This is a gala day for The Conning Tower. Today we publish our first serious poem, and are doing it with our serious faces on. Now, serious up and put your hands together for:
ONE HEN
Ten years ago we bought twelve little chicks-
four turned out to be roosters
and finding homes for them
was no easy trick
until we met a woman who had moved out from the city
and had heard that having roosters would keep the
rattlesnakes away.
So we had eight hens- Barred Rocks and Araucanas-
the eggs were aqua-blue and brown and beautiful
the hens flocked and made great sounds and things were good
Time passes and animals die and chickens don't live that long…
except these last two.
Through years seven, eight and nine, only two old hens remained.
One always in front, with fuller feathers, and one behind-
Getting second-best on the food that was put out
and being pecked away- get back, stay back.
Last night I found her dead
with a layer of dirt kicked over her.
No, not the one behind, but the one in front,
and now I worry and wonder how the other
old hen will go on alone.
The nights are getting cold again
there doesn't seem much point- she lays one egg a month.
So I clucked to her as best I could and fed her well
and she ate first
and seemed to be alright.
--Mark Trail
And now for the usual dreck:
I HEARD VOICES BUT THERE’S NO ONE THERE
Your door is ajar.
Your jar is a key.
Your key is a house.
Your house isn’t free.
Your freedom is missing.
Your misses are found.
Your foundation is slipping.
Your slip’s on the ground.
Your ground isn’t hallowed.
Your hollow’s a creek.
Your creek is a river.
Your river’s a leak.
Your leak is a problem.
Your problem’s a car.
Your car is a voice:
“Your door is ajar.”
--LJC
October 29, 2005
October 15, 2005
Number 7
HIS EYE IS ON THE SPARROW
His eye is on the sparrow
His hand is on the plow
His mind's on Nova Scotia
His ear is on the cow
His nose is on the rosebud
His chin is on his chest
There are more Chins in the phonebook
In Beijing than Bucharest
Where was eye, on the sparrow?
His tongue is on the pole
He's going to rip some skin off
So much for grand control
His thoughts are with the meek ones
His will is with the low
His love, it lasts forever
Or until you have to go
His eye is on the sparrow
His knee is on your throat
His heart is in the highlands
He treats you like his goat.
--Mark Trail
YOU’RE THE SALT
You’re the salt in my coffee.
You’re the thumb in my pie.
You’re the hair in my toffee.
Now, maybe you’ll understand why
When you come around
I head underground.
It’s a feeling I cannot deny!
‘Cause you’re the salt in my coffee;
And you’re the thumb in my pie!
You’re like a weekend in Hades.
You’re like a desert July.
I’d rather swim up the Euphrates.
I think that I’d much rather die
Than spend time with you.
I tell you, we’re through!
I’ll hang you with that awful tie!
‘Cause you’re the salt in my coffee;
And you’re the thumb in my pie!
When we’re together
It’s such heavy weather.
You’re just like a faceful of sleet.
When I see you coming,
I stare and start humming
And hide so we can’t possibly meet.
You’re the salt in my coffee.
You’re the thumb in my pie.
You’re the hair in my toffee.
Now, maybe you’ll understand why
When you’re in the room,
My heart fills with gloom
I’d happily pluck out your eye!
‘Cause you’re the salt in my coffee;
And you’re the thumb in my pie!
--LJC (from a notion by me and Mike Nuttall)
“There was a Christian once. But don’t worry. We caught him and crucified him.”
--Mark Twain (who else?)
THE IVORY-BILLED WOODPECKER’S BACK
Now males have a red crest, while females have black
So we know he’s a he- one we’re glad to have back
For it’s been sixty years since an authenticated
Glimpse of this type of pecker’s been credibly stated
Oh where have you been, you Ivory-Bill?
Did you hide in the forest, out beyond the last hill?
Is part of your range the outskirts of Billville?
We’re sure glad you’re around- seeing you’s such a thrill!
He laid low for a long time in the Arkansas wood
And his reasons for doing so are understood
But his rumored extinction? Pure exaggeration-
He’s got lady woodpeckers at three nesting stations!
Oh where have you been, you Ivory-Bill?
Did you hide in the forest, out beyond the last hill?
Is part of your range the outskirts of Billville?
We’re sure glad you're around- seeing you’s such a thrill!
If you’re lucky, you’ll follow to where his call’s led
Note the large, white wing patches and the stripe down his head
With his light-colored, chisel-tipped bill to admire
I’m left with one thought, and that is to inquire-
Oh where have you been, you Ivory-Bill?
Did you hide in the forest, out beyond the last hill?
Is part of your range the outskirts of Billville?
We’re sure glad you're around- seeing you’s such a thrill!
--Mark Trail
“I’m a victim of circumstance.”
--Jerome “Curly” Howard
His eye is on the sparrow
His hand is on the plow
His mind's on Nova Scotia
His ear is on the cow
His nose is on the rosebud
His chin is on his chest
There are more Chins in the phonebook
In Beijing than Bucharest
Where was eye, on the sparrow?
His tongue is on the pole
He's going to rip some skin off
So much for grand control
His thoughts are with the meek ones
His will is with the low
His love, it lasts forever
Or until you have to go
His eye is on the sparrow
His knee is on your throat
His heart is in the highlands
He treats you like his goat.
--Mark Trail
YOU’RE THE SALT
You’re the salt in my coffee.
You’re the thumb in my pie.
You’re the hair in my toffee.
Now, maybe you’ll understand why
When you come around
I head underground.
It’s a feeling I cannot deny!
‘Cause you’re the salt in my coffee;
And you’re the thumb in my pie!
You’re like a weekend in Hades.
You’re like a desert July.
I’d rather swim up the Euphrates.
I think that I’d much rather die
Than spend time with you.
I tell you, we’re through!
I’ll hang you with that awful tie!
‘Cause you’re the salt in my coffee;
And you’re the thumb in my pie!
When we’re together
It’s such heavy weather.
You’re just like a faceful of sleet.
When I see you coming,
I stare and start humming
And hide so we can’t possibly meet.
You’re the salt in my coffee.
You’re the thumb in my pie.
You’re the hair in my toffee.
Now, maybe you’ll understand why
When you’re in the room,
My heart fills with gloom
I’d happily pluck out your eye!
‘Cause you’re the salt in my coffee;
And you’re the thumb in my pie!
--LJC (from a notion by me and Mike Nuttall)
“There was a Christian once. But don’t worry. We caught him and crucified him.”
--Mark Twain (who else?)
THE IVORY-BILLED WOODPECKER’S BACK
Now males have a red crest, while females have black
So we know he’s a he- one we’re glad to have back
For it’s been sixty years since an authenticated
Glimpse of this type of pecker’s been credibly stated
Oh where have you been, you Ivory-Bill?
Did you hide in the forest, out beyond the last hill?
Is part of your range the outskirts of Billville?
We’re sure glad you’re around- seeing you’s such a thrill!
He laid low for a long time in the Arkansas wood
And his reasons for doing so are understood
But his rumored extinction? Pure exaggeration-
He’s got lady woodpeckers at three nesting stations!
Oh where have you been, you Ivory-Bill?
Did you hide in the forest, out beyond the last hill?
Is part of your range the outskirts of Billville?
We’re sure glad you're around- seeing you’s such a thrill!
If you’re lucky, you’ll follow to where his call’s led
Note the large, white wing patches and the stripe down his head
With his light-colored, chisel-tipped bill to admire
I’m left with one thought, and that is to inquire-
Oh where have you been, you Ivory-Bill?
Did you hide in the forest, out beyond the last hill?
Is part of your range the outskirts of Billville?
We’re sure glad you're around- seeing you’s such a thrill!
--Mark Trail
“I’m a victim of circumstance.”
--Jerome “Curly” Howard
October 08, 2005
Number Six
AN ODE TO HARRIET MIERS
Harriet Miers
Somehow aspires
To work at the ol’ Supreme Court
When O’Connor retires
And returns to the shires
To take care of her ailing consort.
When Bush chose Ms. Miers
From all the appliers
Who thought they’d be good for that spot.
He touched off some fires
Among the deniers
Who thought that his choice was not hot.
Poor Harriet Miers.
She seldom inspires
Support from the Right or the Left.
The Left’s filled with criers
And the Right lately tires
Of noms sans ideological heft.
O! Harriet Miers!
You have so few buyers!
Your High Court robe and seat might be lost.
Just like our empires
And corp’rate high flyers,
How long can it be ‘fore you're tossed?
--LJC
BRIDGET OF PAMPELONNE
I want to lie down in green valleys
I want to sprawl out along hills
I want to feel free by the river
I want to give Bardot the chills
Why can't I lie down out in public?
Why can't I do just what I want?
Why can't I give Bardot the fever?
Because she's really old and she lives in France
That sound that you hear is the scraper
As my barrel's bottom gets scoured
Six straight weeks of poetry's drained me
This poet's no longer empowered
So I issue this poetry coupon
It's yours to redeem or to hold
It's good for one meaningful stanza
From Len, cuz his stuff's good as gold.
--Mark Trail
‘Though Mr. Trail is kind,
It has been opined
That my verse is worth less than is gold.
As for good, that’s debated.
Let’s say it’s not hated.
It’s less close to gold than to mold.
--LJC
Bev Doolittle, Thomas Kinkaid, Charles Wysocki, Billy Flanagan. These names are more than mere trademarks. These are the artists of the cute, the quaint, and the insane. The power of their works reverberate through our inner organs like a bad Hungarian meal. And they can all be found here at the MoseArt Discount Factory Warehouse. If you've seen it on a discounted calendar from 1998, you'll find it here at the MoseArt Discount Factory Warehouse at $19.99. We have stacks of original van Goghs, Monets, and Rothkos just laying around for the taking--um, I mean, buying. And once they're gone, Herschel van Gogh, Murray Monet, and Mark Rothko will be happy to churn out more! They're manacled in the basement so that we can pass the savings along to you. And you can take my word for it, or I'm not Big Daddy Mammon! Remember, that's the MoseArt Discount Factory Warehouse, three blocks south of the charnel house on Route 16!
--LJC
Harriet Miers
Somehow aspires
To work at the ol’ Supreme Court
When O’Connor retires
And returns to the shires
To take care of her ailing consort.
When Bush chose Ms. Miers
From all the appliers
Who thought they’d be good for that spot.
He touched off some fires
Among the deniers
Who thought that his choice was not hot.
Poor Harriet Miers.
She seldom inspires
Support from the Right or the Left.
The Left’s filled with criers
And the Right lately tires
Of noms sans ideological heft.
O! Harriet Miers!
You have so few buyers!
Your High Court robe and seat might be lost.
Just like our empires
And corp’rate high flyers,
How long can it be ‘fore you're tossed?
--LJC
BRIDGET OF PAMPELONNE
I want to lie down in green valleys
I want to sprawl out along hills
I want to feel free by the river
I want to give Bardot the chills
Why can't I lie down out in public?
Why can't I do just what I want?
Why can't I give Bardot the fever?
Because she's really old and she lives in France
That sound that you hear is the scraper
As my barrel's bottom gets scoured
Six straight weeks of poetry's drained me
This poet's no longer empowered
So I issue this poetry coupon
It's yours to redeem or to hold
It's good for one meaningful stanza
From Len, cuz his stuff's good as gold.
--Mark Trail
‘Though Mr. Trail is kind,
It has been opined
That my verse is worth less than is gold.
As for good, that’s debated.
Let’s say it’s not hated.
It’s less close to gold than to mold.
--LJC
Bev Doolittle, Thomas Kinkaid, Charles Wysocki, Billy Flanagan. These names are more than mere trademarks. These are the artists of the cute, the quaint, and the insane. The power of their works reverberate through our inner organs like a bad Hungarian meal. And they can all be found here at the MoseArt Discount Factory Warehouse. If you've seen it on a discounted calendar from 1998, you'll find it here at the MoseArt Discount Factory Warehouse at $19.99. We have stacks of original van Goghs, Monets, and Rothkos just laying around for the taking--um, I mean, buying. And once they're gone, Herschel van Gogh, Murray Monet, and Mark Rothko will be happy to churn out more! They're manacled in the basement so that we can pass the savings along to you. And you can take my word for it, or I'm not Big Daddy Mammon! Remember, that's the MoseArt Discount Factory Warehouse, three blocks south of the charnel house on Route 16!
--LJC
October 01, 2005
Number Five
The Ballad of Smallish the Dog
(To Waddell, in Memoriam)
He was a Crescent Moon dog
On a Crescent Moon night.
He was sleepin' like a log
While his master's gettin' tight.
He was catchin' forty winks,
Takin' shelter from the storm,
Just as silent as the Sphinx,
He was busy keepin' warm.
Though his master called him Smallish,
In his heart he felt like Jim.
Never Ringo, George, or Paulish;
Not a tiny bit like Tim.
But it really didn't matter
If his moniker was bad
When some food was in his platter
And his master was his dad.
--LJC
NORBERT AND THE MAGIC SPONGE
I got taken to a spa
thought it seemed kinda girly
our appointment was at nine
and that seemed kinda early
for a stranger to be rubbin'
and massaging on my feet
when she put pressure on my coccyx
reservations did retreat
now I'm laid out and relaxing
with cucumbers on my eyes
I don't even feel embarrassed
'bout seaweed wrapped around my thighs
I smell soothing herbal essence
it's aromatherapy
I'm having visions of nirvana
it's like laid-back LSD
they say next I'll have a sauna
and a thrilling icy plunge
then a fellow who's named Norbert
will complete me with a sponge
(time passes)
now I'm all done at the spa
and I admit I had some doubt
but I'm coming back next week
for what Norbert calls "the grout"
at least, that's what I think he said.
--Mark Trail
(The kitchen of a Chinese restaurant. Abbott and Costello get shoved through the swinging doors by the Manager.)
Manager: You no pay for your food, you cook for others!
(The Manager leaves.)
Abbott: All right! All right! Let's get started here! Fortunately, I know something about cooking.
Costello: And I can be your assistant, Abbott.
Abbott: That's fine. That's fine. First, I want to make sure I have everything I need. Bok choi?
Costello: I don't know if this is bok choi or fron' choi, but it's one or the other.
Abbott: Give me that! Now I need a sauce. Hand me the sauce.
Costello: What sauce?Abbott: Duck. (Costello falls to the floor.) What are you doing down there?
Costello: But you said--
Abbott: I said to hand me the sauce.
Costello: What sauce?
Abbott: Duck. (Costello falls to the floor.) Get up off the floor! What's the matter with you?
Costello: I'm just doing what you tell me. I'm a good assistant.
Abbott: If you want to be a good assistant, then do what I tell you. Now, hand me the sauce.
Costello: What sauce?
Abbott: Duck. (Costello falls to the floor.) What the matter with you? Aren't we in enough trouble?
Costello: How should I know? I'm spending half my time on the floor!
Abbott: I don't know what gets into you! All I ask is that you do me a simple favor, and you can't even do that.
Costello: I'm trying, Abbott! I want to be a good assistant. Please let me help you, Abbott.
Abbott: Then do what I ask you and give me the sauce.
Costello: What sauce?
Abbott: Duck. (Costello falls to the floor.) What's the matter with you? Why won't you hand me the duck sauce?
Costello: You mean they named some sauce after a duck?
Abbott: That's right.
Costello: Well, now I've seen everything!
--LJC
Raymond Chandler used short stories he had written, usually combining two or three together, to produce his first three (and best) novels. He called the process “cannibalizing” his own work.
I wish that I could say that I’m cannibalizing my work, but the fact is that I’m just plain stealing. A good 50 percent of what I’ve contributed to “The Conning Tower” so far has been stuff I’ve either posted on another blog or came up with in my reckless youth. (Come to think of it, that’s not true. My youth was fairly recked.)
It’s not easy to admit when one (I always use the circumlocution “one” when what I mean is “me”) has sunk to such levels as to pilfer from oneself, but there it is. Thief and victim, all in one am I.
--LJC
(To Waddell, in Memoriam)
He was a Crescent Moon dog
On a Crescent Moon night.
He was sleepin' like a log
While his master's gettin' tight.
He was catchin' forty winks,
Takin' shelter from the storm,
Just as silent as the Sphinx,
He was busy keepin' warm.
Though his master called him Smallish,
In his heart he felt like Jim.
Never Ringo, George, or Paulish;
Not a tiny bit like Tim.
But it really didn't matter
If his moniker was bad
When some food was in his platter
And his master was his dad.
--LJC
NORBERT AND THE MAGIC SPONGE
I got taken to a spa
thought it seemed kinda girly
our appointment was at nine
and that seemed kinda early
for a stranger to be rubbin'
and massaging on my feet
when she put pressure on my coccyx
reservations did retreat
now I'm laid out and relaxing
with cucumbers on my eyes
I don't even feel embarrassed
'bout seaweed wrapped around my thighs
I smell soothing herbal essence
it's aromatherapy
I'm having visions of nirvana
it's like laid-back LSD
they say next I'll have a sauna
and a thrilling icy plunge
then a fellow who's named Norbert
will complete me with a sponge
(time passes)
now I'm all done at the spa
and I admit I had some doubt
but I'm coming back next week
for what Norbert calls "the grout"
at least, that's what I think he said.
--Mark Trail
(The kitchen of a Chinese restaurant. Abbott and Costello get shoved through the swinging doors by the Manager.)
Manager: You no pay for your food, you cook for others!
(The Manager leaves.)
Abbott: All right! All right! Let's get started here! Fortunately, I know something about cooking.
Costello: And I can be your assistant, Abbott.
Abbott: That's fine. That's fine. First, I want to make sure I have everything I need. Bok choi?
Costello: I don't know if this is bok choi or fron' choi, but it's one or the other.
Abbott: Give me that! Now I need a sauce. Hand me the sauce.
Costello: What sauce?Abbott: Duck. (Costello falls to the floor.) What are you doing down there?
Costello: But you said--
Abbott: I said to hand me the sauce.
Costello: What sauce?
Abbott: Duck. (Costello falls to the floor.) Get up off the floor! What's the matter with you?
Costello: I'm just doing what you tell me. I'm a good assistant.
Abbott: If you want to be a good assistant, then do what I tell you. Now, hand me the sauce.
Costello: What sauce?
Abbott: Duck. (Costello falls to the floor.) What the matter with you? Aren't we in enough trouble?
Costello: How should I know? I'm spending half my time on the floor!
Abbott: I don't know what gets into you! All I ask is that you do me a simple favor, and you can't even do that.
Costello: I'm trying, Abbott! I want to be a good assistant. Please let me help you, Abbott.
Abbott: Then do what I ask you and give me the sauce.
Costello: What sauce?
Abbott: Duck. (Costello falls to the floor.) What's the matter with you? Why won't you hand me the duck sauce?
Costello: You mean they named some sauce after a duck?
Abbott: That's right.
Costello: Well, now I've seen everything!
--LJC
Raymond Chandler used short stories he had written, usually combining two or three together, to produce his first three (and best) novels. He called the process “cannibalizing” his own work.
I wish that I could say that I’m cannibalizing my work, but the fact is that I’m just plain stealing. A good 50 percent of what I’ve contributed to “The Conning Tower” so far has been stuff I’ve either posted on another blog or came up with in my reckless youth. (Come to think of it, that’s not true. My youth was fairly recked.)
It’s not easy to admit when one (I always use the circumlocution “one” when what I mean is “me”) has sunk to such levels as to pilfer from oneself, but there it is. Thief and victim, all in one am I.
--LJC
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)