Month: July 2023
not much of a cowboy i would be
not a week goes by that i don’t fall out of my saddle
drop off my high horse
you don’t care to know about all my bad habits
(they’re the same as everyone’s)
and i don’t care to know about yours
(much the same as mine, i “reckon”)
i roll my own while riding along
tobacco falls out all down the trail
eat too many beans, too much bacon
spit into the wind
pistol’s dirty, can’t shoot it anymore
lariat’s worn out
chaps chafe
damn
just damn, that’s all
then spit into the wind again
(Copyright 2023 by Tetman Callis.)
“The effeminate man, as one meets him in this world, is so charming that he captivates you after five minutes’ chat. His smile seems made for you; one cannot believe that his voice does not assume specially tender intonations on their account. When he leaves you it seems as if one had known him for twenty years. One is quite ready to lend him money if he asks for it. He has enchanted you, like a woman. If he commits any breach of manners towards you, you cannot bear any malice, he is so pleasant when you next meet him. If he asks your pardon you long to ask pardon of him. Does he tell lies? You cannot believe it. Does he put you off indefinitely with promises that he does not keep? One lays as much store by his promises as though he had moved heaven and earth to render them a service. When he admires anything he goes into such raptures that he convinces you.” – Guy de Maupassant, “The Effeminates” (trans. McMaster, et al.)
it’s only mid-may and the summer
gunfire has already begun. ten shots
in rapid succession. most likely
the emptying of a full magazine
(nine-millimeter semi-automatic
handgun). it happened not long after
nine o’clock. early in the evening
for the summer gunfire. early in
the season, too. the summer gunfire
usually doesn’t begin until
the hot madness of june. and it doesn’t
happen until after ten o’clock.
and usually not a full magazine
at a time. profligate shooter, what did
he hit? time to bring the kids in early.
keep them away from the windows. keep
everyone away from the windows.
we can sit on the floor, it’s cooler here.
(Published in High Street: Lawyers, Guns & Money in a Stoner’s New Mexico (2012, Outpost 19); copyright 2012, 2023 by Tetman Callis.)
the anonymous
caller muffled his
voice, told me, i know
all your dirty secrets.
he named them for me
(it took a little time),
said, soon the whole
world will know.
i told him, these days,
to get the whole
world to know anything
requires the use
of explosives.
don’t push your
luck, he said.
(Copyright 2023 by Tetman Callis.)
“Assuredly, every good journalist must be somewhat effeminate—that is, at the command of the public, supple in following unconsciously the shades of public opinion, wavering and varying, sceptical and credulous, wicked and devout, a braggart and a true man, enthusiastic and ironical, and always convinced while believing in nothing.” – Guy de Maupassant, “The Effeminates” (trans. McMaster, et al.)
one stray brown dog half-heartedly barks,
strays sideways into the lot where the old house was torn down last week.
beyond the dog, a gray cat scampers up the trunk of a tree just beginning to leaf.
on the freeway that rights its way through the neighborhood,
a car pulls over to a halt, waits, then pulls back into the light traffic,
accelerating to speed.
the sky is grey with low, wet clouds. rain stains the streets.
mud, gravel, and small boulders litter the streets
from how hard it rained the night before last.
morning birds are singing.
the cocks the cockfighters keep crow their doodly cock-song.
next door to a boarded-up house, a house displays on its screen door
the yellow ribbon that means someone is away at the war.
across the street and down a block, a yard sports campaign posters,
though the election is seven months off. the posters are blue, white, and red.
in the street, parked by the curb, a car with tinted windows starts its engine.
two men pass on the sidewalk. one says, good morning, but doesn’t smile.
the other says nothing, spits once for jesus, once for mary,
and once to keep the devil away.
(Copyright 2004, 2023 by Tetman Callis.)
odors of toast and marijuana, bacon and tobacco
pissed-out beer and puked-up rum
apple and plum trees in full bloom
perfumed women and old spicy men
waiting on the bus’s black-sooted exhaust and metallic smell of motor oil
whiff of plastic burning, of coriander, chile verde and mace
axle-grease and antifreeze and morning in the neighborhood
(Copyright 2023 by Tetman Callis.)
“If there is only one death, there are more ways of its reaching us than there are days for us to live.” – Guy de Maupassant, “Our Letters” (trans. McMaster, et al.)
we slept on sofas or sprawled in chairs
our heads back, necks crimping, mouths hanging open
or stretched across a stranger’s bed we slept
or we had found a sober friend somehow
or called a taxicab to take us home
and in the morning (it was afternoon)
all across the nation we came, the third millennium men
coming by bus or by taxicab
coming by lift from a friend
coming on foot, unshowered, unshaven
coming out the doorways of the places where we’d spent the remnants of the night
stretching, yawning, blinking, scratching
heads pounding, stomachs roiling
men of the new era, coming to retrieve our cars
(Copyright 2001, 2023 by Tetman Callis.)
we had an apartment on the upper west side
sub-let from the sub-lessee, our possession was tenuous
we had a radio with a tape player for playing the tapes we brought from canada
and from new mexico
we had a television but we didn’t watch it
we had a neighbor above us who had a television
maybe he watched it and maybe he didn’t
but we could hear it through his floor which was our ceiling
we had regular habits
our neighbor above us had regular habits
he had the habit of having on his television
while we had the habit of silence for our writing
we went upstairs to complain
not to complain but to ask our neighbor nicely
nicely as we could stand to ask
if he would turn his television down
we knocked on his door and he opened
we could see his television beyond him in his living room
he had a console television squatting on the floor
and a large aquarium with a light and a pump
the light was silent and the pump was loud
our neighbor had his television turned up so he could hear it over the pump
we told him what our problem was
he was a big guy, had a beer belly and large arms
had a daughter who stood behind him with a frightened look in her eyes
her jaw wired shut, unable to speak
our big neighbor guy with his television and his aquarium
and his daughter and his belly and his arms
he said he didn’t give a flying
said he’d lived there twenty years and he’d about
had it with the faggots who lived downstairs
he shut the door in our faces
we couldn’t help it
our hands shot out, fisted
and pounded on his door
he yanked his door open
his daughter stood behind him
terrified look on her face
he grabbed us by our arms
our skinny faggy arms
slammed us into the wall
wrestled with us on the landing
we could swear he tried to throw us down the stairs
then he let go and went back inside his apartment
with its television and its aquarium and its daughter and her jaw wired shut
we went downstairs and called the police
they came, they said do you have any bruises?
any cuts or broken bones?
we said no
they said we don’t have anything we can do for you
we said we have a tire iron
we could hit him with a tire iron
they said you don’t have the right to do that
so don’t
they took us upstairs to have a discussion with our neighbor (arms, aquarium, belly, etc.)
he said he had no idea what we were talking about
his daughter stood behind him, terrified
wired shut
we all had to promise the police we would behave before they would go away
later
in our kitchen
one of us had an idea
it wasn’t a very good one, involving violence and revenge
and misuse of the postal system
so we had beer and cigarettes instead
(Copyright 2023 by Tetman Callis.)
“Forgetting is the only form of forgiveness; it’s the only vengeance and the only punishment too.” – Jorge Luis Borges (quoted by Gavin Francis in “The Dream of Forgetfulness”)
young woman downtown, her face framed by ruddy blonde hair
dancing on her shoulders as she walked along the sidewalk
pretty face, young face, gray slacks and black sweater close-fitted and stylish
and the days of my having any hope of closeness outside of commerce
with such a woman as this young woman
are as gone as this winter’s Christmas
my teeth are stained and my gums are sore
my face is lined and my hair turns gray
my mind is slow and my heart, it hurts me all the time
i walk unsteadily now, so i sit here on the cold stone steps of this bank building,
and i do not look up again
(Copyright 2023 by Tetman Callis.)
when a language is a living thing,
it is a tree, with roots and branches.
its words are leaves, flowers and fruits—
twigs, even, for such simplicities as a, the, and and.
a leafy word, well, there’s leaf, to begin with.
branch is a leafy word, too, in this taxonomy, as is roots.
as for flowers, they come in many shapes, sizes and smells.
there is the emetic stench of such poison blooms as faggot and nigger,
the heavy, musky odor of fuck—a fragrance some claim to find offensive,
but almost all are pulled by its enticement—
and on to the light, watery semi-sweetness of rose-by-any-other-name.
as with natural trees, the fruits come last. what would be a fruity word?
not fruit—if it’s not a leafy word, then it’s a flowery word.
not pregnant—although one may assume initially
that pregnant is an obviously fruity word, it is in fact leafy.
a fruity word, a word capable of making itself (or something)
flesh (or flesh-like, or flesh as a very broad metaphor,
because, after all, we’re up a tree), could be such a word as love,
the sometimes sickly-sweet, sometimes—well, it’s love,
fruit of the fuck-flower. it comes in every flavor you can imagine.
(Copyright 2023 by Tetman Callis.)
“Roughly speaking: objects are colourless.” – Ludwig Wittgenstein, “2.0232”, Tractatus Logico-Philosophicus
one would think it would be enlightening to be an illusion of energy
a shimmering arrangement harmonious of infinitesimal electrical charges
separated by a great deal of empty space
but i smoked a pack of cigarettes today
ate an entire cheesecake for dessert
and if you dropped me now
i wouldn’t bounce
(Copyright 2023 by Tetman Callis.)
what we all want, my love,
the madness that makes the madness of human being possible to tolerate,
palatable the bitter fruit of good and evil—
to believe the distant hanging grapes are almost certainly not sour,
and better yet, are real—
to be so certain there shall be some catbird seat plushly upholstered,
one such for each deserving one of us,
our names embossed in gold on the upright backs,
from which comfy perches we can watch what follows our passing,
smiling with confidence yet with appropriate humility,
nudging one another to point out
there
and there
see? and see? happy endings everywhere,
our names remembered, our works cherished and enduring
(not forgotten, crumbling into indistinguished dust).
but, my love, we shall sleep in dust unknowing, pulverized by time,
not find ourselves watching the show from the bleachers
to the right or left of god.
so kiss me now, my love,
and kiss me again.
am i to stop you, when a million of your kisses are too few?
kiss me again before it’s time we go.
(Copyright 2023 by Tetman Callis.)
“It is prudent to dispense with the conservatism, the emotionalism, and the theological arguments which are currently slowing progress.” – Charles W. Bachman, “The Programmer as Navigator”
we lay ourselves down for a quick slide with
the devil we only wanted a couple of easy
couplings we could use to spawn a triumph
or two over a foe and cow all the other
kids in the neighborhood but now we find
ourselves gravid with the infant a huge
hydrocephalic baby he insists we bear
no coat hanger or mouthful of pills
will abort this mushroom-headed brat whose
birth will tear out our entrails split our belly boil
our blood and stuff our mouths full of ashes
prepare the crèche! the child’s arrival is nigh
(Copyright 2023 by Tetman Callis.)
she’s a work-study at the university library
almost as tall as i am, and i am tall
she wears clothes that fit her nicely
i’m trying not to look, i’m checking out a book
something ancient and tragic
she’s the one who will do the processing
get the book checked out, her blouse open to her navel
i look down the counter, away from her
she can’t be a day over twenty-five
an age i haven’t seen in ages
i wish i were one of her professors
i should have stayed in school
(Copyright 2023 by Tetman Callis.)
“No living creature, not even man, has achieved, in the centre of his sphere, what the bee has achieved in her own; and were some one from another world to descend and ask of the earth the most perfect creation of the logic of life, we should needs have to offer the humble comb of honey.” – Maurice Maeterlinck, The Life of the Bee
this morning i was riding the elevator
up to the office where i work. i rode my bike
today and had my helmet dangling from my hand
and my leather jacket on, and i was feeling
so cool. there were two people in the elevator
with me, a young skinny guy in skinny young guy
clothes, and a plump blonde girl dressed to accentuate.
and i was thinking, man, i feel good. it always
makes me feel good, so pumped when i ride my bike.
so i got to my floor and i stopped by the men’s
room to process some coffee, and i go to
the urinal and reach down–and my fly is
open. i biked two miles in the cold april morning,
sauntered through the building lobby, rode the elevator
up with the skinny guy and the plump girl, and my
fly was open—zipper tongue all the way down
and poking out. (i’m glad my underwear wasn’t
showing.) the skinny guy i’d never seen before,
but the plump girl works in my building. she’s almost
certain to see me again, maybe even today,
the guy who had his fly down and was feeling cool.
(Copyright 2023 by Tetman Callis.)
i saw the prettiest undercover
cop today, walking down the hall in the
building where the federal agents have
their office. she was with another
undercover cop, but he was a guy
so i didn’t look at him except to
see he had dark hair, cut short. she had blonde
hair, straight and hanging to her shoulders,
waving lightly as she walked by. her face
was round and she had a pretty little
nose. she wore jeans and a windbreaker, both
light blue, but that’s all i dared see. she’s a
cop, there was no way i was going to stare,
look her up and down, try to make eye contact.
(Copyright 2023 by Tetman Callis.)
“Common-sense makes an admirable, and necessary, background for the mind; but unless it be watched by a lofty disquiet ever ready to remind it, when occasion demand, of the infinity of its ignorance, it dwindles into the mere routine of the baser side of our intellect.” – Maurice Maeterlinck, The Life of the Bee