trafficking in smokeparagraphs
a snow leopard leaps out of the mindembankment
its pelt covered with velvet hoarfrost
Saturday, May 01, 2010
Thursday, October 25, 2007
the extra room is always
just around the corner
behind the stairwell
along your brain stem
it is not known if the extra room is created by dreams
or just surrounded by sleep
the extra room inspires
more mystery than answers
the size of the space seems to expand
into a rather spacious chrysalis
the day's cares decompose
in the extra room
allow you to compose
the moment
windows overlook a garden
full of plants that have not yet been named
bookshelves contain volumes
full of your favorite
unwritten lines of verse
the mirrors reflect only what's possible
lamps project an inner warmth
despite the paradoxical furnishings
it's easy to get your bearings
the atmosphere of the extra room promotes lucidity
offers a scenic stopover
on the bridge between nocturnal
brilliance and the waking world
where you can zone out
without losing
your focus
the music box of memory
never runs out of batteries
the ghost of a chance paces the floor
carries a bouquet of metaphors
for you to make use of
in the extra room everything you need
is included in the scenery
you're able to hear the harmonies
that have been
just out of reach
fortunately
the extra room is easy to get to
the catch is
you can never stay for long
just around the corner
behind the stairwell
along your brain stem
it is not known if the extra room is created by dreams
or just surrounded by sleep
the extra room inspires
more mystery than answers
the size of the space seems to expand
into a rather spacious chrysalis
the day's cares decompose
in the extra room
allow you to compose
the moment
windows overlook a garden
full of plants that have not yet been named
bookshelves contain volumes
full of your favorite
unwritten lines of verse
the mirrors reflect only what's possible
lamps project an inner warmth
despite the paradoxical furnishings
it's easy to get your bearings
the atmosphere of the extra room promotes lucidity
offers a scenic stopover
on the bridge between nocturnal
brilliance and the waking world
where you can zone out
without losing
your focus
the music box of memory
never runs out of batteries
the ghost of a chance paces the floor
carries a bouquet of metaphors
for you to make use of
in the extra room everything you need
is included in the scenery
you're able to hear the harmonies
that have been
just out of reach
fortunately
the extra room is easy to get to
the catch is
you can never stay for long
Monday, October 08, 2007
Thursday, August 09, 2007
Summer Suite in the key of Kansas City
At the beginning of summer
my neighborhood was transformed into 16th century Verona
the players gave a streetclothes rehearsal
for an audience of lightbulbs
and me biking by with my dreams
riding on the handlebars
each night
girls walk around
like apparitions of beauty
only they aren't apparitions
beside the windowsill
I drank a glass of stars
and swallowed a constellation
by mistake
the light made my belly ache
but I was not sad about
its disappearance
at the Loose Park picnic shelter
I gather loose thoughts
and listen to thunder
the cat sits on my shoulder
while I play the electric guitar
and tries to figure out where the sound is coming from
It's summer, and all the air-conditioners are crying
converting humidity into teardrops
24/7
In the heat of the day
kids pour buckets of paint
down the cement stairs that lead
to the Office Depot
in Brookside the streets are being repaved
an old lady gets stuck in the tar
on her way to fill ice-cream cones
and prescriptions
downtown is bogged down by big plans
we're staying planted
until the last non-condo stands
at 2 in the morning
the gaunt wild-haired kid
buys lollipops at the gas station
and rides his bike around for hours
fueled by 17-cent sweets
out on an all-night idea hunt, again
the truth we find at this hour
often requires translation
but right now there's no time
it's the eve of the tornado,
the eye of the party
sweating bullets amid the flower petals
the guitars tiptoe into earshot
a jazzman I mistook for a statue
starts playing taps
on the trumpet
before turning it into "Summertime"
the cicadas sound an end to summer
and someone chimes in
on an off-key honky-tonk piano
playing just around the corner
from everywhere I am
walking the moon
is full but out
of sight
Friday, July 27, 2007
S. in furs - dressed like
the mistress of a
Russian oligarch
she eats an avocado
M. lays on the front porch
and lets her orange hair fall
into a pile of popcorn
she is sleeping, but it looks like she is dead
(what with all that popcorn strewn around her head)
they traded in their cars
for retro scooters
with a sky blue stripe
They prepare couscous
from a readymade packet
and watch a french surrealist film
two sisters in a red brick home
with a starfish chandelier
the mistress of a
Russian oligarch
she eats an avocado
M. lays on the front porch
and lets her orange hair fall
into a pile of popcorn
she is sleeping, but it looks like she is dead
(what with all that popcorn strewn around her head)
they traded in their cars
for retro scooters
with a sky blue stripe
They prepare couscous
from a readymade packet
and watch a french surrealist film
two sisters in a red brick home
with a starfish chandelier
Sunday, June 10, 2007
Thursday, May 31, 2007
The Elf Prince of Morning vs. The Poetry Anthology
Poetry anthology,
the sheer amount of language you contain
confounds me
Your words are centipedes
circumnavigating
the 20th century
Anthology, I get lost
in your cavernous hallways
I was born too late
to attend the coteries
you sponsor
I have only vague
associations with
the:
-modernist
(a once-new tennis shoe with a still-shiny reflector stripe)
-futurist
(wipe the fog off your looking glasses)
-surrealist
(inviting retreats
founded on instability)
-symbolist
(I can not excavate you
from the symbols you have
attached yourself to)
-the late romantic
(has no idea how dead he is)
-decadents
(at least have the decency
to decay)
-the masters of fine arts
(write rejection letters
in art nouveau typeface)
-post-moderns
(plant banners over
eroding institutions)
-the self
(surrenders, surreptitiously)
-the poet chases
flickers of light
at the edge
of understanding
Anthology, I like you best when you let
your avant-garde down
when you address
what's abstract
directly
when your line breaks
nature
into rhythmic parts
When you subvert commercial speech
and create your own language
when your fanciful ideas
point to places
even more fantastic
Anthology, I am but a feather
in the forest of your pages
Anthology you hold so many poems
surely you can afford to
hold just one more?
Monday, May 14, 2007
snapshots from the scenic byway
I'm here tonight to plant
an unkind kiss on
the windshield
free the
luminiscent moths
of superstition
let's quit using
the moon as an excuse
for our behavior
no more jake brakes, babe
we surpassed the speed of caring
at the flying J
your worries
on the wheel, she laid
a stoned but steady hand
"oh, look..."
as if at a passing cloud
"the speedometer"
you scream
and like it
for what it is
sibilance the last
slip of the lips
a smile in the side mirror
and now you're
showing teeth
Tuesday, April 10, 2007
Flowers for Poets Who Can't Take a Compliment
poetry is often compared to flowers
and not always complimentarily
even those who do it best
confess they don't like it
but they still don't deny themselves
the right to write it
personally, I'll read anything that lights up
for the length of a carnival ride
where the vulgar and sublime spin
in oversized tea cups
the result is a philosophical dizziness,
sometimes with a line or two
to mark the occasion
don't lie to me
you, too have tried it
behind the barn, in a mask, on a grade school lawn
in e-mails, fe-mails, post-it-note love notes,
buckets of laughter
or
ideally, in a heap of flowers
Monday, April 09, 2007
A Flower Grows On The Asteroid Field
a waning gibbous rises
provides me with another chance
to wax poetic
moon, moon
bright and shiny moon
we are attracted to you
because you are the nearest
of celestial bodies
you are the light that cuts through
the fog of my thoughts
which is, often other
wise impenetrable
in reading recent news stories
about the hazards of "space debris,"
I discover the perfect analogy
for my mental state
such are the occupational hazards
of trying to reach beyond
your home planet
a new slogan on the international spacestation:
smash a satellite and everyone suffers
in fragmentation,
one can also find
fertility
a tree grows in brooklyn,
a flower springs up in the asteroid field
the true tests of interdependence
occur in zero gravity
right now there are plans to put ATMS on other planets
and companies selling space-flight tickets to the privileged
it is the task of the poet
to outdistance these opportunists
to reach even further in a search
for uncorrupted star
and word clusters
moon, you are the touchstone
we meet along the way
to stick a love note on the Hubble with Hubba Bubba gum
reading:
"Eagle Nebula, I respect your complexity
but at the end of the day, all I know for sure
is that your colors are pretty."
Wednesday, February 28, 2007
Wednesday, January 31, 2007
The Retired Fortune Cookie Copywriter scribbles some words of advice on the back of his latest bank statement
Please avoid all side exits during tonight's performance
and resist the urge to take a soft revolver to your troubles
there will be pain and discomfort
that is to be expected
you've purchased your ticket,
now you have to ride it out
you best not wait for validation,
it runs on its own sweet time
meanwhile they will try to draw you in with their deluge of dialogue
so take care not to deliver your best lines too early
don't forget the form
is not important and never has been
the audience is made of stone, or at best, asleep
soon, your own lids will begin to get heavy
don't worry
this, too, is to be expected
the words will arive in a fit of silence
your poem will write itself with the bat of an eyelash
Please avoid all side exits during tonight's performance
and resist the urge to take a soft revolver to your troubles
there will be pain and discomfort
that is to be expected
you've purchased your ticket,
now you have to ride it out
you best not wait for validation,
it runs on its own sweet time
meanwhile they will try to draw you in with their deluge of dialogue
so take care not to deliver your best lines too early
don't forget the form
is not important and never has been
the audience is made of stone, or at best, asleep
soon, your own lids will begin to get heavy
don't worry
this, too, is to be expected
the words will arive in a fit of silence
your poem will write itself with the bat of an eyelash
Tuesday, January 16, 2007
a latin dance party
tears through my kitchen
I showed my sister
the stem in my teeth
said this is how to bury me
she said when I die
I want to be made into fireworks
or scattered over the sea
or there in the basement parlors
heart straying within the lines
staring upstairs where the toad
plays chess, the snow falls
covers the gazebo; its nightgown
a christmas light explodes a jack-o-lantern
timbers lean on one another
it's a scene of dilapidation, nighttime
rivers, bowling alleys
a bright gas station in a vacant downtown
cats knocking over candles behind
windows workers carols,
hippie strands lifeless moonlight
her hair is like the rope in gym class
the knotted rope I never climbed
lifeless in the moonlight
pale bodies easily seen
at nighttime even paradise unwinds its sprinklers
and hedgehogs fill the slip'n'slides with quills
and the tree's canopy hums a purple melody
branches sway as a bus exhaust
dances away its chains
we slept with our clothes on,
never dreamed of the obvious
how I miss my time on those
ships i have to remember
that it made me sick, queasy
in the noisy sunset vision of angels
in the snow a new year's prayer
on the radio I met November's stare
with a flair gun, a feather boa stealer
sifting through the rubble.
(written January 2003)
tears through my kitchen
I showed my sister
the stem in my teeth
said this is how to bury me
she said when I die
I want to be made into fireworks
or scattered over the sea
or there in the basement parlors
heart straying within the lines
staring upstairs where the toad
plays chess, the snow falls
covers the gazebo; its nightgown
a christmas light explodes a jack-o-lantern
timbers lean on one another
it's a scene of dilapidation, nighttime
rivers, bowling alleys
a bright gas station in a vacant downtown
cats knocking over candles behind
windows workers carols,
hippie strands lifeless moonlight
her hair is like the rope in gym class
the knotted rope I never climbed
lifeless in the moonlight
pale bodies easily seen
at nighttime even paradise unwinds its sprinklers
and hedgehogs fill the slip'n'slides with quills
and the tree's canopy hums a purple melody
branches sway as a bus exhaust
dances away its chains
we slept with our clothes on,
never dreamed of the obvious
how I miss my time on those
ships i have to remember
that it made me sick, queasy
in the noisy sunset vision of angels
in the snow a new year's prayer
on the radio I met November's stare
with a flair gun, a feather boa stealer
sifting through the rubble.
(written January 2003)
Sunday, January 07, 2007
Elizabethan sonnet by Lucas Wetzel, age 25
"The Kiss" (woodblock print) by Peter Behrens, (1869-1940)
When I have fears that I’ll stop being cool
before my band has played its farewell tour
before I best death in a guitar duel,
and the carefree life loses all allure;
When I take a look at all the cities
and the venues that we’ve left to play,
I fear my stage-presence will desert me
and my star-power will soon fade away;
And when I feel, fair indie-rock mistress!
that I’ll never make out with you again
never brush the cloth of your vintage dress,
or write songs to capture your attention
I think, though my coolness may not last long,
the best love rarely outlives a pop song.
Author's note: In case your memories of English 12 are a bit fuzzy and you're wondering what this poem is referencing, check out the source material from John Keats.
Tuesday, November 28, 2006
The modern-day Märchen of the Plastic Discus Poet
On a Sunday afternoon, the Plastic Discus Poet pens a poem on the back of a Frisbee and sends it out into the ages.
It sails up to the sun and out of site for a while, then returns to strike the young man in the forehead, sending him confused and stumbling into the cornfields.
Dazed, he forgets his name, his purpose and the date. The painstakingly arranged pentameter he’s prepared for his next poem disperses in a free-for-all of blank verse.
He dusts himself off, puts out the jazz cigarette he didn’t realize he was smoking and launches a toss still more reckless than the first.
The disc soars like a drunken bird, its errant flight path taking it straight into a tree trunk. The Frisbee drops to the ground but doesn’t stop -- instead it rolls down the hill, picks up steam and kicks up pebbles as it disappears into the valley.
The Frisbee’s owner, following the disc and some strange intuition, dashes after it. His tennis shoes have long since lost their traction, and he slides along the slope, gripping vines and roots to steady his perilous descent.
When he finally spills out onto the base of the hill, the first thing he sees is a canopy of leaves above him, like the dappled beauty of Klimt’s beeches somehow at home here in Kansas.
His Frisbee, too, has come to a halt several dozen feet ahead. It is nestled in the front yard of a small shack by the railroad tracks, guarded by totem poles and multicolored bowling balls mounted in a concrete wall. The totems are made of bone statues resembling see-no-evil, speak-no-evil, hear-no-evil figures, only with additional siblings whose petrified gesticulations forbid a variety of other action verbs, even though their playful faces are more encouraging than dissuasive.
From out of this most unusual yard art steps a man wearing a grey beard and a trucker cap of many colors. He bends to pick up the Frisbee, looks at the younger man still on the ground before him, and waves him into his abode.
The interior of the shack is as sparse as the front lawn is cluttered. A naked bulb hangs over a dining room table. A pair of heavy books with golden pages rests beside the sink, though whether they contain magic spells or telephone numbers is anybody’s guess. The cabin as a whole is dark, but streams of sunlight filter in through little holes in the walls.
The man makes no introduction, nor does he ask for one. He offers his guest a glass of water, then clicks on the miner’s headlamp mounted in his headband and looks at the Frisbee carefully. The Plastic Discus Poet sees that there are runes on the disc, though he can’t make any sense of them.
Meanwhile, the trucker-capped fellow studies the writing using a monocle fashioned from the clear glass bottom of a domestic beer bottle.
“At first I thought it was gibberish, or at best some form of Elvish, but looking through this I can tell it is plain English,” he says, handing the frisbee back to his still bewildered guest.
Once his eyes have adjusted to the dimness of the shack, the Plastic Discus Poet identifies for the first time the source and text of his afternoon reverie. Slowly twirling the disc on his fingers, he sees poems within poems and 'bees within 'bees. Though the poem itself never ends, a portion of it reads:
Once upon a time I bought a Frisbee and it traveled unbelievable speeds across time and never touched the ground only landed on the boughs of trees always bowing to return itself to me the freeness with which it spins and the rays of light it bends like notes in which I hear fragments major ninth chords emanation theories fractals whooper wills and daffodils at peace in the background of my Frisbee’s flight time itself unravels an empty mystery not meaningless just esoteric like the punch line of a Laffy Taffy too sun-faded to read to put it simply you oh Frisbee understand the earth in a kinetic fashion I could never hope to my soul has traveled far like the Frisbee it belongs to and yet seeks to fly beyond this world...
Upon reading this elegiac spin cycle and recognizing it as his own, the Plastic Discus Poet admits out loud that his life is a Frisbee he neither threw nor caught.
He waves a timid goodbye to the man, whose concerned smile suggests he wants to say something but knows it would be wiser not to. As he leaves the hut, however, the young man feels as if a weight has lifted. He looks into his bag and sees it is finally free of Frisbees.
He follows the sound of trickling water to a stream and hangs the empty bag on a branch overlooking its banks. Then he walks peacefully down the mulberry bush and beer can-lined path to the old tree with a sign that reads:
top photo illustration by david wetzel and mike nolte
bottom photo illustration by jennifer brothers
On a Sunday afternoon, the Plastic Discus Poet pens a poem on the back of a Frisbee and sends it out into the ages.
It sails up to the sun and out of site for a while, then returns to strike the young man in the forehead, sending him confused and stumbling into the cornfields.
Dazed, he forgets his name, his purpose and the date. The painstakingly arranged pentameter he’s prepared for his next poem disperses in a free-for-all of blank verse.
He dusts himself off, puts out the jazz cigarette he didn’t realize he was smoking and launches a toss still more reckless than the first.
The disc soars like a drunken bird, its errant flight path taking it straight into a tree trunk. The Frisbee drops to the ground but doesn’t stop -- instead it rolls down the hill, picks up steam and kicks up pebbles as it disappears into the valley.
The Frisbee’s owner, following the disc and some strange intuition, dashes after it. His tennis shoes have long since lost their traction, and he slides along the slope, gripping vines and roots to steady his perilous descent.
When he finally spills out onto the base of the hill, the first thing he sees is a canopy of leaves above him, like the dappled beauty of Klimt’s beeches somehow at home here in Kansas.
His Frisbee, too, has come to a halt several dozen feet ahead. It is nestled in the front yard of a small shack by the railroad tracks, guarded by totem poles and multicolored bowling balls mounted in a concrete wall. The totems are made of bone statues resembling see-no-evil, speak-no-evil, hear-no-evil figures, only with additional siblings whose petrified gesticulations forbid a variety of other action verbs, even though their playful faces are more encouraging than dissuasive.
From out of this most unusual yard art steps a man wearing a grey beard and a trucker cap of many colors. He bends to pick up the Frisbee, looks at the younger man still on the ground before him, and waves him into his abode.
The interior of the shack is as sparse as the front lawn is cluttered. A naked bulb hangs over a dining room table. A pair of heavy books with golden pages rests beside the sink, though whether they contain magic spells or telephone numbers is anybody’s guess. The cabin as a whole is dark, but streams of sunlight filter in through little holes in the walls.
The man makes no introduction, nor does he ask for one. He offers his guest a glass of water, then clicks on the miner’s headlamp mounted in his headband and looks at the Frisbee carefully. The Plastic Discus Poet sees that there are runes on the disc, though he can’t make any sense of them.
Meanwhile, the trucker-capped fellow studies the writing using a monocle fashioned from the clear glass bottom of a domestic beer bottle.
“At first I thought it was gibberish, or at best some form of Elvish, but looking through this I can tell it is plain English,” he says, handing the frisbee back to his still bewildered guest.
Once his eyes have adjusted to the dimness of the shack, the Plastic Discus Poet identifies for the first time the source and text of his afternoon reverie. Slowly twirling the disc on his fingers, he sees poems within poems and 'bees within 'bees. Though the poem itself never ends, a portion of it reads:
Once upon a time I bought a Frisbee and it traveled unbelievable speeds across time and never touched the ground only landed on the boughs of trees always bowing to return itself to me the freeness with which it spins and the rays of light it bends like notes in which I hear fragments major ninth chords emanation theories fractals whooper wills and daffodils at peace in the background of my Frisbee’s flight time itself unravels an empty mystery not meaningless just esoteric like the punch line of a Laffy Taffy too sun-faded to read to put it simply you oh Frisbee understand the earth in a kinetic fashion I could never hope to my soul has traveled far like the Frisbee it belongs to and yet seeks to fly beyond this world...
Upon reading this elegiac spin cycle and recognizing it as his own, the Plastic Discus Poet admits out loud that his life is a Frisbee he neither threw nor caught.
He waves a timid goodbye to the man, whose concerned smile suggests he wants to say something but knows it would be wiser not to. As he leaves the hut, however, the young man feels as if a weight has lifted. He looks into his bag and sees it is finally free of Frisbees.
He follows the sound of trickling water to a stream and hangs the empty bag on a branch overlooking its banks. Then he walks peacefully down the mulberry bush and beer can-lined path to the old tree with a sign that reads:
top photo illustration by david wetzel and mike nolte
bottom photo illustration by jennifer brothers
Thursday, October 05, 2006
100 Haikus about Bonn, Germany
a pearl on the Rhine
population: not so much
Bundeshauptdorf Bonn
the smell of hot tea
and behind the green curtains
brown & yellow leaves
Hello, Nutella
I've looked for you for so long
and now I've found you
the escalators
of Galerie Kaufhof
whirlwind of commerce
Bonn is a city
you might not choose to visit
nice place to live, though
cerebus statue
barking at me silently
on 9/11
der Thuringer Mann
doing the things that only
Thuringer Mann kann
the Villenviertel
the East Egg of Godesberg
flooded with sunlight
Linie 16
carries me asleep into
Wesseling daybreak
Schoener Hofgarten
die gruene, grosse Wiese
Frisbee, anyone?
Red regional trains
connect the dots cross country
to Oktoberfest
In the park one day
student and old veteran
discuss Europe's past
Uni-Markt junkies
I wish I could tell them that
needles aren't their friends
Cafe Goettlich sign
a warm magenta welcome
in the autumn rain
sperrmuell ist nicht muell
well, technically it is trash;
trash that's worth saving
at the Spielhalle
while men smoke and place wagers
I write an e-mail
one thirsty midnight
I took an epic bike ride
to the Tankstelle
after the movie
I gave Susi a ride home
in a shopping cart
At the Hauptbahnhof
Schloss-Drinkers get together
and drink cans of Schloss
Jablonski the bus
southbound on the autobahn
it's Berlin or Bust!
a circular dance
jump and kick the hacky sack
up into the clouds
Werner Hubschrauber's
Hochsteppender Steppenwolf
das war sein Geisttier
Frueh, Reissdorff, Gaffel
Kuppers, Dom, Sion, Gilden
So viele Koelsche
der Brauerei Bonnsch
glasses with a built-in grip
leckeres bier, auch
statues and hedges
reflecting ponds and cabbage
gardens of Schloss Bruehl
a promising Herbst
now leaves and hopes have fallen
guess I'll go to Prague
scenes of childhood
reflected in sunglasses
worn by a young boy
Poppelsdorfer Schloss
genau ein kilometer
vom Hauptgebaeude
Bus sagt: "Naechster Halt
Am Botanischen Garten"
Hier steigen wir aus
lamplight from a house
stained-glass window in my mind
one November night
Schneekugelanschlag
in the Ippendorfer field
almost killed Felix
People slide and fall
icy Muensterplatz at night
Beethoven watches
Gluehwein warms the soul
stroll along the Weinachtsmarkt
taking in the sights
inside the globe lamp
the coolest spot in my room
I'll never visit
die Spanierennen
tanzen den ganzen Abend
ich spiele Kicker
little red candles
stundenbrenning down the haus
with a happy glow
cutting through the fog
of a German emotion
ein trennbares verb
We drank a whole Kranz
before our train left Kologne
wreath of little beers
Mangelexemplar
a great name for a punk group
fucked-up example
Sovjietlokal
Wodka mit Weissbaer special
macht dich besoffen
the green light above
Dottendorfer Jugendkreuz
we thought it was France
my African friends
smoked me out of house and home
but I still love them
if I had my way
thousands of Schoko-Kuss crepes
would be mine each day
Konvikstrasse Frau
Can't tell if she's real or stone
so I start to cry
der Mann fragte mich
ob ich etwas Kleingeld hab
leider hab ich nix
A city of screens
the coolest kids see movies
at Kinopolis
in the Kellerbar
the cigarette smoke travels
so high from such depths
Egal was es ist:
Fahrplaene, Landeskunde
Chris Cho weisst alles
rats chase each other
through the Christmas Village scene
im Kaufhoffenster
would you like to hear
eine kleine Pfeifmusik?
so ein geiles Lied
Silvester am Rhein
drunken rockets of midnight
World War II again
takes a train to laugh
and it takes a train to cry
but not, to giggle
Cafe Zebulon
a Guinness and a baguette
Bobby's Stammkneipe
with another day
comes another disaster
pass the Chipsletten
time to ride the rails
let the Deutsche bahn shake you
out of this numbness
Hextentanz Abend
the over-forty parties
at the Godesburg
Museumsmeile
invites you to visit its
miles of museums
Rafael's Zimmer
schoene Musik und Tueten
gab es immer da
huge and incomplete
the Deutsche Post gebaeude
houses my lost mail
V-town legacies
Easyman rule number 1:
You must love Rasta
After those parties
of Godesberger grandeur
I felt like Gatsby
lost traveler notes
the letters that spell "Let's Go"
Also spell "Get Lost"
rats chase each other
are their amorous pursuits
different from our own?
with the price increase
the schoenes wochenende
ist nicht mehr so schoen
Graf Zeppelin Bar
my hopes for romance have crashed
into the beermat
am Weiberfastnacht
Krawatten are cut in half
blame it on the dames
afternoon at Till's
inhale smoke and exhale clouds
from the waterpipe
the Rhein is in flames
fireworkaleidoscope
all along the banks
Lord Byron once wrote:
Drachenfels, the castled crag
snarls over the Rhine
my favorite brand
also the most mispronounced:
Gauloises Cigarettes
Juridicum bum
his prosthetic leg provides
a pillow and limb
painter, rapscallian
crooner, mooch, American
Arthur's many roles
I have a dream of
opening a kebab chain
"doener dynasty"
City Pix a fight
with my appetite, punches
it out with Pommes
Along my bike path
mysterious gazebo
sehnsucht of shadows
He answered the phone
"Freiwilliges Feuerwerk?"
Monkey bar prankster
baby statue moons
the other side of the Rhein
wo die Sonne scheint
South of Canonplatz
Tute und ein Koelsch dabei
garden of eden
face smeared with flowers
Till holds up a broken string
points at me and swears
I'm a good Dryad
I have trees to tend to and
trees to tend to me
ride the Strassenbahn
to Bertha von Suttner Platz
make your dreams come true
trees stand tall along
Poppelsdorfer Promenade
mittsommernachtstraum
It's a long way home
from Rammersdorf to Siegburg
wenn man zu fuss geht
electric summer
Gitarre und Gewitter
death have no mercy
Steffi relaxiert
getraenk und ein Buch dabei
along the green dock
Rheinland Apollo
rests his elbows on the banks
he's in no hurry
mein korper blieb still
aber meine seele flog
weit, sehr weit, von hier
Spinat mit Feta
oder Pizza Salami
Cala-Dor Fete
vorsichtig bleiben
Tueren schliessen selbstaetig
and don't reopen
in den Weinbergen
wo mein Fahrrad versteckt ist
spielen die Zwerge
gemalt, geschrieben
die klassischen figuren
Tod und das Maedchen
just about to sleep
when the SMS arrives:
explodieren wir?
struck by Apollo
Hoelderlin's Hyperion
is speaking through me
Rheinauereise
I've been walking through this park
all night and all day
He lets his hair down
and dances like a dervish
er ist der Bobby
end of the party
a guitar watches over
the sleeping lady
the Abschiedspartie
we all sat in a circle
and talked about life
seit wann bin ich hier?
so viel ist aber passiert
in elf Monaten
echoes of a laugh
as we head out of this town
off the primrose path
About the Author: Lucas Wetzel studied at the University of Bonn from 2001-2002 through an exchange with the University of Kansas, where he graduated in 2004. He currently lives in the United States. He would like to dedicate this project to his friends.
a pearl on the Rhine
population: not so much
Bundeshauptdorf Bonn
the smell of hot tea
and behind the green curtains
brown & yellow leaves
Hello, Nutella
I've looked for you for so long
and now I've found you
the escalators
of Galerie Kaufhof
whirlwind of commerce
Bonn is a city
you might not choose to visit
nice place to live, though
cerebus statue
barking at me silently
on 9/11
der Thuringer Mann
doing the things that only
Thuringer Mann kann
the Villenviertel
the East Egg of Godesberg
flooded with sunlight
Linie 16
carries me asleep into
Wesseling daybreak
Schoener Hofgarten
die gruene, grosse Wiese
Frisbee, anyone?
Red regional trains
connect the dots cross country
to Oktoberfest
In the park one day
student and old veteran
discuss Europe's past
Uni-Markt junkies
I wish I could tell them that
needles aren't their friends
Cafe Goettlich sign
a warm magenta welcome
in the autumn rain
sperrmuell ist nicht muell
well, technically it is trash;
trash that's worth saving
at the Spielhalle
while men smoke and place wagers
I write an e-mail
one thirsty midnight
I took an epic bike ride
to the Tankstelle
after the movie
I gave Susi a ride home
in a shopping cart
At the Hauptbahnhof
Schloss-Drinkers get together
and drink cans of Schloss
Jablonski the bus
southbound on the autobahn
it's Berlin or Bust!
a circular dance
jump and kick the hacky sack
up into the clouds
Werner Hubschrauber's
Hochsteppender Steppenwolf
das war sein Geisttier
Frueh, Reissdorff, Gaffel
Kuppers, Dom, Sion, Gilden
So viele Koelsche
der Brauerei Bonnsch
glasses with a built-in grip
leckeres bier, auch
statues and hedges
reflecting ponds and cabbage
gardens of Schloss Bruehl
a promising Herbst
now leaves and hopes have fallen
guess I'll go to Prague
scenes of childhood
reflected in sunglasses
worn by a young boy
Poppelsdorfer Schloss
genau ein kilometer
vom Hauptgebaeude
Bus sagt: "Naechster Halt
Am Botanischen Garten"
Hier steigen wir aus
lamplight from a house
stained-glass window in my mind
one November night
Schneekugelanschlag
in the Ippendorfer field
almost killed Felix
People slide and fall
icy Muensterplatz at night
Beethoven watches
Gluehwein warms the soul
stroll along the Weinachtsmarkt
taking in the sights
inside the globe lamp
the coolest spot in my room
I'll never visit
die Spanierennen
tanzen den ganzen Abend
ich spiele Kicker
little red candles
stundenbrenning down the haus
with a happy glow
cutting through the fog
of a German emotion
ein trennbares verb
We drank a whole Kranz
before our train left Kologne
wreath of little beers
Mangelexemplar
a great name for a punk group
fucked-up example
Sovjietlokal
Wodka mit Weissbaer special
macht dich besoffen
the green light above
Dottendorfer Jugendkreuz
we thought it was France
my African friends
smoked me out of house and home
but I still love them
if I had my way
thousands of Schoko-Kuss crepes
would be mine each day
Konvikstrasse Frau
Can't tell if she's real or stone
so I start to cry
der Mann fragte mich
ob ich etwas Kleingeld hab
leider hab ich nix
A city of screens
the coolest kids see movies
at Kinopolis
in the Kellerbar
the cigarette smoke travels
so high from such depths
Egal was es ist:
Fahrplaene, Landeskunde
Chris Cho weisst alles
rats chase each other
through the Christmas Village scene
im Kaufhoffenster
would you like to hear
eine kleine Pfeifmusik?
so ein geiles Lied
Silvester am Rhein
drunken rockets of midnight
World War II again
takes a train to laugh
and it takes a train to cry
but not, to giggle
Cafe Zebulon
a Guinness and a baguette
Bobby's Stammkneipe
with another day
comes another disaster
pass the Chipsletten
time to ride the rails
let the Deutsche bahn shake you
out of this numbness
Hextentanz Abend
the over-forty parties
at the Godesburg
Museumsmeile
invites you to visit its
miles of museums
Rafael's Zimmer
schoene Musik und Tueten
gab es immer da
huge and incomplete
the Deutsche Post gebaeude
houses my lost mail
V-town legacies
Easyman rule number 1:
You must love Rasta
After those parties
of Godesberger grandeur
I felt like Gatsby
lost traveler notes
the letters that spell "Let's Go"
Also spell "Get Lost"
rats chase each other
are their amorous pursuits
different from our own?
with the price increase
the schoenes wochenende
ist nicht mehr so schoen
Graf Zeppelin Bar
my hopes for romance have crashed
into the beermat
am Weiberfastnacht
Krawatten are cut in half
blame it on the dames
afternoon at Till's
inhale smoke and exhale clouds
from the waterpipe
the Rhein is in flames
fireworkaleidoscope
all along the banks
Lord Byron once wrote:
Drachenfels, the castled crag
snarls over the Rhine
my favorite brand
also the most mispronounced:
Gauloises Cigarettes
Juridicum bum
his prosthetic leg provides
a pillow and limb
painter, rapscallian
crooner, mooch, American
Arthur's many roles
I have a dream of
opening a kebab chain
"doener dynasty"
City Pix a fight
with my appetite, punches
it out with Pommes
Along my bike path
mysterious gazebo
sehnsucht of shadows
He answered the phone
"Freiwilliges Feuerwerk?"
Monkey bar prankster
baby statue moons
the other side of the Rhein
wo die Sonne scheint
South of Canonplatz
Tute und ein Koelsch dabei
garden of eden
face smeared with flowers
Till holds up a broken string
points at me and swears
I'm a good Dryad
I have trees to tend to and
trees to tend to me
ride the Strassenbahn
to Bertha von Suttner Platz
make your dreams come true
trees stand tall along
Poppelsdorfer Promenade
mittsommernachtstraum
It's a long way home
from Rammersdorf to Siegburg
wenn man zu fuss geht
electric summer
Gitarre und Gewitter
death have no mercy
Steffi relaxiert
getraenk und ein Buch dabei
along the green dock
Rheinland Apollo
rests his elbows on the banks
he's in no hurry
mein korper blieb still
aber meine seele flog
weit, sehr weit, von hier
Spinat mit Feta
oder Pizza Salami
Cala-Dor Fete
vorsichtig bleiben
Tueren schliessen selbstaetig
and don't reopen
in den Weinbergen
wo mein Fahrrad versteckt ist
spielen die Zwerge
gemalt, geschrieben
die klassischen figuren
Tod und das Maedchen
just about to sleep
when the SMS arrives:
explodieren wir?
struck by Apollo
Hoelderlin's Hyperion
is speaking through me
Rheinauereise
I've been walking through this park
all night and all day
He lets his hair down
and dances like a dervish
er ist der Bobby
end of the party
a guitar watches over
the sleeping lady
the Abschiedspartie
we all sat in a circle
and talked about life
seit wann bin ich hier?
so viel ist aber passiert
in elf Monaten
echoes of a laugh
as we head out of this town
off the primrose path
About the Author: Lucas Wetzel studied at the University of Bonn from 2001-2002 through an exchange with the University of Kansas, where he graduated in 2004. He currently lives in the United States. He would like to dedicate this project to his friends.
Sunday, October 01, 2006
textual snapshots of the Afton Apts. at night
Midtown downtempo
summer on the patio
A dash of honeysuckle sends
me somersaulting back to spring
at 43rd Street
when I spent all day at the crosswalk
hypnotized by changing lights and girls
jogging in place
the insanity of so much
beauty becomes inanity
the unwritten headline reads:
Frank's Bus* Has Crashed Into the Art Tenement
Injuring No One -- only you, an innocent onlooker
approaching nighttime at the Aftons
where everything has happened
the trees block all views of the office tower
a patch of sky opens up enough
to let a shooting star squeak through
a student dangles his legs over the balcony
and plays guitar so you don't have to
he whistles to his art-punk friends
huck finns on a concrete river
paddling ever closer to dawn
from all the usual angles
a somnanbulist walks to the gas station
an anbulance drives south on main
its sirens mingle with the violins
on national public radio
while every morning at 4:03
the lone skateboarder rolls by
on his nightly journey to the end
of midtown
10/19/06
*I don't know when or where the legend of Frank's Bus originated, but my friends Red and BWB used to talk about a bus full of pretty girls that would arrive unannounced on campus every spring. The bus was driven by a guy named Frank (hence the name "Frank's Bus). So if all of a sudden one day you noticed a lot of attractive girls walking around wearing tank tops and their hair down you might remark, "Looks like Frank's Bus has arrived."
Midtown downtempo
summer on the patio
A dash of honeysuckle sends
me somersaulting back to spring
at 43rd Street
when I spent all day at the crosswalk
hypnotized by changing lights and girls
jogging in place
the insanity of so much
beauty becomes inanity
the unwritten headline reads:
Frank's Bus* Has Crashed Into the Art Tenement
Injuring No One -- only you, an innocent onlooker
approaching nighttime at the Aftons
where everything has happened
the trees block all views of the office tower
a patch of sky opens up enough
to let a shooting star squeak through
a student dangles his legs over the balcony
and plays guitar so you don't have to
he whistles to his art-punk friends
huck finns on a concrete river
paddling ever closer to dawn
from all the usual angles
a somnanbulist walks to the gas station
an anbulance drives south on main
its sirens mingle with the violins
on national public radio
while every morning at 4:03
the lone skateboarder rolls by
on his nightly journey to the end
of midtown
10/19/06
*I don't know when or where the legend of Frank's Bus originated, but my friends Red and BWB used to talk about a bus full of pretty girls that would arrive unannounced on campus every spring. The bus was driven by a guy named Frank (hence the name "Frank's Bus). So if all of a sudden one day you noticed a lot of attractive girls walking around wearing tank tops and their hair down you might remark, "Looks like Frank's Bus has arrived."
Sunday, October 31, 2004
I don't know what I'm supposed to do
with all these pages
these letters that keep stacking up
these songs without music
themes begin to appear but
the story doesn't change it
can only be alluded to
every day is halloween
november is a rotting jackolantern
a valley I have to fortify
myself against
sour pumpkinseed
every day I dress like this
and never expect to be seen
It's opposite day
I drool straight into the grave
let tone poems fill out
blank invitations
I order a banana split without the banana
I sit at the counter and wait
for the sleigh-bells to whiskey
me away to winter
my friends have all grown
old and serious
I still love them
they are my anchors
they are my oarsmen
I kissed that girl
like it was the last time
because
more often than not
it was
enough
to ignite
the neon signs
in my shop, a thatched roof
full of tea infusions
nighttimes, plastic eternities
full moons, three for five dollars
these days
the days
pile up
like painted bones
mournful, glowing
seasons I belonged to
and never longed to leave
with all these pages
these letters that keep stacking up
these songs without music
themes begin to appear but
the story doesn't change it
can only be alluded to
every day is halloween
november is a rotting jackolantern
a valley I have to fortify
myself against
sour pumpkinseed
every day I dress like this
and never expect to be seen
It's opposite day
I drool straight into the grave
let tone poems fill out
blank invitations
I order a banana split without the banana
I sit at the counter and wait
for the sleigh-bells to whiskey
me away to winter
my friends have all grown
old and serious
I still love them
they are my anchors
they are my oarsmen
I kissed that girl
like it was the last time
because
more often than not
it was
enough
to ignite
the neon signs
in my shop, a thatched roof
full of tea infusions
nighttimes, plastic eternities
full moons, three for five dollars
these days
the days
pile up
like painted bones
mournful, glowing
seasons I belonged to
and never longed to leave
Saturday, May 01, 2004
Spirits of 1776
I had a friend who expressed
colonial sympathies
at dinner, when reading the paper
he’d bang his fist on the table
and yell darned if my name’s not
James K. Polka Dots
when a gardening neighbor asked
about his accent, he said it belonged
to no one but the sea, though if it were
to wash up on any shore, it would
probably be somewhere else
If you questioned his opinion
he’d threaten to paint your face
full of red, white and blue bruises
until you saw stars, adding:
Aaron Burr should have killed
you too while he was at it
One time at the IHOP the late-night
waiter pissed him off he said
I’d like my eggs, Benedict Arnold
the rouge-tinted hangnail
moon sat heavy
on his plantation
One Fourth of July a cat bit him
right after he chewed a tab of acid
the rest of the night he thought
the redcoat pets were out to get him
At dawn on the fifth he stood
triumphant barking back at dogs
you’ve had your day, Lobsterbacks
Another time I caught him
wearing a powdered wig
and staring at the ceiling
like he didn’t believe in anything
He said he regretted that he had
but one life to give for his front porch
one set of silver spokes to spin
Then he lit a parliament and said besides,
my diplomatic ties lie elsewhere
and then he exhaled in the direction of France
I had a friend who expressed
colonial sympathies
at dinner, when reading the paper
he’d bang his fist on the table
and yell darned if my name’s not
James K. Polka Dots
when a gardening neighbor asked
about his accent, he said it belonged
to no one but the sea, though if it were
to wash up on any shore, it would
probably be somewhere else
If you questioned his opinion
he’d threaten to paint your face
full of red, white and blue bruises
until you saw stars, adding:
Aaron Burr should have killed
you too while he was at it
One time at the IHOP the late-night
waiter pissed him off he said
I’d like my eggs, Benedict Arnold
the rouge-tinted hangnail
moon sat heavy
on his plantation
One Fourth of July a cat bit him
right after he chewed a tab of acid
the rest of the night he thought
the redcoat pets were out to get him
At dawn on the fifth he stood
triumphant barking back at dogs
you’ve had your day, Lobsterbacks
Another time I caught him
wearing a powdered wig
and staring at the ceiling
like he didn’t believe in anything
He said he regretted that he had
but one life to give for his front porch
one set of silver spokes to spin
Then he lit a parliament and said besides,
my diplomatic ties lie elsewhere
and then he exhaled in the direction of France
Saturday, September 22, 2001
The Cabin of Eternal Halloween
There's a town in New England
with orange leaves all year round
and a nice wood cabin saloon in the woods
where a mummy and a green-faced witch
a devil and a werewolf
sit with friends
and stuff chili-dogs into their mouths
wash it down with cider and Dr. Pepper
and kick the black cats out from underfoot
on the way to pop gold-wrapped chocolate coins
into the old-fashioned jukebox
Sometimes Dracula arrives to give a live performance
on the organ
he does a stirring rendition of "Soul Kitchen"
but most of the time he's out all night
a busy man, that Drac
he does commercials
and cameos on famous shows like Sesame Street
"If they want to pay me to be me, that's fine" says Drac
In fact he doesn't mind the fame
He uses the royalty checks to buy apples for the others to bob for
but buys only blood oranges for himself
They are a good-natured group, at least for the most part
the mummy's a mumbler,
and Werewolf's not the brightest
the witch is a real witch
and you know how witches are
Skeleton is well-intentioned but forgetful
He always fishes around for change
in order to pay for everyone's drinks
until Rumpelstiltskin reminds him:
"Skelly, you bastid, you ain't got no damn pockets!"
So Skeleton just holds his skull in his hands and weeps
And though this happens every day
the others laugh while the jukebox plays
all except for the Great Pumpkin
who sits, smashed, in a corner
with his stem attached to a whiskey sour
everybody knows better than to say
"What makes you so great, anyway?"
that question would be more mean than funny
because the Great Pumpkin feels bad --
he feels bad about ditching Linus
on national television every year
E.T. is there, too, at the bar
He is not that popular
he only knows three words
and he always spills Reese's Piece's all over the place
"E.T. Phone Home," he says in a belabored monotone
while staring at the foam of his lager
But the most poignant scene transpires at the computer station
where the cyborg from "The Terminator"
uses the aching slowness of the dial-up connection
to try and check his e-mail
He brings his metallic face close to the screen
but no matter how hard he looks
the e-mail never comes
he only gets mass mailings
from his ex-girlfriend in the Peace Corps
and notices from the System Administrator
that his mailbox has exceeded its size limit
which is bizarre seeing as how hardly anyone writes him
He hits "reply"
but it is of course an automated system
so the System Administrator never gets the message
that he is a jerk-face
Sitting next to the cyborg is quite uncomfortable
his expression, a kind of grimace/smile, never changes
he sports rust stains under his arms
you can tell he hasn't lubed in days
you have to remind yourself to keep a straight face in his presence
which can be hard to do
especially if he cuts a fart
or something like that
And so they gather, night after night
playing darts and pin this on that
killing time, the dead and unreal
Some nights Frankenstein's monster returns
from the junkyard with a guitar in arm
and sings "With Or Without You" by U2
while the others stifle laughs
at the monster's accent and absence of pitch
but after he strikes the last chord
they all clap while the monster smiles
Addendum
Because this piece is a bit dated, and since anniversary re-packagings of creative product often offer director commentary as a bonus, I thought I'd offer a monster-by-monster critical breakdown of "The Cabin of Eternal Halloween."
Dracula: Drac is presented as the high-profile breadwinner of the monster crew, probably because of his longevity and his appeal to both young television audiences and long-time fans of the horror genre. Dracula is at once lady killer, Eastern European aristocrat, and organ grinder of the acid-influenced garage rock variety.
Jim Morrison, William Butler Yeats, Arthur Rimbaud: Originally, this poem depicted the Halloween cabin as a literary cafe as well as monster hangout. It mentioned Jim Morrison hanging out and reading Louis Ferdinand-Celine and being all serious, but then getting really irritated by the antics of Yeats, who was down on all fours trying to exorcise his body from his spirit. This caused Jim Morrison to throw his book into a hay bale and storm off without paying for his drink. Rimbaud is just kind of this gloomy spiritual French darkness that hangs over all young writers/Edgar Allan Poseurs with a penchant for the phantasmagoric. Poe himself, often considered the Halloweeniest of American authors, was not mentioned here, presumably because he has bigger fish to fry in the afterlife, such as pining for his lost, dead loves and/or reversing the inaccurate biographical assessments made in bad faith by Rufus Wilmot Griswold.
Werewolf: Kind of the jock of this crowd. He can run fast and kill with ease, but can't solve a basic math problem to save his life.
Skeleton: The poem's sad-sack character -- sad sack of bones, that is. Skelly's always forgetting he has no money and no skin. This character reminds me of an incident I witnessed at a Barcelona cafe in which a drunken exchange student sat at the piano and began performing the grade school music class classic, "Have you seen the Ghost of John?/Long white bones with the skin all go-o-o-one/Oooh, Oooh/Wouldn't it be chilly with no skin on?"
The Great Pumpkin: Most of you have probably seen the classic Charlie Brown Halloween special in which Linus waits for the Great Pumpkin all night without success. The Great Pumpkin's side of the story, however, is never told. If you were the Great Pumpkin, how would that make you feel?
E.T.: I'm too young to remember it, but I'm told my parents had to take me out of the theater when this film opened because I was terrified to the point of tears. I think it had to do with all the plastic they put around the house to quarantine it, but I'm not sure. Much is made in the movie of E.T.'s spoken wish to phone home, but the version of his character depicted here suggests that maybe E.T. has no idea what he's saying, that he's little more aware of his words' meaning than a trained parrot.
The Terminator cyborg: The summer I was 20, I went over to a friend's house to catch a drink. His roommate was watching "The Terminator," which I'd never seen before and found terrifying. Without my noticing, the roommate had left the couch to go sign on to the Internet in his bedroom. At first, I thought the cyborg himself was signing on to America Online, which made me question what kinds of E-mail a cyborg hoped to find in his inbox. What if he didn't have any E-mail? Would he be dangerous to be around, or would it just be funny? My friends made fun of me and told me to stop asking them questions, but by that point it was too late.
Frankenstein's Troubador: I modeled this character after Klaus, one of the Germans who lived in my building. "With or Without You" was Klaus' favorite U2 song, and he often played it in the cellar-bar of the student apartments where I lived that year.
There's a town in New England
with orange leaves all year round
and a nice wood cabin saloon in the woods
where a mummy and a green-faced witch
a devil and a werewolf
sit with friends
and stuff chili-dogs into their mouths
wash it down with cider and Dr. Pepper
and kick the black cats out from underfoot
on the way to pop gold-wrapped chocolate coins
into the old-fashioned jukebox
Sometimes Dracula arrives to give a live performance
on the organ
he does a stirring rendition of "Soul Kitchen"
but most of the time he's out all night
a busy man, that Drac
he does commercials
and cameos on famous shows like Sesame Street
"If they want to pay me to be me, that's fine" says Drac
In fact he doesn't mind the fame
He uses the royalty checks to buy apples for the others to bob for
but buys only blood oranges for himself
They are a good-natured group, at least for the most part
the mummy's a mumbler,
and Werewolf's not the brightest
the witch is a real witch
and you know how witches are
Skeleton is well-intentioned but forgetful
He always fishes around for change
in order to pay for everyone's drinks
until Rumpelstiltskin reminds him:
"Skelly, you bastid, you ain't got no damn pockets!"
So Skeleton just holds his skull in his hands and weeps
And though this happens every day
the others laugh while the jukebox plays
all except for the Great Pumpkin
who sits, smashed, in a corner
with his stem attached to a whiskey sour
everybody knows better than to say
"What makes you so great, anyway?"
that question would be more mean than funny
because the Great Pumpkin feels bad --
he feels bad about ditching Linus
on national television every year
E.T. is there, too, at the bar
He is not that popular
he only knows three words
and he always spills Reese's Piece's all over the place
"E.T. Phone Home," he says in a belabored monotone
while staring at the foam of his lager
But the most poignant scene transpires at the computer station
where the cyborg from "The Terminator"
uses the aching slowness of the dial-up connection
to try and check his e-mail
He brings his metallic face close to the screen
but no matter how hard he looks
the e-mail never comes
he only gets mass mailings
from his ex-girlfriend in the Peace Corps
and notices from the System Administrator
that his mailbox has exceeded its size limit
which is bizarre seeing as how hardly anyone writes him
He hits "reply"
but it is of course an automated system
so the System Administrator never gets the message
that he is a jerk-face
Sitting next to the cyborg is quite uncomfortable
his expression, a kind of grimace/smile, never changes
he sports rust stains under his arms
you can tell he hasn't lubed in days
you have to remind yourself to keep a straight face in his presence
which can be hard to do
especially if he cuts a fart
or something like that
And so they gather, night after night
playing darts and pin this on that
killing time, the dead and unreal
Some nights Frankenstein's monster returns
from the junkyard with a guitar in arm
and sings "With Or Without You" by U2
while the others stifle laughs
at the monster's accent and absence of pitch
but after he strikes the last chord
they all clap while the monster smiles
Addendum
Because this piece is a bit dated, and since anniversary re-packagings of creative product often offer director commentary as a bonus, I thought I'd offer a monster-by-monster critical breakdown of "The Cabin of Eternal Halloween."
Dracula: Drac is presented as the high-profile breadwinner of the monster crew, probably because of his longevity and his appeal to both young television audiences and long-time fans of the horror genre. Dracula is at once lady killer, Eastern European aristocrat, and organ grinder of the acid-influenced garage rock variety.
Jim Morrison, William Butler Yeats, Arthur Rimbaud: Originally, this poem depicted the Halloween cabin as a literary cafe as well as monster hangout. It mentioned Jim Morrison hanging out and reading Louis Ferdinand-Celine and being all serious, but then getting really irritated by the antics of Yeats, who was down on all fours trying to exorcise his body from his spirit. This caused Jim Morrison to throw his book into a hay bale and storm off without paying for his drink. Rimbaud is just kind of this gloomy spiritual French darkness that hangs over all young writers/Edgar Allan Poseurs with a penchant for the phantasmagoric. Poe himself, often considered the Halloweeniest of American authors, was not mentioned here, presumably because he has bigger fish to fry in the afterlife, such as pining for his lost, dead loves and/or reversing the inaccurate biographical assessments made in bad faith by Rufus Wilmot Griswold.
Werewolf: Kind of the jock of this crowd. He can run fast and kill with ease, but can't solve a basic math problem to save his life.
Skeleton: The poem's sad-sack character -- sad sack of bones, that is. Skelly's always forgetting he has no money and no skin. This character reminds me of an incident I witnessed at a Barcelona cafe in which a drunken exchange student sat at the piano and began performing the grade school music class classic, "Have you seen the Ghost of John?/Long white bones with the skin all go-o-o-one/Oooh, Oooh/Wouldn't it be chilly with no skin on?"
The Great Pumpkin: Most of you have probably seen the classic Charlie Brown Halloween special in which Linus waits for the Great Pumpkin all night without success. The Great Pumpkin's side of the story, however, is never told. If you were the Great Pumpkin, how would that make you feel?
E.T.: I'm too young to remember it, but I'm told my parents had to take me out of the theater when this film opened because I was terrified to the point of tears. I think it had to do with all the plastic they put around the house to quarantine it, but I'm not sure. Much is made in the movie of E.T.'s spoken wish to phone home, but the version of his character depicted here suggests that maybe E.T. has no idea what he's saying, that he's little more aware of his words' meaning than a trained parrot.
The Terminator cyborg: The summer I was 20, I went over to a friend's house to catch a drink. His roommate was watching "The Terminator," which I'd never seen before and found terrifying. Without my noticing, the roommate had left the couch to go sign on to the Internet in his bedroom. At first, I thought the cyborg himself was signing on to America Online, which made me question what kinds of E-mail a cyborg hoped to find in his inbox. What if he didn't have any E-mail? Would he be dangerous to be around, or would it just be funny? My friends made fun of me and told me to stop asking them questions, but by that point it was too late.
Frankenstein's Troubador: I modeled this character after Klaus, one of the Germans who lived in my building. "With or Without You" was Klaus' favorite U2 song, and he often played it in the cellar-bar of the student apartments where I lived that year.
Wednesday, May 23, 2001
Coordinates (a submission for the magazine of the same name)
By Luke Wetzel
When Jon first asked me if I would write something for a magazine about place, I instantly set to retracing my footprints through familiar ground as well as some territory I’d almost forgotten. In the long months since then, I’ve compiled this scrap heap of ideas, anecdotes and pet theories about the concept of place.
One of my favorite things about traveling is hearing about places my friends have been. I can file away their impressions until I have the chance to form my own, and I wind up feeling better traveled than I really am. In the same spirit, I am presenting this regional road map full of detours to different ideas and stories, ones that I hope can be useful to you in looking at how you personally explore and experience place.
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If you travel enough, you can learn to make everywhere your home. And when “home” becomes a relative term, exciting things can happen. The few things you carry with you -- a jacket, notebook or backpack -- take on an almost talismanic value. The people you meet along the way become the most important people in the world. You, meanwhile, are free to assume any persona you please, and in doing so, you find out who you really are.
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If you spend too much time thinking about what city you should be living in, it's easy to be distracted from just living. In these situations, I find it's best to put on some music, read Whitman or do whatever it takes to remind yourself that the open road will be waiting whenever you're ready to find it.
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There is a slight but significant difference between “traveling” and “wandering.” One is intentionally going some place; the other is traversing the earth with no great concerns or purpose. Personally, I prefer some combination of the two. I like to pick a destination, or at least a direction, but I also like to hop in a car or train just to shake off the numbness fed by routine. As Robert Louis Stevenson says, "the great affair is to move."
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One of my favorite pastimes I've developed while skipping back and forth between two continents is finding the familiar in a foreign context. This might be as simple as hearing your favorite jukebox hits at a bar overseas, or marching with a group of World Cup victory-flushed Italians through their small village, pumping your fists while you all howl the melody to “Seven Nation Army.” Or climbing to the ruins of the fortress overlooking Ancient Corinth and comparing it to "Corinth Square," the modern-day shopping plaza in Prairie Village, Kansas.
Finding a reminder of once place in another can be disorienting, but it can also provide you with a satisfying sense of reconciliation, as if two different aspects of your life have finally been brought into stereo. For example, the spires of a manufacturing plant that used to stand just east of Lawrence always reminded me of Drachenfels, a crumbling castle that overlooks a bend in the Rhine near where I used to live. Drachenfels' industrial Kansas equivalent was much less celebrated a structure, but it had its own banal majesty.
Finding an element of one place in a different culture can occur unexpectedly, like the time I got lost in Chicago and came across a red lantern mounted on a brick building just before dawn. I was certain I'd discovered a speakeasy brothel founded by some Amsterdam émigré. As exciting as this was, I decided not to verify my suspicion. I would have been disappointed if it wasn’t some Old World whorehouse, and if it was, the 3 dollars in my pocket probably wouldn’t have gone so far.
Or it can be surprisingly personal, like my discovery of an estranged family member in Germany. For Christmas one year, my father bought the family a Pinbot pinball machine, the same one Tom Hanks plays in the movie “Big.” Years later, in a smoky student bar in the basement of my friend’s building in Germany, I found myself face to face with the Bride of Pinbot, a resplendent robotic lady whom I immediately adopted as my long-lost pinball parent. I was humbled by the encounter, and I left the bar that night a grateful pin-baby.
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If and when the apocalypse comes to Kansas, I'll probably wait for it at the feet of the ancient Greek-looking statue at Burcham Park, just beside the river. With certain neo-classical artwork, like the faux-Roman ruins at Schönbrunn Palace in Vienna, I worry that the anthropological incongruity might puzzle park-goers and mislead future historians. But the anachronistic oracle at Burcham Park looks perfectly at home.
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While driving around in the country one night, some friends of mine came across one of the decommissioned missiles silos just outside of Topeka. I went back with them a month later to explore the inside, drink beer and light firecrackers. Aside from a few bats, nobody seemed to mind us trespassing. My friends said that the first time they went, the entrance had been blocked by an unnaturally large cow. Though I didn’t see it myself, I often imagined the dark shape of a bull framed against the starlight, faintly glowing waves emanating from its hide, like the golden cattle of Helios gone radioactively wrong.
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Sometimes I worry that my tendency to assign mythical identities to the unexciting places around me might be unhealthy -- an early indication of an eventual break with reality, perhaps. But without projecting our boldest visions on the places around us, we would be unable to bring about any real change. The land south of Brush Creek where William Rockhill Nelson founded his estate was believed by his contemporaries to only be good for pig farming. Nelson, however, believed otherwise, and if he hadn’t dedicated his time, fortune and self to the area, the museum, sculpture garden and golden luminescent new Bloch building might today only be a pig-sty.
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There are advantages to growing up in a relatively dull environment. You learn to romanticize anything, to take selective snapshots of your surroundings until you've created a collage of images and impressions that anyone could consider interesting. By sharpening your pen on the dull pavement of your hometown, you develop an aesthetic sensitivity that will be pleasantly overwhelmed once confronted with beautiful or foreign surroundings.
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I’m fascinated with places that become a flashpoint for people seeking out adventurous or even psychedelic experiences. The best Kansas example I can think of is Clinton Lake. Since I was in high school, kids I’ve known have gone there to drink, swim, take drugs, hike, stay in secret campsites, and basically be free.
I’ve read about the history of the towns that were submerged when the Wakarusa was dammed, and I’ve even invented some Clinton Lake folklore of my own. For example, the reservoir rat who claims he went AWOL from the Army Corps of Engineers because he felt guilty about the effectiveness with which he wiped the little ghost towns out of existence. Or the Native American man who went on a vision quest in the region armed with only a shoulder-mounted fax machine and the goal of sending back a series of poetic telexes from the wilderness.
But as many stories as I’ve invented about it, and as many good times as I’ve had there, what makes Clinton Lake important to me is its status as a reservoir for other people's experiences, a collective time/space capsule for anyone who has ever come to its shores in a reckless and youthful pursuit of beauty.
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A tree house is definitely the most awesome of kid hangouts. Like something out of a Newberry Medal-winning paperback, the bird observatory in the Baker Wetlands has become my personal favorite secret clubhouse. The wood shutters of the hexagonal structure are the perfect filter for the vast Kansas fields and sky, and a great place to take pictures, write haiku or just hide out for an afternoon.
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What happens to ghosts once their place of residence is destroyed? My friend and I asked each other this while watching a row of old houses get torn down in the alley behind Tennessee street. I asked the same thing while first driving by the rubble that used to be the famously haunted Stull church. But it’s not just spooky locations that spark my interest in the fate of displaced spirits. I recently went back to where my grandparents’ house had stood for fifty years and watched the sun set from a viewpoint previously obstructed by barns and work sheds. When the wind blew through the trees, I felt something calling out to me in the form of a guitar melody. It was a simple melody, but one I suspected I would never hear again.
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The most poignant representation of separation I've seen might be this photograph of a grave in a Weimar cemetery. The stone statue of a young girl waits on the sleek black tombstone of a loved one while evergreens grow all around them – a juxtaposition of the dead, non-living and living that conveys an undying sorrow.
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Recently I read a collection of hippie memoirs that referred to Lawrence as “Baghdad on the Kaw,” because of its wide availability of exotic and illegal substances during the sixties. Reading that light-hearted description of Baghdad as our sister city was a painful reminder about what life must be like there now, but it also gave birth to the tiny hope that we might establish some kind of a cultural exchange when better times arrive.
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Everyone should have a place where they can go off the map, get lost and forget themselves for as long as they are there. For almost a year, my favorite such place was Amsterdam's Vondelpark, a soft green landscape full of willow trees, ducks, bicycles, rose gardens, bridges, ponds – a setting so dreamlike I often found myself straddling memory and forgetfulness. The faces of people I knew and loved would appear to me and linger, as if waiting for me to return. But as I soon as I made a motion to do so, they would vanish again, back to the internal wellspring from which they appeared.
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The ease and speed with which we can communicate across great distances sometimes seems to only highlight that distance. E-mail is convenient, but arrives with a speed that’s almost intrusive. As rare as it is, my favorite form of long-distance communication is still the handwritten letter. A letter is the perfect balance between an instant message and a message in a bottle – what it loses in immediacy it gains in intimacy, providing hope with the time and air it needs to grow.
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I would love to be able to use a warp whistle from a Nintendo game in real life at least once. But until game systems get more advanced, my best bet for instantly transcending time and space is probably still dreaming.
It is said that dreams follow their own logic. And what a dreamy logic it is. You can find yourself absolutely anywhere, having an imaginary milkshake with someone you haven’t seen in years. When people slip into your dreams after years' absence, you don't feel bad about not thinking of them any more in your regular life. The very fact that you're dreaming about them proves they are still relevant to you on some level. In the pleasant parameters of dream-life, you're free to forget what never happened.
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There’s a lot to be said for immobility, an activity that gets a bad rap in our hustle-bustle culture. I recently overheard a lady in my office discussing an in-law of hers, whom she regarded as bizarre because of his fondness for sitting alone in his house in the country and doing nothing. If the man had been there to speak in his defense, he might have cited these words from Kafka: “You do not need to leave your room. Remain sitting at your table and listen. Do not even listen, simply wait. Do not even wait, be quite still and solitary. The world will freely offer itself to you to be unmasked, it has no choice, it will roll in ecstasy at your feet.”
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I still don't know exactly what miracles I’m hoping to find in my aimless drives, hikes and bike rides across Kansas. After spending several years covering hundreds of miles, I must have surely explored every back highway, rock quarry, or riverfront trail within 40 miles of Lawrence. But somehow -- with the help of friends -- I still manage to find new places, new photo-ops, new ideas. No matter how long I live here, I imagine I'll keep on searching for the visions that may be just around the bend.
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Luke would like to wish you pleasant travels. He encourages you to write and take pictures along the way, and hopes that the next coordinates you find here will be the ones that you submit. More of his writing can be seen at www.lucubrations.net.
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