SONG OF A SHADE WITH A RED WINE THIRST

SLEEPPEELS

When heads spin
whispers begin--

whirlpools pull--
fist fits sift--

funneling thunder lifts--

LIMBSTURDY GROVESTRIDER

Inspired rootburst jovilluminating
Skyeyes summerrun voluptium fantasculate
Bremendus Brahminform aleap
Crowclamor, crowclamor
Mockasins slipslap rustduff



CIRCUS MAXIMUS

One hundred forty-four elephants
and seventeen gold chariots
led each by eleven lions
outsize sound in stampede.

Drunkards' blood-lust cries goad
as the heads of assassinated criminals

bouncing, wince

and tens of thousands of open mouths howl.
Vendors' spices burned lessen stenches;
played sausage link entrails
ignited

explode

in screaming conflagrations;
slaves running in rolling iron cages
jab at large exotic animals
amid the bellows of the butchering
and the butchered,
the continual metal clang,
the rabble's urges for murder.

Tittering intelligentsia tip raping headsmen.
Mock sea battles
waged with the Coliseum bathed
in morning shadow
last till dusk, when

severed hippo heads

like lifeboats
bear dead men.



CARNIVAL OF THE SATYRDAY

A little blood-red fellow
too old to be a cherub precisely
but certainly smiling like one
and with fine young horns on his head
appropriate for a kid
spoke in a high-pitched sneering voice,
"I know where we can get some whores."

And great rejoice. Party favors flicked.
Oversize head dancers in the figures of

Chaplin
and
Hitler

performed a sort of leap-frog.
"I don't care to set foot outdoors."
One of Van Gogh presented a huge ear,
cordially intoning, "Take this object."
Red carpet party favors flew.

"I don't care to pay."

A waterwheel float churned dirty bones.

"These whores pay you!"

Party favors blared.
"Are you ready now to see the whores?"

"I don't care to yet."

The carnival resumed the march.

  

CONVERSATION WITH ETERNITY

For the writer there is only
the blank paper page,
the empty screen and blinking cursor,
the conversation with eternity.

When the words work well,
no high can top,
everything clears,
nothing is ugly,

bolts leap,
all times merge,
hairy early ancestors
fall to their knees

and skyward howl.

INSANITY SEAS

Set this sail to insanity seas
we'll row large rage to the larger age
where that manslaughter is this man's laughter
and you'll fathom what we're after there.

Leave the monkey with its money
weave away from uniformed uninformed
we've a ways upon the waves to ride
reach each new view with swift lift.

Let these letters unlock fetters
sound ground awaits unweighted
there's a vortex in the vertex
savor the flavor and favor the saver.

See the clever lever within
seethe no more inside your skin
then you and I will be quite glad
though when we leave they'll say, They're mad.



SLY WINK

Some of me best times
'ave been 'ad
wenchin' an' 'orin',
as it were sir, aye,
wenchin' an' 'orin'.

Aye an' ye might say I was
"reelin' from the rum"
ev'ry blessed time
as it were sir,
ev'ry blessed time.
Things get worser when I'm aware.

Why, ye should've seen me last night
bloated with the sweet rum--
a big, belchy tick I was says I,
bloated with the blood like,
such is the pretty picture I must've cut.

So, says I again,
some of me best times
'ave been 'ad
wenchin' an' 'orin'.

HOW TO HONOR THE DEAD

Once after I stopped my car in the street,
walked back to the one behind,
and without a word
inserted my fist in the driver's puss

I got back in,
parked in the lot
and walked across campus
to the room where I sat
waiting for students to drop in
for writing help.

I remember thinking,
Here's one for the cosmic camera.
It's easy for people to talk about restraint
when they don't have a choice.

Even now, electric Celtic warriors
on foot and horseback roar behind me overhead,
flanked by two calm Druids.
It's true what you hear.
Sometimes your best friends
are the dead and the unborn.

WILDSONG

This poem is a quest:
it seeks clarity, adventure,
both journey and result
it records finds,
boosts the next leap,
helps me see my hand
in the great world dream,
that wisdom is the only wealth,
the only power
power of self,
when I see a monkey in a suit
I see the co-assistant night manager of
nothing,
a child with a paper badge.
The purpose of the group
is protection of weakness
through illusion,
all groups overlap,
sidetrack,
delay,
every day a hunt for wisdom,
new contentment hunt.
Civilizations neither rise nor fall,
only individuals are real.

This poem bristles like fire:
red hot,
white hot,
stiff, jagged,
drunk with battle joy it struts,
a poem of fire,
wildfire,
scorching the sky with
wildsong.
It thirsts for the blood of the city,
it hungers for the blood of Rome,
whose soft scented senators
receive its piss
on headless bodies,
this poem lines
these skulls with gold.



LIMESTONE-LACTATING STALACTITES

drip echoey, magnified drops...
P    o    o    l    s    l    o    o    P
the world dragon sleeps...
George sings
While My Guitar Gently Weeps...

SPELEOGENESIS

With more neurons in our minds
than stars in this galaxy,
firing synapses connect
like divine fingers,
lightning and leder,
stalactite to stalagmite,
Revel leveR...

The jutting speleothem
seeps minerals,
lengthening itself,
leaving minute
calcite deposits
where water drops...

If the creation meets
the source,
a column is formed...

The greater the fall,
the mightier the column.



THE HEROISM OF HEDONISM

conjures wolfish doggerels
in sacred games and festivals of atonement.
The plow of evil pushed
tills exhausted land
and the tallow taken underground
lights cities beneath Vesuvius.

A hero shall emerge:
as a blade baptized in a bed of fire
in ceremony shaped and sharpened,
a severer of shackles,
he is the bane of formulaic observance.

Pity the conqueror or praise
but stand not in his way
lest panthers' claws
and chariot wheels' grind
pin mockful notes on dying ears
frozen in the ash of agony.

DIONYSUS IN THE UNDERWORLD

The god of the vine
rolled down to the palace of Hades
in Charon's borrowed boat

Dry mouths received wine
as a chorus exultant crossed a river of fire

Then the river of the oath

Then the river of forgetfulness

And giants joined

Jealous Hera had Titans tear
the horned child reborn

Reconstituted by Grandmother Rhea

Honey-fed

Tended by nymphs in a cave
the god of inspiration invented wine

A lion

A bull

A serpent

The god of madness took forms

Establishing worship in warship

Centaurs and naiads bore beer on the banks

Nymphs and Maenads writhed heated behind

Fawn-skinned fanned as flame
scattering flower petals upon the water

Across wide wastes
they danced about the underworld

The revelers with pipe and drum
spilling wine in song

And ivy ran where Dionysus passed

Black poplars in stone
marked the gates of
the palace of Hades

And Dionysus ascended steps
as Cerberus slept

Then the god of wine
stood before the lord of the underworld

Grim Hades on his stone throne
bade not Dionysus welcome
but coldly asked to what he owed
the honor of the visit
and a sleepy sweeping gesture
toward the din was the god's reply

To the gloomy god of the underworld
the joy of the revelers was intolerable

Yet well Hades knew
no restraint could bind Dionysus

With him all fetters fell

Turned to flower and ivy

Nor did the living dead
cease their joy
for they were under the protection
of the god of libation

Whose name is Liber
Whose name means freedom

In anger Hades sent Cerberus
to destroy Dionysus

Yet the three-headed dog
found a three-headed

Lion

Bull

Serpent

And the dog could not subdue

Therefore flew Hades unto Olympus
to protest his brother's son

Whose name is Bromios

And thenceforth the Maenads
worship in no temple
but run wild in the underworld

Nymph and Satyr frenzy still

And Dionysus

Immoral immortal

Changeling lizard king

With smoke and wine
reclines in ivy
and in shadow
bathing in a stone garden
in a petrified forest

Furious

Delirious

A lover of the wild

Luxury

Debauchery

The god of wine is free

ODE TO VLAD

Seated at a table in a field
forested with shower-makers,
he hears his dancing guests
sing like morning's poultry torn.
Streaming, the sun slides
higher in the sky.
Land moist as biscuits
sops honey.
From spear-shot spigots
shoots his cup's red tap.

BE AT LESSON, BEATLES SON

Down here
in the ark in the dark,
the cell of steel celestial,
mausoleum ad nauseam,
I'm paler and I'm Vlad.
This is where it all comes up,
this is where it all goes down.
I travel canals,
change channels,
through ventricles pass landmarks-
upper level,
lower level--
aqueducts to cells--
in this hemisphere,
hemp is here.
Across the mind,
lid-lightning flashes--
in illumination's wake,
blood rains,
brain floods,
accelerates this vessel,
pounds this temple.
Hear all creation make a point--
enabled ennobled
by woofer and tweeter,
no measured step is out of joint--
I hear a siren
and I want to metre.
From injured to inured,
with the taking of a j.
Through Vishnu vision
and Osiris iris,
illusion's confusions
clearly eyed
scatter dried.
The vision is the quest,
the form is the content.
No destination exceeds being.



WOTAN

Wotan
for wisdom
sacrificed an eye.
Wotan the One-Eyed God
reigns supreme.
God of fury.
God of trances.
God of poets.
God of warriors.
The One-Eyed God
is the Phallic God.
His ravens
Thought
and
Memory
traverse the world,
return to Wotan
ruling on His High Seat,
whisper All Knowledge,
while wolves wait
at his feet.
First Earth,
Inhabited Earth,
Untamed Earth,
these three women
are Wotan's wives.
On an eight-legged steed
the Sly One rides
through air,
over ocean,
on ground.
The Reaver's rage
knows no bounds.
Wearing a wide-brimmed hat
the Bearded One waits,
waits until the Final Battle--
Ragnarok--
gathering the greatest warriors.
Wednesday is Wotan's Day--
Odin, variously known--
steadfast on the icy peaks,
hard, grim, wild--
All-Father Odin,
Inventor of Runes,
shaman of shamans--
madmen invoke his name!

OPPENHEIMER QUOTING THE BHAGAVAD GITA

A big white black-eyed goat
sprang from the center of the circle--
the power of stillness pervaded--
the rearing goat hung,
swelling self-lit
in devastating silence--
we did not know what we had done--
then the cloven hooves
crashed upon the rock:
"Now I am become Death,
the destroyer of worlds."



SONG OF A SHADE WITH A RED WINE THIRST

I was working at a factory
having Napoleon-like crowned myself Educated,
assembling bike racks full-time temporary,
knowing my girlfriend and I would be gone in six months
and that the factory was heading for Mexico soon.

One guy had been there ten years. He was thirty-seven, always wore two t-shirts,
never bathed, stank like a stockyard and didn't like the Beatles because they weren't American.
There were a lot of Lao workers. Most were nimble, quick, good at ping-pong and
hot for break-time hacky sack. They spoke Lao among each other, laughing, the older women acting snotty.

When I got there at seven the smokers lightly stamped their feet outside,
and the dark early cool mornings passed with coffee still buzzy from the night's smoke and drink,
but clear and aware, energetic and enjoyed. I stood on a wood block to hit my calves with toe raises
on the assembly line, thinking about the night's writing, talking shit with the boys, laughing, until it was first break, donuts and more coffee, no longer buzzy, actually enjoying the lowly old workday mostly alone.

I didn't like feeling sorry for the people I saw who let themselves die by the hour.
There was a fellow who talked a lot about how he'd be a cop,
a prim little guy of forty sporting a tight white crewcut, accusatory eyes, and a sneering hateful whine who
picked up the trash.

There was a fat blob of crap who sat on his ass all day
in crisp plaid and a clean Cat cap sporting a phony bark
that sounded like bad Edward G. Robinson, see.
How he got that job I don't think I want to know, see.
He sure as hell didn't earn it by working.
There would come a time when I would say,

"How about some of that bare knuckle boxing you've never done in your life right now, liar,
I'll be your sparring partner, liar, let's go out in the parking lot and try some of that
bare knuckle boxing right now, let's go."

And he would not face me, but scurry to his car, scurry home to his mommy, in whose house he lived.
After lunch I was let go. Not fired, he said, sounding like
a very meek Edward G. Robinson.
I had been provoked by his abuse of office title.
I enjoyed humiliating fat boy and his sycophants in a great big scene
the doomed workers no doubt quietly relished,
and I enjoyed those mornings,
the coffee and the cold,
the stories and the banter and the bullshit,
the hefting and the musing,
getting paid to gear up for the night's fun--
for the song of a shade with a red wine thirst.

REDWOOD BURL TABLE

Wild with roots, a Gorgon head:
my young eyes cogwheeled at
the tangled waist-high mass riverbar trucked
and my squat mallet sent thick flakes like
flack off my checkerboarded chest,
hints of burl beneath the busted rock
stuck in the dirty redwood,
till the giant's clubbed wart clean of stone
gave a milled slab set rickety
on two paint-thick sawhorses,
wobbling in the pull of the screaming grinder's
wire bristles spitting back the loose punk wood.
Renegade spiders ran, nooks invaded by the violent metal wand
and brushed sawdust left the surface clear
for belt sanding before subjection to the stages of the orbital.
When the meaty red cross-section doused gleamed
and the scrubbed rings' fluctuating bands rippled,
torched edges blackened shone silver
where the blue acetylene tip had spread,
and set on the knotted legs of a less charred base
the finished tabletop
took center stage in the showroom
for your more and less impressed tourists,
whilst in the side yard my grimed thumb
spun a bowl.

VISHNU

Slumbering delighted
the world-dreamer drifts alone
partially submerged
partially afloat
upon a lake of lotus without limit
above and below a pillared heaven

The sun grows
the whole world withers
wind spins into cyclone
and cyclone into fire

The spider respools its web

IF LIFE EAT DEATH

Hieing to the wombed hill
Mid yip and yirr of Baalists beery
We woozy skirmishers
Wambled past the whippoorwill
And gave a girn to gimcrack,
Bedaubed in wizardry and woodcraft,
Riled rimers, with pyretic vim,
Barmy each pant and peck,
We salivating songsters,
Scragging victuals along the junket,
Raw wood thrush and songsparrow
Our stark beefsteak.
Rooty wolfberry
Sopped the Bacchic balladry,
Blackish the scape,
Our mockery beneath Varuna,
Till to indigenous ziggurats
We did sorn the shadow lords,
A measly chiliad of bubbling keeves
Ripe for us to batten.

WEIR EXAM

Floating in the wetsuit nets of light cross my mask:
refracted through the choppy surface they waver on the rock
as the hollow rhythmic hiss of my mouth’s breath
pushes through the tube–strange stone shapes
pass steady in a narrow view–arms forward
I fly streamlined toward the sandbagged pickets
where the scouring current tears away the riverbed.
Over a developing hole wedged rock taps the lonely aluminum,
raised dust glints fool’s gold, dead grass collects
twigs between the bars and undulates decaying in the cage.
I work my way along the trap. No salmon are inside.
Bloated faces pushed forth by my imagination
watch me slice my way upstream like a gill man in the Amazon.




INTERVIEW WITH A TRIBAL LEADER

Saved from a blue clay mudslide by a Horse Mountain potstop
we rescheduled, and when later came, there he was, looking just like on TV
where I’d seen him talking on Bigfoot and so looked him up in the phone book.

My buddy Eric couldn’t make the drive a second time
but my other buddy Tom could and he was there with a Camcorder catching
Jimmy in his chair and the back of my already balding head.

It’s weird to see yourself in a tight Humboldt T-shirt interviewing Jimmy
after all that hassle when in the first five minutes you realize
the show sort of lied and Bigfoot is a subject where maybe

you know more than he does. Great tribal leader, full of all kinds of stories,
only he hadn’t seen anything and wasn’t really sure. Probably TV
just wanted an Indian. If he pulled off his head and showed a

Bigfoot inside I would not have been surprised, but on the outside
he was eighty-four years old and told us of the time when he was a kid
talking Hupa in a cherry tree eating cherries and some George Washington

of a teacher jabbed him with a nail on the end of a stick to make him talk American.
He told us how to leech acorns and showed us pictures of the Deer Dance.
I told him the interview was only for me, and Tom, it was just something we wanted to do.

Back on his deck before we left, looking at the river, he said his mother told him
one time she saw four of them come out of the forest to swim,
a male, a female and two young ones, and they swam till they saw her and left.





WHEN THE KILLIN'-TIME'S COME

I may not seem partial to the things which ye so desperately clings
but one thing's fer sartin,
I'm...
gonna...
kill ye...
gonna ram m' blade clean through to the hilt
good, solid an' strong in ye--again an' again--
an' again an' again an' again--
I'm gonna cut yer bleedin' gut wide open--
stick yer neck--cut, here--here here here here here--
slash yer skull, an' rip out yer 'eart, an' yer liver--
gonna drive m' big shiny knife wamwam quick like so in yer sockets
an' slop up an' down amid yer mushy gore
aye, an' stomp ye to the pave--

when the killin'-time's come.

SAIL AN ALIAS

When I feel Doom mooD
That is when I Word roW
There I go in Deep speeD
Rabid in my Wolf floW
I shed the Animal laminA
I shed the GoddammaddoG
To release the Droll lorD
I turn the Revel leveR
I like to Moor a rooM
I like to Fool alooF
There I drink my Regal lageR
Then how Me leer 'n reel 'eM
I see No evil live oN
Though I Lived a deviL
Where the Pools looP
Without the Flesh selF
In Sleep peelS
Reviled I deliveR

Resume, museR

SARGE

He'd wheeze across the street
with his one remaining lung
crazy-eyed, hollow-eyed

Me maintaining post
like a piece of peanut butter
a seller of liquor

I'd regard porno
tend tender
pop a brewskie in the cooler

shoot the shit with the geezer
wheezing each aching
humpbacked breath

Sometimes Sarge would get a coughing fit
then it was back
to the subject of war

battles he'd been in
World War Two
Korea, Nam

a career Marine
that's why they called him
Sarge

Sarge said
he won a pushup contest back
when, a thousand reps or something

and a situp con-
test too,
said his wife

left him
because he was
a killer

she said that he
enjoyed it
and no doubt he did

he was that kind of guy
you know
lovable

Sarge
and his
one lung

agent orange
by country
betrayed

Southern Humboldt
friends
gave him

weed to ease
his cancer
pain

and Sarge would put together little baggies he
distributed to his buddies who listened to him and
he wouldn't let you give it back

nor would he take
any money
Sarge was that kind of guy

all day long
you could shoot the shit
and never get bored

After I left
that job
he died

I wish I'd said goodbye
Sarge in his room
alone

Cancer got Sarge
the lovable
murderer.





MILKING THE BACK

Thick vat glass added fresh back size
bobbing in brine like swollen legions of buffalo tongue
and the clerk would hook the one Grandpa let me pick.

At home we’d unwrap the massy package,
I with my fork, ready to poke.
Grandpa’s deft prong freed embedded gravel bits

whose frugal removal fueled our maracas.
Then he’d heft the back to sheets of wax paper
where for half a day it dried before it was applied.

I’d watch the pungent juices ooze as if alive,
seeping the way a beached whale weeps.
When it was time, Grandpa lifted the back

like a butcher with a side of beef,
squeezing loose the yellow milk
into a foil pan at his feet.

Now I am an old man.
You can’t find fresh back anymore.
I have no idea why we did all that.

SIX-SHOOTER PETE

There was a man with an unusual hand:

For every digit, instead a penis.

Ten testes dangled from the man’s odd palm.

His deformity he hid in a satchel

Snugly attached nearly always.

Each painful lonely morn shone the

Veritable rosy fingers of dawn

Yet the flower of his manifold manhood

Lacked a whore to culture.

As he was orphaned at birth,

His dear Aunt Gladys,

Who firmly forbade amputation,

Took him in and brought him up

And indeed the reverse,

Dubbing him Six-Shooter Pete

On account he was such a handful.

Six-Shooter Pete’s uncommon energies

Precluded normal life.

His entire arm stiffened like a Gatling

Without provocation, causing a

Semi-perpetual salute

And frequent dishonorable discharge.

This left Six-Shooter Pete

Scrubbing night and day in vein

Privately lamenting

It weren’t just soap in the lather

So he gave up washing and stuck to his guns.

Thus, a lucrative business was born

When Six-Shooter Pete discovered

That carefully peeling the resultant gunk off his nuts

Produced handsome, rubbery doilies!

Despite his modest rise in the local business world

Six-Shooter Pete remained a mystery,

Handicapped in the eyes of the public.

Then came a day undreamed.

A Mary Kay girl with private aspirations sought to ply her trade.

Six-Shooter Pete entertained the makeup-hawker to the best of his

Awkward ability, feigning interest in cosmetics

As she in turn pretended not to notice

His wrist-deep limb in the satchel

And the meat bees’ buzz about the folds.

The Mary Kay girl’s creamy complexion,

Indeed her very name

Evoked a holy aura

Wholly in Six-Shooter Pete’s mind

Causing intense perspiration as he stood stiff-armed

Against the wall, hoping to appear casually urbane,

And it was only when the Mary Kay girl revealed her ambition

To become a saucier

That the bag burst

Exploding the entire contents of the morning

Like hot suet.

To see the object of his dreams

Soundlessly scream

Through the quivering cream

Was more than Six-Shooter Pete could bear.

The Mary Kay girl’s horror in turn

Reached unspeakable heights at the sight of the

Momentarily limp appendage,

Appearing for all the world like

An octopus dripping watery cottage cheese,

And when pulpily it pulsated, she ran,

No longer screaming soundlessly.

Then and there Six-Shooter Pete

Chopped off his troubles at the wrist with a meat cleaver.

He cauterized the wound himself,

And changed his name to Stumpy.

Today, Stumpy works as a CPA in Pittsburgh.

CREATION TO CREMATION

From creation to cremation
like the sun we run

Drawn at dawn
born we burn

we sin
we sing
we sink

Mourning gravity
we knight depravity
the less at dusk
our dust to stink.




MAWKISH POLYGLOTS

When the mawkish polyglots shellac bleak canvas, courtly and ferocious neon maulers, squalid squads in kestrel tumult set brass wind killjoys free. Midwinter milksops nuzzle in myrtle, logy stampede of galactic seedlings to electrify jilted easels, each cloying dogma twinge a gangling trenchant gaff. Brazen canker, apex chomps of ashen choirs that slam suggestive sun lamps on the sand.

AUGUSTINE ALOYSIUS

In sebbenedy madmadical mudscape and katchup slashanripping sham habiliments hove greezy fingering, strident strains of pipe a citron conch, tartan tattoo of relic drums hyperhammering madcap sighcallohgee. A greepser soulution. Excrabull kissfleets, silverjinny noos of the lummering luniverse rechoired flipperguppy undecent litterasea, dairyairy roaminsircuss preseption clamporing crehated perpbetraytors eyedentical whiteplastink anon anon anon

IN THE ULTIMATE POEM FIRST AND FINAL

letters combine to align in arrangement which reads
not just across left to right or right to left but forth and up and down and back

all making sense
no space omitted
it all interacts
inside-out
diagonal

form and content match
and the letters take shapes which in turn comment
missing nothing
texture
color
senses over senses

and the poem is thought

and the thought is matter

and we walk in the poem

and we breathe in the poem

and our hearts beat the poem

and beyond all language

the poem ex  p  l    O              o
                   l    O          O
                                  O      o           O               O
          O     o         o                  o              o

    o     o                  o                    o          o              o                o

  o       .    o  .                d               o             .       .              o                .          .

.          .                     .                                e      .
.     .          .                              .          .                                   s

FOUR FREAKY FALL FLICKS

Whatever Happened to Baby Jane?, Magic, The Wicker Man, and American Gothic.

In honor of autumn fast approaching, these moody movies steeped in madness, torture, and murder. Dark, offbeat films that play for keeps, each features an absence of the supernatural, minimal special effects, and an absence of the villain as hero. Common to all four stories is the need for meaning, and human connection, the fear of time, and of being alone.

           

Also, dolls. Grand Guignol—that French Gothic theater and arch, ominous style--means “big puppets,” and each of these films deals with puppets in weird ways worth checking.

           

In Whatever Happened to Baby Jane? (1962), Bette Davis and Joan Crawford play sisters living in a rotting LA mansion. The Davis character, a former child star called Baby Jane Hudson, was herself a sort of puppet. And used a doll in her routine. But that was many years ago, and now her routine consists of taking care of the wheelchair-bound sister she resents.

           

As Corkey in Magic (1978), Anthony Hopkins plays a bottled-up character destined to pop. Like Baby Jane with her doll, Corkey’s ventriloquist dummy Fats resembles him, and serves effectively as his manikin. The doll-self, ageless and frozen in a fixed role, accentuates the predicament of the puppeteer.

           

From Heart of Darkness to Deliverance, the further away from civilization the greater the predicament, as well. The same holds true for The Wicker Man (1973) and American Gothic (1988). In the dark roots found at the extremities, traditions of violent sacrifice await, and a curious mix of “You shouldn’t be here” combines with “Stay with us forever.”

           

In all four movies the element of hanging onto something longer than should be held is crucial. The policeman played by Edward Woodward in The Wicker Man—itself a giant sort of doll—finds the people of Summer Isle hanging onto some mighty strange old ways. The yuppies in American Gothic similarly uncover an antiquated family when they find themselves stranded on a Pacific Northwest island.

           

Absence of villain as hero. What generally drags horror movies down is the mistaken idea that slashing equals horror. It is a rite of passage to laugh and eat treats while watching movie murders, the grislier the better. That’s why most of those movies are boring. What makes these four films work is the uncommon focus on story. That allows for interesting characters, which in turn fuels some legendary performances.

           

Davis and Hopkins both give some of the best performances ever seen on film. Perhaps only Peter Lorre in M has the breakdown moment to rival scenes in Baby Jane and Magic. For Christopher Lee, the name most associated with film horror of any in these selections, Wicker Man is arguably the best role of his career—and he did the movie entirely for free.

           

That’s how good.

           

Rod Steiger playing Pa in American Gothic is a solid choice. He brings a ton of character to Pa when he lets one eyelid droop a little while speaking. Like he just got whacked in the head with a pan. But Yvonne De Carlo as Ma. Sephora from The Ten Commandments meets Mrs. Munster. Now that’s inspired casting.

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 Stewart Kirby writes for

          

BIG FARM

LARGE BRIGHT vegetables, unreal in their perfection, had that nice easy shine, and everyone was feeling fine. Good mellow sunshine mood pervaded in the Produce Department, and beyond. Above the over-sized depictions of healthy farm life stretching up the walls, one-way windows blankly stared.

Tomorrow’s Tomato Today. Always huge, always perfect. Everybody feeling fine.

Apples. Apples so golden, they gave off a glow.

Uniformly, the unreal food beamed. And that was fine. Bell bottoms were back. Again, people were feathering their hair, and the hems of the corduroys which audibly brushed came with the realistic green appearance of having walked through fresh-cut lawns.

Black domes of cameras watching glittered.

“We’re Proud to Serve You!” The reassuring words on the wall spanned from the unreal artichokes all the way down to the unreal zucchini. Plus-size peppers, red, yellow, and orange, radiated the appearance of agricultural mastery. The image of the great big tractor on the wall was also red, and the brightly smiling people depicted wore overalls as blue as the sunniest sky.

“I’m here to see the manager,” he said, returning the new plastic comb to his pocket.

The black wall-mounted dome that fish-eyed his face asked if he had an appointment.

“I’m here to sign up. I’m ready to join Big Farm.”

A bright red light scanned him head-to-toe. He heard the swift click of the door before him unlock. Turning the handle, he went inside.

The door shut quickly behind him, cutting off the soothing sounds of music, the co-opted voice of AM.

“Gee, this is just all right with me,” he said, admiring the wood paneling of the interior, “gee, this is just all right.”

A representative appeared in a white button-up coat, like a sanitarium attendant, or a doctor, or a butcher, big juicy produce in hands protected by long, tight gloves that loudly snapped going on. The Aquiline profile and patrician carriage of the representative imparted him an imperial air. “You’re here to join,” he said, standing in the paneled hall before an open door. The representative seemed bothered to have to take the time to run through procedure. “State your name," he said, "last name first followed by first and middle initial.”

“Ray, Brady A.”

The representative peered back into the room from which he had emerged. “Very well,” he said, clipped tone snapping as soundly as his gloves, “in here.”

Brady entered a wider room of humming machinery, huge, dark perfectly strange devices confounding surroundings starkly contrasted with the world the shoppers saw. A screen inside near the door displayed Brady’s name and personal information. He saw the flashing green dot next to the image of his face, and followed the representative past crate after crate of produce until they came to a table where the representative set down the produce in his hands amid an array of microscopes and Petri dishes. Removing his gloves now, the representative coldly inquired, “Eat healthy portions of Big Farm produce, do you?”

“Yes, sir,” Brady said with an easy sunshine smile, “I sure do.”

“Have you ever operated a drone?”

“Yes, sir, I sure have.”

“Tell me about that.”

“I was at my cousin’s house. We used his drones.”

“Were the drones equipped with guns?”

“They sure were.”

“Did you shoot what you saw? Were you any good?”

“Yes, sir,” Brady said, sweeping his hair of off his collar.

“What did you shoot?”

“My cousin and I shot animals.”

“What kind of animals?”

“A couple of dogs," Brady said with a natural grin. "A couple of dogs and a deer.”

“Ever shoot a person?” The representative’s cold, perfunctory tone never once changed.

Neither did Brady's. “No, sir,” he said.

“Care to give it a try?”

“Yes, sir,” Brady replied, brightly beaming. “I sure would.”

The representative led him to a back room stocked with personal computers. Here a sour smell pervaded, the pickled stench of broken beer bottles, smashed pop cans, and tons of rotten produce saturating the floor like the blood of sacrifices on ancient altars. Brady took a chair in front of a screen. Seeing a mouse, he got on the web. It all seemed so natural. He went where the representative told him, simply following orders.

Brady thought about combing his hair again. He thought about his clothes, and the way he looked. He thought about his favorite programming.

The representative took a call while Brady selected a village. The village had a name unpronounceable to Brady. Someplace far away was all he knew, not that he cared. Brady clicked on the name and then waited patiently to find out what to do. He looked at an antique clock left on the wall while he waited, the kind with the parts that used to go around and around in a circle. The antique clock was tilted and had dusty cobwebs on it.

Finishing the call, the representative returned his attention to Brady. Still resentful of the duty, he instructed Brady to select a drone.

"Which kind of drone would you like me to select, sir?"

"It doesn't matter, just pick one!" The representative's perfunctory tone had turned now to anger, the flash of which instantly shifted into welcoming conciliation as the head of the Produce Department suddenly appeared.

It was a wonder. The collagen-packed fabulously wealthy cranium of the world's tenth-richest heiress, still bearing some of its actual original flesh, entered the back room atop a shiny artificial body wearing a green sequined mini skirt and sporting high heels. It had once been a real woman.

As a girl, the heiress never dreamed when playing on her father's farm that the wealth one day to come would enable her to stretch her life far beyond her body, no idea in the days of swaying on a tire swing that the genetic modification of food would include artificial cells taking total control of the host.

"Young man," the head of Produce hissed through the ragged concavity in the waxen shell which was its mouth, collagen-hidden eyes blackly glittering, "I perceive you lack initiative in your selection. Do you know why you are here?"

"Well, I've been thinking about joining Big Farm for a long time. Then last night sometime after the Caesar salad, I figured I better come on down."

The high heels strapped to the feet of the artificial body under the swollen, lifelike head of the heiress ticked across the sticky concrete floor. "Young man, you are here because there are places in the world where people are breaking the law. A law I myself shared a hand in fairly purchasing, I might add. All around this wonderful planet of ours, it is illegal that any fruit or vegetable not produced by our company be grown. You are here to do your part to ensure our way of life, young man, to ensure our very way of life."

"Our way of life!" the representative echoed in stern support. "He's been nothing but trouble."

"Oh, he's not so bad," the head of Produce hissed.

"I've selected my drone, ma'am," Brady said. He didn't know why he was smiling. He just felt...really good. Ever since Big Farm took over, everything was fine.

"All right now," said the head, leaning in, "disengage the drone from the carrier."

Smiling with an easy air, Brady did as he was told.

The head of Produce peered directly over Brady's shoulder. The artificial body pressed against him felt firm and cold. "Oh," hissed the head, wafting its preservatives, "I see you're good at farm work."

The screen was a blur as somewhere over the globe a missile-equipped drone dropped free from a carrier hovering miles above, then open ocean advanced in high definition as the drone sped toward its destination. A satellite with the coordinates locked onto the precise target--the home of someone with a garden--and displayed on the screen in high definition the landscape from high above, moving all the way down to a tight close-up on the moving lips of a lovely woman. She was speaking to someone out of view. Lip-read mode automatically kicked on, displaying the woman's words for Brady, the head of Produce, her stern bodyguards and the representative to see:

"...ahead and turn it off," the target said, oblivious she was being watched. In fact, she wasn't merely lovely, she was an absolute knockout. The kind of woman Brady dreamed about before the days of Big Farm. All eyes on the screen immediately perceived the targeted woman's remarkable beauty. "Righty-tighty, lefty-loosey," the words on the screen from the woman appeared.

A red light on the computer flashed and a soothing voice intoned, "One minute and counting . . . "

"Prepare missiles for firing," the representative snapped.

Brady heard, but he hesitated. Deep down, somehow, some part of himself...still clung on. A lifelike hand appeared on his thigh.

"It's all right, baby," the rank head hissed, "I understand. It's your first time. You'll get used to it." The lifelike hand slid up his thigh, then retracted.

"...be right there," the target said, gorgeous smile flashing across the screen.

The soothing voice of the computer pronounced, "Thirty seconds and counting . . . "

The lifelike hand intervened between Brady and the image of the woman on the screen, holding now a big bright red apple.

"Come on baby," the huge rich head croaked, "show me what you got."

Brady opened his mouth. A quick crunch filled the room. Chewing the tasteless bite, Brady took a hand off the keyboard long enough to swipe genetically-modified apple juice from his chin.

"Ten seconds and counting . . . "

There sure wasn't any fighting that free and natural feeling. It was everywhere now. No one ever said no. The lifelike hand patted his leg.

Brady put his finger on the button. Whatever it was inside him sure re-asserted its control.

Smiling an easy, with-it smile, Brady got lucky first day on the job and scored.

 

STRONGBOY

I have in mind a John L. Sullivan biopic.

It starts out mid-fight.

John L. bridged bare knuckle prizefighting
to boxing with Marquis de Queensbury rules.

The Boston Strongboy interests me for a number of reasons,
not least of which being his straight-forward slugging style
eventually matched against the dancing jabs of
Gentleman Jim Corbett, bank clerk.

There's something about a bank clerk darting in
and dancing around the bloated John L. that speaks
to the economic condition.

John L.'s trainer was an ex-wrestler named William Muldoon. Muldoon had some crazy ideas about fitness considered state-of-the-art at the time which I think would be interesting for us to see taken totally seriously. It's also interesting to me for the lead character to have a story arc ranging from challenging anybody to a fight in a bar, then eventually becoming a bloated teetotaler telling everybody not to drink. 

I'm seeing a whole lotta movie here.

Gonna call it STRONGBOY.

We hear the sounds of bare fists impacting on flesh in a sweaty din of screaming men.

The year is 1882 and it is the 8th round of an illegal prizefight held in Mississippi
between reigning champion Paddy Ryan and the challenger, John L. Sullivan.

A clubbing blow from Sullivan sends Ryan to one knee. Wild William Muldoon, Sullivan's trusty, crusty trainer, barks advice from a roiling throng...

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