December haiku

where leaves were now hangs

pendulous the hornet’s nest

great and globed and gray

The Tale of Good Enough

The Tale of Good Enough

The Betterthans were a large and vigorous clan, known to all in the village. Each member of the family was superior in one way or another, and sometimes in several ways. It was no wonder that every villager looked first to the Betterthans to find a husband or wife, an employee, or a friend.

Choosing the right Betterthan was no simple matter, however. It wasn’t like picking out one of the Bests (who, if they had ever really lived in the village, had left long ago). For every Betterthan had, along with undisputed fine points, one or more flaws. Sometimes obvious, sometimes hard to spot. Sometimes trivial, sometimes serious indeed. Over time they would emerge. Eventually you might find yourself with someone whose outstanding qualities more than made up for a few minor defects. Or you could wind up with someone whose superficial virtues paled beside egregious faults.

Knowing this, some people jumped in with their first instincts, made their choice of Betterthan and hoped it would pan out. Others conducted long and anxious deliberations, which somewhat improved their ability to predict, but also, not infrequently, wore them out.

Sometimes, to one worn down in just this way, there appeared a member of another clan: the Goodenoughs. They made no promise larger than their name.

And the one seeking a spouse might conclude, “Leave Betterthan for later. For now, this Goodenough will do.”

And the one seeking a worker, “Goodenough will do.”

And the one in need of a friend, “Goodenough will do.”

And, sure enough, the marriage, factory, friendship was built with Goodenough as the ground floor. And seeing that it could be done, others followed suit. And soon none, or very few, bothered with the risky spin of Betterthans. And none, or very few, perceived a loss.

And almost no one would undo the intricate expanding architecture—kids, houses, factories, relationships, whole movements and histories—predicated on the once-provisional choice of Goodenough.

Only once in a great while would one, remembering the shine of the Betterthans, round with vehemence upon a mate or tradesman or friend, and exclaim, “You’re not Goodenough. You’re not even Good. You’re Horrible. You’re a Disaster.”

Only to receive the mild retort: “I’m none of those. And never claimed to be.”

“You said you would be Goodenough.”

“I never did. I said I was Goodenough on the day we met. And so I was, then. Goodenough.”

Before there was PhotoShop...

...there was Window Glass.


















Highland Train






















Return Ferry

Not

Three times today the radio (different channels) announced the murders of “three prostitutes.” Not women; not persons—it struck me that it is commonplace to refer to sex trade workers by their livelihood, deferring, or omitting entirely, any mention of their humanity. One station mentioned that the victims were women a few sentences later; the other two never bothered.

When did you last hear a crime story lead paragraph about the murder of three mechanics, or administrative assistants, or genetic researchers, or claims adjusters?

Bill Had

Bill Had

Two deaf parents who taught him sign language
which he forgot after they died.
Next to mine, the best beat-up old denim jacket
in the crew.
Small hands for such a big man.
Thick dark hair, greenish-brown eyes, and one of the handsomest
faces I’ve seen outside of movies.
A talent for mimicry.
An irritating habit of taking things too far.
An endearing one of apologizing when he did.
Small learning and large curiosity.
A pretty short attention span.
An unshakeable belief that women ejaculated
when they came.
Many girlfriends.
Dozens of friends, including ex-girlfriends.
A part-time DJing job where he met many of his friends
and girlfriends and scored high-quality drugs.
Inoperable colon cancer at age 28.
A cop costume so good it almost got him beaten up
by Halloween partyers who had flushed their dope
until he shared out his own which was better.
A filthy apartment piled with pizza boxes.
A grin no one could resist.
Nimble feet, with which he performed amusing untrained
tap, soft shoe, and jig.
Zero ambition.
Occasional mean moods but no cruel bone in his body.
A Jimmy Cagney routine in which while singing “Yankee
Doodle Dandy” he ran at a wall and up it and back-
flipped off of it, landing on his feet,
which never should have worked because Cagney
was a shrimp and Bill was linebacker-sized
but I saw it, many times, from 1981 to 1985,
during the long afternoons when the galleries
were empty.

Old Master Memo

Old Master Memo

Not how it happens,
old friend, not how it starts:

The choir doesn’t erupt in full throat
off the bat. They fidget and scrape,
murmur and stir, sing scales
and snatches of old tunes;

they’ve been known to bellow stale limericks
or hum a kazoo
before launching into
what they really intend.

It’s an indispensable rite
which gives a foretaste
of precisely nothing.

How could you of the icy
blue caves forget that?

How much

How much might change if you just started admitting, to yourself and to others, what does and does not interest you? How much might follow from just that start?