What Shitwork Is

What Shitwork Is

For a summer resort as a teen
my job was cleaning latrines,
three months at minimum wage.
Nobody said, “Good job, well done.”
But it was.

I’ve repaired septic tanks from within. 
Mucked in mud laying pipe. 
Scraped asbestos. Hot-mopped a roof. 
Shoveled bat guano. 
Nobody gave me a medal. 
Just cash.

Be humble. Do your share. 
Society will be better. Civilization more civil, 
you a stronger you, it’s really true, 
more worthy than those fat cats in their mansions 
who I dare not mention by name 
or they’d send legal thugs 
to bury me in lawyer manure.

Forget latrines. Think billionaires.
They bought the networks. Bought Congress. 
Bought the Supreme Court and filled it with muck.
Learn about salvage, about repair. 
Learn to fix rot at the foundation, 
then work toward the top. 
Town council. Statehouse. Governor. 
Step by step go higher. 
Then ask what shitwork is.
And let’s get busy.

…..

First published in Rat’s Ass Review: Such an Ugly Time
Nominated Best of the Net
Image by Jean Francois Millet

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That Photo Smudge

 

That photo smudge

Not an ancient 
fingerprint
but the blur of ghostly 
great-grandfather Lewis
on a rope swing, Missouri,
flying out over 
Little Piney River
to drop into 
clear water among 
startled tiny fish.

Too fast for old tech
but captured in black, white, blur.

Now here this photo 
my child Joshua
on a rope swing, California, 
caught midair 
frozen full color
swooping over Rocky Creek.

Twisted fibers extend upward.
We hold tight, swing
    —jump.
Never let go.

…..

First published in Northampton Poetry Review 
Tom Harding editor

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Trillium Spring

 

Trillium Spring 

In Maryland we play Monopoly 
by made-up California rules: 
Earthquakes destroy hotels. 
A single game lasts in sunshine forever, 
Elaine’s rule because her dad 
was killed in Korea. 

Elaine delivers the Washington Star
with wildflowers plucked along the route
but never trillium which dies too fast.
Sometimes I help. She’s poor.
On leftover news she draws crayon faces, 
men with golden halos.

One day she gives me a portrait of myself.
No halo. Stupidly I say: Nose like an Edsel. 
She runs out in tears. I follow to the bathroom.
Elaine has eyelashes of wispy smoke.
I—I’m sorry—I meant—I—I kiss, 
over the sink—above the scent of soap
like an exploding wildflower
and then with impish smile 
she sticks out her tongue, the deepest richest red.

Earthquake, game resumes while I puzzle 
over unexpected wetness of lip, 
the strange surge down to my legs. 
Too young or too bewildered we never 
kiss again until her family moves to Ohio
when she pecks me goodbye.

Later half a century my nose 
almost an Edsel. Each Spring 
trillium bloom with burgundy tongue. 
Come close, inhale the subtle musk 
but don’t kiss—or you’ll touch pollen 
that clings, a game without end.

…..

First published in  Speckled Trout 
Photo by Will Brown

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Second Growth Wood

 

Second Growth Wood

Blue wing dragonfly
With hairy legs — my oh my!
New tree growing where the old one stood
I took my first steps in the second growth wood.

A hole in the fence by the buckeye tree
Cross the creek at the gravel bar
Up the hill picking blackberries
To the shack on the hill with the junker car.

Shotgun lady lives in there
Her temper's always sore
Rotten apples all over the yard
Throw one at her front door.

Run run as fast as you can
She saw you throw, screen door slam
Down that hill where the sawmill stood
Just some rusty machines in the second growth wood.

Amy would go there to watch the birds
Woodpecker, quail and blue jay
She had an insie, I had an outsie
We checked them — every day.

Hooty owl — musical song
Sounds like Amy, then it's gone
We never knew we had it so good
She was my friend in the second growth wood.

I carved her name in a cedar tree
Never could say why
Her dad got transferred to Oregon
I cried that day she said good-bye.

Dragonfly, big as a bird
Sits on my shoulder - how absurd!
I'd go back if only I could
To that first autumn rain in the second growth wood
To my first broken heart in the second growth wood.

…..

Lyrics by Joe Cottonwood, music by Will Fourt
From the podcast of my novel Boone Barnaby. If you search Apple podcasts for “Boone Barnaby” you’ll find the podcasts, which include the music. It’s free.

Hear the song: 

Coyote Railway

 

Song: Coyote Railway

Coyote railway
Follow the tracks
Go out at sunset
Sunrise come back
Ow - ooo - ooo - eee

Coyote comedy
When you don't see
A big wet nose on
The back of your knee
Yip yip yip yip ow - ooo - ooo - eee

Coyote toothpick
Mouse tail in teeth
Pups on the hillside
Playin’ games hide and seek
Ow - ooo - ooo - eee

Coyote freight train
Rabbits in line
One day you're starvin’
Next day you're fine
Yip yip yip yip ow - ooo - ooo - eee

Coyote romance
Will you go with me?
We got no money
But we can live free
Ow - ooo - ooo -  ooo - ooo -  ooo - ooo - eee

…..

Lyrics by Joe Cottonwood, music by Will Fourt

Hear the song: 
Coyote Railway 

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nFZzqe1Zpts&feature=plcp 

Sweet Betsy

 Sweet Betsy

Happened in a grocery store, 
I was fondling a can labeled 
Betsy’s Sweet Peas, reminded of 

    Oh do you remember 
    Sweet Betsy from Pike
    Who crossed the wide prairie 
    with her lover Ike

which made me realize 
Ike and Betsy were, like, 
making whoopee out of wedlock
all over the wide prairie 
before finally they marry 
at the end of the song, 
a song they taught us in 
grade school for Pete’s sake 
when a stranger with infant swaddled 
to her chest blocks the Safeway aisle 
and sings soprano:

    With two yoke of oxen, 
    a big yellow dog, 
    A tall Shanghai rooster 
    and one spotted hog.

“Excuse me?” I say. “Was I singing? Out loud?”
“Better,” she says, “than the crap they’re playing.” 
Harmony, you know, is intimacy. Instantly.
We, strangers pushing carts.
“My name’s Elizabeth” she says with a wink.
The baby wide-eyed, silent. 
A minute later from the next aisle 
I hear Elizabeth’s soprano: 

    One evening quite early 
    they camped on the Platte.
    'Twas near by the road 
    on a green shady flat.

But she falters. Over the shelves I offer:

    Where Betsy, sore-footed, 
    lay down to repose
    With wonder Ike gazed 
    on that Pike County rose.

Ah, love, and the day is plenty. 
The infant wails. 

…..

First published in Storyteller Poetry Review
Thank you editor Sharon Waller Knutson
Painting by James Lewicki from Life magazine, 1960.

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When I’m crooked

 

When I’m crooked

I go to Doctor Ellen,
lie on my back.
She places a fist 
under my spine, 
leans over me 
with ample breast 
pressing mine, 
tells me to take 
a deep breath— 

then bounces me 
chest to chest. 
Pistons groan, pulled 
from rusty crankcase.
Gears mesh, engage.
Fog of my mind clears
as old Doctor Ellen,
suddenly gorgeous
in a bolt of sunshine, says 
Bones control our brains.

It is therapy 
not love 
but not different. 

…..

First published in Verse-Virtual. Thank you editor Jim Lewis
Image from NY Public Library via unsplash

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I’d rather be a hound dog than a friend of Elvis

 

I’d rather be a hound dog than a friend of Elvis

My bow-legged mother had rickets as a child. 
Rickets, she told me, caused the bandy legs. 
A long time ago I read a hateful biography of Elvis 
which said his mother Gladys had rickets 
because she was an ignorant hillbilly. 
What an asshole thing to say.

Rickets can be caused by exclusive breastfeeding, 
by lack of sunshine. My mother loved sunlight.
My grandma had ample bosom
where I remember laying my head. 
Don’t know if Gladys breast-fed Elvis 
or if my mom breast-fed me. Mom died 
when I was young, I never thought to ask. 

I had a leg deformity called tibial torsion. 
Elvis had a rocking pelvis. 
Is breast milk destiny?
Mom could dance like a champ because, 
she said, the legs. Nobody laughed at her. 
In the beginning people laughed at Elvis, 
how he danced, how he sang. 

I was nine years old in 1956, a shirtless shortstop 
when a stray beagle wandered onto the sandlot 
and lay down between my bare feet 
panting up at me like an old friend. 
He was mine for a month.
One day he wandered off, made me cry. 
Then Elvis sang You ain’t nothin’ but a hound dog. 
Goddammit.  A beagle is something, ain’t nothing. 

Listen to your heart. Hear the echo 
of your mother’s heart, your grandmother, 
all the mothers straight from their bosoms 
to the bones of your legs. Believe them.
Believe the wisdom of dogs. Just don’t 
believe everybody, what they say, 
what they sing. Not even Elvis. 

…..

First published in Sheila-Na-Gig
Thank you editors Hayley & Jessica

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Dear Oregon Trail

 

Dear Oregon Trail

Did you feel the grind 
when wagon wheels
with iron rims 
rolled slowly 
over sandstone
while oxen hooves 
chipped this path 
across Wyoming?

Do you feel this July day
a century gone by
the oncoming thunder
a wind rising as
across the ruts
one spry girl turns
cartwheel after cartwheel
toward our camper-van?
 
I am father
of that daughter.
So, dear trail, are you. 

…..

First published in Hobo Camp Review 
Thanks to James Duncan, editor
Photo by me of her

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NEXT 1 MILE

 

NEXT 1 MILE

Wooden wagon wheels rolled 
through prairie grass and alkali dust,
over Sierra mountainside from Missouri 
bringing Jeannie’s great grandpa as a baby
to Jeannie’s little ranch 
in what is now Silicon Valley
which she bequeathed to her sister
who immediately sold for subdivision.
As Jeannie’s last wish she gave these funky 
wheels to me, to my home under redwoods.

Moon followed moon. 
Worm followed rot.
Wooden spokes detached, wooden felloes 
collapsed—saved for kindling. 
Rims remain—giant hoops of metal, 
heavy as history.

So today I drive my Subaru 
from the mountains to the Palo Alto clinic
and there’s a highway sign on Route 84
left over from road construction 
as you enter the redwood canyon:
          NEXT 1 MILE
That’s all.

I hitchhiked the American West,
summer 1968, hearing each next mile
like a gift among the yak-yak calls of magpies
a pop song played from every car and truck: 
“Soul Coaxing.” Raymond LeFevre. 
Lush violins. No words.
Then it vanished, as sounds do in the air,
never Number One so never replayed
by oldies radio but launched over light years
to bounce off galaxies and return by surprise
like a lost buffalo—right here, right now
on my drive to the clinic—tune of my memory, 
of alkali and prairie grass
broken by fences and strip malls as I enter
the parking garage for physical therapy.
For balance training. For my internal
wobbly wheel.

In the fireplace I burn remnants of spokes, 
of felloes for warmth launching white smoke 
while balancing on one foot like a 
blue heron in rehab as I hum a lost tune, 
as the creaky old wagon rolls slowly 
toward sunset along the space-warp trail. 
May we find balance. At journey’s end, 
soul rises like smoke. Each mile a gift. 
Look ahead. 

…..

First published in Sheila-Na-Gig. Thank you editor Hayley Mitchell Haugen

*felloes: the wooden outer circle of a wheel held
within the iron rim, to which the spokes are fixed. 

Note: a year later the sign is still there, all alone among the redwoods and traffic. My balance is much improved. Physical therapists work miracles.

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