Saturday, May 27, 2017
-MacGarvey
never found after Hurricane Roxanne.
-Swept Out to Sea Theory?
-But two Madeline Ochs were found! Alive! Identical!
-Had he transformed to the one?
-Up for tenure, so I sat on it.
-Now with anti-science repubs in, of course anti-
tenure altogether!
-Profoundly stupid!
-So? Politics preventing this beyond-important story?
-Is the Pope a Catholic?
-Some women-hating Cardinals dispute even that!
-Oh well, even in acidly disputatious times, the beer remains good!
-Mac-Madeline should pull up his-her skirt and sit down for a schooner!
-Got no problem with that!
Labels: anti-science, anti-science Republicans, beer.disputatious times, Catholic, hurricane, sex switch, trauma
Monday, November 07, 2016
Weather
Kendal's bunk very nearly
touched Darley's.
But it was warm in the gym
and the lights held as
the hurricane thrashed.
The cleanup extensive later,
they had to stay an extra day.
Was arranged that each
could have a shower in the
Girls locker room.
When Darley returned she wore
a fresh blouse printed with
photographs.
"From the Civil Rights Struggle,"
she answered Kendal.
"I see."
Labels: Civil Rights, cleanup, hurricane, refuge, shelter, women
Friday, October 28, 2016
Romance, Narrowly Defined
They pass each other in
the park daily over the
years.
But this morning, words
seem inevitable as they
meet at the covered bridge
and find its entrance criss-
crossed by yellow tape.
The stench of the soaking wood
proves overpowering, and both
see trees down on the other side.
"I can...see trees down," ventures he.
"The stench! of the soaking wood!"
She's dramatic, even adding, "My family
is mostly bizarre criminals."
They become a couple. No odder than most.
Until a year later when her two uncles
sentenced in separate tax evasion cases.
He makes a crack about baking a file
into a cake, and she goes off!
ALWAYS RIDICULING HER AND HER FAMILY!
Walking out she coos "Do say hello to your
mother and father...and don't leave out
Norman Rockwell!”
“Must...we...fight?”
“And goodbye! to your Goody Two Shoes Sisters!”
As Fate would ease down the cards, they never met in the park until a year later.
The stinking bridge closed, hurricane
damage again, this time fallen trees darkly
jamming the far aperture.
She turned to him in anticipation, looking
in that stark, chalky light like a moll from
a thirties film.
He adored thirties films, especially their
unrelenting noir, and almost began to
say "You look like a..."
She heard that, though he said nothing,
preferring, always, to keep his love to himself.
They never meet again.
Or maybe they do, but who gives a shit?
Labels: breakup, criminal, film noir, hurricane, relationship, thirties
Monday, July 11, 2016
Etiquette of Adversity
Ripped off the balcony by a rogue wave
from Hurricane Jasmine, the plywood
he was nailing following him and smashing
and cutting his entire body.
Deposited in a stripped black oak, naked
and shaking uncontrollably.
All night, his wounds freshened by successive,
drenching gusts.
The morning brought preternatural, misty calm.
So much so that he could hear the dipping oars
of the two guardsmen.
“Excuse me?” began he.
Labels: disaster, hurricane, manners, National Guard, natural disaster, polite
Tuesday, December 08, 2015
Gothic
The Brides of Larch
From nowhere, Mr Halls, the motel owner told the crew
to “Beware of the Brides of Larch!”
Clifford informed him that they were just there from Lost Key,
Florida to help get the grid up in the smaller parishes after the
hurricane, only one of which was Larch. Replace pole transformers,
and perhaps trouble-shoot a bit for individual home owners.
Mr Halls went on–-and didn’t he? The brides, of course, were
widows now that they had dispatched their husbands with
whatever evil...!
Doc and Evers just laughed. Confirmed marrieds. If something
came their way as a sex adventure, Clifford was up to handling
it for the trio. But, he’d be exhausted as well by the upcoming day.
Mr Halls explained that the whole thing was a kind of irony.
What with their being widows now as he said, and the phrase
compounded from Shakespeare and Down-Home humor.
Clifford informed him that somebody had to get them up at 5AM.
That’d be the missus. And she was going to prepare much
more than the usual Continental Breakfast for the crew!
He thirsted to thoroughly explain what Swamp Eggs were.
Two days later, when the truck seemed abandoned outside
of Lichty Acres, the Sheriff started asking questions.
The New Orleans TV got their pictures from the Florida power
company, and hinted at “Sex Terrorism.” Riding the Brides of Larch
angle for all it was worth.
Not much. Sheriff checked phone records of the three, but cells
were dead in Larch, since a tower had been blown down.
Mr Halls told him about all the joking. And that Clifford was some
stud! “So...lured in! And then the others looking for him then...?”
Sheriff informed him that when they found the truth, probably
be quite dull. He departed in his wiry way.
But, not a trace.
Company sends Hip Harlow. Out of retirement and into the dusty truck to drive it back.
The toll taker wants a veritable mystery novel to explain all the
grim goings on, but Hip tells him he knows nothing, just a driver.
The papers have obviously picked up on the Sex Terrorism angle, and he resumes parsing red headlines when Hip pulls away.
Hip turns off the radio and enjoys the swamp. “Everything’s TV today,”
mutters he.
Six months later, Sheriff checks opening of the new Super Walmart.
He doesn’t need photos, could easily tell the trio against the usual
stunted varieties hereabouts. The “Brides” there. Beaming.
Labels: hurricane, Ides of March, Julius Caesar, lineman, local legend, murder, natives, omen, Shakespeare, Super Walmart, swamp, wives
Thursday, September 17, 2015
Nature and Process
They always said you can’t walk off the island,
but, in a sense were wrong.
Hurricane Loretta, though destroying many of
the houses, thrust up a new section from the Ocean.
There you can walk now for half a mile.
It’s contiguous to Doc Rister’s and Hocky Morrisey’s
properties, so they fight atrociously as to who owns it.
Doc finally shoots Hocky in his tent, but the gun
blows up at the insurance round, dispatching him
in addition.
The state has seized the new land. The tree huggers
want a park, but Paradise Cottages–-Own your
little bit of etc--has already bid, sort of. Bribed, more like.
More Ticky-Tacky in our future, but with nobody forbidden
to walk there.
“Win-Win!” exults our governor.
Labels: hurricane, island, land dispute, politics
Tuesday, September 23, 2014
All Kinds, Here and There
Ole Miss
Elrenda's grandmother dealt Blackjack at the smallest
Indian Casino in Mississippi.
Hurricane Irmalene hit, depositing her sparrow-like
frame onto a power pole.
Which cracked in half, landing hers in the Mendsenal River.
There she reposes, pop-eyed mid murk and rubbers,
the half pole on the surface gouged out and replaced
by one in Ole Miss colors.
Bells wanted to marry Elrenda even though Grandmom
legally missing, and she finally relented.
The happy couple went to Penny's during their honeymoon.
Charmed, then, by a strange man at the entrance.
He arranged for a limo to pick them up at their motel, and they
haven’t been seen since.
Not a worry though. They’re in another dimension. No, really.
Guide there, Jerome, laughs at their questions.
Some sort of Jew.
Labels: dimension, hurricane, Indian Casino, Jew, Mississippi, Ole Miss
Monday, September 03, 2012
Romney Tours LA Hurricane Sites
Do he talk to de cullids
on de cots? Tell dem
hard times not un-
beknownst to he?
Be Proud Negroes!
he buck dem up?
Monday, September 27, 2010
Gold!
I live in Cocoa Beach, Florida, and if the shooting war between staunch white Republicans and undocumented brown workers coincides with a Category-5 hurricane, blood will flow down from the causeways.
I hope to have a brick of Kraft cheese to strike a deal with a shattered guy bearing a loaf of bread.
I won’t sell my cheese outright. No way.
And neither I nor my future survival partner will accept a bar of gold.
I live in Cocoa Beach, Florida, and if the shooting war between staunch white Republicans and undocumented brown workers coincides with a Category-5 hurricane, blood will flow down from the causeways.
I hope to have a brick of Kraft cheese to strike a deal with a shattered guy bearing a loaf of bread.
I won’t sell my cheese outright. No way.
And neither I nor my future survival partner will accept a bar of gold.
Labels: Golden Gate, hurricane, immigration, survival, White Republicans
