A Paper Cup

A Paper Cup
Turn Your New Radio On
Clover
Herman The Fly
Summer Green

A Paper Cup

everything
starts with
a small amount
a paper cup
pours out
enough water
for a seed
to grow




Turn your new radio on


Clover

so little
you sat
on the curb
with your legs
in the Ohio wind

Herman The Fly

lace curtains
for a screen door
see the oak tree
and the willow
the neighborhood
the blue sky
and the breeze
opens a space
for Herman
to fly in


Summer Green

the whole field
is summer green
honeybees tend
the white flocks
of warm clover

Silent Machines In 9 Sizes

D’s Truck
I Throw Books At Birds
The Mourner
Without Feeling Something
A Ghost & His Dog
Clouded
Out Of Respect
The President Statue Park
Left Spinning

D’s Truck

D’s truck
is filled with junk
gallon jugs and linoleum rolls
styrofoam, tin cans, brooms
tarpaper scraps, a yellow afghan
anything he thinks
he can use again
piled in the back
is only part of
something bigger
forgotten on the street
red faded paint
pointed at mountains
a hundred jagged miles away




I Throw Books At Birds

I have my place
a fallen tree bedding
on the slight hill
above the sea.
With a box full
of munitions
and fern netting
I wait for the trill.
Sometimes I scatter
some bait
from the vines
and undercover
while I wait.

Sooner or later
a bird comes near
usually a jay
or little sparrow.
I take my time
I choose my fodder.
If the bird’s small
all I need
is a paperback.
If it’s a pigeon
or a gull
I use a hardcover.


My Translation of Jacques Prevert’s ‘The Morning’ from his ‘Histoires’ collection

The Mourner

I am the rooster’s cry
The night’s swan song
A weary call
I cry
I rise everyday
Day after day
I am alone
And cannot hear
Beyond the sound of me
Where there is life
And happiness begins
I am cut by the sun
And I dream in the dark

Without Feeling Something

For a while there
everywhere you went
the sight of it
shrieked at you
boiling tea pot colors.
It was on the attack
you couldn’t look at it
without feeling something.
But now it’s returned
to hanging in wind
on a thin white pole
or peeling off windows
whatever it was before.

I’ve seen the heart of it
I want that in me today
I’m tired from early waking
working all the time
without feeling something.
So I catch one
off my neighbor’s yard
and take it home.
I turn the gas stove on
toss it in a frying pan.
The blue flame heats
its edges crisp.
A smoke rises
I flip it
and while it cooks
I take a wide plate
from the cupboard.


A Ghost & His Dog

A word about Redwood
who gave up on this world
and lived in the blackberry thorns.
Every morning followed ritual
up the hill into the sun
holding two yards of gold rope
being pulled back and forth
to the store on the corner
for his bottle of green.
So what does remain
after all of these years?
Just the vision of him
his dog tugging him
like a dancing girl
while he drank at that
green fading light.

Clouded

Misty had clouded eyes
sitting in the circle of smoke
always some loud tragedy
in some rented room.
She licked the wound
on her unmended leg
the speckled fur
came undone whenever
she moved.

Out Of Respect

You would think
they would stop chopping
the trees to the sea
out of respect for the old man
who lay dying in his house.
But there was the deep keel
of green swirling water below
and only a crop of yellow maple
stood between the rocky shore
and whoever heard of
silent machines
standing watch
and feeling
for life?




The President Statue Park

They’re all there, on an asphalt acre,
the good ones and the bad ones and the ones
that whispered by. The President Statue Park
has its own billboard on the edge of the road;
I must have gone by a thousand times while
it weathered. It took all these years for me
to finally roll off the Interstate with enough
interest to actually want to see it. Maybe I
would even buy one? We have a garden in
back of our house and I could picture someone
famous standing there, holding a birdbath
perhaps, with a string of green beans or
morning glory growing up his leg.
Some other cars and trucks were
parked in the lot, they seemed to get a fair
draw from the highway that roared over
there. I noticed a semi filling its trailer
with rows of cement Lincolns. They looked
like spectators at the Civil War. Who knows
where they are going next?
It was a hot day and when I got out
I felt the wave of it hit, stirred by
the ratchet of crickets in the tall weeds.
Blue dragonflies kept watch overhead.
Someone’s hand-painted White House
made the gate from the parking lot.
A hushed family was rolling a clay
Kennedy out on a wagon.

Something I noticed right away
when I entered was the way they put
the ones we all know upfront. Pushed
together were the familiar figures, the
ten or so you remember from school.
From the cheapest paper-mache Reagan
to a marble Roosevelt and the crowds
seemed pleased picking them over.
But I was after something
different, so I followed the chain-link
fence away. The asphalt wore through
with little wild flowers and oily puddles.
I saw wooden and wire framed statues
of politicians I didn’t know. I guess
that’s why they were back here in
the crumble where you had to have
words to read who they were and
what they had done. Not so mean
or so clever or sad that they needed
to be remembered forever.
I laughed when I saw
the round one among them. Funny,
I only knew him by his shape. A huge
plastic Taft. His broken gray seams
were left unpainted and he was
rain-water worn.


Left Spinning

A thin slice of melon
played like a record

Radio

A Borrowed Bird
Pearl Street
Old Flowers
Paperback Crop
Tomatoes For Sale
Humpty Dumpty
The Ohio Window
Franklin Construction
Happy Anniversary
Two Cantaloupes
On A River In Ohio
Satch
Two Mourning Doves
The Ohio Wheel
Hydrangea Legs
Marlene Dietrich
The Lobster Wars
The Biggest Fish
My Grandmother, My Grandfather
28
A Yard Sale
King Medicine
Seagull
Tree Cup
Yellow Submarine
Lighthouse
The Blue Something
Philadelphia to Akron
Morris Teahorn
Acorns
Paper Airplane Dream
Back Home

A Borrowed Bird

She had the funniest
look of disbelief
squinting through
thick glasses perched
on her nose, her mouth
open and crooked.
We must have been
over Colorado mountains,
Oklahoma, or one of
those plains states
where the air can
boil up in thick
black thunder.
The turbulence
shaking the plane
got her hands gripping
the armrests
listening to me.
Another spell of
bad weather hit
and I repeated
“Here we go again.”
I know a third grader
knows better
what I was saying
was magic, made up
on the edge of
what she knew
and what couldn’t be.
Just there, balanced
in a neverland where
it might be true.
“Every once in a while
the big bird we’re in
needs to flap its wings.”
She still wasn’t so sure
and maybe I should have
been more honest about it.
Think of us going round
and round over oceans
and land.
People have borrowed
these birds, the captain
and crew sit in the front
in a crown of blinking lights
soothing the bird with buttons
and levers while we all sit
and wait in the narrow aisle
like Pinocchio in the whale.
It’s a little scary I know,
no wonder, think of the size
this animal traveling
like swimming in the air.
“Here, hold your arms out
and try it too. You can
expect to shudder and
drop as you do. Don’t worry.”
While the world spins
underneath us, with those
big silvery wings this bird
takes us safely where
we want to go.


Pearl Street

Lawn cut down
to the quick
the chicory
purple flowers
just poking through
like periscopes
daring to grow

Set List For Reading On August 9th

Old Flowers

I’m only in there a little while.
There are so many books stacked
like old flowers now, petals everywhere.
The hot air, dry in here as an Egyptian tomb
preserves the paper history of his 95 years.
The fabled 1930s, union massacres,
Woody Guthrie in the radio, interrupted
by the 1940s war, the photo of him
by the door wearing a uniform.
The factories and the military
then the years afterwards
when the labor dream
could be pinned to an easy fear
communism, conspiracy
with the enemy.
It’s all there for anyone to read
to understand how we got here
the cycles of exploitation and greed
a crafty oppression, the slow
building of the American pyramid
the song on a record
Paul Robeson sings.

Paperback Crop

A room has been cleared
in the back of the house.
Everything that was in there
has been boxed and pulled out
and trucked about town
finding new homes or
I guess going into the ground.
I was lucky enough to accept
a Signet paperback from 1959,
Tortilla Flat by Steinbeck.
This is the hot afternoon
I start to read the yellow pages
moving crisp as leaves of corn.

Tomatoes For Sale

The road goes beside
the tall green monster
wall of Genetic corn.
This is the part
I can’t understand.
How could this fertile land
put up with that?
Where’s the rebellion
the fight against
what is wrong?
That’s why
it’s a victory
to see a painted sign
on the chair in front
of their house.
Up the dirt driveway
I can see tomatoes
growing from buckets
in the garden.




Humpty Dumpty

He almost fooled me
laughing that way
on top of the wall
an arm dropped
over my shoulder
his wheezy breath
and cough at
the end of it




The Ohio Window

When I open
the Ohio window
all of a sudden

this is
the cricket song
my radio
won’t get
where I
come from

everyone
is in on it
the train
here and gone
the dog
that dots
with barks

I understand
a car rush
fading
like wind

inspiration
in listening

a night
like this
goes right
into dreaming




Franklin Construction

A red and white
dumper truck
tipped up so
it makes
a spill of walnuts
on the pavement
below




Happy Anniversary

I had to hear
the story
repeated
a couple times
when he said
his daughter
was marrying
a college man
(that would be me)
the old woman
was elated
until she heard
the words
English major.
How sad
everyone knows
the years
will barely
provide
it’s obvious
to the wise
no bird
ever built
a nest
with poetry.




Two Cantaloupes

Seen from a distance it couldn’t be what
it looked like. We drove up close to make sure
it wasn’t a mirage. Two cantaloupes were left
alone on a curb in the empty parking lot.
What a strange thing to do. Or is it?
Maybe this is how Johnny Appleseed
started out. Only now it’s two cantaloupes
planted in a modern day meadow.




On A River In Ohio

We unloaded it
into the Vermillion river
and took the couch for a ride.
It’s summertime,
everyone is friendly,
they wave to us going by.
A leisurely comfortable glide,
carried along the mossy
glassy surface,
rippled sometimes
by the fish below.
Swallows dipped
and threaded
and we spotted their nests
when we went under
the railroad bridge,
counting the mud daubed
into the trestles.
Our chair turned
when it wanted to,
presenting us with views,
like a barge loaded with
flinty chips of ore,
a blue cartoon tug tied to it,
a big willow draped hushing
leaves and shadow,
crowds of boats along the bank,
past houses stood like dominoes,
yellow windows going on.
Deep in a clutch of woods
some twilight fireflies began.
When the slow green poured
out into Lake Erie
you could tell the day
was getting done.
We came to rest
against the breakwater
blocks of rocks run aground.
There was a lampstand
washed up like a crooked stick
beside us. I clicked it on.
It made a glow.
Lifting off the upholstery,
pushing aside cattails
and dark tall purple flowers
we rose to the top of stones
just in time to see the red
ball of the sun at rest
on the waves
and filled with the warm
summer Ohio air going down.


Satch

Satch took a correspondence course twice a week
in a little office room above the street.
He learned the different ways to fill a page.
As an exercise, the class wrote letters
to far away. At first his words to Tennessee
were formal and awkward, cold to look at
as a blueprint, but somewhere along the way
he became an architect and something lonely
in him bloomed. He found he had a gift.
Something started to happen. One day
he stared deeply at certain words she wrote.
When he got her letters he took them upstairs.
He took his shoes off and lay down on the bed.
When he opened the envelope so carefully
he would pull out her folded letter and
bring it to his face, eyes closed
acting like someone in love.
Handwritten letters were precious
he traced her motion in the air
trying to conjure her there.
He bought a record that mentioned
Tennessee. He thought of wildflowers
and green hills, he thought of her
all the time. Once he talked to
a truck driver for half an hour.
Anyone who had been there
had been that much closer than him.
She sent him her photograph and
finally, he decided he couldn’t wait,
he wrote he was on his way.
He got a train ticket
arranged time off from work
he had never felt such excitement.
It must be the warmth of Spring.
At the department store
he bought a blue suit
a pair of leather shoes
and a diamond ring.
He was floating on air
without a care to what
the world might say.
That’s when it always happens.
It used to be called a Dear John letter.
On the very day he was due to leave,
it was typed, a text book example,
it was like Day 1 all over again.
An impersonal letter from Tennessee.
He read it and had to throw it away.
He went up to his bedroom
and came back down the stairs.
In his socks, he went to the basement.
Lit only by the last green of daylight
he found the corner by the furnace.
He set his new shoes flat
on top of the suitcase
and pushed it way back.
There were canning jars
berries cobwebbed in dust.
Time took care of it all.
like a broken fairy tale heart.
He never really got over her
not even after all those years
when his shoes were brought down
the laces were brittle and the suitcase
cracked open to reveal a blue
pressed suit with crushed flowers.




Two Mourning Doves

One is sitting
on the wire
another arrives
whirring wings

This evening
they could fly
anyplace
but this
is where
they stay




The Ohio Wheel

At night
the crickets
creak
the Ohio wheel
like a carrousel




Hydrangea Legs

Two flowers
in a glass jar
their green stems
reach through water
ready to walk




Marlene Dietrich

I wonder
if anyone
still listens
to the radio
in this age

It seems
old fashioned
and gone
until I am
proven wrong

In the car
on the way
to Akron
I press
the button
and hear
her sing




The Lobster Wars

Coffins do not sail
in these coves anymore
laying down their lines
and buoys like territories
the boundaries of wars
fought over on water

Those days are gone
their men are too
faded old
the last of them
living with memory
and the cold




The Biggest Fish

Our second day on the Atlantic
we tried casting and reeling
catching our limit of eelgrass,
seaweed and tangled line
when along paddled a man
in a red life jacket.
“How’s the fishing?”
I held up the empty bucket.
He was lucky though,
it was a good day for swimming.
He pointed across Harpswell Sound
a thousand yards to the other side
where the Bailey Island bridge
underwent repairs. He was
the crane operator, done for today
and he was swimming home.
Hungry, tired, at the mercy of current
and tide, he was the biggest fish
I didn’t catch.




My Grandmother, My Grandfather

“I see him in dreams too,” she told me.
We both communicate with the other world
only she tells him, “I’ll be with you soon.”




28

Her mother died only 28
in the flu epidemic and although
it was war, her father sent for help
from Scotland.




A Yard Sale

At the fire station
I read the sign
pinned to a couch
LBJ Sat Here


King Medicine

I suppose it turned into a bit of a story after all,
going to Bangor to see the Stephen King house.
It’s one of those things I had to do,
even though it bothered me to. If I was in
Memphis, Tennessee I would feel the same way
about Graceland. I would have to go.
I would stand in front of that metal gate
just like the tourists do. First we stopped at
the Brunswick library to get a book on CD.
I chose Cell because I knew the way it just
ripped right into story. Pulling out we passed
a man in a pink shirt, smoking a pipe and
I threatened to take him along with us.
295 North was a good drive, like a painting,
calm smooth new black tar, little traffic, low pines
on either side. Caution Moose signs and after a
long while listening to Cell and my daughter’s
occasional gasps, the garbage hill before Bangor.
It looks like a weird mountain the road bends for
and misses. Of course I thought of the drafts
that might be in there. We took Exit 184
and waited to go right on Union Street.
A beefy man with a Boston Red Sox t-shirt
crossed the walk. We passed Mansfield Stadium
a little later and saw the stands full, I thought
he’s probably there. We missed West Broadway
and I had to turn onto Pond, then Cedar and
suddenly I felt we were very near.
I knew it was a red house. I saw it.
Well, it was easy to feel like a fool now
but I had to do it. The street was eighty feet
wide, mansions on either side and nobody
was parked near. I pulled over just past
the property corner with a big green frog statue.
I don’t know what I expected to happen—no,
I do—I can tell it in awful truthfulness.
Like any other fan drawn here, I expected
there to be a chance of this happening:
at just this moment, he would be coming out,
a wave, I could say hello and talk a minute.
Grandpa made a call on the cell-phone
to tell where we were and shambled
at Rosa like a zombie along the curb.
We got our pictures taken awkwardly.
All the windows looked still and
I couldn’t blame them. I could hear shrieks
from the baseball field a couple blocks away.
We got back in the car, but I wasn’t done yet.
I had to try the stadium. I could picture him
there in the bleachers watching the game.
What a bizarre ride. The potbellied man
on the corner of Hammond wearing shorts,
black socks, an umbrella tucked under his arm.
All day long a fog had clung to the trees.
The radio kept warning about a hurricane.
He was prepared. Past the Dead River Company,
we circled those streets back onto 13th and then
we were there, I pulled off of the road.
I parked on the grass like the other cars
but I was the only one who dared to get out.
“But look,” I said. I pointed to a man
on the other side of the mesh wire fence.
He sat at a picnic table, writing something.
“That might be him, right there.”
When I got closer, walking past all the rows
of parked cars, I could tell it wasn’t him.
The announcer inside set up another batter,
a strange sounding name, people clapped
in the tall stands. I went around to the gate
and read Senior World Series and admission
cost, 10 dollars. That stopped me. I turned
around. I went back to the car. Now
I just wanted to get a postcard to send.
I don’t need to say how I even failed at that,
the Family Dollar store didn’t have any,
the grocery no, nor the gas station where
there was a dwarf in front of me in line.
“I’m sorry dear,” the cashier said.
It’s a winding and steep river town,
old buildings, iron, stone, wooden,
people living in a dream. We saw
the Paul Bunyan statue, giant maniac
face that I’ve read about. I didn’t really
expect to write this, I didn’t take notes
the way I should have. We drove out of there,
over the Penobscot again, heading south
on Route 1, caught in tourist traffic,
a taste of my own medicine, slowed
to a crawl for every tourist town
from then on, Camden, Rockport,
Waldoboro, Damariscotta, Moody’s Diner,
Wiscasset on down.




Seagull

With one lobster trap
set in the stern
he rowed slow
and didn’t mind
the seagull
in the bow
I’m sure
he had a name
for the bird
but we didn’t
stop to ask




Tree Cup

From the beginning
it was a tea bag
I dug into ground
patted it over
with the toe
of my shoe
then
after all these years
here I am again
I have to reach
up to a branch
where the ripe
teacup is waiting




Yellow Submarine

Max has
his favorite song
we must have heard it
twenty times

Finally
I turned on the radio
for something new
and what do you know
that song
by the Beatles
plays again




Lighthouse

The storm is gone
ocean calm
I can sleep
with a firefly
for company
on my wall




The Blue Something

After another unsuccessful fishing trip
we were motoring back to the dock
when we spotted the blue something
caught in the weeds. It breeched
like the back of a baby whale,
closer we could see it was
a plastic barrel. It had been
in the water for a while,
there was a growth of slimy algae
and big mussel shells.
No loop on it or handle to tie to,
I got into the rowboat so
I could fight it to shore.
Slowly going, I managed
to roll it into the shallows.
Stamped on the side I could read
Envasa Plas SA, San Juan Argentina
but no mention of what it contained.
Of course I was hopeful for contraband.
Grandpa was worried it might be
filled with oil or something hazardous,
kicked off a ship. He was in favor of
leaving it alone, but I had to know.
Maybe it was part of a smuggling ring,
a radio antenna inside sending out
a weak signal even now.
I couldn’t let it go—I could see
the headlines if I did—New Jersey
Couple Discover Millions In Barrel!
There could even be the horror of
an informant’s mangled body
crumpled up in there.
But 40 gallons of toxic mystery
almost won over, until I saw
the small hole in the top
pouring out clear water.
Now it seemed safe to find out
what it held. Argentina? What did
they export? What could have drifted
the Atlantic all the way here?
Wouldn’t it be perfect after all
our empty fishing hours if we
caught a drum full of pickled herring?
It was hard work to drag it onto
the rocky shore. More clear water
gushed from it. Grandpa got a hammer
and chisel and opened another hole
so the water poured out in a freshet,
not red, or stinking of gasoline,
or burning radioactivity bleaching
the shoreline. We let it all pour out
then I turned it, stood it upright and
looked through the little hole.
All blue lit inside, it held only
some water, a sprig of seaweed,
a bolt and a shard of plastic,
nothing else. Pulling it up
the wooden steps from the shore,
tied to a handline, across the grass
to the side of the shed, its drifting
journey has ended. It will make
the perfect rain barrel.

Philadelphia To Akron

Flying at night
looking down at
all the lights
the deep swirls
carnivals, volcanoes
and city grids.
My daughter sleeps
on my shoulder.
We’re over countryside
the little roads blink
headlights turn
in the deep black
that stretches on
until I wonder
are we up or down
stars or the ground?
It’s easy to imagine
any version of America
an inland ocean below
a forest a thousand miles wide
a Raymond Bradbury town
where a boy looks up
at the sound of a twinkling
rocket overhead.




Morris Teahorn

Actually that statue you see
there in the park, heroically covered
with pigeons, wearing the gray
clothes and crooked hat
from another century
isn’t really a statue at all.
His name is Morris Teahorn.
He’s been walking across the park
for two hundred years. His progress
has been tracked in paintings,
a woodcut, postcard etchings
and photography.
As of today, he’s halfway
to where he thinks he should be.




Acorns

This blanket
rain covering
began with
a few taps
like acorns
on the roof




Paper Airplane Dream

It’s the crickets
and the ceiling fan
calm

time slowed down
to where a dream
comes easily

the day
all folded up
and flown
into night




Back Home

A leopard slug
lifts its head
to greet me


8/29/9
3:15 AM

writing: allen frost
august 9—august 29, 2009
in ohio and maine
and back to bellingham

With The Utmost Kindness And Calm

A Day Before Halloween
Bertha Halfton’s Lullaby
Escalation
The Life of Mark Twain
Water Has Taken Me
Rain Work
Nameless Trees
My Home Is The Sea
Just Like A Ghost
No Huckleberry Finn
On A Wet Corner
Ohio Train

A Day Before Halloween

A day before Halloween
there’s a frozen puddle
a window made of ice
I see an orange leaf
held underneath
and I put my own
cold hands in pockets




Bertha Halfton’s Lullaby

Bertha Halfton woke up again to her daughter’s yell.
This was her third time, first at 10, then 11, now it was
midnight, she couldn’t fall asleep and she had to keep
telling her mother. This time it was like in the ring,
when Bertha got up, she stood there in her dark
bedroom wearing the warm pajama version of her
rollerderby uniform, full of steam. She moved,
gaining speed to her daughter’s side. With the utmost
kindness and calm she administered her sleeping hold.
The girl scratched her mother’s cauliflower ears before
she finally fell into sleep.




Escalation

We went to the bookstore
but spent the whole time
going up and down
on the escalator

For a two year old
that was the height
all that silvery metal
moving like a centipede
the green eerie light
shining from the dark
spaces below
the clacking rattle
of its rise and fall

A half hour travel
wasn’t enough
for a greater marvel
than you could ever
read about




The Life of Mark Twain

There’s a black and white movie
about the life of Mark Twain
it ends with the old man we know
sitting in a rocking chair at night
looking out at Halley’s comet
I remember this because
when my daughter was born
I used to wrap her in blankets
and take her outside to look
through the fog above Seattle
at the blurry shape of that
big comet crossing the sky




Water Has Taken Me

A weekend of hard rain
another pouring morning
I had to get to work
the bus stop waits
through the forest
and Connelly Creek
overflows

It was twenty feet wide
but I thought I could
pick stones by dim light
and get over dry

But after a few steps
I was sunk deep in
that realization that
water has taken me

When I got across
I carried the water
with me from there
back to land and
the cul-de-sac
and the road
to the dark
top of the hill
I waited upon

I waited for cars
to pass obliviously
so their headlights
wouldn’t catch me
squeezing the creek
from my feet




Rain Work

I join them at the door
opening umbrellas and
parachuting out




Nameless Trees

“Hello, I’m the Inspirational Speaker. Which way is the gym?”
“Oh yeah…” replied the sallow boy slouched against the brown
Camaro. “It’s not where you think it is...” His arm raised, like a
puppet attached to string. “See those trees? You’ll find
the path.” An emotion almost broke across the boy’s face,
giving him a strange sort of choking look.
“Thanks. I don’t want to be late.” He grinned or tried to,
the boy made him nervous with that look. “See you there,
I hope.” He took off into the woods, sinking his shoes
in the fir needle loam, liking the sudden cold air feeling
on his face.
It was hardly a path at all, low bushes crowded his legs,
vines would trip him if he stepped off. It got strange around him.
He knew his trees to a degree, maples, oaks, birches, ash, cedar,
pines, but there were nameless trees that bent and scrambled
to cover the light and lock him in.
So he slowed and listened and he knew he wasn’t getting
anywhere. It occurred to him, sure he may have been the fool
for being misled here, but even if that was true, here he was,
he had to adapt to it. He could allow a little time to pass.
He heard the spilling rush of a stream somewhere nearby
and what sounded like a rusted wheel turning. He looked for
the source, a little black capped bird so small he could have
cupped it in his hand, or held it on his palm like a compass.
As he reached for it, his arm began to slow, his body stopped
and hardened and his hand froze, held branching out.
The chickadee landed on the smooth bark of his palm,
bobbed and trembled about before its beak settled on
a direction and off it flew.




My Home Is The Sea

That quiet hiss
where bow cuts waves

Up in the beam
with the stars
as my guide




Just Like A Ghost

The screen door bangs
I feel the rattle
the cans fall
off the shelves
groceries roll
onto the floor
so it seems
every little thing
is tied by string
to you
passing through




No Huckleberry Finn

No Huckleberry Finn
necessary today
all the dark clouds
gone away

Even though
I’m prepared today
to take off shoes
and socks and walk
through the overflow

Actually
I look forward
to the feeling
silt and stones
under barefeet
I thought
about it
like a poem

It doesn’t happen
the creek won’t do
what I expect
the weather
passed
I walk on
imagination
everything
is fine




On A Wet Corner

On a wet corner
the traffic light shines
in a night rain
we all know

It’s late
so feel
what’s
going on

Waiting
for
everything
to change




Ohio Train

That day
the rain
came down
in a wave
we had to stop
for a train
the ground
making thunder
we took shelter
in the cover
an old caboose
held over us
we watched
all those cars
going by
the wheels
the heavy
metal creak
the horn
far ahead
pulling
all that
vision
we waited
a long time
to be done
I held
my son
up to my face
smelling his hair
until my daughter
saw the end
and pointed

writing: allen frost
written: november 3-november 10, 2006

Infrequent Flier

Fly With Umbrella

2 Silver Coins
Now You Got Me Lost
Aluminum Ladder
Stuck In The Air
Flying People
Between The Clouds

2 Silver Coins

Give the man
two silver coins
ride the wheels
to where

Scarcely a dawn
passes by
when I’m not
going there

Doing this
for the day
I wonder
into a dream

I only wake
when I hear the bell
to go back
home again

Now You Got Me Lost

The orange blood of Sylvan Moore left a trail across the
floor. It stopped where he stopped at the washroom door,
and spilled more going in. At the sink, the water had been
turned on, the faucet handle bore the trace, the bowl too,
where the splash had formed. It was terrible to think of
poor beloved Sylvan Moore struggling like this,
staunching himself with those torn gray paper towels,
but this was my job and I had to see it to the end.
The evidence of his escape was everywhere. The window
was left open where he crawled out to the air. Who
knows how far he could get but I wouldn’t give him
2 to 5 that he could reach the boulevard alive.
Especially now that I saw the arrow thrown in
the trash.
It was painted with orange, from the feathers on
down to the jagged barb. I could take my time
tracking this kill.
Back in the hall, I took the elevator down the twelve
floors to the lobby like anyone else would do. I
wandered over to the counter and reached towards
the little silver bell. Before I hit it though a bellboy
popped up like a jack-in-the-box.
“Can I help you, lady?”
“You got the new paper yet?”
“Yes, of course, up to the minute,” and he turned around
to the wall. We both stared at the glass pipe leading up
into the ceiling. He flicked a switch and we watched
the newspaper capsule drop down the chute. It landed
with a click and the kid brought it to me. “That’ll be
six bits, lady.”
I told him, “Keep the change,” passing him three silver
coins. I tore open the tube and shook out the crisp roll
of today’s latest news. I skipped the front page of the
Herald with its photo of Sylvan Moore and opened
the paper to the dograce listings. I sighed. “Looks like
I lost this time,” I said and tossed the paper onto the
counter.
“I hope you don’t mind me saying,” the bellboy grinned
sourly, “but I bet on Sylvan Moore.”
I let him know I didn’t care, turning away from him
without a reply, walking my reflection over the marble
floor. I was always cast as the heavy, I was used to it.
The public was conditioned by what the media said.
Sure, they’re rooting for a man with an arrow wound,
they’re always betting on the other guy. I already had
the next arrow locked into the bow, I was all ready to
end this.
I wasn’t expecting the rain though. When I came in,
the weather was fine! I pulled my cape up over my head
like a hood. The rain sounded like sand falling on me.
The night was full of the rain. I headed for the alley,
I knew he’d be there, half dead. Why worry?
Diamonds shined in every neon sign angled out over
the street. I reached into my coat to get my hand on
the bow so I could finish this game.
There was moonlight in the alley where far overhead
the washroom window let out, onto a weakly-holding-on
fire escape. He wasn’t up there. I was ready to shoot
at the next second. Where are you, Sylvan Moore?
I didn’t spy him right away. Where was he? I was
between two walls rolling off rain, silhouettes and
strange shadows. For just a second I doubted whether
he was there or not. Nobody could go far after what
I did, especially not Sylvan Moore. But all I could see
was rain falling down.
I held the crossbow in front of me and I quickly went
further into the alley. I was tiring of this. The drainpipes
popped and trickled. Suddenly I was through to the next
street. Did he make it this far?
Some carriages slid by in the shallow slick. I looked for
any disappearing signs of orange on the cobblestones.
They were there.
The smallest flow of it lurked in the puddles.
It occurred to me that coming this far he could have
grabbed a trolley. They rattled by every once in a while.
That must be what he did. He had a bit of luck on his
side, that’s all, so what.
His trail limped up to a flower stand that was in the
midst of giving up and closing for the night. I caught
the edge of the shutter swinging down, then asked,
“Just a second, I have a question.” I took a look around
the bright yellow room. He wasn’t in there. “Have you
seen anybody in trouble?”
The green face of the florist leaned down to me.
“You mean Sylvan Moore?” At that he laughed. I didn’t
have to guess he knew more than he was telling me.
They were all in on making sure Sylvan Moore won.
Was everyone helping him along the way?
I threw the shudder closed. It didn’t matter. He didn’t
have long to live unless he made it to the …
Of course! He had to go to the infirmary. I hiked out into
the rain on the road and hooked a taxi.
I jumped in the back seat. After I shut the door I wanted
to say where we had to go, but the taxi was already
rattling as fast as it could in the right direction.
“Don’t worry, friend. You picked the winning ride.
I got my money on this. We’ll find him.”
The taxi slew through the pour of every last bit of the
night.
“How do you know where he is?” I asked.
“Somebody squealed.”
We went around a corner that put me hard into the
cardboard trimmed corner. I leaned into the next turn
better. The plastic windshield showed a view of the
tilting, weaving city sights I knew.
“Are you going to the infirmary?” I asked him.
“I’ll take you there,” he told me. The road was in control
no matter how it seemed to shoot us like a meteor here
there and everywhere.
It must have been another minute before I realized
what was going on. I leaned over the seat, “Alright
wise guy, you can stop the cab now. I’m getting out.”
I had to take out the crossbow to get through to him.
“Okay, okay,” he wheeled the cab to the side of the
road, then he laughed, “But you’ll never win now!”
I got back into the rain. He had done a good job
getting me lost. I watched the red lantern swinging
on the back of the taxi as it left me stranded out here
next to a wall of brambles on the dark edge of suburbia.
I was already soaked.
Across the road from me were some houses with
lights burning. Maybe I could get a ride into town
somehow. As long as they weren’t laying odds on
Sylvan Moore. So far, everyone was.


Aluminum Ladder

Standing
on the lawn
all day long

In the spot
where
the Big Dipper
will appear
at night

Stuck In The Air

The getaway steps
to the stars
went up
at night
returned in dawn

If someone moved
the ladder away
before they climbed
back down
they would be stuck
in the air above

Small as sparrows
tipped around
like little dots
waiting for
the ground

Flying People

When a person is dreaming, radar passes right through
them. Even after discovering this, verifying it in one
experiment after another, Irvam Nashteer wasn’t sure
what to do with this remarkable knowledge. He cut
the power to the swiveling aerial, threw a black curtain
over it and woke his snoring patient.
“Mr. Hursky, your session is over.”
With a groan, Irvam’s client rolled onto his back and
stared at the ceiling, blinking, rubbing his eyes. He
mumbled, “Thanks.” Despite the treatment, it didn’t
take him long to start talking about cigarettes, but
Irvam wasn’t listening.
His eyes followed the stitching rise and fall of the
swallows out over the parking lot. His distraction
took him far enough away from his office to the most
fantastic vision no radar could detect.
The telephone rang and interrupted his notebook
diagrams. “Nashteer Hypnosis and Mentalist
Therapies,” he answered automatically.
“Irv! It’s me, listen what are you up to tonight? Correction.
I’ll tell you what you’re doing tonight. You’re coming to
my barbeque. I’ll be watching for you, Irv. See you then.”
Irvam was left holding an empty phone. He set it back on
the cradle. That was his neighbor, Matt or Pat, or whatever
his name was, with another attempt to make Irvam feel
welcome. They seemed incapable of understanding.

It was twilight as the small electricar pulled into the red
clay driveway and stopped. Sure enough, just across the
street was aglow with checkered lights and loud mariachi
music from the other side of the fence.
Irvam unfolded his car door and got out. For a second
he wished could disappear into his dark house, but it
wasn’t going to happen.
A sign popped out of the swaying thick leaves overhead
and frazzled with the static image of the party waiting
for him.
“Irv! It’s about time!” The blurry dotted cartoon of his
neighbor flapped at him. “Get over here, pal!” The sign
redirected Irvam as he tried to move toward his house,
it pushed against him, shining colors and bleating until
he got the picture.
“Alright, alright…” Irvam sighed, “I’m on my way.”
“That a boy, Irv!” The sign jostled and coasted on its wires
back to its origin.
Irvam was tired of all this, but he knew it wouldn’t last
much longer. After he put his plan into action, everything
would change and their rotten system would crumple and
fall.
“Hey Irv!” The silhouette hung over the plastic fence,
waving at him. “What took you so long? Burning the
midnight oil?” And the dark shape broke into laughter,
“Get on over here!”
Irvam swatted at the fireflies that circled him.
Once he got into the street, under the stars and clear
of the leaves, they disappeared.
His neighbor, Bill or Will, or whatever his name was,
held the gate open for him. The mariachi spilled out
too. That was the latest craze, they never held onto
anything that lasted long. That’s how it went with them.
“Good to see you, Irv. I’ve been waiting for you.”
Irvam went in and got slapped on the back like an old
friend arriving. The gate clacked behind him, the night
already taken over by the barbeque.
“Come on over here, by the fire. This is the place to be.”
On a heap of split tinder, an entire deer was roasting,
legs pointed up towards the stars. “Have a seat here.
Let me get you a plate.”
“Not much please,” Irvam insisted, though he was quickly
given a plateful of the meat. In the flickering light Irvam
looked down at his feet; the red dust had stained his
white pants.

Later that night, Irvam had assembled more than
thirty people in a moonlit field. They were all sleeping,
they were in his control. They stood in a tightly fit circle,
arms and feet locked to each other, their bodies cast
shadows like spokes inside a wheel. The quiet night
wasn’t terribly cold but every time Irvam uttered a
word it balled in an icy cloud that floated away from
him on a current. Cloud by cloud his breath weaved
a ring around the sleepers, then the whole thing
began to spin. Irvam lifted the merry-go-round sight
into the air. He pointed the slow wobbling higher and
higher until it revolved a hundred feet above. At that
height the puffing steam-driven blurr caught the wind
and ascended.
Irvam had worn himself out with their levitation.
He collapsed onto a rock. He needed to catch his breath
before he carried them further. The hoop had become
distant and lost in the astronomy.
“Irvam.”
He jumped. He felt a shift.
“Irvam, what was that?” The woman, whoever she was,
came closer to him. “Remember me? We met at the party.
I had to leave early.”
If she was smart she should have started to run, right
now, when Irvam was too weak to do anything, but she
came near. She held a little net and carried in her other
hand a glowing jar filled with orange and green fireflies.
“I was collecting some electricity,” she explained.
“I saw a strange flying machine or something.”
Irvam had to maintain contact with the air. By degrees
though, he turned on the rock so he could face her.
Yes, he remembered her from earlier. She was new
here and lonely and innocent enough to be wandering
around seeing things where she never should have
been. He felt sorry for her and those who were like
children, who just didn’t know what was happening,
but it was too late. Flying people were on the way.
In another couple minutes they would float up there
undetected, a few more layers leading in the sky.
The next history would happen soon, as soon as
she let him catch the breeze up there, but it didn’t
happen that way.
When she dropped the jar full of fireflies, that light,
shock and sound of broken everything woke him
right up.

Between The Clouds

I saw you Kerouac
at the airport
you laughed
at the obvious
whoever what was

I went on the plane
nobody checked my shoes
nobody sorted me out
I crossed the sky
way above America

If you blink you miss
the next message is
no longer hidden
it is written
between the clouds



cover: rosa frost
writing: allen frost
in the middle of june & july 2003

The End Of Beryllium

Quick Thinking
Cruise Control
The Greyhound
Three Masquerades
The Horse
American Stars At Night
Honest Ron And The Settlers
The Boy Who Spoke Robot
Ronald Orkinson
The Beryllium Tanager
For A Couple Stars And Wind
Lucky

Quick Thinking

“Is it fair to Midland?”
“I don’t know, let’s call him in here.”
He pressed the intercom. “Midland…”
A few seconds later, a tired voice
crackled in the speaker, “Yeah?”
“C’mon in here.” He turned off
the intercom. “I’ve always trusted
Midland’s opinion in the past.”
“We’ll see,” said his partner,
shuffling a hundred page tome.
“I’d be surprised if—” he stopped,
as the door to his office opened.


Cruise Control

A gray cool morning, dew rolled
across the windshield, the Winnebago
flashed along the highway.
They had been driving for an hour
or more when the old man turned to
his wife and said, “I think I’ll go in
back and have some tea. Can you
take the wheel?”
She smiled and put her book on
the dashboard, “Of course dear.”
He stood up in the aisle as she
scooted into the driver’s seat.
Yawning, he rubbed his weary
muscles. “I’ll be glad when we’re
there.” He made his way to the
kitchenette. He turned on the burner
and sat onto vinyl. The window blurred
with the sweep of dry farmland. Mile
after mile, until the teapot broke his
reverie. The Winnebago gently rocked
like a cradle.
“I decided to join you for some tea,”
his wife said pleasantly. She poured
two cups.
Then it dawned on him. “But who’s
driving?!”
“It’s okay. I put us on cruise control.”
In the serious pass of those icy seconds,
they felt the Winnebago start to lean.
The tires beat across the lane divots.


The Greyhound

Freddie Silk had to spend the night
at a friend’s house. Dawn barked at
him in the form of a purple and blue
greyhound. Its bulging eyes goldfished
urgently while its mouth opened and
snapped. Bark!
“What do you want?!” Freddie bolted
upright on the sofa. His head spun.
The sleek dog shuddered and it took
a few mincing steps.
Freddie seemed to recall a request
to take the dog out when nature called.
Freddie groaned and got up. His bare
feet hit the floor and he cursed, “Let’s
go dog!” Only after he stumbled to
the front door and opened it did he
realize what he had just done.
His friend’s retired greyhound racer
launched off the porch to rocket
down the sidewalk.
“Waaait!” Freddie called. “Hey—!!”
he struggled to remember the dog’s
name. The lope and curve of its
disappearance was awe inspiring.
Frightening. 35 mph on the loose.
Freddie had to chase it in his
undershirt past every cold
sleeping house in the neighborhood.




Three Masquerades

There were funerals every day, and this
afternoon there were two. As the mourners
of the first sadly departed the funeral home
in long black shadows down the path, got
into cars and slugged away, unlike them
he couldn’t conceal his joy. He ran across
the lawn, a smiling maniac. A Transylvanian
thing might have been at work for he had
just found a way to bring dead back to life.
Now he had a whole new chance at living.
Behind him, as his father was getting
used to an unmarked grave,
he took the bus on a fifteen minute ride
back to the brier patch, his home. Sorrowful
buildings, brown colored scribbled plants.
It figures…He hopped off and made for
the nearest bent-over house.
It was the house he used to share with
the old man. It was all his now. It sagged
as he went in, then down the flimsy stairs
to the basement level where the grim
washing machine and furnace shook
against the air and walls.
Frank Shliefer Jr. had what he wanted
and he was happy. At last and never again
would he have to fear for rent, costs, the
day to day job at the funeral home, the
enormity that made his young life so hard.
Everything was taken care of.
He was gone behind the door for half
an hour or more. What came out was
another man. The years wore on him…
Yet there was something familiar…
The amazing camouflage made it look
so real. Maybe he had to go around in
ancient disguise whenever he went out,
but Frank was free. While the rest of the
crowd he used to know had to wait for
their sixties to retire, slaving away for
the golden day of their old age pension,
he beamed like a full harvest moon.
So a few months passed, perhaps a
year. Frank could go on and on
without worry. The checks covered
food and shelter expenses and he even
had the old man’s bank account.
The winter melted into the ground.
With the arrival of the warm season,
Frank could venture outside, in the
old man’s spring clothes. Plaid pants,
green shirt, white sweater and hat.
Cherry trees blossomed innocent pink.
On the pathway, he laughed at daffodils
tilting their yellow faces towards him.
His own face wore a quarter inch of
makeup that stretched to wrinkles
around his smile. The whole world
was coming through to a new life.
“Hello there,” warbled the voice of
Bea Lefter, his neighbor.
“Good morning!” he returned, even
gesturing an old man’s way. “It’s a
beautiful day.”
The old woman on the porch
watched him so intently that he
was worried his act may be failing.
He caught his breath next to the
picket fence, ready to run if
necessary.
“Yes…” she agreed at last.
“But how could you forget
the Spring of 1975?”
Frank laughed in relief.
“That’s right! I remember!’
Safe. He straightened out of a sag.
“Say, listen…” she hushed, and
leaned a hand to her mouth. “You
ought to come over and see me
again. Next time that boy of
yours falls asleep before you.”
“I…”
She smiled and blushed. “You
know where I keep the key.”



Louis Manhattan pulled on his
company shirt and blue matching
slacks, zippered his coat and put
on his cap. Before the mirror, he
examined himself, setting his jaw
squarely and proudly. The company
colors, stripes and logo were still
his…though he had been fired half
a year ago. He wore this uniform
every day. The disgrace had simply
been replaced in his mind, he
continued to live as though on
payroll. In a way, he was too.
In his blue pocket was a company
credit card. He still used it. Who
would ever know? The company
practically owned America. Why
not? He was just one flea feeding
from it. Completely dressed, he
swung round, turned the TV off
and left his hotel room.
Downtown, Louis imagined
employment, going into skyscraper
lobbies. From one to another, he liked
the polished copper light of them,
the red carpeting, all the marble
and brass trim and the official
feeling that permeated everything.
His everyday routine was to carry
a big box in the elevators on his
mock business. Sometimes he would
get out and explore the plush halls,
maybe stare in glass doors. He could
admire his reflection or tip his cap for
the secretaries. Back in the elevators,
he’d talk to the other riders about
the weather and news headlines.
Things he knew they’d agree with.
At noon, he left for the street.
The whole avenue was company
uniforms and it felt so good to be
a part.


The cafeteria filled with sunlight
and the clatter sound of the lunchtime
crowd. The skyscrapers had let go.
So many men and women went
through the line and carried their
trays to tables set in even rows.
The chatter was muzak to the ears.
Only fate would will it so, that Frank
Shliefer would sit next Louis Manhattan
and the two of them would be eating
the same Special of the Day. They
chopped up their meals and ate
suspiciously…Last night they had
shared the same dream. A policeman
was looking for them…It was only a
matter of time…Magnet attention on
the door and the line of people forming
there. Half their food was gone before
they both stopped, blinked, realized
and froze.
A policeman had joined the line
entering the room. He took each slow
step like a tidal crab, or a comb
though hair. He jerked his belt,
disturbing the gun and billyclub.
Nobody else seemed to worry, but
the eyes of those two men grew large
as lamps. Frank and Louis were one in
fear of their nightmare coming true.
The policeman grabbed a plastic orange
food tray off a full steel shelf. He took a
step.
Suddenly two people crashed from the
tables and tangled up in running.
They flipped around on the floor
like just caught silver fish.
What did they expect?
The policeman broke from the line
and grabbed them. “That’s far enough!”
he ordered. They were tight in his claws.
He stood them in front of him, one in
each hand like a puppeteer. “What’s
your hurry?”
To the policeman’s surprise, the two
began to cry and confess outrageous
stories. One had been living the life of
a dead man, the other was stealing from
a company. They were both guilty of
crime. He reached for the handcuffs
on his belt, cleared his throat to read
them their rights, when another voice
stepped on his words.
“What are the charges?”
The policeman swung his puppets
around to face the questioner. A scared
gasp betrayed his confident expression.
His eyes saucered wide and
he let them loose. He was caught.
“That’s not a real badge…Where did
you get that?”
“Woolworths,” admitted the fallen,
so-called policeman. “For half price.”
“Right…” said the officer, new to the
scene. “And who are these two?”
Every masquerade had ended, the music
had slid out the cracks, all anyone could
do was admit.
“I’m not a cop…”
“I’m not dead…”
“I’m not working…”
That was it.




The Horse

“How great an act can you do in a horse costume?”
he demanded. He put another toothpick in his
gritted mouth. It already looked like a porcupine.
His acts gave him the same trouble anytime applause
closed the curtain on them. “Look, this is a simple
crowd, they just want to laugh. They like what you
do, you’re successful, why change it?”
“We can do Shakespeare,” said the front of the horse,
Joe was his name. “Othello, or Macbeth.”
Simmons, the back end of the horse, broke in seriously,
“We don’t want to do the same old juggling and
limericks anymore. We have big ideas for a new show.”

They could hear the crowd out in the theater still
clapping for them. On through the walls until the
orchestra played for the dancing girls kicking the
next act on. A toothpick fell. It blended in the plaid
of the manager’s trousers. “Listen boys,” he sighed,
“I been in show business for forty nine years…
Forty nine…That’s a long time. I’ve seen a lot of
acts rise or fall.” He took one of the toothpicks out
of his mouth and studied it for a moment. “When I
choose to book someone such as yourselves, it’s
because I have a wealth of experience. Suppose
the spark I see you possess will be the next Martin
and Lewis? I take a chance, I gamble, I bet, I get
you on stage and I let you perform. I have a vision
of what you will be.”
“Yeah…” Simmons interrupted defensively, mad,
“You haven’t seen half of what we can do.”
“That’s right,” Joe agreed.
Simmons insisted, “We don’t need you to tell us
what to do. We’re taking the show on the road!”
The two stood up defiantly, clutching the halves
of their costume.
The manager shrugged, unaffected. “I already
got a dancing cow waiting for a call back.”
Joe scoffed, “Replaced by a cow! What a sad
joke. Good luck!” He and his partner kept laughing
as they took up their bags. All down the stairs to
the door they joked. At the landing, the green exit
bulb buzzed and flickered like a radio dial. They
swung the door open and went out into the infinite
blue and moon shadowed alley.
“We’ll go to Chicago. There’s plenty of shows
there.”
A pail colored taxi slowed past on the street
and they ran to it.
“Take us to the train station!”
They lit up cigarettes and glowed in the dark
back seat. Joe rubbed his hand over the horse’s
carpet fur for luck.
A couple hundred yards was all it took.
The taxi journeyed to a stop beside a brick,
yellow lit platform with a little bungalow
stumped next to the tracks.
While the car idled, the driver’s eyes moled
in the mirror, looking at them. “We’re there.”
He stuck his hand over the seat at them.
Joe dug in his pocket.
“Here, let me,” said his partner. He paid
the man and opened the door. “We’re on
the up and up. I want to breathe in that Chicago
wind.” The taxi left them into the dark pour.
No lights of Broadway. Standing there,
they could hear crickets calling back and forth
from the wheat stalks that grew in between
the pavement slabs. “Goodbye nowhere!”
They walked to the glass booth that held
a goldfishing man. “Two tickets!” Simmons
beamed. “To Chicago!”
“You’re in luck, boys. Train just arrived.”
Simmons laughed, “See Joe! Everything’s
working perfectly!” Under the slip of window
he paid enough money. They could practically
hear the music with them, running to the waiting
train, to leave the old for the new dream of
skyscrapers. They showed their tickets to the
porter in the door and found their two seats.
The car was filled with sleeping people
who had already been a long way, too long
to open their eyes for some dustbowl late at
night, yet a small boy with a wooden toy
watched them sit down with their curious
animal halves. Simmons pushed the horse
body under his chair, reclined and pulled his
coat tightly around himself like a blanket.
“Just wait…” he yawned. “Chicago is on
the way.” The train lurched as the wheels
bit hold of the path again. The town was
leaving them forever. So long. Joe could see
the gray whale slant of their old theater amidst
the trees and bleak. Simmons yawned and
sighed, “I need to catch some shut eye, pal.”
The rails began to click the passing wheels
monotony. “I’m gonna get some air,” Joe said.
“Don’t forget your head,” Simmons reminded
him sleepily. Every performer knew that much.
There were stories beyond number about
costumes and lives lost in transit.
“Right.” He stuffed the horse head under
his arm and went down the rocking aisle
past crooked uncomfortable sleepers. A few
cars opened doors until the last one ended on
a little airy porch affair. He sat down on the
wooden chair and dropped the head at his feet.
What a relief. What a relief, watching the brief
lights of farm houses, shadows, the bleary fields
revealed by half moon, the sleeping lion bales of hay.
He shut his eyes and listened to the rhythm until
it became the crackling Victrola soundtrack to
a dream. In the Chicago of his dream, he and his
partner danced with a line of beauties across a
stage set Eden. Their tapping four hooves stopped
in a dramatic spot and from the horse’s mouth
spoke verses of poetry. It seemed so real that
when it changed song, he couldn’t believe that
world was gone. The train was stopped in
blackness. Boiling clouds hid starlight.
Maybe it’s been here for a while…He stood up.
Silence until he coughed. By squinting his eyes
at the midnight, he could almost see trees shaping
hills far away. It was a little spooky to be this
alone, wondering how his partner was in the cars
far ahead. Joe opened the door and went into
the desolate. What a nightmare. The abandoned
rows of seats faced quiet air. “Hello?!” Nothing.
He hurried anxiously to another door.
Turning the handle, he nearly collapsed into
the tracks laid yards below. The horse head fell
out of his grasp, end over end, to land on the
rock chips and gray slates in between the iron path.
Where was Chicago? Where was he now? There
wasn’t a sign of civilization. If he let himself down,
where would he go? He was trying to figure out
the riddle when his body was shaken into waking.
Suddenly he was staring at the frantic cut silhouette
of his partner Simmons.
“Joe! Get up!”
“What is it?” Joe straightened up in the chair.
The train was still tearing up the night. A little light
passed them by like a shooting star in the black.
“Wake up. We’re in trouble…”
Joe rubbed his eyes, “Why? What is it?”
“Never mind right now. I have to borrow this.”
Simmons grabbed the horse head from under the chair.
Joe seized hold of his sleeve before he could disappear
back into the train. “What’s happening?”
Simmons tugged his arm back. “I’m in a little fix.
Don’t worry. It’s nothing I can’t handle. I have to win
back the rest of the horse.”
A clown appeared in the lit doorway, ominously
blocking it. “You aren’t trying to run off, are you?”
He had a black ace of spades tucked in his hat band.
“No! No!” Simmons laughed. “I’m just getting some
collateral.” He quickly revealed the horse head. “See!”
The clown nodded slowly and wheezed, “That’ll work.
Come on back. The dealer’s ready for the next hand.”
Clinching his arm over Simmons’ shoulders, the clown
led him back into the car again.
The door shut behind them.
Joe sat where he had been, blinking his eyes,
waiting for that new dream to begin.


American Stars At Night

Applause and fanfares from the big band as
he came out onto the stage. He did a double-take
under the flashing clapping meters and then he
waved to the audience. With all that amplified
commotion pushing him along, Stu Tipps swaggered
over to the bronze colored desk to sit down beside
the host of American Stars At Night.
“How you doin’ Johnny?” he grinned.
“Good, good. It’s been a while, Stu...”
The crowd and technicians had settled down
to be entertained by the Hollywood colossus.
“Yeah, I been busy. Another movie in the can.”
Stu nodded gratefully towards the impromptu cheers.
“My fans…” he smiled another million dollars and
pointed his thumb at them.

Johnny leaned over eagerly. “I understand it’s
something different. You directed the picture
this time, right?”
“Not only that, Johnny. I produced it, I wrote
the screenplay and I star in it. The works! It’s
my baby.”
“Fantastic!” Johnny sat back for a moment of
applause to wash over the studio shell. “Could
you tell us a little about it?”
“Sure Johnny. After I finished Buck Shot Cop,”
the mention of the film caused more pandemonium,
but Stu smiled and went on, “I couldn’t stop
thinking about Easter Island. I was being haunted.”
“Fascinating,” Johnny intoned.
“Do you know about that place?”
“I’ve certainly heard of it. I understand there’s
quite a mystery there.”
“You better believe it, Johnny. Once upon a time
there was a civilization there. They had towns
and road and a religion and they also had forests.
No different than us. So what happened? What
did they do to their land? You go there now and
all we know is traces, there’s nothing left, only
the hills and the rocks. The ones that look like
faces. People today like to say the whole thing’s
a big mystery, but I’ve been thinking. It’s not
so strange. It makes sense, even to me. I think—”
“Hold that thought, Stu,” Johnny interrupted.
“We have to go to a commercial break for a
word from our sponsors.” He winked at the
camera, “Don’t go away.”




Honest Ron And The Settlers

(Horse clopping, pulling a cart)
“Martha, it will be a miracle if we get this
Conestoga through the desert to Fort Bixby.
But we must press on across this God forsaken
land…”
“Hold on Jebediah! What’s that up ahead? Are
my eyes playing tricks on me?”
“It looks like some kind of odd contraption.
There’s a man standing next to it!”
“Look at those outlandish clothes!”
“Step right up folks, don’t be afraid. Welcome
to Honest Ron’s. I’m the time-traveling used car
salesman. Have I got a deal for You!”
“I…”
“Fellah, I don’t mean to insult you, but look at
that jalopy you’re driving. Two horsepower!”
“See here, strange man.”
“Look, don’t you want your little lady to feel
proud beside you? What’s that wagon made out
of—wood? C’mere friend, let Honest Ron show
you a 72 Buick. Solid Detroit steel!”
“I don’t know…”
“Listen pal. I understand your situation. You
need a reliable car at a fair price. Go no further.
Check out the mileage, FM radio included, just
kick those sidewalls!”
“What??”
“Can’t you see what a deal it is I’m giving you?
Look at the aerodynamics.”
“I don’t even know how it moves. Where are the
horses?”
“They’re under the hood, kid. A hundred and fifty!
All you have to do is get behind the wheel, step
on the gas and ZOOOMM!”
“But what do you feed it?”
“Heh, heh. That’s the beauty part. You don’t feed
it! And an automobile from Honest Ron is guaranteed
to run forever.”
“I like it Jebediah.”
“There! You see, she’s got vision!”
“I’m not so sure…We have seven days traveling ahead
of us. This desert is powerful hard.”
“Hey! Would Honest Ron steer you wrong? This
Buick will get you there in hours! In the future where
I come from, the 72 Buick is the King of the Road.”
“Let’s get it Jebediah.”
“I don’t know if we can afford such an…auto…mobile.”
“Friends, today is your lucky day because I’m gonna
sell you the car of tomorrow at the price of today.
What do you got?”
“Ahhh…some Confederate money, some gold coins,
aahhh this letter from Robert E. Lee, maybe we have
something else in back…a map of America drawn by
Lewis and Clark…”



The Boy Who Spoke Robot

There was nothing anyone could do to
get him to talk, though something different
happened whenever he saw a machine.
He would get as close as possible to hum
a secret. Anything that clicked and whirred
to those tasks it was programmed for,
he would run up to it and make friends.
The mechanical driver of the monorail,
the eggbeaters there past the kitchen doors,
the traffic light post shining red yellow green,
even the simple LED calculators stuck in the
bargain store bins. All of them heard him sing.
And since it took so many machines to make
a city run from day to day, it could be that
he would still be known after the war,
when the machines overthrew.
After the static, quiet calm formed,
as if a new ocean was laid down,
and a time to try again began and
someone would be needed with
a song.



Ronald Orkinson

I had to stay in bed and watch the blinds.
The bright spring air rattled them with every breath.
My clock read almost eight, but time didn’t matter,
it was all a wait. Sooner or later the footsteps would
approach my door, a parcel would fall through the
slot and my day would begin. Until then, I listened
to the outside world, layered with cars on the street,
birds in the trees and far above the pull of an airplane.
Until then, I was nothing.
I must have drifted off because before I knew it,
the noise of the metal latch caught me by surprise.
The package fell inside, the footsteps disappeared.
Hard as it was to move, the thing drew me with
magnetic power. Ronald Orkinson was written on
the manila. I tore it open and let the good Book out.
Gold lettering on the blue cover announced my name
and Day 11680. I opened it up.
Get Dressed.
I obeyed instantly. My clothes were piled on
a chair in the corner. All I could think about was,
“What will happen? Where will I go?” At last,
I tied on my shoes and returned to the Book to read.
The next command was simple enough.
Go Outside.
I opened the door with the Book under my arm.
The stairway down the side of the house creaked
with my sneakers. A cat on the last step ran off
into the garden weeds. At sea level, I quickly
opened the Book again.
Get Breakfast.
I smiled. It wasn’t often that the Book allowed
me a treat like that. There’s a restaurant a couple
blocks away. I’ve smelled the wonderful aroma
many hungry mornings before as the Book took
me journeying somewhere else. I opened the
brass doors and let the waitress show me to a table.
“Coffee?” she asked.
“Sure. Why not?” This was going to be a great day.
I set the Book to gleam in the window light. My
eyes feasted upon the menu, finding the most
outrageous ingredients. My coffee arrived and
I let have it with my breakfast order. She filled
a whole green ticket. When I left I’d be walking
on air like a balloon. So I had my coffee and a
refill as well. A rainbow bent from the thick
window glass, spread on the cover of the Book.
“Thanks,” I told it and touched its corner with
affection. I felt compelled to read the next
sentence. Usually I wait until it’s appropriate,
but on this day…waiting for my meal…I felt
so warm and happy I had to know where it
would lead me next.
Get Money.
That took me by surprise. Money! I realized
I didn’t have a cent in my pocket. I looked
around me, I could see the waitress balancing
plates, spinning my way. I grabbed the Book
and bolted. It was the only thing I could do.
Running down the street, I wished I had the guts
to toss the Book in one of the passing alleyways.
It had done this to me before. Real funny, thanks.
I had to catch my breath, I stopped with my
hand on a white stone lion. I knew I could never
part with the Book, I knew that without it
I was helpless. It had always controlled my
days. Even now. It had led me to the bank.
The lion guarded the entrance. The stone eyes
watched me go in.
People echoed all over the marble floor.
I stood there with them, not knowing what
to do. You can’t just walk into a bank and
get money, didn’t the Book know that? In
exasperation, I consulted it again.
Get A Gun.
Where were these words leading me?
What did it want me to do? For the second
time, I felt an overwhelming compulsion to
reject it. Then I saw the guard sleeping at
his desk. His hand was slumped over the back
of the chair, newspaper fallen on the floor,
and a pistol beckoned, hanging on the side of
his belt. The Book was right, I could do it.
I moved along the shadow of the pillar.
I crept onto the Persian rug moating his desk
and I reached out.
“That’s far enough!” He bounced to his feet
with his hand on his hip. He drew the gun and
pointed it at me. “I always knew some punk
would try that,” he puffed steam triumphantly.
“Everyone thought Old Charley was sleeping
on the job. Hah!” Instead, he’d been waiting
like a spider. He set the gun beside him on
the table to fumble with his handcuffs.
My moment had come. I opened the Book
and as chaos shot around me, I tore the
morning out.




The Beryllium Tanager

For a hundred years, the Beryllium Tanager
has been extinct. The song that once clouded
the sky over America is remembered only
in the whistle of children and the squeak
of the factory rinds that are dying now too,
in the valley end of this century.





For A Couple Stars And Wind

After a last night in the ballroom
the elevator took them all to the top,
where they set up chairs and music stands
on a tarred roof, with chimneys and aerials,
an audience of a couple stars and wind,
to play music that was already the past.




Lucky

“Just keep telling me the winners,” he said.
“And we’ll get that place in the country.
Then you won’t have to bend so low to fit in.”
He rustled the newspaper in front of his lucky
pet’s nose. “Take a look…Black Tie looks good
in the first, but don’t let me cloud your vision.
You just tell me. You know the odds, you’ve
never been wrong...” He leaned back to wait.
Holes punched in the wall illegally let in more
light and air, traffic rush, flies. He waited.
As soon as there was a reply, he could call
his bookie. He scratched his hands. “No more
city…just meadows and sky...” The answer
would take them there. Then it came.
Effortlessly, the giraffe clapped its hoof
against the floor. Once, twice, three times.






cover & illustrations: aaron gunderson
writing: allen frost in 1997
at 411 miami place in huron, ohio