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
some things just stick in the mind: dates, faces, names and places; colors of eyes and sounds of voices. twenty-eight years ago tonight, my girlfriend told me she thought she was pregnant. we were parked on a dark homeless street on the fringe of someone else’s brand-new neighborhood. we were there for making out (my agenda, not hers). she stopped my roving hand, told me what she thought. i said, no, you can’t be. as though i could somehow know better than she what to her had become manifest. i said, come on, let’s make out. as though that would make everything better.
some things just stick in the mind: a child’s birthday, a lover’s smile, a given name; a darkened street; green eyes. how each person sighs in a different way.
(Copyright 2023 by Tetman Callis.)
here’s an age-old question: who among us can imagine our parents in passion entwined?
right! so, we must all be gods! eternal, deathless, our origins lost in the mists of time preceding time. certainly, we are none of us sprung from the clumsy thrustings of those wrinkling, aging, inept and flatulent poseurs who insist we are their offspring. and our own children? let them likewise believe that they are, in the face of the contradicting evidence (i.e., us), the inheritors of an ancient godhood. don’t ever let them know that they shall be as we are now: becoming broken-down, taking much too long to die.
(Copyright 2023 by Tetman Callis.)
“If skies remain clear, the air warm, and pollen and nectar abound in the flowers, the workers, through a kind of forgetful indulgence, or over-scrupulous prudence perhaps, will for a short time longer endure the importunate, disastrous presence of the males. These comport themselves in the hive as did Penelope’s suitors in the house of Ulysses. Indelicate and wasteful, sleek and corpulent, fully content with their idle existence as honorary lovers, they feast and carouse, throng the alleys, obstruct the passages, and hinder the work; jostling and jostled, fatuously pompous, swelled with foolish, good-natured contempt; harbouring never a suspicion of the deep and calculating scorn wherewith the workers regard them, of the constantly growing hatred to which they give rise, or of the destiny that awaits them. For their pleasant slumbers they select the snuggest corners of the hive; then, rising carelessly, they flock to the open cells where the honey smells sweetest, and soil with their excrements the combs they frequent. The patient workers, their eyes steadily fixed on the future, will silently set things right. From noon till three, when the purple country trembles in blissful lassitude beneath the invincible gaze of a July or August sun, the drones will appear on the threshold. They have a helmet made of enormous black pearls, two lofty, quivering plumes, a doublet of iridescent, yellowish velvet, an heroic tuft, and a fourfold mantle, translucent and rigid. They create a prodigious stir, brush the sentry aside, overturn the cleaners, and collide with the foragers as these return laden with their humble spoil. They have the busy air, the extravagant, contemptuous gait, of indispensable gods who should be simultaneously venturing towards some destiny unknown to the vulgar. One by one they sail off into space, irresistible, glorious, and tranquilly make for the nearest flowers, where they sleep till the afternoon freshness awake them. Then, with the same majestic pomp, and still overflowing with magnificent schemes, they return to the hive, go straight to the cells, plunge their head to the neck in the vats of honey, and fill themselves tight as a drum to repair their exhausted strength; whereupon, with heavy steps, they go forth to meet the good, dreamless and careless slumber that shall fold them in its embrace till the time for the next repast.
“But the patience of the bees is not equal to that of men. One morning the long-expected word of command goes through the hive; and the peaceful workers turn into judges and executioners. Whence this word issues, we know not; it would seem to emanate suddenly from the cold, deliberate indignation of the workers; and no sooner has It been uttered than every heart throbs with it, inspired with the genius of the unanimous republic. One part of the people renounce their foraging duties to devote themselves to the work of justice. The great idle drones, asleep In unconscious groups on the melliferous walls, are rudely torn from their slumbers by an army of wrathful virgins. They wake, in pious wonder; they cannot believe their eyes; and their astonishment struggles through their sloth as a moonbeam through marshy water. They stare amazedly round them, convinced that they must be victims of some mistake; and the mother-idea of their life being first to assert itself in their dull brain, they take a step towards the vats of honey to seek comfort there. But ended for them are the days of May honey, the wine-flower of lime trees and fragrant ambrosia of thyme and sage, of marjoram and white clover. Where the path once lay open to the kindly, abundant reservoirs, that so invitingly offered their waxen and sugary mouths, there stands now a burning-bush all alive with poisonous, bristling stings. The atmosphere of the city is changed; in lieu of the friendly perfume of honey, the acrid odour of poison prevails; thousands of tiny drops glisten at the end of the stings, and diffuse rancour and hatred. Before the bewildered parasites are able to realise that the happy laws of the city have crumbled, dragging down in most inconceivable fashion their own plentiful destiny, each one is assailed by three or four envoys of justice ; and these vigorously proceed to cut off his wings, saw through the petiole that connects the abdomen with the thorax, amputate the feverish antennas, and seek an opening between the rings of his cuirass through which to pass their sword. No defence is attempted by the enormous, but unarmed, creatures; they try to escape, or oppose their mere bulk to the blows that rain down upon them. Forced on to their back, with their relentless enemies clinging doggedly to them, they will use their powerful claws to shift them from side to side; or, turning on themselves, they will drag the whole group round and round in wild circles, which exhaustion soon brings to an end. And, in a very brief space, their appearance becomes so deplorable that pity, never far from justice in the depths of our heart, quickly returns, and would seek forgiveness, though vainly, of the stern workers who recognise only nature’s harsh and profound laws. The wings of the wretched creatures are torn, their antennae bitten, the segments of their legs wrenched off; and their magnificent eyes, mirrors once of the exuberant flowers, flashing back the blue light and the innocent pride of summer, now, softened by suffering, reflect only the anguish and distress of their end. Some succumb to their wounds, and are at once borne away to distant cemeteries by two or three of their executioners. Others, whose injuries are less, succeed in sheltering themselves in some corner, where they lie, all huddled together, surrounded by an inexorable guard, until they perish of want. Many will reach the door, and escape into space dragging their adversaries with them; but, towards evening, impelled by hunger and cold, they return in crowds to the entrance of the hive to beg for shelter. But there they encounter another pitiless guard. The next morning, before setting forth on their journey, the workers will clear the threshold, strewn with the corpses of the useless giants; and all recollection of the idle race disappear till the following spring.” – Maurice Maeterlinck, “The Massacre of the Males,” from The Life of the Bee
we babies of the boom, now middle-aged, overweight, out of what were once our so-alluring shapes, now with spouses gone we wrinkle and sag. we sometimes flock together in the evenings, laughing over dinner and dry red wine. once we would have paired and been naked by midnight—three a.m. at the latest—now we take our leavings at ten, returning alone to our separate homes where we will later be illuminated by television’s flickering glow, watching a fantasy world in which we no longer see reflections of ourselves. we awaken early in the dark of our narrow beds, get up, it’s time to feed the animals, put out the trash.
(Copyright 2023 by Tetman Callis.)
what was once done with so little
thought given other than to the doing of it
now done (whenever possible)
fraught with consideration
with a strong desire to hold down by the wrists
to bite and to stab
to scream in rage against death
(Copyright 2023 by Tetman Callis.)
“It is a vast achievement, the surest ideal, perhaps, to render the condition of men a little less servile, a little less painful; but let the mind detach itself for an instant from material results, and the difference between the man who marches in the van of progress and the other who is blindly dragged at its tail ceases to be very considerable.” – Maurice Maeterlinck, The Life of the Bee
i’m given to understand freud said
we are all of us imprisoned by our dreams.
but i’m shut right now in a small room with no windows
(artificial light, overhead and flickering)
and have no way to verify whatever freud may
or may not have said, regarding dreams and prisons.
last night i was imprisoned with cream cheese cupcakes.
i’d never had them before and they were delicious.
i peeled their papers back, pressed my fingertips down onto
the crumbs that fell from them onto the table also imprisoned with me,
and licked my fingertips. the cream cheese was the color of butter.
the cupcakes were cupcake yellow.
some nights i find myself imprisoned with my best friend,
though he has been dead many years. last night he was still dead,
and i was trying to make sense of the mess he left behind.
he had not turned his calculators off, nor left any instructions.
this was before (prior to) the cream cheese cupcakes.
i complained to shadowy dream people imprisoned with me
about my best friend’s machines. the shadowy dream people later
shared with me the cream cheese cupcakes.
i like the sound of the phrase, cream cheese cupcakes,
though i didn’t particularly care to share any of them, and i’m not—
never mind. some nights i share my prison with a woman i had hoped
both to love forever and to have stopped loving some years back.
looks like forever is the winner, so far.
i’m imprisoned with forever, which gives me the entire universe
as my incarcerated companion. the man who has it all,
including the dream of a beautiful cellmate,
and a telephone in this small room with no windows
(overhead light, artificial and flickering). it may ring, this phone.
(Published in J Journal, Vol. 2, No. 2, Fall 2009; copyright 2009, 2023 by Tetman Callis.)
my son has a sister who is not his
mother’s daughter and another who is
not his father’s little girl. the first of
these two half-sisters has herself two half-
siblings in virginia, while the second
is closely related to several
persons in hawaii. we progenitors
(several inter-breeding mothers and
fathers) are, or may be, closely related
to people in colorado
texas
ohio
tennessee
scotland
france
germany
the netherlands
and possibly viet nam
now that we’re so many of us closer
cousins than we may suspect, sex seems not
quite so advisable, at least not for
procreation (pace his eminence
the holy father, with his children of
a different sort). the bunny-rub feels
so good, this is true, and there is nothing
to match a good orgasm (is there any
other kind?), but we could accidentally
generate to follow in our wayward
footsteps an even stupider gener-
ation than our own, unless we decide
to hell with the consequences, dub ourselves
royalty, and set to interbreeding
like the kings and queens whose offspring were
hemophiliacs and at least one world war
(Copyright 2023 by Tetman Callis.)
“I have studied these people for many years. We are in Normandy; the soil is rich and easily tilled. Around this stack of corn there is rather more comfort than one would usually associate with a scene of this kind. The result is that most of the men, and many of the women, are alcoholic. Another poison also, which I need not name, corrodes the race. To that, to the alcohol, are due the children whom you see there: the dwarf, the one with the hare-lip, the others who are knock-kneed, scrofulous, imbecile. All of them, men and women, young and old, have the ordinary vices of the peasant. They are brutal, suspicious, grasping, and envious; hypocrites, liars, and slanderers; inclined to petty, illicit profits, mean interpretations, and coarse flattery of the stronger. Necessity brings them together, and compels them to help each other; but the secret wish of every individual is to harm his neighbour as soon as this can be done without danger to himself. The one substantial pleasure of the village is procured by the sorrows of others. Should a great disaster befall one of them, it will long be the subject of secret, delighted comment among the rest. Every man watches his fellow, is jealous of him, detests and despises him. While they are poor, they hate their masters with a boiling and pent-up hatred because of the harshness and avarice these last display; should they in their turn have servants, they profit by their own experience of servitude to reveal a harshness and avarice greater even than that from which they have suffered. I could give you minutest details of the meanness, deceit, injustice, tyranny, and malice that underlie this picture of ethereal, peaceful toil. Do not imagine that the sight of this marvellous sky, of the sea which spreads out yonder behind the church and presents another, more sensitive sky, flowing over the earth like a great mirror of wisdom and consciousness—do not imagine that either sea or sky is capable of lifting their thoughts or widening their minds. They have never looked at them. Nothing has power to influence or move them save three or four circumscribed fears, that of hunger, of force, of opinion and law, and the terror of hell when they die.” – Maurice Maeterlinck, The Life of the Bee
she drove up this evening, before sunset,
in her silver volkswagen beetle, one of the new kind.
it made a loud rackety clacking noise, as though
it really were powered by hamsters on a wheel.
many hamsters, on a large wheel.
i watched from the kitchen window. our son, hers and mine,
had gone out to meet her. the two of them
stood by the gate, talking in the evening’s
golden light. i could not see her face.
her hair was very chestnut in the light,
but i believe she colors it now.
i saw her figure in profile. she has a bit of a belly.
so do i. we age.
as i watched her i thought,
i used to fuck the daylights out of her,
then felt vaguely frightened and annoyed that such a thought
would run through my head, snatching words along its way.
i washed my hands at the kitchen sink. when she
drove away, her silver volkswagen beetle
was so quiet, i didn’t hear her leave.
(Copyright 2023 by Tetman Callis.)
home for the christmas holidays,
i snuck to the garage of my parents’ house to get high.
everyone else was in the house on the other side of the door that led
from dad’s green garage to mom’s red kitchen.
i laid my works out on dad’s workbench,
my papers and baggie on a magazine’s glossy cover photo,
some comely wench.
listening to the noises of voices coming muffled from the kitchen,
i tried to roll a cigarette but my fingertips were slick and dry,
the marijuana crumbly.
dad came to the door, opened it, said,
whatcha doin’, little buddy?
are ya makin’ any money yet?
no, no, i mumbled, wadding my works up in my hand, hiding what i could hide.
dad said, why’ncha come inside?
he was smiling,
we’re all making money in here.
he walked back into the warm-looking kitchen.
i heard mom’s laughter, and brother joey’s confident, even voice saying,
fuck your money, dad,
i want my daughters to learn about pornography.
i think they’re old enough now.
i can help, i called from where i stood,
i have some right here.
one of joey’s daughters, the youngest,
came out to see.
i pulled a glossy magazine from the rack on top of dad’s workbench.
take this and look at it, i said, and gave her the magazine.
practice, practice, practice, i told her.
i watched her walk back into the kitchen.
she’s beginning to get hips.
i still very much wanted to get high,
but dinner was about to be served.
(Copyright 2023 by Tetman Callis.)
“Nature is always magnificent when dealing with the privileges and prerogatives of love. She becomes miserly only when doling out the organs and instruments of labour. She is especially severe on what men have termed virtue, whereas she strews the path of the most uninteresting lovers with innumerable jewels and favours. ‘Unite and multiply; there is no other law, or aim, than love,’ would seem to be her constant cry on all sides, while she mutters to herself, perhaps: ‘and exist afterwards if you can; that is no concern of mine.’ ” – Maurice Maeterlinck, The Life of the Bee
i turned on the radio and folded my freshly-washed underwear
while watching out the window at schoolgirls walking by
the tingling and the pressure from my old workplace injury is always with me
i moved with care
clouds had been building up all afternoon
the schoolgirls walked down the street to the next block
i stacked my underwear neatly
the sound of a golden oldie came from the radio
the clouds were slowly billowing over the city
my bedsheets were still drying on the line
(Copyright 2023 by Tetman Callis.)
my father storms into the house when he gets home from work
bitching about obese paralegals
red-light runners
large cars badly parked
i’m watching television when he comes in
i try to avoid getting in front of his anger
after he takes off his tie
makes a martini and sits
he’s usually better
he sips
he says
why does my girlfriend keep calling me at seven in the morning to break up?
doesn’t she know she got it right the first time?
we watch television
i’m like
dad
i don’t know
he finishes his martini and goes outside
we forgive each other everything we can
(Copyright 2023 by Tetman Callis.)
“According to Mental Health: A Report of the Surgeon General [pre-2005], 19 percent of the general population of the United States has a diagnosable mental illness, 6 percent have an addictive disorder, and 3 percent have both a mental illness and an addictive disorder. Most of the sufferers continue to function more-or-less well outwardly, despite the internal turmoil: only between a third and a quarter of these illnesses result in diagnosable functional impairment or are severe enough to interfere with social functioning. The others may or may not be detectable by an untrained observer, even though they can seriously compromise the sufferer’s judgment.” – Major Laura J. Heath, USA, “An Analysis of the Systemic Security Weaknesses of the U.S. Navy Fleet Broadcasting System, 1967-1974, as Exploited by CWO John Walker”
you are still here
a root grown tight around a stone
a persistent dream of dark-eyed women
you are still here
in this chair you used to sit
in this plush and tattered chair where years after you were gone
i found a long strand of what could only have been your hair
i did not keep it
you are right here
you are here the way a parent is present in the face of a child
i hear my child’s footfall in the kitchen
he is pouring cereal into a bowl
(Copyright 2023 by Tetman Callis.)
writing by starlight
sloppily
has this page already been used?
orion and his dog overhead
satellites and red-eye liners passing seven sisters
chased as ever by the bull
this morning he has saturn on one horn
dawn breeze coming now
venus and a thin crescent rising
my girlfriend sleeps in our tent
last night we made love during a thunderstorm
rain pelted our tent while flashing lightning showed us ourselves
(Copyright 2023 by Tetman Callis.)
“The personnel security system appeared to be a solid, workable solution to the need to keep classified information out of untrustworthy hands. However, on closer inspection, the system was far less comprehensive than it seemed. The process for investigating personnel for Secret-level clearances was extremely cursory—it was incapable of uncovering the great majority of criminal convictions, and it made no effort whatsoever to check any other security-relevant areas, such as finances. Even such a minimal vetting process was routinely undermined by people with vested interests in concealing information. Granting Top Secret clearances involved a more elaborate series of checks; however, the results were still highly untrustworthy. DIS [Defense Investigative Service] and the adjudication system were chronically underfunded and undermanned, there was virtually no reliable scientific information on which to base decisions, and the Navy allowed commanding officers to override the adjudicators’ decisions anyway. Periodic reinvestigations were almost always backlogged by several years and could, in any event, be easily avoided by tampering with personnel records. Policy existed that required supervisors and coworkers to report suspicious behavior to the authorities, yet almost no one did; however, the policy makers apparently made no effort to find out whether their policies were being followed, or even if sailors knew the policy existed. Even if sailors had reported suspicious behavior, the law enforcement agencies charged with investigating and prosecuting espionage were divided, distracted by political meddling, and had few good legal methods available to them for collecting and presenting evidence in court. The official government policy towards espionage made covering up the crime more important than punishing criminals; the result was a climate of minimal deterrence for potential spies. All of these facts should have been known to decision makers who were designing FBS [Fleet Broadcasting System] in the mid-1960s, if they had looked into the matter.” – Major Laura J. Heath, USA, “An Analysis of the Systemic Security Weaknesses of the U.S. Navy Fleet Broadcasting System, 1967-1974, as Exploited by CWO John Walker”
she lives in the kitchen paints her face
with paste she scrapes from cans sleeps on the floor in front of her stove
wakes up hungry stuffs her lovers into sausage skins
fries them up for breakfast they sizzle in her cast-iron pan
she turns up the heat her lovers pop and spatter spots on the walls
spots on the crystal she takes and shatters with her hands
fragments and blood with fragments drop into her mixing bowl
she makes her hands into fists grinds the glass
into a hash the color of what she’s hungry for
cooks everything until it’s done takes her meal hot
sopping up the drippings with gingerbread men
she breaks and blackens for toast
(Copyright 2023 by Tetman Callis.)
please don’t stand so close to me, boss
not only are you attractive in your own right
you remind me rather much of someone with whom i was once
and not sufficiently long enough ago
a little too much involved with for comfort
either mine or hers
or for that matter either of our spouses
and i see by your listing in the office directory, boss
you have what is these days referred to as a significant other
please, boss
you’re standing too close, and i am sitting down
my attraction to you is not what we would refer to as platonic
you have a way of leaning over a desk which i have noticed
(Copyright 2023 by Tetman Callis.)
“I have a uniquely German capacity to vacillate between sentimentality and coldness.” – Tina Fey, Bossypants
hold me while i sleep and i shall know
that you are holding me as in my
dreams i see your face while you are
dreaming me i hear your sweet voice singing
me to sleep as i am holding you as
close to me as dreamers ever dream
to be as close as shadows close as walls
close as solitude will always be for
dreamers holding dreamers in their sleep
(Copyright 2023 by Tetman Callis.)
two pot pies were baking in the oven on a cookie sheet to catch
their bubbling over. i told my wife, the pots pies are almost done.
i took a hot pad in my hand and opened the oven door. see? i turned around,
my wife behind me in the kitchen. i’m not having pots pies tonight, she said.
she stood at the kitchen counter, preparing meat. she had all kinds of meat—
briskets and steaks and racks of ribs slathered with barbecue sauce.
but the pot pies are almost done, i said. i pointed into the opened oven.
the pot pies bubbled over, drippings sizzling on the cookie sheet.
my boyfriend’s coming over for dinner, she said. we’re not having pot pies.
she took the hot pad from my hand, pulled the cookie sheet with its pot pies
out of the oven, set it aside, and slid in a rack of ribs. maybe i’ll go eat
someplace else, i said. if you like, she said. she closed the oven door,
handed me the hot pad, took off her pants and climbed into the refrigerator.
she pushed her way in among the milk and juice, found a place on the crowded shelves
and sat, looking at me. you can still live here if you like, she said,
but we’re not married anymore. did you forget? you forgot, didn’t you?
she rested her feet on the condiment shelves. the pot pies were cooling
on the cookie sheet, ready for me to eat.
(Copyright 2023 by Tetman Callis.)
“Just as we cannot think of spatial objects at all apart from space, or temporal objects apart from time, so we cannot think of any object apart from the possibility of its connexion with other things.” – Ludwig Wittgenstein, “2.0121”, Tractatus Logico-Philosophicus (emphasis in original)
it’s when i have you impaled beneath me
your eyes the colors of the ocean
open and looking into mine
and i am in you
i know only what is important
and am freed from all the rest
(Published in Lyrotica, 2011; copyright 2011, 2023 by Tetman Callis.)
it was the middle of the day and the sunlight was bright. the house and the apple orchard
stood at the base of a ridge dotted with scrub oaks and pines. my wife and son and i
worked in the orchard. a jenny followed by a foal wended down the ridge.
a drift of swine, sharp-tusked, followed the jenny and foal. when the swine
saw the three of us in the orchard, they charged. we scrambled up the trunks
of the apple trees and onto the thick lower branches. the swine tore at the trunks
with their tusks and circled madly below us. the jenny and foal wandered off,
down the dirt road leading away from the orchard and the house and the ridge.
in the afternoon it seemed the swine were tiring. my rifle was in the kitchen,
leaning against the wall in one corner. my son distracted the swine, throwing apples
at them while i clambered down, ran to the house, and snatched my rifle and my clip
loaded with bullets. i hurried back to the orchard and back up a tree,
where i loaded the rifle. an angry pink swine with long and pointed tusks
tore at the trunk below me. i aimed and fired, reloaded, aimed and fired again,
and again. several of the swine lay below me in the orchard, dying or dead.
the others scampered off, frightened and squealing. the three of us climbed down
from the trees. my son gathered apples in the orchard. my wife would not look at me
and walked into the kitchen. i followed her, told her, i can call someone and have those
swine taken away. she still wouldn’t look at me. she said, i didn’t tell you to do that.
please take that thing you are carrying and go away from here. i turned and walked
out of the house and down the dirt road, my rifle cradled in my arms. the sun was hot,
there was no shade on the road. the jenny and her foal were nowhere in sight.
(Copyright 2023 by Tetman Callis.)
“The totality of facts determines both what is the case, and also all that is not the case.” – Ludwig Wittgenstein, “1.12”, Tractatus Logico-Philosophicus
fetal lymphocytes can persist in the mother’s blood for twenty-seven years
or so i’ve been told
so part of me was still inside my mother
pumping through her heart
flowing through her fingertips
when my father taught me to ride a bike across a green field my seventh summer
still inside my mother when the freckled older boy
impressed upon me middle-school’s pecking order
still inside my mother when snaggle-toothed regina
held me close at the high-school dance
still inside my mother on college graduation night
black-robed and mortar-boarded
rolled diploma in my hand
still inside my mother on a cloudy late-summer morning in texas
while i stood outside a pharmacy’s door
regina standing beside me
her hand on the rough brick wall while she threw up on the sidewalk
an after-effect of the quick operation to remove from within herself
that which left her with fetal lymphocytes still persisting in her blood
(Copyright 2023 by Tetman Callis.)