the perfect woman now lives in our neighborhood.
she walks her dogs at dusk.
two brown dogs on two stainless leashes,
one perfect woman in tow.
she walks her dogs down the sidewalks,
crosses streets, cuts through alleyways.
who does she think she is, to bring her perfect self into this forsaken place,
this neighborhood of shotgun shacks, empty twelve-packs,
thirty-year-old cars on concrete blocks?
she is a goddess come to visit the damned.
we can scarcely stand to glance at her.
we can scarcely stand to turn our glance away.
she is as perfect as anything we have ever seen.
we will stand in our front yards, and wait for her to return.
(Copyright 2023 by Tetman Callis.)
“Certain secret sorrows, certain tricks of fate which awake in us a whole world of painful thoughts, which suddenly unclose to us the mysterious door of moral suffering, complicated, incurable; all the deeper because they appear benign, all the more bitter because they are intangible, all the more tenacious because they appear almost factitious, leave in our souls a sort of trail of sadness, a taste of bitterness, a feeling of disenchantment, from which it takes a long time to free ourselves.” – Guy de Maupassant, “Minuet” (trans. McMaster, et al.)
she had everything but the vodka.
i had the vodka, which was very good.
i almost wrote god instead of good. good
god, that vodka was good. it was distilled
from the feathers and fat livers of gray
geese, or so the bottle’s label seemed to
indicate. we had two martinis each.
i mixed them up in her mixer, filled with
her ice, with a smattering of her
vermouth. and they were good. not god, yet. or
any longer. oh, and her olives, too.
the olives were hers, and the toothpicks. we
talked. we talked some more. she pulled out her dope,
and we smoked the better part of a bowl
(her pipe, her lighter). i have to work in
the morning, so i drove home filled with goose
bumps and olives and smoke. on the way, i
drove past a cop who was parked on the shoulder,
his hazards flashing. i was going sixty,
which is all right, it’s a sixty-five zone
even if it is an s-curve and ought
only to be a sixty, at the most,
but i wandered a little to the port
side of my lane, which troubled me. the cop
seemed troubled by something else and gave me
no trouble. i got home safely, guarded
as ever by one or more angels. my
porch light was off. i thought maybe i had
left it off or maybe i had turned it
on and it had burned out. once inside, i
reached for the switch. it was off. i turned it
on. the light blue out—i mean, blew out—in
the instantaneous flash characteristic
of catastrophic failure of the
filament. i have the new bulb here
beside me and will now go screw it
in, after screwing the old bulb out.
(Copyright 2023 by Tetman Callis.)
in just a few minutes of morning news
my clock radio told me i would soon be shivering in my home
unable to afford the heat while meanwhile
sex offenders would be living in their cars right outside on my street
or living underground somewhere
or straying too close to schools of children
some of whom would be raped by family members
if they hadn’t been already
and would have to have their wombs scraped clean with twisted coat hangers
probably in some alley someplace
while all of us were slowly poisoned by air too dirty to breathe
all of this and i was still in bed
still in bed
slapping at the snooze button
(Copyright 2023 by Tetman Callis.)
“The rough weather continues. Fresh disasters are anticipated.” – Guy de Maupassant, “At Sea” (trans. McMaster, et al.)
there’s a paving rig on the freeway just back of my house.
the windows rattle to the dull bass note pounded out by the machine.
the driver leans out from under his bleached orange parasol,
watching his work. i watch him through the kitchen window.
his white hard-hat reflects the pummeling july sun.
i go outside and sit on an old, battered bench in the diminishing shade
cast by a cottonwood tree. the paving rig paves.
i smoke dope out of a small pipe.
hungry orange grubs eat the tree’s leaves.
the grubs are the definition of voracious.
they leave the leaves a dying latticework above a drizzle
of dark-green droppings softly falling onto my shirt,
into the hair on my head,
onto the hairs of my arms,
onto the skin of my fingers,
into the bowl of my pipe and into the cat’s water bowl by the bench,
where the droppings expand like some novelty
purchased for pennies from the back of an old comic book.
the hard-hatted driver shuts his paving rig down for lunch.
i finish smoking my bowl. the day is hot and now very quiet.
(Published in High Street: Lawyers, Guns & Money in a Stoner’s New Mexico (2012, Outpost 19); copyright 2012, 2023 by Tetman Callis.)
my next-door neighbor mows his lawn early on sunday morning.
the gasoline engine of his mower is loud. he sees me,
smiles, waves and shouts a cheerful hi!
he survived the state pen, and since his release he’s been happy as a fresh-fed pup.
my next-doors on the other side scream their fucking-fuck-fuck-fucked
at every hour, night and day, day and night, all week long, month after month,
for sale sign newly-raised in the dirt of their easement.
this sunday morning, they have left off the copulation talk for the duration
of their breakfast. a pebble thrown by the mower’s blades
clangs the sign, ricochets in my direction,
skipping to rest at my feet where i wash my car by the curb.
(Copyright 2023 by Tetman Callis.)
“We entered the farmhouse. The smoky kitchen was high and spacious. The copper utensils and the crockery shone in the reflection of the hearth. A cat lay asleep on a chair, a dog under the table. One perceived an odor of milk, apples, smoke, that indescribable smell peculiar to old farmhouses; the odor of the earth, of the walls, of furniture, the odor of spilled stale soup, of former wash-days and of former inhabitants, the smell of animals and of human beings combined, of things and of persons, the odor of time, and of things that have passed away.” – Guy de Maupassant, “The Farmer’s Wife” (trans. McMaster, et al.)
my index finger has a mind of its own,
fingertip absently moving over my belly as i read in bed,
fingernail discovering a flaky bump of skin to scratch to an upright position,
small white scale of skin standing up from what may well prove to be
the first growth of a melanomic death. i pull it free from
off the bump on my belly, scraping it up with my fingernail,
dropping it into my mouth for recycling,
where it has neither flavor nor weight.
(Copyright 2023 by Tetman Callis.)
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.)