Month: September 2023
Coming up next, anyone could, then, in a working real-life family,
believe women could not have children.
What are we, a beer? Ah, thanks. Thinking my
name behind it, the right side changing direction, I’ve been
working all summer just to try and learn a holler,
as well as the first word: Stingrays don’t attack humans.
You are home to the first search for work: my family.
She’s got something to get on the road: kissing noises (it’s a miracle).
Join us and our furry little friends, speaking German rapidly.
Yes. Or ja. Now, we’re going to go on to the next question:
every move you make?
(shouting)(cheers and applause)
(Originally published in EOAGH, Issue 5, 2009. Copyright 2009, 2023 by Tetman Callis.)
“At twelve o’clock we went below, and had just got through dinner, when the cook put his head down the scuttle and told us to come on deck and see the finest sight that we had ever seen. ‘Where away, cook?’ asked the first man who was up. ‘On the larboard bow.’ And there lay, floating in the ocean, several miles off, an immense, irregular mass, its top and points covered with snow, and its center of a deep indigo color. This was an iceberg, and of the largest size, as one of our men said who had been in the Northern ocean. As far as the eye could reach, the sea in every direction was of a deep blue color, the waves running high and fresh, and sparkling in the light, and in the midst lay this immense mountain-island, its cavities and valleys thrown into deep shade, and its points and pinnacles glittering in the sun. All hands were soon on deck, looking at it, and admiring in various ways its beauty and grandeur. But no description can give any idea of the strangeness, splendor, and, really, the sublimity, of the sight. Its great size;—for it must have been from two to three miles in circumference, and several hundred feet in height;—its slow motion, as its base rose and sank in the water, and its high points nodded against the clouds; the dashing of the waves upon it, which, breaking high with foam, lined its base with a white crust; and the thundering sound of the cracking of the mass, and the breaking and tumbling down of huge pieces; together with its nearness and approach, which added a slight element of fear,—all combined to give to it the character of true sublimity. The main body of the mass was, as I have said, of an indigo color, its base crusted with frozen foam; and as it grew thin and transparent toward the edges and top, its color shaded off from a deep blue to the whiteness of snow.” – Richard Henry Dana, Two Years Before the Mast
snails make the most disgusting sound
when they’re crunching underfoot
it’s a wet, fleshy crunch,
light on the crackle component
somewhat exotic and french,
in that regard
still, one wouldn’t want to walk
about in the grass
barefooted after it rains,
when there are scores of snails in the yard
many of them up by the house
right in front of the doors
camouflaged by darwin’s god
better it would be now
if they were day-glo orange
or carried harder shells
or less meat
or moved faster
or weren’t snails
(Originally published in Oxford Magazine, Vol. XVII, 2003. Copyright 2003, 2023 by Tetman Callis.)
chicago’s the dumpy one
nobody ever asks her out and nobody’s ever going to
except maybe that guy
the one who works for the plumber
she doesn’t have anything to wear
it’s like trying to dress a potato
her sister new york’s the one who got all the looks
nice figure too and lots of style
lots of taste
always well dressed and going somewhere
she can have any man she wants
but she’s picky
she has class and she’s not going cheap into the bargain
their sister ellay is the one they don’t like to talk about
but they will if you ask
chicago will frown and new york will stick her nose up in the air
and they will tell you what a tramp their sister is
she goes around dressed in bathing suits and t-shirts and flip-flops
everywhere
and she will sleep with anybody
anywhere
and she’s a druggie too
whatever she can get her hands on
they won’t tell you they secretly think she’s the most interesting
even though she has never read a book
(Copyright 2023 by Tetman Callis.)
“The customs as to the allowance of ‘grub’ are very nearly the same in all American merchantmen. Whenever a pig is killed, the sailors have one mess from it. The rest goes to the cabin. The smaller live stock, poultry, etc., they never taste. And, indeed, they do not complain of this, for it would take a great deal to supply them with a good meal, and without the accompaniments, (which could hardly be furnished to them,) it would not be much better than salt beef. But even as to the salt beef, they are scarcely dealt fairly with; for whenever a barrel is opened, before any of the beef is put into the harness-cask, the steward comes up, and picks it all over, and takes out the best pieces, (those that have any fat in them) for the cabin. This was done in both the vessels I was in, and the men said that it was usual in other vessels. Indeed, it is made no secret, but some of the crew are usually called to help in assorting and putting away the pieces. By this arrangement the hard, dry pieces, which the sailors call ‘old horse,’ come to their share. There is a singular piece of rhyme, traditional among sailors, which they say over such pieces of beef. I do not know that it ever appeared in print before. When seated round the kid, if a particularly bad piece is found, one of them takes it up, and addressing it, repeats these lines:
‘Old horse! old horse! what brought you here?’
—‘From Sacarap to Portland pier
I’ve carted stone this many a year:
Till, killed by blows and sore abuse,
They salted me down for sailors’ use.
The sailors they do me despise:
They turn me over and damn my eyes;
Cut off my meat, and pick my bones,
And pitch the rest to Davy Jones.’
There is a story current among seamen, that a beef-dealer was convicted, at Boston, of having sold old horse for ship’s stores, instead of beef, and had been sentenced to be confined in jail, until he should eat the whole of it; and that he is now lying in Boston jail. I have heard this story often, on board other vessels beside those of our own nation. It is very generally believed, and is always highly commended, as a fair instance of retaliatory justice.” – Richard Henry Dana, Two Years Before the Mast
after work today
i sat in a chair on the balcony
and read a book
a drying blue flower
fell out of the sky
and landed at my feet
(Copyright 2023 by Tetman Callis.)
hi how nice to meet you the weather’s been awful late-
ly would you like to hear about an interesting
gangland murder how about the counselor up on
assault charges with his car let me tell you who has
a messy history of assaulting lovers and
wives how about child molesters there’s much of inter-
est one could learn with regard to those odd fellows or
if this were halloween and not the birthday party
of a swaddled infant there’s the dark tale of the qui-
et guy who drugged his trusting roommate then video-
taped what they did together a genuinely night-
mare-
inducing story sure to keep the children up for
days oh then there’s the matter of conditions in the
jail that’s a perennial favorite plus ça change
this is wonderful cake by the way the icing is
so creamy and smooth i think i’ll have another drink
(Copyright 2023 by Tetman Callis.)
“A live dog is better than a dead lion, and a sick sailor belongs to nobody’s mess.” – Richard Henry Dana, Two Years Before the Mast
this is the bbc news, the real thing,
coming at the top of the hour
immediately after a broadcast of the can-can
dedicated to an old guy for his birthday (he turns 86)
okay, here it is, here goes
couple robbed and murdered on their honeymoon
opposition politicians circle for the kill
scores of people killed in a stampede
a dozen climbers missing up a mountain
a couple of guys rescued at sea
an oddity of nature
the weather is rainy or not
or rainy and not
there are several traffic problems, listen close
that’s it, i don’t know what to do with it either
except do this
(Copyright 2023 by Tetman Callis.)
yesterday was my daughter’s thirty-fourth birthday.
my eldest child, born while i was still in high school.
at the start of our dinner yesterday evening, my third wife and i
raised our wine glasses and drank a toast to this daughter.
while we ate we watched a movie on the magic talking box,
a movie about a businessman and a whore who fall in love.
it was sweet, and not overly unintelligent,
with a happy ending.
last night i dreamed it was thirty-four years ago
(and somewhere in this universe it is).
i was in the hospital room of the mother of my daughter
and my daughter was just born. she was still gooey;
that is, covered in the blood and other goo of the neonate.
the mother of my daughter was my girlfriend and never my wife,
though we did talk about it. her parents were in the room, too,
though their presence was not central to the plot of the dream.
though she had just been born, and i may even have seen
the last few moments of her birth, my daughter—our daughter—
had a full head of short, spiky hair, dark at the roots and
golden at the tips. and she was laughing! she was the happiest
baby you could imagine, laughing and giggling, and her mother
was laughing and smiling, too. she said to me—that is,
my girlfriend of thirty-four years ago said to me,
this is the true story of the missing years. she said,
i’m not giving her up for adoption like i did,
i’m keeping her and raising her as my own, she is
my own, you saw her come out of me. we were happy.
when i woke up this morning, i was in a part of the universe
at least thirty-four years removed from any hospital rooms
with laughing newborns and new versions of true stories.
i was back in that part of the universe where my girlfriend
never held her baby, our daughter, and neither did i;
where we gave the child up for adoption a few days after
she was born, never saw her smile, never heard her laugh,
don’t know how she may have come to wear her hair;
where she was as gone as though she had never existed,
and as ever-present as our hearts.
(Copyright 2009, 2023 by Tetman Callis.)
“The sailor’s songs for capstans and falls are of a peculiar kind, having a chorus at the end of each line. The burden is usually sung, by one alone, and, at the chorus, all hands join in,—and the louder the noise, the better. With us, the chorus seemed almost to raise the decks of the ship, and might be heard at a great distance, ashore. A song is as necessary to sailors as the drum and fife to a soldier. They can’t pull in time, or pull with a will, without it. Many a time, when a thing goes heavy, with one fellow yo-ho-ing, a lively song, like ‘Heave, to the girls!’ ‘Nancy oh!’ ‘Jack Cross-tree,’ etc., has put life and strength into every arm.” – Richard Henry Dana, Two Years Before the Mast
if there’s nothing new under the sun,
should our searchings be confined to the shadows?
in the shaded places would we have any hope to find
crystals that might in the open reflect and refract
colors we could never name?
our world is old and dying.
our words echo down empty wells.
something scurries in the darkness.
we don’t know its name,
it draws near.
(Copyright 2023 by Tetman Callis.)
you reach a certain age, you think about
death all the time. not that it’s an obsession.
it’s a companion, with you while you walk
along the sidewalk, cars speeding past you
down the street, inches away (inches
away). with you when you cross the street
(jaywalking? against the light?). with you while
you ride your ten-speed bike (not fast enough,
your bike, not massive enough, no protective
cage). with you when you eat your dinner.
with you when you do your morning push-ups,
jumping jacks, running in place (going nowhere).
all but holding your hand when you hack up
clots of sputum, too much smoking for too
many years (the surgeon general warned you—
he warned you! you wouldn’t listen). you watch
your diet and watch your weight. you watch
and wait, you’re never alone now. you
couldn’t be more alone.
(Copyright 2023 by Tetman Callis.)
“An overstrained sense of manliness is the characteristic of seafaring men, or, rather, of life on board ship. This often gives an appearance of want of feeling, and even of cruelty. From this, if a man comes within an ace of breaking his neck and escapes, it is made a joke of; and no notice must be taken of a bruise or cut; and any expression of pity, or any show of attention, would look sisterly, and unbecoming a man who has to face the rough and tumble of such a life. From this, too, the sick are neglected at sea, and whatever sailors may be ashore, a sick man finds little sympathy or attention, forward or aft. A man, too, can have nothing peculiar or sacred on board ship; for all the nicer feelings they take pride in disregarding, both in themselves and others. A thin-skinned man could not live an hour on ship-board. One would be torn raw unless he had the hide of an ox. A moment of natural feeling for home and friends, and then the frigid routine of sea-life returned.” – Richard Henry Dana, Two Years Before the Mast
you think it’s romantic
you think
it’s romantic that too drunk to get
off the couch
swilling beer whiskey cheap wine
mornings afternoons you think
it’s romantic that too drunk to get
off the floor in front of the t.v.
the baby’s crying his diaper sopping
wet so romantic so poetic well
you go live it
you go live it
you tell me how romantic
you go live it and you tell me
(Copyright 2023 by Tetman Callis.)
yard full of dogs
barking two houses down
any and all hours of the night
one dozen local cats (give or take)
fighting spitting yowling
screeching spats in syncopation
with the yard of dogs
snoring wife
she subvocalizes too
sometimes even calls out
words she never hears
middle-aged bladder
parked atop my piss-pipe
demanding attentive relief in the dark
this has gone on for months
secret police know the toll
not long before he breaks down
confesses to everything
later in the day at my desk in the office
no place to lie down
no carpet on the hardwood floor
the boss right around the corner
my chair is on wheels
the floor is smooth
no sleeping here no sleeping
(Copyright 2023 by Tetman Callis.)
“It has been said, that the greatest curse to each of the South Sea islands, was the first man who discovered it; and every one who knows anything of the history of our commerce in those parts, knows how much truth there is in this; and that the white men, with their vices, have brought in diseases before unknown to the islanders, and which are now sweeping off the native population of the Sandwich Islands, at the rate of one fortieth of the entire population annually. They seem to be a doomed people. The curse of a people calling themselves Christian, seems to follow them everywhere.” – Richard Henry Dana, Two Years Before the Mast
it happened not too far from here, last night,
just a few blocks up that way. there was this
guy beating his wife. she ran outside
and down the street, screaming for help. he ran
after her. a neighbor stepped in, told
the husband, hey, stop beating your wife.
the husband said, she is my wife and i
will beat her. the wife screamed. the neighbor said,
no, really, stop beating your wife or i
will shoot you. he had a gun. the husband
said, she is my wife and i will beat her.
you won’t shoot me. the neighbor said, yes, i
will, so stop. the wife screamed, but the husband
didn’t stop, so the neighbor shot him, twice.
once to stop him, and once to make sure.
(Copyright 2023 by Tetman Callis.)
bon jour, man
we made something really bad
daddy, can we switch?
switch arms?
are you going to tell me?
(something inaudible whispered.)
daddy, can I have a drink?
daddy?
(Copyright 2023 by Tetman Callis.)
“The difficulties of science are to a large extent the difficulties of notations, the units, and all the other artificialities which are invented by man, not by nature.” – Richard P. Feynman, The Feynman Lectures on Physics, Vol. I
i had the desert, it was mine
when the plates were flying across the kitchen to smash against the walls
i had the desert
it was mine to escape to and to wander in
its vast empty sky
hot sun burning my pale pink skin
whirling dust devils
tall khaki columns against the clear blue sky
dusty sand of quartz and limestone
round black stink bugs scurrying along
their butts in the air
menacing robber flies buzzing by in their zig-zag flight
tumbleweeds and wildflowers
dry grasses and goat’s-head stickers
clumps of mesquite and stands of greasewood sheltering jackrabbits
high-trilling ground squirrels heard but rarely seen
timidly scampering lizards
flanks pulsing with their breathing
shiny snouts and pinhole nostrils
dark beady eyes and tiny sharp claws
tails that came off to lay twitching in the sand
horny toads with their hundred spines
wide mouths and flat bodies
air of wisdom and of patience longer than any lifetime
grey coyotes with their howls
their sidelong glances and loping gait
they were of the desert as i was of the desert
they were mine as i was theirs
we sheltered ourselves together
keeping always our wary distance
(Copyright 2023 by Tetman Callis.)
not at all (for he does exude a regal air).
pick a name: pie eye, a stock name for drab mob.
areopagite, receive time, foe.
bitten, i’m odd.
date, name, i said.
did you attempt it?
weakling, not an artificer, is at tollhouse,
is yearning not to yearn (alibi).
law, house, and town
done gone and hit the riser.
dew-daddy said, she, son, is aware of no web.
i’m teaching of ogle pie.
ecumenical tears, my lieb, abrogate a rift.
nominal goes the road before the king.
day, come down, dismember.
(tit cankered a day for you, life. self-nubile,
you arm many a clucking maid;
so sure, you elocute car jags.)
tea service neat, egg hid, equal,
dew-daddy says, can’t count a sty, or you.
odd, that a man rages.
(Copyright 2023 by Tetman Callis.)
“The American has no national religion, and likes to show his independence of priestcraft by doing as he chooses on the Lord’s day.” – Richard Henry Dana, Two Years Before the Mast
you rot.
i retch.
date, try to scream. i covet,
got cot, and my hug flits wit, rends seam.
(is nine; is late;
say, oh, good evening, maw.)
foist ads. hi ho,
ha ha—lax game, yo mo-fo (hi ho).
of old, my child, new egg,
gut ohio, rust veal,
later reign. nude, you saw salomé lie down, for by your love—
no. i/you halves. you have a liar, damn you,
talisman tin.
i opt self, selfness, tin urals.
you domesticate trysts, lose four
who never seemed neighbors. (room, me snoring, sad doze.)
lion matrimoan, i hit, run. rot name-setter,
rat ovum distinguished, i ought lock niche, tug non satyra,
eject vomit. gone, i vomit steel, fey to follow armada.
you’re gorgeous, desultory.
say it—to feed image, hit gun ire.
to negate wit, ale kid.
(Copyright 2023 by Tetman Callis.)
no stint.
you lose elation, stench.
sure, et al. is a moot clearing of throats. sit at tidy
near dark. tut, tut—
stay—lay—i’ll put on airs, sow a wave.
to vid okay—kiss. (oh, toy! right!)
rented door on this vaj, he dial you first.
secure you die, exclaim, oh! lewd is rancid.
(weak me, first nodding man.
damn, be a capulet, capitulate easy. i be an ex.)
newer, a tenuous creek,
a kind guy, i/you.
fit, all i had is you. (oy.)
(Copyright 2023 by Tetman Callis.)
“When did she give up on escape? She was a lady—a wife, a daughter, a sister—a lady never need open a door. Patience is power, her mother had taught her. To be a lady is to be patient.” – Jennifer Blackman, “Lady Dorothy Townshend Is Descending the Stairs”
pestilence, pustules you cause—
nah. (sit tight, rap sill.)
oh, i wedded it, lode caring hotly if i rob—
or, by harm done, nettled steed swears slanders,
coward to the dead.
tuneful cadger, exhaling, exhuming,
he starts it tough. oh, stay new. hot racing
pushes my rate. i—
i kid—
i kiddle little loser
(loser, right, yet the deed).
on royal purple pus should tie here an eye,
how ought not i vie i.
i axe.
he sob,
no, it’s a loss—
i albatross.
(Copyright 2023 by Tetman Callis.)
mmmmmm . . .
some folks like to glue shards back into pots.
sometimes eros phones up, he says, it’s time to hammer.
you pluck slag by laughing.
do sigh, it suits a dream sadder than victory
(i ate my cheerful hi!).
i ought to grub for an enigmatic nod, hum
drum, run detail, lose i.d. and cough. i baste
two swatches with whisper, add
flirtation, tell stingray soul, na la la, it’s so—
that is, you have regal oh’s.
(Copyright 2023 by Tetman Callis.)
“Revolutions are matters of constant occurrence in California. They are got up by men who are at the foot of the ladder and in desperate circumstances, just as a new political party is started by such men in our own country. The only object, of course, is the loaves and fishes; and instead of caucusing, paragraphing, libelling, feasting, promising, and lying, as with us, they take muskets and bayonets, and seizing upon the presidio and custom-house, divide the spoils, and declare a new dynasty. As for justice, they know no law but will and fear. A Yankee, who had been naturalized, and become a Catholic, and had married in the country, was sitting in his house at the Pueblo de los Angelos, with his wife and children, when a Spaniard, with whom he had had a difficulty, entered the house, and stabbed him to the heart before them all. The murderer was seized by some Yankees who had settled there, and kept in confinement until a statement of the whole affair could be sent to the governor-general. He refused to do anything about it, and the countrymen of the murdered man, seeing no prospect of justice being administered, made known that if nothing was done, they should try the man themselves. It chanced that, at this time, there was a company of forty trappers and hunters from Kentucky, with their rifles, who had made their head-quarters at the Pueblo; and these, together with the Americans and Englishmen in the place, who were between twenty and thirty in number, took possession of the town, and waiting a reasonable time, proceeded to try the man according to the forms in their own country. A judge and jury were appointed, and he was tried, convicted, sentenced to be shot, and carried out before the town, with his eyes blindfolded. The names of all the men were then put into a hat and each one pledging himself to perform his duty, twelve names were drawn out, and the men took their stations with their rifles, and, firing at the word, laid him dead. He was decently buried, and the place was restored quietly to the proper authorities.” – Richard Henry Dana, Two Years Before the Mast
if i be a whore for doing,
seize not the cessation of day.
see it (see it),
hey it, nay it—
or, sir, it’s a ninny’s to-do.
even to nod to sin as it raps down heat (a pox pot
boils—excise it.), oh, hard by sad bed.
enough of hi, my friend.
cupped hands dial phone at ten
(i might fear and meet success).
live, see job/ligation—
some ought, some will—
at your touch, my lion gate opens.
(Copyright 2023 by Tetman Callis.)