“Good afternoon folks. I am Grace Lynn. I am a hundred years young. I’m here to protest our school district’s book-banning policy. My husband Robert Nichol was killed in action in World War II, at a very young age, he was only 26, defending our democracy, Constitution, and freedoms. One of the freedoms that the Nazis crushed was the freedom to read the books they banned. They stopped the free press, banned and burned books. The freedom to read, which is protected by the First Amendment, is our essential right and duty of our democracy. Even so, it is continually under attack by both the public and private groups who think they hold the truth. Banned books, and burning books, are the same. Both are done for the same reason: fear of knowledge. Fear is not freedom. Fear is not liberty. Fear is control. My husband died as a father of freedom. I am a mother of liberty. Banned books need to be proudly displayed and protected from school boards like this. Thank you very much. Thank you.” – Grace Lynn, at Martin County, Florida, school board meeting, March 21, 2023 (quoted by Brandon Gage, in AlterNet, March 22, 2023)
Author: Tetman Callis
quitting smoking nowquitting smoking now
quitting smoking now
will greatly reduce serious risks to my health
quitting smoking now
will bring my hairline back down to where it belongs
quitting smoking now
will turn my belly flab to six-pack abs at home in my spare time
quitting smoking now
will take the liver spots out of my hands
quitting smoking now
will cause my eyes to focus
stop my gums from bleeding
kill my appetite for chicken skin
leave me at a loss for words
quitting smoking now
will leave me with a small pile of butane lighters
and seventeen cigarettes
(Copyright 2023 by Tetman Callis.)
volcanoesvolcanoes
it happened like this: the rains came, late as usual,
passingly sufficient to turn the desert green and yellow
with high summer’s thirsty flowers growing on the slopes
of ancient volcanoes that rose black, crusty and pumiced.
at the peak of one volcano, in the long-cold cone there swarmed flying ants,
red a dark unto black, wings a shimmering glisten reflecting late afternoon sun.
dancing their mating dance, swirling beyond any other control,
a million uncountable ants at play.
wings shimmered. the sun went down. ants landed, mated, lost their wings.
out from the cool spaces, reeving the volcano came millipedes,
first one here, two there,
then so soon as to seem miraculous, millipedes everywhere,
a thousand of them on the volcano’s rocks, among the high summer’s flowers,
millipedes large and small and each size in between,
brown as fancy cigarettes or small cigars,
floating on undulating fringes of legs that carried them
into the desert night along the flowered, antic slopes.
(Copyright 2023 by Tetman Callis.)
“Ostap and Andrii [the sons of Taras Bulba] flung themselves into this sea of dissipation with all the ardour of youth, forgot in a trice their father’s house, the seminary, and all which had hitherto exercised their minds, and gave themselves wholly up to their new life. Everything interested them—the jovial habits of the Setch [the fortified capital of the Zaporozhian Cossacks], and its chaotic morals and laws, which even seemed to them too strict for such a free republic. If a Cossack stole the smallest trifle, it was considered a disgrace to the whole Cossack community. He was bound to the pillar of shame, and a club was laid beside him, with which each passer-by was bound to deal him a blow until in this manner he was beaten to death. He who did not pay his debts was chained to a cannon, until some one of his comrades should decide to ransom him by paying his debts for him. But what made the deepest impression on Andrii was the terrible punishment decreed for murder. A hole was dug in his presence, the murderer was lowered alive into it, and over him was placed a coffin containing the body of the man he had killed, after which the earth was thrown upon both. Long afterwards the fearful ceremony of this horrible execution haunted his mind, and the man who had been buried alive appeared to him with his terrible coffin.” – Nikolai Vasilievich Gogol, “Taras Bulba,” Taras Bulba and Other Tales (trans. various)
rainbow scaredrainbow scared
this would have been two men walking at night,
and one of them would have looked like me.
the other one would have looked like he could
hurt the one who looked like me, except
he would have looked even bigger than that,
and he would have said, aren’t you scared?
the one who looked like me would have said—
would have lit a jumpy cigarette with
a wavering match and would have said—
would have blown some smoke out, squinted, tossed his
head and said—yeah, i’m scared. i’m always scared.
sometimes i’m screaming into my knuckles,
pants-wetting scared. other times i’m just
a nice, smooth, mellow scared, like unsalted
butter of fear. the big one would have said,
what kind of scared are you right now?
and the one who looked like me would have said,
right now i’m a kind of a rainbow scared, all
different colors.
sounds pretty, the big one
would have said. you got a pot of gold at
the end of that? and the one who looked like
me would have said, yeah, and would have taken
a deep drag off his cigarette.
(Copyright 2023 by Tetman Callis.)
tidaltidal
a quarter-moon is overhead tonight, rushing westwards over rainish clouds,
pulling at our eyes and dreams and giving pale reminder of the time when we were
little more than scum, clinging to the shoreline’s rocks while that same moon now
overhead tugged at the salt-sea waters enwombing us, or rather at our somewhat slimy
distant ancestors, forcing what we would by great eventuality become to gasp
and grasp and grow out of our sheltering mother sea, the tidal moon marooning
us at the bare beginnings of a dry-land life that has come to have certain attractions,
such as this evening’s quarter-moon and scooting clouds, and such as what some small
family branch of that ancient scum grew up to be, that being the we who built
our ships to sail a different and quite hostile kind of sea, to reach at last one day
that moon whose own slow dance has called us into life and its contemplations.
(Copyright 2023 by Tetman Callis.)
“It’s a foundational requirement to train on civil unrest, civil disturbance, civil disobedience nationwide. We train for that in the National Guard.” – Select Committee to Investigate the January 6th Attack on the U.S. Capitol, “Interview of General William Walker, December 13, 2021”
cosas sagradascosas sagradas
my heart was once an open wound on my sleeve,
dripping on the ground as i walked,
spattering my shoes.
look here, i’ll open it up a little wider and we can take a peek inside—
see? presto-shamzo, there’s nothing to see, this empty
receptacle that maybe once contained all my
blood and all it stood for.
now it’s a space to let, unfurnished,
and i feel the need for a clean shirt and a shoeshine.
(Copyright 2023 by Tetman Callis.)
“A I can see there’s a lot of lawyers in here, so it ‑‑
Q It’s D.C., sir. You can’t swing a dead cat and not hit a lawyer.”
– Select Committee to Investigate the January 6th Attack on the U.S. Capitol, “Interview of General William Walker, December 13, 2021”
“In the absence of reliable extensional rheology data, we can only point to the fact that when cats are deformed along their principal axis, they tend to relax more easily, suggesting that the extensional time is smaller than the shear time. Transient strain‑hardening can nonetheless occur. Second, because, flows of cats are usually free surface flows, the surface tension between the cat and its surrounding medium can be important and even dominant in the rheology, especially in CATBER (Capillary thinning and breakup extensional rheometer) experiments.” – M. A. Fardin, “On the Rheology of Cats”
geographygeography
a national geographic reporter is in town.
he’s a tall guy, in a blue shirt and lackluster voice.
he has a cell phone in his hand. he’s talking into it, and listening.
he’s on assignment.
he sits in the atrium of a posh hotel
and talks into his phone about his assignment.
he’s going to go to a trendy, funky neighborhood this evening
to see what’s there to be seen. he said even for an hour will be fine.
he’s never been there before.
he’s also going to get a bite to eat.
last night, his car broke down on old 66. it was the car of his local contact.
it broke down the way a sentence or a train of thought will break down,
without warning or obvious cause.
he and the contact got out to walk to the nearest service station.
along the way, in a woods just off the road,
they saw large naked women cavorting.
the women saw them and ran deeper into the woods,
and this is where the story ends (though the road goes on a ways).
(Copyright 2023 by Tetman Callis.)
“I have seen a man cremated on a funeral pile, and it has given me a wish to disappear in the same manner. In this way everything ends at once. Man expedites the slow work of nature, instead of delaying it by the hideous coffin in which one decomposes for months. The flesh is dead, the spirit has fled. Fire which purifies disperses in a few hours all that was a human being; it casts it to the winds, converting it into air and ashes, and not into ignominious corruption. This is clean and hygienic. Putrefaction beneath the ground in a closed box where the body becomes like pap, a blackened, stinking pap, has about it something repugnant and disgusting. The sight of the coffin as it descends into this muddy hole wrings one’s heart with anguish. But the funeral pyre which flames up beneath the sky has about it something grand, beautiful and solemn.” – Guy de Maupassant, “A Cremation” (trans. McMaster, et al.)
perseidsperseids
hot august night, clear sky and no moon.
we sit in deck chairs hauled up by ladder to the flat roof of a mountain house,
where we lean back and look up into the dark, sparkling sky
to catch glimpses of shooting stars unzipping the night,
the brightest leaving smoky, glowing trails.
light for an instant lights the pines and oaks covering the slopes,
the pale flash like a flashbulb miles above. we marvel and coo.
one hill away, a panther squalls an unearthly, tormented call,
sounding like a giant, tortured infant. we glance at the ladder,
agree the night is growing cold and late,
and we should soon climb down and go inside.
(Copyright 2023 by Tetman Callis.)
qualophilic qualophobiaqualophilic qualophobia
there is nothing more perfect in this world than a strip of number four staples
shining and ordered, geometrical and symmetrical
hinting of infinity
the very image of the logos that in the beginning was with
and was
but staples have sharp points
are easily placed in the mouth
can be swallowed where they will lodge in the throat
and must be kept out of the reach of children
(Copyright 2023 by Tetman Callis.)
“If a child lives with criticism, he learns to condemn
If a child lives with hostility, he learns to fight
If a child lives with ridicule, he learns to be shy
If a child lives with shame, he learns to feel guilty
If a child lives with tolerance, he learns to be patient
If a child lives with encouragement, he learns confidence
If a child lives with praise, he learns to appreciate
If a child lives with fairness, he learns justice
If a child lives with security, he learns to have faith
If a child lives with approval, he learns to like himself
If a child lives with acceptance and friendship, he learns to find love in the world.”
– Dorothy Law Nolte, “Children Learn What They Live”
shellsshells
the rain today brought the snails out for their snail-paced play.
they left snotty trails on the concrete of the back porch.
my son squatted by the open back door,
cooing over the slow-dancing snails, telling me,
look, dad, they’ve all found their shells.
the big ones have found big shells,
and the little ones have found little shells.
they all found the shells that fit them just right.
at the edge of the porch, by the wet grass, he saw an empty shell.
he picked it up, looking around for the snail it must have belonged to.
(Copyright 2023 by Tetman Callis.)
tücher the princetücher the prince
tücher the prince and cinderella scoot
moving boy-footed and girl-slippered to set the coffee table for tea
fat-handed children giggly to spread the white sheet with tease and toys
the sheet doing for a tablecloth for children spilling onto the floor
their laughy bodies falling falling
stopped at mid-play by cinderella’s mother calling
‘step lightly, cinderella, step away’
leaving a slim glass slipper under the ghostly-sheeted coffee table
topped by cold dregs for sipping
stale scones for supping
cinderella slipping like mist from charmful tücher the prince
now of the -pality of one
boy-footed to the doorway moving
watching cinderella run
calling to the ashen girl vanishing cinderella! making fists unmaking fists
making fists again
fat hands rolled into scepter’s ends
prince tücher squints into the brightliness of a sunnish day
watching the girl-slippered girl slip away—
knobby-handed princeling, it’s time to clear the table
there will be another ball tonight
(Copyright 2023 by Tetman Callis.)
“Fish pain is something different from our own pain. In the elaborate mirrored hall that is human consciousness, pain takes on existential dimensions. Because we know that death looms, and grieve for the loss of richly imagined futures, it’s tempting to imagine that our pain is the most profound of all suffering. But we would do well to remember that our perspective can make our pain easier to bear, if only by giving it an expiration date. When we pull a less cognitively blessed fish up from the pressured depths too quickly, and barometric trauma fills its bloodstream with tissue-burning acid, its on-deck thrashing might be a silent scream, born of the fish’s belief that it has entered a permanent state of extreme suffering.” – Ross Andersen, “What the Crow Knows”
habitshabits
he is a man of several habits
his virtue that of the fallen arch
his odor the smell of an evening’s must
his taste the flavor of nothing at all
his lovers ephemeral, he carefully gnaws a thumbnail or two
rubbing himself the wrong way
spitting thumbnail slivers onto the floor
(Copyright 2023 by Tetman Callis.)
thatthat
a light
switch
clicks
a woman
gasps
a twig
snaps
like
that
(Copyright 2023 by Tetman Callis.)
“The maiden voyage of the newly recommissioned USS Pueblo in January 1968 was not a well-planned operation. The ship’s preparation was hurried, and the crew was not adequately trained to meet the emergency that confronted them. The SIGINT detachment did not know how to conduct aspects of its mission and, more importantly, did not train in emergency destruction measures. There were numerous highly classified documents aboard the ship that were outdated, some were not needed to carry out the mission, and still others were in unnecessary duplicate copies. When the destruction order finally came, the Pueblo crew was thrown into complete disorder. By at least 20 January, North Korean military authorities were aware of the Pueblo‘s presence off North Korea. Visual reconnaissance of the Pueblo began shortly thereafter. Once the Pueblo was confirmed by the North Koreans as an American vessel and as an intelligence collector, the North Korean purpose was to force the ship into submission and to seize it.” – Robert E. Newton, The Capture of the USS Pueblo and Its Effect on SIGINT Operations
caterpillarcaterpillar
the caterpillar crawls and eats
crawls and eats
spins itself into a chrysalis
waits changing
waits
changing
emerges with a dress made of wings
dances for a day
sips nectar, mates, and is gone
(Copyright 2023 by Tetman Callis.)
the shadow of the earththe shadow of the earth
a little girl, maybe three or four years old,
stands behind the closed screen door
to her dilapidated house and watches
a stranger walk by. she says, daddy left.
she says, daddy. the stranger
looks at her as he passes. she says, daddy!
across the street and down two, a hatchback
has a freshly-broken window. pebbly
glass is scattered on the car and on the street.
three blocks further up, a tall and slender
blonde woman carries her bags and workpapers
to her truck. she gets in and starts it up.
her perfume leaves a portion of itself
on the still and cool pre-sunrise air.
the scent lingers. she drives away.
sunflowers stand in her lawn, facing
this way and that, waiting for the sun.
the shadow of the earth
sinks in the western sky.
sparse clouds turn pink, then gold.
the stranger passes again, heading
back the way he came. the little girl
is gone from behind the screen door.
(Copyright 2023 by Tetman Callis.)
“The artist rules. Nothing else matters.” – Sissy Spacek (interview by Richard Grant in The Guardian, January 26, 2002)
black dogsblack dogs
black dogs charge me in the morning
while i hang a load of laundry on the line.
in sunrising light they dash across the lawn without a sound.
i see them for a moment from the corners of my eyes,
but when i turn to meet them, they are gone.
black dogs charge me in the evening
while i am drinking strong, dark coffee and sitting in my chair,
reading strong, dark words from heavy books, black dogs beside me for a moment,
never staying long enough to show me what they want.
they never bark or howl or whine.
they make no noise at all.
black dogs charge me at night while i sleep tangled in my sheets,
sweating and dreaming of empty leashes and crowded rooms,
of women wearing scarves tied across their eyes,
carrying glasses of iced tea along sidewalks teeming with black dogs, black dogs,
black dogs with mouths open, black dogs with tongues red, teeth white.
(Copyright 2023 by Tetman Callis.)
the return of the repressedthe return of the repressed
finally the facts are faced: the child within will always without.
(i’m so hungover, my fingers keep hitting all the wrong keys.
thank (whoever) for backspace and delete.)
that child within will never be content to sit himself in the quiet corner where,
when i am feeling optimistic, i think to place him.
or maybe he will. (i should not try to write when i am hungover.
the mistakes are legion. in nineteen minutes i have to shower
and get ready for work. i will arrive at the office my customary
three-to-five minutes early, the boss will ask how i am or how my weekend was,
and i will lie. i will say fine. i will not tell him (who in a similar situation would?)
how a good friend of mine left her marijuana and her vodka (along with her cat,
her dog, and her apartment) in my care for the weekend.)
that little bastard (the child within), get him around dope and booze,
he goes for it. he pops right out of that corner where he’s been sitting
(scheming all the while), weird and devilish grin on his face, lights up,
pours out, kicks back and has a high old time. before you know it
(or i know it, or someone knows it, or who knows?), he’s eaten an entire
roast chicken and four cherry turnovers, played with himself (twice),
and stayed up all night watching short video clips and playing games.
he’s back in his corner this morning (went there on his own accord, no fussing,
sweet as the cookies he also polished off by the bagful), happy as whatever
the happiest thing is (a child, perhaps?), undoubtedly planning his next escape.
though his back is to me, i can see him smile. the little shit. he’s left me bloated,
hungover (like i said), in need of exercise and clean blood. and he knows
that although i make him spend almost all his time in that corner, his back
to my world, hearing me bitch about how much i think or believe i need to do,
and how exasperating and distracting and foolish he is, there is no one i love more.
(Copyright 2023 by Tetman Callis.)
“When Death enters a house it seems as if he were hurrying to do his utmost, so as not to have to return for a long time after that.” – Guy de Maupassant, “A Humble Drama” (trans. McMaster, et al.)
how this workshow this works
this is how this works:
here’s the sky
there’s the sun
bright—don’t look at it
it’s a special star to us, the sun
but no big thing in the big scheme of things
it’s a normal star
a clerk or a waiter
a star that watches the game on sundays
its own day, it takes it off
has a hot brewski
so there’s the sun
it lives in a galaxy
it has billions of neighbors just like it
they all have families just like ours
ours has us
if you—or anyone—puts our pieces
(carbon, nitrogen, oxygen, etc.)
around a sun just like ours
you’re going to get us
or someone very similar
here we are
there’s the sky
it’s night now, so you can see all those other suns
back behind and beyond all those suns, there are more suns
billions of them
and back behind them
there are more galaxies
billions of them
anywhere you look
everywhere you look
billions of them
they all have suns
drinking hot brewskis and watching the game with their families circling around
families just like us
looking up
looking out
looking at all those other suns
everywhere we look
any time, night or day
we look at someone out there looking back
(Copyright 2003, 2023 by Tetman Callis.)
the academy caféthe academy café
a young couple, male and female as is
often the case, sat at a table in
the back of the room, eating pizza &
staining a game’s wooden letters with their
pizza-sauced fingertips. they (the young
couple) chattered and clattered their hard-
scrabbled words. up front, arrayed at tables
along plate-glass windows, more couples
nattered in their almost-quiet rustling
way. a man stepped up to the counter to
order a drink, a fancy blended, stirred,
poured out, & sprayed with something pressurized
in a can. a reader in one corner
mumbled home-made poetry into
a broken microphone. this room was once
a martial-arts academy for
women and children. later, there was applause.
(Copyright 2003, 2023 by Tetman Callis.)
“Oh! if you cherish life, never disturb the burial place of old letters! And if, perchance, you should, take the contents by the handful, close your eyes that you may not read a word, so that you may not recognize some forgotten handwriting which may plunge you suddenly into a sea of memories; carry these papers to the fire; and when they are in ashes, crush them to an invisible powder, or otherwise you are lost.” – Guy de Maupassant, “Suicides” (trans. McMaster, et al.)