weekly News?”

“Known it since I was young.”

“Then you know me.
Now we are getting on together—talking.
I’m sort of Something for it at the front.
My business is to find what people want:
They pay for it, and so they ought to have it.
Fairbanks, he says to me—he’s editor—
Feel out the public sentiment—he says.
A good deal comes on me when all is said.
The only trouble is we disagree
In politics: I’m Vermont Democrat—
You know what that is, sort of double-dyed;
The News has always been Republican.
Fairbanks, he says to me, ‘Help us this year,’
Meaning by us their ticket. ‘No,’ I says,
‘I can’t and won’t. You’ve been in long enough:
It’s time you turned around and boosted us.
You’ll have to pay me more than ten a week
If I’m expected to elect Bill Taft.
I doubt if I could do it anyway.’”

“You seem to shape the paper’s policy.”

“You see I’m in with everybody, know ’em all.
I almost know their farms as well as they do.”

“You drive around? It must be pleasant work.”

“It’s business, but I can’t say it’s not fun.
What I like best’s the lay of different farms,
Coming out on them from a stretch of woods,
Or over a hill or round a sudden corner.
I like to find folks getting out in spring,
Raking the dooryard, working near the house.
Later they get out further in the fields.
Everything’s shut sometimes except the barn;
The family’s all away in some back meadow.
There’s a hay load a-coming—when it comes.
And later still they all get driven in:
The fields are stripped to lawn, the garden patches
Stripped to bare ground, the apple trees
To whips and poles. There’s nobody about.
The chimney, though, keeps up a good brisk smoking.
And I lie back and ride. I take the reins
Only when someone’s coming, and the mare
Stops when she likes: I tell her when to go.
I’ve spoiled Jemima in more ways than one.
She’s got so she turns in at every house
As if she had some sort of curvature,
No matter if I have no errand there.
She thinks I’m sociable. I maybe am.
It’s seldom I get down except for meals, though.
Folks entertain me from the kitchen doorstep,
All in a family row down to the youngest.”

“One would suppose they might not be as glad
To see you as you are to see them.”

“Oh,
Because I want their dollar. I don’t want
Anything they’ve not got. I never dun.
I’m there, and they can pay me if they like.
I go nowhere on purpose: I happen by.
Sorry there is no cup to give you a drink.
I drink out of the bottle—not your style.
Mayn’t I offer you——?”

“No, no, no, thank you.”

“Just as you say. Here’s looking at you then.—
And now I’m leaving you a little while.
You’ll rest easier when I’m gone, perhaps—
Lie down—let yourself go and get some sleep.
But first—let’s see—what was I going to ask you?
Those collars—who shall I address them to,
Suppose you aren’t awake when I come back?”

“Really, friend, I can’t let you. You—may need them.”

“Not till I shrink, when they’ll be out of style.”

“But really I—I have so many collars.”

“I don’t know who I rather would have have them.
They’re only turning yellow where they are.
But you’re the doctor as the saying is.
I’ll put the light out. Don’t you wait for me:
I’ve just begun the night. You get some sleep.
I’ll knock so-fashion and peep round the door
When I come back so you’ll know who it is.
There’s nothing I’m afraid of like scared people.
I don’t want you should shoot me in the head.
What am I doing carrying off this bottle?
There now, you get some sleep.”

He shut the door.
The Doctor slid a little down the pillow.

I want to first thank all my
supporters and readership.
I will read as soon as
I have the time and I can
give your work the attention it deserves.

I've been overwhelmed.
I have to make my presents this
Christmas. But I found out I'm in
excellent company...

FROM APPALACHIA WITH LOVE

Gra'ma Annie had a mission
to help children in need
she lives up in the hills
where they grow their food from seed.

They have no running water
no facilities indoors
still heat and cook with wood
don't buy much from stores
there are folk so destitute
they still have dirt floors.

Li'l Annie was a scrapper
90 pounds if soaking wet.
But her heart is just enormous
as big as one can get!

She found out 'bout a drive
for children overseas
in Africa and Asia
Haiti and the Belize

How the people in those countries
had no presents for to give
their children at Christmas
they could barely live!

She contacted the charity
and said she'd send some toys
as many as possible
to the poor girls and boys.

Annie had no phone
so she walked far and wide
and asked all the hillfolk
throughout the countryside
to whittle and to paint
toys in which to pride!

Those people got together
and carved ponies and dolls
that had joints that moved
and real hair that falls!

They whittled and sanded
painted with rainbow hues
and when they had delivered them
it made world news!

The children overseas
who got them still recall
they kept their homemade presents...

THEIR FAVORITES OF ALL!


MY FATHER "NEVER HAD A CHRISTMAS"*

My father was a child
in a place called Isle la Monte
winter's are quite brutal
in that part of Vermont.

His family were farmers
they lived off the land
they had gardens and stored their food
they worked hard with their hands

They had to really struggle
to make the frayed ends meet
dad walked 14 miles total
through the snow and sleet
to get to his schoolhouse
sometimes with frozen feet

Every year at Christmas time
his mom would be in tears
she would never say much
but stated that she feared

there would be no Christmas
no presents and no tree
it was always the same.
Grandpa would agree.
So the children went to bed
every Christmas eve.

But they weren't sad
because they always knew
that Santa was coming
and so they weren't blue.

Sure 'nuf in the morning
they'd tumble out of bed
and in the once-bare corner
there was a *tree instead!

There were many presents
most carved and painted things
grandma got the practical stuff
no perfume or rings.

But the Christmas meal was cooking
and all through the home
the smell... that sumptuous dinner...

well. That's another poem...!

But before the feast was eaten
grandfather said Grace
and thanked the blessed Lord
and ALWAYS SOUGHT HIS FACE.


SoulSurvivor
Catherine Jarvis
(C) 12/23/2015


MERRY CHRISTMAS HOLIDAY!!!

I still have presents to make...
see you SOON!


~~~<☆>~~~

As real as Monopoly Money....

I'm on Mediterranean Ave, buying sleeping gas, and a bulletproof vest to rob Community Chest. Inside info from Dimples. Cut her out of the money by putting 2 in her temple. Off to the projects, the Marvin Gardens. Special discounts when buying guns by the carton. The back up getaway is on Pacific Ave. Her brother will drop me off, I'll plant a bomb in his taxi-cab. Rob them, he'll drop me at the Waterworks, his car blows. I'll swim a half a mile to Reading Railroad. Give *** Jack some chump change, $500 for the caboose on the train. Low profile as we go through the ave's; Vermont, Oriental, Kentucky, and also Virginia Ave. Robin hood theory, throw out bundles of cash. We can't Stop, we'll be taking a Chance. Getting locked up in the Jailhouse, 25 with an L ****!

Jump off @ St. James church, to stash my firearm. "What if it's closed", I'll crack the burglar alarm. Walk in, see the priest, and for our sins we confess. For the rest of this mission, we'll need to he blessed. With this economy messed up, pockets they lack. Time doesn't pay the crime, they've added a Luxury Tax, to avoid the Electric Company where people get fried Jack. Walk down Indiana and blend with the panhandlers, to No. Carolina, where I'll steal us a Pathfinder(Nissan). Then we'll go, it's a quarter after 4 we got to get to the B&O.; Listen for the Jamaican yelling bloodclot. He'll extract the rest of the plan from his dreadlocks. Park Pl. will take us straight to the train station. Hide all your valuables, it's headquarters for freebasing. "What about the cops watching from the Free Parking Lot"? We'll sneak up the back street called Tennessee, and dress up like some ladies, to hide our identity. "Ooooh that's smooth and just might work, to make it to Conneticut in heels and a skirt". Get on the Shortline to Advance to New York, and lay low at St. Charles Pl., on Ventnor and Illinois.

We're at St. Charles Pl. getting undressed from the lady clothes, and the rest of the plan to pull a hit on the Parker Bros. Rifles issued at target practice, to get what we wanted. When we Pass Go, they'll pay us $200. To rent a room on the Boardwalk Hotel Top floor, to shoot the Parker Bros. as they walk out the front door. We'll lean out the window and have them centered. Since the scope is telescopic, we can see where the bullet entered. BOOYAH, the scope is off, so we missed their heads. Broke down the weapons, while we was running downstairs. Stole their Rolls Royce in front of the crowd. Still in pursuit of the Brother's for laughing aloud.......GAME OVER!

I can tell you that I am tall,
an I am also not petite,
an some they might say sturdy,
like a tree who has two feet,

An I used to be so thin,
as a stick, I heard em say,
though I won't say I'm too big,
I'm no longer quite that way,

Well I have a little belly,
as some older women do,
I earned it,
what I think,
with my cooking yeah it's true,

So someone might say "chubby"
an I guess OK with that,
I keep an eye on the scale each day,
so I won't end up too fat,
as I sample of my cooking,
to add in this an that,

Sometimes I might wear some makeup
though most days I do not,
especially in the summertime,
when the sun is blazing hot,

I wear my jeans till *****,
yup more than just few hours,
some say I am a witch,
who's got some kinda powers,
I like the rain a lot you know,
and soaking in warm showers,

I'm not sure that I'm ****,
my face has many wrinkles,
I like vanilla bean ice cream,
with some yummy chocolate sprinkles,
and some say that I still glow at night,
my eyes they sorta twinkles, ; )

I sip my wine at night to ease,
I work and write by day,
my thoughts come in a rushing breeze,
way more than I can say,

I see the world much differently
than others who are around,
I hear the leaves as they fall dreaming,
an as they hit the sacred ground,
poetry is everyone,
in every lovely sight -an sound

I love my little Tanley cat,
he sits atop my shoulder,
first thing in the morning too,
an each day I'm gettin' older,
I don't take the **** life gives,
cuz I'm a gettin' a lil' bolder,
winters in Vermont are now
much warmer 'stead of colder,

I have an older Subaru,
with lucky all wheel drive,
that thing is like a tank ya know,
it's helped me stay alive,
if you are in the wilderness,
I could help ya to survive,

I cut an split our wood a lot,
but I say the "F" word too,
an I can cook most ANYTHING,
especially a stew!!

Emmmm, emmm yummy!

an I don't have a lot of friends,
but the few I have are true,

If you  really wanna know-
just what I'm really like,
well come up to Vermont -c'mon!
and we'll take a lovely hike,
or take snowmobile out in wintertime,
or catch a real big ugly pike,
or introduce you too my 6'8"
nephew -
who's name is little Mike,

I am so honest- genuine,
I love all people- same,
love is in my heart you see,
to me- it's not a game,
and life is what you make it,
so it's not about the blame,
an I no longer carry anger near,
or not any hidden shame,

I am a very gentle soul,
unless you cross me bad,
and even then I'd likely be,
only maybe sad,
I use my measures often too-
especially the "tad" : )

I think you'd want me in your corner-
I defend mine 'til the death,
an I will speak my certain truth-
until my last an dying breath,

Most days I feel misunderstood,
a curse I bear - alone,
I keep here pretty quite too,
an I like to be at home,

I guess I'm left of center,
NO didn't vote for stupid Trump,
I called him more than maybe twice,
an orange looking angry chump,

I have so many scars,
on my hands from workin hard,
I think I made clean money,
an now I am the bard,

Of a place I love the very most,
where I am my own queen,
and living every day here,
is nothing but a dream,
as I have come to realize,
things are never as they seem,

And we all need to learn,
to be present and to be,
okay with that,
as content is what I seek,

an until I am in total peace,
then I will write,
till the last word that I speak,

turning our truth-
into beautiful poetry.


Ma Cherie © 2017

Heavy was the globe, until the glove hit
Found himself entangled in a handlebar flip
Iron in the taste, ****** waste
Continuum drawn back on a meaningless quip

Unsteady footing reminiscent of preschool days, snorting paste
Zebra striped mockery, paid off the books; his vision’s been maced
Early end to prolonged exposure, he tries to bait
Steady eyed denial approaches with haste

The monetarily gorged rule keeper entangles in debate
Opponent grows weary appearing irate
He recalls the words in a blank cheque written by a weak frame
A levelling blow leaves his opponent in a blank state

World weary and star struck to blame
All in pursuit of everlasting fame