SelectionIll
Bluelighter
this is a collection of journal entries from 97, 98 during a relocation from lorain ohio to san francisco. I'm editing it for publication in a local periodical, and figured i would share it with you guys. here's the first installment, a poem and the first entry.
My America
and selected poems
By
Eric L. Alleman
'San Francisco Dream'
I’m all terrible caffeine high
all shaky guts inside this bag of belly
that holds my guts tight like a sausage.
Oh, this screaming Midwest baby
want to grab it by the nose between thumb and forefinger
and, tweeking, turn tword old mother east
and give her the look of “I’m not happy about
this whole situation either.”
I just want to turn in my birth certificate and tell them:
“I just don’t think I’m compatible.”
Then I’d be freeee.
Free from these Midwest August sweatshirt miseries
and low down cloud blues.
Free to finally take that road laying lazily out there
in the middle of my front yard.
Free to take it all the way.
Free to find my way to San Francisco.
Lands End Depot of Great American Freight Train
Ron Pecora.
San Francisco sunshine apple dream of bay breeze.
San Francisco dream.
And as I’ve seen the dream be spreading far left.
Left to four pilgrims, five if he be true.
So prepare Hillbilly Kentucky,
and sweep your streets clean of grain drunk Kentuck s
and broken bottle beer soup.
Prepare Arkansas,
for dust trail pillow bellow bellow from road brown
lead foot rocket through your little rock nothing.
Prepare Great Texas,
for long stay through morning,
midnight to morning light again,
all the while flat burn across frying pan asphalt.
But don’t you fear, cause by the time gret sad million mile
Texas plain looms ahead like the bill of some crazy
cornfed southern John’s cowboy hat,
the mind,
so tired,
lack of oxygen and heavy with road dust,
has a folder of insane imaginings to superimpose
on rippling landscape.
PART ONE
Entry One September 2, 1997
Oh, what kind of writer am I, or what kind of writer will I be, not keeping pens lying around. Having to shuffle through the stacks of books and dirty garments looking for a pen. Stupid. Got up today relatively early, 11:45 to be specific. I had set my alarm for 11:00 a. m. sharp, but laid in bed for some time afterward, wishing I could go back to sleep. Perhaps I was building up courage to do just that. Perhaps. But I’m weak and got up anyway.
After shower and shave and such I filled my backpack with books I’d read and no longer needed around, actually books I didn’t want to pack and leave sitting around waiting for someone to break their bindings, and rode my bike to work. The wind was terrible, whipping around me like a cloak but it felt nice to ride into it. I’ve been slowly cutting down on the cigarettes and I notice a difference when I get on that bike. I’ve really been quite disgusted with myself lately. Under cover of the eminent move I’ve been slacking off, using it as an excuse. An excuse. Well that will change soon. Flopping my feet in silly shoes down San Francisco street trying to catch a trolley. Hopefully.
Getting to work about 15 minutes early, even with my stop at McDonald’s for a quick bite, I sat down in the break room and waited. There were a couple of different magazines to choose from, all of which had the fair face of Princess Diana taunting me, “Read all about it. The insinuations, accusations. Was it a conspiracy, was it premature, not her time, she was so young and beautiful.” Dribble, Dribble, Drivel. Strange how, it being a bookstore full to bursting with the greatest works of inspired men, and women, our break room is strewn with Woman’s World, Newsweek, Daily Enquirer, and Cosmo. Priorities?
I usually dread Tuesdays at work. It is the day I’ve been designated to clean the entire store. Me and me alone. The work isn’t bad, and certainly isn’t difficult. It’s just having to see the other employees lounging about, reading different derivatives of the above mentioned magazines as I sweat and toil with bucket and mop. Oh but that wasn’t the case today. with less than a week of work left and one of the managers on vacation I just stood around and helped in video. An uneventful day at work in all aspects. Although my one co-worker, Cathy Philips, felt it necessary to expound on the “tragic and untimely death of Princess Di and Dodi Al-Fayd,” calling Ahmed Al-Fayd by his nickname as if in high school they were known to pal around together. Yes, Cathy can be quite annoying. She is the type of woman that will remind you daily of her incredible ability to read at the tender age of three. “I was reading at a college level by the time I got into high school,” she would say. “I can read two or three books a day,” trying to look nonchalant while she’s dishing this unbelievably enlightening insight into the origins of her genius. “So what are you reading today, Cathy?” I asked, poking, prodding, nudging ever so lightly. “Well, right now I’m in the middle of a series by Terry Bumkiss. It’s the story of a small town through the eyes of five women, all of whom are in relationships with policemen, all of whom suffer from terrible cases of polio.” Romance novels. God gave this wonderful gift to someone who would squander it on romance novels. But I cannot obsess on it. I’ll just keep trudging through. So after eight hours of being subjected to Cathy’s views on everything from Over 50 magazine to the guarantee that she has in fact used a butt plug, they finally let me out.
After arriving back at home, J-Witty, Jim Haun, Becky and I sat in the living room and read. I read my “envelope” thing, the one about the pancake man and the little girl. Then I read “Holding Hands with Rocko.” What a diseased vapor that poem is. Must focus. Then we painted. Jim painted his great papier-mâché fish all blues and greens and yellows mixing in with each other, shades upon shades. He used golden puffy glue, the kind old women use on t-shirts, to accent the eyes and painted the tips of the fins yellow and the lips purple. Statement? Not sure yet. Becky painted the papier-mâché sun she had made silver. She said she made it for her roommate who’d said specifically “just paint it silver. That’s all.” Then she began painting on a large piece of cardboard, leaving the fore and detail ‘til tomorrow.
J-Witty was inspired. Divinely. A coffee cup, blue with blue and white steam coiling up from inside like a cobra. A knife, black handled, silver bladed, glint of light off the edge as display of sharpness. Severed finger with exposed bone. “What does a man have to do to get a cup of coffee ‘round here” it was called. Yes yes.
Me, I painted nothing. It started as a self portrait and turned into an impressionist piece on man’s spiritual ascension and the general distraction gray America is being led to. I called it “Golfing in the Kingdom using J-Witty’s Blood as Tee.” Pretty fucking prolific.
Then we all drove out to Taco Bell down on 254 but it was closed. 2:54 a.m. it was, getting later and later. I knew my mother and brothers were coming to visit the next day so I wanted to get back home but we ended up driving to Amherst instead and went to the Taco Bell out there. The cashier looked like she ran into the back and pulled her skin on when she saw us driving up, not having time to straighten or smooth so allowing small catches and stretches to promote themselves to us. It was only J-Witty, Becky and I. Jim had decided to stay at home and go to bed.
Lucky him.
Back at home we decided to watch Surviving Picasso. Wonderful movie, but being one so easily influenced by such men, it could complicate my life to no end.
seemore
[ 29 January 2003: Message edited by: SelectionIll ]
My America
and selected poems
By
Eric L. Alleman
'San Francisco Dream'
I’m all terrible caffeine high
all shaky guts inside this bag of belly
that holds my guts tight like a sausage.
Oh, this screaming Midwest baby
want to grab it by the nose between thumb and forefinger
and, tweeking, turn tword old mother east
and give her the look of “I’m not happy about
this whole situation either.”
I just want to turn in my birth certificate and tell them:
“I just don’t think I’m compatible.”
Then I’d be freeee.
Free from these Midwest August sweatshirt miseries
and low down cloud blues.
Free to finally take that road laying lazily out there
in the middle of my front yard.
Free to take it all the way.
Free to find my way to San Francisco.
Lands End Depot of Great American Freight Train
Ron Pecora.
San Francisco sunshine apple dream of bay breeze.
San Francisco dream.
And as I’ve seen the dream be spreading far left.
Left to four pilgrims, five if he be true.
So prepare Hillbilly Kentucky,
and sweep your streets clean of grain drunk Kentuck s
and broken bottle beer soup.
Prepare Arkansas,
for dust trail pillow bellow bellow from road brown
lead foot rocket through your little rock nothing.
Prepare Great Texas,
for long stay through morning,
midnight to morning light again,
all the while flat burn across frying pan asphalt.
But don’t you fear, cause by the time gret sad million mile
Texas plain looms ahead like the bill of some crazy
cornfed southern John’s cowboy hat,
the mind,
so tired,
lack of oxygen and heavy with road dust,
has a folder of insane imaginings to superimpose
on rippling landscape.
PART ONE
Entry One September 2, 1997
Oh, what kind of writer am I, or what kind of writer will I be, not keeping pens lying around. Having to shuffle through the stacks of books and dirty garments looking for a pen. Stupid. Got up today relatively early, 11:45 to be specific. I had set my alarm for 11:00 a. m. sharp, but laid in bed for some time afterward, wishing I could go back to sleep. Perhaps I was building up courage to do just that. Perhaps. But I’m weak and got up anyway.
After shower and shave and such I filled my backpack with books I’d read and no longer needed around, actually books I didn’t want to pack and leave sitting around waiting for someone to break their bindings, and rode my bike to work. The wind was terrible, whipping around me like a cloak but it felt nice to ride into it. I’ve been slowly cutting down on the cigarettes and I notice a difference when I get on that bike. I’ve really been quite disgusted with myself lately. Under cover of the eminent move I’ve been slacking off, using it as an excuse. An excuse. Well that will change soon. Flopping my feet in silly shoes down San Francisco street trying to catch a trolley. Hopefully.
Getting to work about 15 minutes early, even with my stop at McDonald’s for a quick bite, I sat down in the break room and waited. There were a couple of different magazines to choose from, all of which had the fair face of Princess Diana taunting me, “Read all about it. The insinuations, accusations. Was it a conspiracy, was it premature, not her time, she was so young and beautiful.” Dribble, Dribble, Drivel. Strange how, it being a bookstore full to bursting with the greatest works of inspired men, and women, our break room is strewn with Woman’s World, Newsweek, Daily Enquirer, and Cosmo. Priorities?
I usually dread Tuesdays at work. It is the day I’ve been designated to clean the entire store. Me and me alone. The work isn’t bad, and certainly isn’t difficult. It’s just having to see the other employees lounging about, reading different derivatives of the above mentioned magazines as I sweat and toil with bucket and mop. Oh but that wasn’t the case today. with less than a week of work left and one of the managers on vacation I just stood around and helped in video. An uneventful day at work in all aspects. Although my one co-worker, Cathy Philips, felt it necessary to expound on the “tragic and untimely death of Princess Di and Dodi Al-Fayd,” calling Ahmed Al-Fayd by his nickname as if in high school they were known to pal around together. Yes, Cathy can be quite annoying. She is the type of woman that will remind you daily of her incredible ability to read at the tender age of three. “I was reading at a college level by the time I got into high school,” she would say. “I can read two or three books a day,” trying to look nonchalant while she’s dishing this unbelievably enlightening insight into the origins of her genius. “So what are you reading today, Cathy?” I asked, poking, prodding, nudging ever so lightly. “Well, right now I’m in the middle of a series by Terry Bumkiss. It’s the story of a small town through the eyes of five women, all of whom are in relationships with policemen, all of whom suffer from terrible cases of polio.” Romance novels. God gave this wonderful gift to someone who would squander it on romance novels. But I cannot obsess on it. I’ll just keep trudging through. So after eight hours of being subjected to Cathy’s views on everything from Over 50 magazine to the guarantee that she has in fact used a butt plug, they finally let me out.
After arriving back at home, J-Witty, Jim Haun, Becky and I sat in the living room and read. I read my “envelope” thing, the one about the pancake man and the little girl. Then I read “Holding Hands with Rocko.” What a diseased vapor that poem is. Must focus. Then we painted. Jim painted his great papier-mâché fish all blues and greens and yellows mixing in with each other, shades upon shades. He used golden puffy glue, the kind old women use on t-shirts, to accent the eyes and painted the tips of the fins yellow and the lips purple. Statement? Not sure yet. Becky painted the papier-mâché sun she had made silver. She said she made it for her roommate who’d said specifically “just paint it silver. That’s all.” Then she began painting on a large piece of cardboard, leaving the fore and detail ‘til tomorrow.
J-Witty was inspired. Divinely. A coffee cup, blue with blue and white steam coiling up from inside like a cobra. A knife, black handled, silver bladed, glint of light off the edge as display of sharpness. Severed finger with exposed bone. “What does a man have to do to get a cup of coffee ‘round here” it was called. Yes yes.
Me, I painted nothing. It started as a self portrait and turned into an impressionist piece on man’s spiritual ascension and the general distraction gray America is being led to. I called it “Golfing in the Kingdom using J-Witty’s Blood as Tee.” Pretty fucking prolific.
Then we all drove out to Taco Bell down on 254 but it was closed. 2:54 a.m. it was, getting later and later. I knew my mother and brothers were coming to visit the next day so I wanted to get back home but we ended up driving to Amherst instead and went to the Taco Bell out there. The cashier looked like she ran into the back and pulled her skin on when she saw us driving up, not having time to straighten or smooth so allowing small catches and stretches to promote themselves to us. It was only J-Witty, Becky and I. Jim had decided to stay at home and go to bed.
Lucky him.
Back at home we decided to watch Surviving Picasso. Wonderful movie, but being one so easily influenced by such men, it could complicate my life to no end.
seemore
[ 29 January 2003: Message edited by: SelectionIll ]
