Dr. Breen era

Klyd -- What’s up? I can only hold a grudge so long. But I’m disappointed on coming back to TTG to find all pomes and no gab. Does Jan stay away?
I think many visitors to The Time Garden will know the work of the fine redneck poet, Jimbeau Bream, whose poems are always titled "Poam." Understand, Jimbeau is not the poet here — I am -- he is a character in my pome. It might make it more confusing that I refer to myself in the third person here. But the muse made me do it.

a challenge
Klyd, Reed here. Please tell TTG readers not to hate me because sometimes I give in to the temptation to write on restroom walls. Once, years ago, I was at the Belcourt Cinema (where you would go to films, not movies) and someone had written something in the stall that seemed, in my nutty head, to demand a response. So I wrote one, figuring that someone else (or the original writer) would catch on that a further response was indicated. I checked every time I went back there, but no one ever wrote anything new. Finally it got cleaned off. I'm writing to TTG to see if the readers here will do what Belcourt Cinema-goers (at least guys who used the facilities) wouldn't -- that is, write something silly just because someone else wrote something silly. Since this facility is unisex, Debbie and JoAnne and whoever else can also get involved. Jan too if she's still out there.

Here it is:

The first person wrote,
"The clueless muse will pantomime the endless tomorrow forever."

I wrote,
"The fruitless pews will countermand the fiat of the Father."

end of Reed's post -- and where The Time Gardener says come ahead on your hoers and show off

A response to the challenge:

"The gluteless Stews will reprimand the weeding of the river."
--Frederick Jones, Freethinker Institute, Sri Lanka

"The bootless crews will exculpate the overflowing fever."
--Gertrude Falkstein

I can never resist a challenge:
"The flukeless mews will abrogate the marooning liver."
-Christopher Waldrop

Interesting page. And an interesting challenge.
"Etudes less true will interrogate the weeping beaver."
--Dr. Joseph Biles, Catalpa University

C Ra's move to Pittsburg and other developments have led to the end of a Nashville poetic tradition that to my mind is as valuabe as the window's open mic -- the last Saturday salon in his apartment, Dreadful House (home of course of Penny Dreadful Press). In memoriam, by Brian Daly, this here --

No More

In memoriam Dreadful House,
June 24, 1995--Feb. 26, 2000

1

No more sprawling on the fire escape,
no more tripping on the same iron stair.
No more derelicts on the sofa,
no more mismatched glasses in the cupboard.
No more mice in the sauce pans.

No more sweating by the fan,
no more freezing by the heater.
No more bottle collections under the chair.
No more taping your kid's picture to the steering wheel
so you won't drive home drunk,
no more driving home drunk anyway.
No more worthless Sundays.

No more altar to Bukowski,
no more pissing on it for laughs.
No more running out of beer,
no more running out for more.
No more flights to Ynonah's,
no more necking with drag queens.

* * *

No more Clebo on the floor,
Penick in the corner,
no more Janet's torn jeans.
No more striking out with every chick who ever came here
except three.
No more death struggles with the Pamaconda.

No more 'zines on the toilet,
no more dommes on the fridge,
no more lashings with the black cat.
Nomar Garciaparra.

* * *

No more Pennys fresh from the mint.
No more buying a chap and getting six free.
No more poems folded in your back pocket.

No more takedowns on the hardwood,
no more rug burns of victory.
No more strumming heavy metal,
no more weird harmonies.
No more dusting pages for God's fingerprints.

* * *

No more wake-up calls from Brother Curtis,
no more Col. Massey's love songs to the Negro.
No more cigars flung across the room,
no more Holder catching them.
No more Pat writing six poems while you pee.
No more wanting to kill Powers.
No more Jamey getting all your jokes,
no more C Ra getting all your poems.
No more getting the corner chair.

No more needles in the carpet,
creamed turkey on toast,
no more we were taught by substitutes.

* * *

No more bullring,
no more carnival,
no more anything goes.
No more staying too long and not getting kicked out.
No more leaving your favorite pipe,
no more having it saved for you till next time.
No more tough guys helping you off the porch,
no more cool guys on the trophy

unless tonight
we try to squeeze
into the last empty space
the coolest guy of all....

2

"Why quit now, Ra, why?" we ask.
"Iggy Pop's in a feature film," he says.
"My work is done."

* * *

Au reservoir, we used to say
in the last gang I had
and, as Eddie Murphy said,
"Damn! That still holds up."

Now...no more
crying over spilt cookies--
Let's find someplace else to go!

And when we do,
we'll take no prisoners that day,
or the day after.

(Memo to self: cut
the last two lines.)

Brian Daly

The Time Garden is honored to present a poem that I and many others believe to be one of the best produced by a Nashville cat.

Hey there. I've not been out of touch for a while, but I've stopped in from time to time. I continue to enjoy seeing the latest from everyone.

Dan Powers' "The Sun Reminds Me Of Being In A Chevy" has been on of my favorites since I first saw read it after purchasing Something We Can't Name a couple years back. "...cobwebs fly like Paula's hair." I love that.

I've started a new web site: http://members.home.com/chance451/culdesac.html. I hope to add to it and change it periodically. This one includes a short story section, a new endeavor for me.

I hope everyone is well. Take care. Here's my latest:

Sod

If I touch you with gasoline hands,
Will you pull back,
Or will you lick my fingers
Until they taste like campus sod?

And when I notice your ankles,
English major smooth,
Will you tuck your feet away,
Or let me taste them
Until they glisten like a
New photograph?

If you taste me,
And I taste you,
Will you wait until I sleep
To brush my brow?
There, newsprint stains and
Wrinkles quiver, take shape
With my breath.

If you squint,
You might see the faces
Reflected in bayonets,
Hands thrown up against
Shrapnel.

The gasoline cans
Rolling from singed hands
Down streets to rest in a field
Groomed with campus-like features.

There, blades tease English major
Ankles and the boots of a man
With clean hands and a
Clear, smooth brow.
Chance Chambers

Klyd

This post as it came in -- Don't you love people who love the word 'asshole'?

From the Obnoxious Asshole:
    First, my response to the Richards challenge, which was:
respond to this writing above the pissoir at the Belcourt Cinema:
"The clueless muse will pantomime the endless tomorrow forever."
My response:
"What time, asshole?"

9/26/99 eden bench
    Christ, what could be LESS liquid than a woodpecker's rhythm? This has
gone beyond irony into studidity.
    Next, lose those coy tab stops. What could be less compelling than a
line indented one space?
    Next, where did you learn about joining words together? "its staves"?
Can you say that out loud without sounding retarded? People who put two
s's together should be shot.

Shy little Chance
    This actually has promise, but is poisoned by the taint of academia.
It's over before it starts.
    The best thing about this is that, unlike 99% of the poems you see, this
seems to have some kind of structure that pulls you through it. "If you
do this, if you do that, etc."
    Still, some incredibly clumsy phrases: "campus-like features," etc.
What is that about?
    This asshole actually puts the (pointless) epigraph at the END of the
poem--there's a novelty!

No More
    God does this poem suck.
    This loser can't even get through the first two lines without fucking
up. First the guy sprawls, THEN he trips! Hello?
    This poem epitomizes everything that's wrong with street poetry. Who
the hell but the people involved would ever GET any of these
references? Who gives a shit about "Janet's torn jeans?"
    A little punctuation might help. See: "no more we were taught by
substitutes."
    And what's this goofy shit about Nomar Garciaparra right in the middle?
    Plus, he obviously ripped off the idea from the old Dylan tune, "No More
Auction Block."
Anytime you see a guy be real hard-ass at the beginning of a poem, get
out your handkerchief.

Receving Vision
    This is a good poem if you're gay.
Nothing gets me hard like a good five-syllable word: "substantiated."
    Still, amid all the swill, a couple of good lines:
"pain that is hunger for more pain"
"how my hands wept, cheated of their franchise" (purple, yes, but how
many guys besides me and possibly him understand the accurate use of the
French root?)
"every moment is a photograph falling backward" (best line)
    The rest is just gay, hopeless shit.

Dan's revision of Chevy poem
    Another classic failure of nerve from Powers.
"a girl named Paula" Afraid of getting sued, eh? That line has no
magic. Remember what it was?
    You have to be picky with Powers, because he deserves it. Take "in its
own gold foil." What good does "own" do? Also, I miss the "willing"
that used to be before "miracles," but I don't know why.
    I don't know shit about cars, but this shit about "four-barrel carbs"
and especially "coming through the slot" sound mighty suspicious.
    Powers needs to forget the past and get a life.

I Asked For It!

In argumentative conversation friends routinely use language and manners that they’d never use in a letter, depending on the situation to convey an underlying respect, and many have noted that e mail and internet postings are somehow less expressive even than letters of any nuance of tone that segregates opinion from regard. So if you take a man who can sometimes even in conversation attempt serious assault and turn him loose to do an internet posting, you can cause a swarm, huh? or, worse, cause the hive to migrate. Or worse still provide the occasion for good friends to be insulted. That is what I did, and I haven’t decided if it was a bad idea or not. I know that I find no point to a gallery of poetry with no evidence any poetry’s being read. That is why I value comment on poetry — at Hoe N Tell or anywhere else — to show reading is going on and promote more of it. I don’t see much point however to commenting much on comment on poetry. (In academia somebody has to do it, but not here.) Yet here I am commenting on comments. I can get around this by doing it in quick free verse. (If I got the Hamlet phrase wrong let me know -- I'll check it later.) here goes:

I Asked For It

I asked Obnoxious Asshole
to come by The Time Garden and
“write hurried reactions with
your usual ass-hole style.” I told him
I thought it would “circulate some energy.”

I like the conviction he projects into
his opinionated asshole stance and I noticed
hanging out with him with his friends
some eagerness to hear his opinions,
so it was me — I asked him to ‘drop trou’
and I didn’t expect he’d be wearing underwear but
I did assume I didn’t have to tell him
the mirror behind him was an automatic
camera — he’s a sharp guy, he should
know that much. Of course
I forgot
that he loves to mess with people. That is the way
he put it to me once — a bit drunk —
he said it three times
on the ride to his house from
a party — “I love
to mess with people” — but
some put it that he loves to spread hurt, they say
he is enlivened
by using his mind to engage fashion and immersion
in the flow of our culture
to hit verbally as hard as he can
as if the depth of the hurt were the measure
of how hip he is, or whatever
the cool way to say hip is these days.

In my defense, I do have to say, I can say s’s
back to back all day, I can say
“Sussie’s sassafras sass stings sinseriouly” “without
sounding retarded.” I can say it daily, and anyone can
who isn’t concentrating on making
franchise exclusively his.

As for his saying my phrase “woodpecker’s
liquid rhythm” goes “beyond
irony into stupidity,” he’s wrong —
it’s not irony at all, it’s paradox
but it’s placed
      in a position where it must borrow
mental energy
          rather than lend it —
so he’s right to this important extent — it is
a bad opening to a poem
and damn it
I value the friend who will show me
I have a bad opening
if he does insist on showing
his ass(hole) as he does it,
                                                     and as
for Reed’s poem being
“good . . . if you’re gay,” everybody’s got to be thinking
here we got a man who projects himself
as bisexual forty percent of the evening you’re with him
and .… well, it’s a sample of how sly
they be — the Obnoxious Asshole’s games. I
value them. I hope
everyone he insulted
will understand my deepest instinct
was that all the rapid fire school boy barbs
can be made into a psychological
and spiritual “en guarde,” now and then
a good thing for any of us. We are not
Hamlet and Laertes here, circling each other
in mystery whether the blades
are “envenomed and unbated,” whether this is assault
or sport. No, we know
the intention here. It’s as clear
on one scale there’s no chance
the blade’s cutting power’s exposed as
on another scale it is clear that it is.

    Klyd

Curtis Rose goes to Sewanee to see what an Outlaw has done

Not a motorcycle gang show, Doowahdiddy! But an Art Show by Adrienne Outlaw, the Nashville Textile Maximalist......Entitled "The Hunt," it is hanging in the Guerry Hall, mid-campus, just off the main drag so it's easy to find, and a great reason to escape the city for a day and enjoy the beauties of a community on the very edge of the Cumberland Plateau. This show is somewhat similar to "The Dance" (which was at TSU about a year ago) in that, again, fabric is sculpted into shapes it would not naturally lend itself to. BUT, under the influence of a special type of glue, and with the help of her 'gang' of assistants........ that which was once a heap of linen has transmogrified into grouping of, what i keep thinking of as, a gathering of humanoid cocoons, reclining on the floor, suspended in midair by 'invisible' line, (here i am thinking of all the fish Adrienne has saved from ending up on a hook, by her faithful and continual use of miles and miles of monofilament line) and a few resting peacefully in barrel hoops........."eh? What's that? No, that's not a puzzled look on my face, i am 'lost in admiration'......." For one as Young as Adrienne is, she has been invited to chalk up an incredibly impressive array of invitations to show her work........ so i was not too surprised when she was invited to Sewanee. Dianne and i happened to go up on one of the 'spring break' weekends, when the campus was about as dead as it ever gets, we were informed to call ahead to make arrangements to have the Gallery opened just for us. Wow, talk about feeling like a 'big-shot' ! (finding a limo waiting outside for us as we exited would have been nice but........) We had the whole place to ourselves, wonderfully peaceful atmosphere ......time to just absorb and reflect......We highly recommend a trip to the U of S, and ANY show that the "Outlaw" does. Yes, this is the same person who did the Art reviews for InReview for so long. Those of You who have had an opportunity to catch her art interpretations and, to me, 'Teachings,' in the pages of InReview (i'm sure You miss them as much as i do, now that they are gone) will recall her name from there, or perhaps You've heard her work on our local Public Radio station, WPLN........... it's beginning to dawn on me (i freely admit to being a early 'boomer, but a late bloomer) that the more deeply a person understands the whole encompassing passion of "the arts" the better their ability to use Gentleness, Kindness, in helping the rest of us to learn........ Adrienne Outlaw, a growing and gifted artist, a kind and gentle Teacher............
Curtis and Dianne Rose, March, 2M

Sewanee Outlaw Show I
(for Adrienne Outlaw)

Transformation..........

A grove
of person-sized
chrysalides,
a scene
that is as serene
as any's
ever been.
One thing
i am sure of
that which has
departed here
left
with good intent
as friend.
And left lingering
behind
a hint/scent
of effort.....
preparation.....
teamwork/coordination.
Quiet reminders
that
well-made cocoons
and
patient waiting
are simple steps
that lead to
Transformation.

Is this where
Angels
come from ?

Sewanee Outlaw Show II
(for Adrienne Outlaw)

empty shells
airily suspended
motionless and mute
as if waiting
with an
infinite Patience
for their turn at the stand
to bear witness
to the
tender
Gracefulness of thought
which
called them
into Being

Sewanee Outlaw Show III
(for Adrienne Outlaw)

"The Roses Choice"
"Best of Show"

The Chrysalis
of
M.Monroe

cdr

Let's PLAY TAG! Curtis' poem about a local artist's work sets the theme, I follow with the one below. Keep it going. Send me a poem on this theme.

On the Way to Baptist Hospital March 30 2000

Idling in neutral at the corner
    of 21st and Wedgewood -
        between my truck's vibrations
and the college girls jogging
    in all directions the world right now's got
        a jiggyness to it. One
girl
    is
        stretching - she's
    wearing black tights and bent to
    grasp her toe her little hinney's up
    in the air there like
    the head of a comma
    in calligraphy - - I think -- no,
    make that a curl stroke in black oil
    from the brush of Peggy Snow.
While driving I had been thinking
    of Curtis' poems on
        the work of Adrienne Outlaw
and
    how the question
        'what good is art?' -- which is
a good question, still -- goes
    silent      makes no sense
        inside such experience
as Curtis tells of. Your mind'd have
    to travel
        a hundred miles from there
to even understand the question again.
    I've still got
        Peggy's painting of this day
going in my head as I'm
    shifting down to second gear
        to turn into the
parking garage. She could
    move the jogging girls over here -
        well I've done it for her already
in my truck -
    They're in front of this garage now
where she can have great grey fun
rendering the gloom inside the garage.
If I know her she would leave it
a mystery whether there is mystery there
or just a bouquet of Detroit's bright
enamels quinched in the dim against
the outside shock of sun on
the mauve cement walls. And the girl
    stretching - the bright black dabs
        of her eyes would show an inwardness -
Peggy can do this - an inwardness that says
    if my butt's pretty that's
        your problem - no doesn't say
even that-leaves it implied.

        Klyd

TAGged ! by Catullus (thru Laura Matter, Cherry Blossom bass player and Vanderbilt student and translator] Catullus was dealing with a local too -- historian this time rather than artist

1)
To what kind person do I now address
This dapper little book hot off the press?
Cornelius, to you, because you used
To think my scribblings something. They amused
You then, when you singularly dared
To explicate the history of man
In just three volumee -- enterprising plan!
And erudite, by God. So have yourself
This little book, as is. And may its shelf-
Life last, my patron muse, more than an age.

Catullus, translated by Laura Matter

he's back!

    Wow! The Material Girl's Englishing of Catullus #1 rocks!
    And I'm not saying that just to get laid.
    This beast makes the Whigham translation look like dishwater.
    Her rendering of the tough line, "Ut urinam puellae bibat," is
exquisite.
    She really captures my man's 'tude, which boils down to: "And what will
YOU have, Ollie?"
    You gotta love how Catman leaves the odd line hanging after nailing
those open couplets. It's like what they said about the Zen guy: "The
Master knows how to perform miracles, but the Master also knows how to
REFRAIN from performing miracles." (Or did the bitch just fuck up? I
can't find my Latin.)
    Sign me up for the next whatever.
Cletus Breen (aka the Obnoxious Asshole)
Professor of Religion and Comparative Anatomy
Bayou University
Slidell, LA

Since no one is keeping the tag going on local reference, I'll tag onto Laura's Catullus. (Kinda thinking I will only keep a couple themes going at a time. So if someone sees a new theme to tag we'll retire one or the other. (How many Catullus references are we gonna find anyway?)

Rhetorical Answer d.

Another red head — one who loved kissing
as much as Catullus of the thousand wet ones —
she used my bearded mouth like a milk shake glass
without a straw — keeping a rotation going, sipping

round the rim, and after a long spell of that she’d
turn south, and — huh! — the sweet jolt
when she found that missing straw.

Klyd

As one of those savaged in the recent "critiques" by Obnoxious Asshole, I feel compelled to tell your readers what I know about him.

HIS IDENTITY AND BACKGROUND

As he himself revealed last week--and as I strongly suspected all along--"Obnoxious Asshole" is none other than CLETUS BREEN!--the notorious "rogue scholar" from Bayou University in Slidell, LA.

Though Breen's two doctorates are in disciplines unrelated to literature, this doesn't stop him from making frequent forays into the World of Letters.

HIS ADMIRERS

Breen, a fully tenured professor of Religion and Comparative Anatomy, has been called many things:

* "The ultimate redneck literary critic" (C Ra McGuirt)
* "The ultimate politically incorrect literary critic" (Jon Taylor)
* "The Obnoxious Asshole" (Dan Powers)
* "The best thing to happen to poetry since Stalin" (D. Phillip Caron)

Dr. Breen usually refers to himself as "Jimbeaux Breen's smarter brother"--a reference to the tough-talking bard whose works are always titled POAM.

HIS PHYSICAL LIMITATIONS

One thing Dr. Breen has never been called is tall.

Breen, a four-foot hunchback with lambchop sideburns, lectures at Bayou U while standing atop a case of Valvoline. Some even say he suffers from "small man complex."

HIS "CREATIVE CRITICISM"

In academic circles, Breen is credited with inventing a new form of literary criticism called "creative criticism." Its basic premise, as Dr. Breen himself put it, is: "It don't matter whether it's true or not--as long as it sheds light on something."

He embodies his theories in crudely worded one-page essays he calls "capsule critiques." Breen claims these critiques--which consist basically of harsh quips and aper�us--get to the heart of each poem. To those offended by his aggressively tacky language, Breen advises: "Just lose it if you can't use it."

HIS THEORY: ITS CAUSE AND EFFECTS

Dr. Breen says he bases his critical theory on the Johnny Cash tune, "Boy Named Sue." He quotes with relish the kicker lines:

Son, to survive in this world
You gotta be tough--
So I'm the son-of-a-bitch
That named you Sue!

Still, Breen's capsule critiques have sent shock waves through the Nashville poetry scene. One abused versifier, after reading Breen's over-the-top critique of his work, apparently tried to choke himself with his own hands. And the normally reserved Dan Powers said, "If I
ever get my hands on that little weasel, there'll be nothing left of him but a hank of hair and some fillings!"

HIS LITERARY CAREER

Dr. Breen himself has a distinguished, if eccentric, literary career. He burst on the scene in 1995 with his seminal study, "Homer at Daytona." Exploring the parallels between ancient and modern culture, the book compared episodes from "The Odyssey" to pit stops at Daytona
Speedway.

This spring, Breen released his follow-up work, titled "Whazzuuuuuuuupppp?: Erectile Dysfunction in Hemingway, Faulkner, Wolfe." Breen's excitement over releasing his new book probably accounts for his recent feistiness in thetimegarden.

HIS FUTURE

Rumor has it that Breen is nearing completion of his own collection of lyrics, reportedly titled, "Slapping the Muse: Rhymes of a Redneck Scholar."

Whatever else you might say about Breen, you've got to admit this: he isn't tall.

Stay tuned for more on/by Dr. Breen, including Tom Disch's moving poetic tribute, "Villanelle for Cletus Breen."

Brian Burchette's open mic at the pub o love Tuesday (April 25) featured Curtis Rose who rose purple to the occasion. I enjoyed it. And your humble/arrogant Time Gardener
Klyd Watkins will feature there
May 16th
Come and read and listen to me. Starts 9:30.

Welcome to C Ra ! -- aka Curtis McGuirt -- aka Luscious Leslie (in his wrestling days), publisher of Penny Dreadful Review. Even if Curtis lives in Pittsburg these days he remains a Nashville poetry power.

TWO FOR RINGSIDE

I hadn’t been to the matches
since I stepped out of the ring
washed off the makeup for good
and went back to being
only a poet,

but I’d promised my Vanya
to take us sometime,
and last night we finally made it.

The jolly dystrophic to my right
remembered me,
and smiled like hell:

“Y-yeah! Yeah!
L-luscious Leslie!”

We laughed shoptalk all card long;
he knew his theatre well...

Before the official carnage commenced
they played the rocket’s red glare,
and I stood with my hand on my cynical heart
proud to be an American artist
at the Blue Collar Ballet,
with the heart of my stepson from Russia
beating excited beside me.

Everyone’s work was on target,
the referee expertly blind;
I saw a few moves that I hadn’t before,
and it made me ache to break gravity--

trade some pain to sell the marks
on our status as demons & demi-gods...

too bad my time
and back are gone.

Vanya climbed my knee to see
the devastation just beyond
the inevitable fat redneck woman,

and I held him up through 10 matches,
discounting beer and bathroom breaks...

the pain was small,
the joy immense

and in the midst,
a thought:

“If God were great,
I’d still be working,
and my child could
watch me fly...”

But that night, God
was only
good.

C Ra

Howdy Klyd,

     thanks for posting my poetry on your web site so promptly, and bragging
on me as a Tennessee poetry power, because my heart still lives there, and i
come home when i can (look for me again in mid-June), but i'd like to correct
the info re my present general geophysical location...

     nothing against Pittsburg, home of Don Wentworth's excellent and unique
poetry-mag The Lilliput Review....

     however, I live around the corner from South Street, a few blocks from
the Liberty Bell, in shouting distance of Independence Hall, 4 or 5 miles
from the house where Poe wrote The Tell-Tale Heart, 7 or so blocks from
Penn's Landing on the Delaware River, a 4-dollar cab ride from the statue of
William Penn on top of City Hall, not far from the Art Museum where Rocky
Balboa ran up the steps, close enough to the Italian Market to nearly smell
the fresh sausage, and 5 minutes walking distance from the first hospital in
the United States. I am fortunate enough to attend plays at the oldest
continually-operating theatre in the English-speaking world, i.e. the Walnut.
I follow Flyers hockey and Sixers basketball on local TV, wince at the
Eagles during football season, occasionally endure the heat and humidity of
hardcore rasslin' at world famous ECW Arena, and, during baseball season,
when I go to Veteran's Stadium, I cheer for the Phillies (though they
continually break my heart), not for the Pirates...

     in other words, I live in Philadelphia, not Pittsburg...

     love from the city of brotherly love and killer cheesesteaks,

     C Ra

In the words of a former 76er, Manute Bol, my bad, Ra -- but I'm glad to have made the error because of the eloquence and life of the correction. Klyd.

Dear The Time Garden -- When I see the ocean, with its puny little waves you can barely body surf on, even after thousands of miles of building momentum, it makes me realize how incredibly significant I am and how badly God needs my help to explain the universe. Dr Cleetus Breen, PCB, FL

I SURVIVED GYPSY JOE’S WRESTLING SCHOOL,

along with the young cops from Brentwood
who tag-teamed under masks
so they wouldn’t be bounced from the force.
The cops were ok. after practice
we used to drink beer at Brown’s Diner,
and for some reason, they liked me
even though I was a poet and
my gimmick was flagrantly queer.
The young cops freely admitted
their reason for choosing the badge:
both liked excitement, and plenty of violence,
and otherwise, would have been in jail.
I don’t talk to them these days,
but hope they’re doing well.

The prison guard never did make it:
with all kinds of plans for his gimmick,
he just couldn’t learn how to wrestle.

I learned that learning to wrestle
was mostly about learning
how to make it easy
for the guy who appeared to be
whipping your ass,

and how to fall without fear, because
being afraid would kill you
just as fast in a wrestling ring
as it would anywhere else.

I was taught to give, and I was told:
If they won’t give, then make them.
Also: if you can’t fake it,
you’ll have to take it.

Gypsy Joe was a journeyman villain
with a heart of tarnished brass,
and once he nearly stomped me to death
on a lawn on a radio show
to prove that we weren’t faking.
It was take it, or rip out his eyes for real
and shoot him to make sure,
so I took it, and I swear to God
I heard my sternum crack,

but I survived Gypsy Joe’s Wrestling School,
and got pretty good before quitting the ring
for reasons unrelated to
the quality of my work--

I was too old for that shit when I started
and the mileage was more than a match for the money
so I got out before the wrong fall could come find me,

but I survived Gypsy Joe’s Wrestling School.

Dr. Breen on C Ra's poem above. If you haven't read I SURVIVED GYPSY JOE’S WRESTLING SCHOOL -- even if you have -- I suggest reading it -- even again -- before the commentary here. It's wonderful to have commentary again (tho I think a few of the doctor's suggestions would diminish the voice, the personna, that he justly praises, and "on the lawn" is far from irrelevant). Cleetus is going off to sling rhyme in the big world and we wish him well. Bye Dr. Breen -- bye.

SO LONG, IT'S BEEN SUCKY KNOWING YOU...

...as Woody Guthrie might say.

It's with an incredibly light heart and an overwhelming sense of relief
that I now bid farewell to thetimegarden.com.

The rumor propagated by that snotty lightweight is true. In a few
days, I start production on my new book--"Slapping the Muse: Rhymes of a
Redneck Scholar." This literary lollapalooza is scheduled for release
by Greyhound Media on April Fool's Day, 2001.

With the increased demands on my time, I'm forced to return control of
this Web site to Klyd. That means you won't get to see my
work-in-progress, "Dispatches from the Redneck Riviera: A PCB Diary."
But tough shit.

Before I leave, I have a few more pearls of wisdom to inflict. First,
a critique of C Ra McGuirt's "Gypsy Joe" tune. Then an excerpt from
"Slapping"--just to show ya'll how it's done.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------

After you read "Gypsy Joe" a few times, you realize, hey, this isn't
JUST about "Gypsy Joe's Wrestling School." No way. It's way bigger
than that. Because we've all, all of us, in a way, if we're still
reading this, survived our own version of "Gypsy Joe's Wrestling
School." KnowhutImean?

I think you're getting my drift. This bastard is not simply about
"Gypsy Joe's Wrestling School." Fuck, no. This bastard is about
WRESTLING.

What to like:

* the voice, which conveys that the author is a good-hearted wacko just
like you
* some killer lines, where the poem gets big all of a sudden and then
small again, just like God planned it. To wit:
* the lines about "how to fall without fear"
* "I got out before the wrong fall could find me"

Let's put the blood pressure cuff on this bad boy, as follows:

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------

I SURVIVED GYPSY JOE'S WRESTLING SCHOOL,

along with two kid cops [put the big word at the end; "two" goes with
"tag-teamed"; "Brentwood" means nothing outside of Nashville]
who tag-teamed under masks
so they wouldn't be bounced
from the force.

Joe was a journeyman villain [give us a taste of the guy up front]
with a heart like the tarnished brass knob
of a ring post, [who cares if it isn't really brass? Also, my steady
boy said Ship Ahoy! (not Good-bye!) when he joined the Nay-yay-vee.]
and once he really stomped me ["on the lawn" is irrelevant; "to death"
is overkill (so to speak)]
for the local news [how could a RADIO show possibly prove you weren't
faking? Remember--it doesn't matter what REALLY happened.]
to prove we weren't faking. [pick up the rest of the stanza later]

The kid cops were OK. After practice
we'd drink beer at Brown's Diner.
They liked me
even though I read books [break the line at the joke word; lose the
poet shit; plus, more people can plug in to book-reader. Dan Powers,
that weenie, is a master at this "I'm-just-like-you" bullshit. So was
Bobby Frost. Powers always sounds like the plumber next door who had a
vision of God while taking his GED.]
and my gimmick was flagrantly queer.

The cops freely admitted [really piling up the long e's now--Wheeee!]
why they chose the badge:
both liked excitement and plenty of violence and
otherwise, they'd have been in jail. [kill the two lines about how you
care how they're doing--it's too early to give away that you quit, and
what you're saying about your character in these lines comes through
elsewhere]

Our friend, the prison guard, [we need "our friend" as a linking element
here]
never made it. Despite
big plans and a gimmick,
he couldn't learn to wrestle.

But I could. [need a transition, like this contrast]
I learned that wrestling [the poem basically kickth ath from here the
rest of the way out]
was mostly about
how to make it easy
for the guy who appeared to be
whipping your ass,

how to fall without fear,
because being afraid would kill you
just as fast in the squared circle [this odd term always cracks me up;
it lightens up the basically sombre tone of what you're saying here and
adds mystery where you need it most]
as anywhere else.

"Give!" the Gypsy told me [time for a change of pace; as Bob Marley
said, "Lively Up Yourself"]
and I gave. And:
"If THEY don't give,
make them." And:
"If you can't fake it,
take it." [Why not make the shit parallel?]

It was take it from Gypsy Joe
or rip his lungs out for real [breaking the "keep the verb together"
rule]
then shoot him to make sure.

So I took it,
and I swear to Vince McMahon [some old-time wrestler like the famous
midget Sky Low-Low, or Haystacks Calhoun, or maybe something like the
Roman god of wrestling would also work here]
I heard my sternum crack. [I don't know what a sternum is, but I get
the idea.]

But I survived Gypsy Joe's Wrestling School--
even got decent before I quit. [throw in decent just to confuse the
bastards; kill next two lines--you cover it next]
I was too old for that shit when I started
and the money never matched the mileage.
So I got out before the wrong fall
could find me,

but dammit
I survived Gypsy Joe's Wrestling School.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------

Dr. Breen's Peckerometer Rating: with a little hand work, 6 inches
straight up

If you can't use it, lose it. And if you feel it, steal it.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------

What Gay Means

When I say "gay"
I mean "ineffectual."
It's got nothing to do
with anything sexual!
If I seem to hate,
it's strictly contextual.
Gimme a break--
I'm an intellectual!

(Excerpted from "Slapping the Muse: Rhymes of a Redneck Scholar."
Copyright 2000, estate of Cletus Breen