_
Now don't get any of this wrong. I love our animals...I do, I absolutely do. Toutle, the dog, showed up as a small pup in my work warehouse and I brought her home to the farm where she's lived happily ever since. We had three happy cats, Tuffy, Tika and Precious, until Rick neglected to catch the barn cat in time for a trip to the vet...and of course she got nailed by a roving tom, so now we have 3 identical little black kittens as well. I can't even name them because there's no telling them apart, so they're all "Baby".
For some unfathomable reason, the resident President Of All Pigheaded Peeps, Rick, wants the cat box right by the bedroom door in the hallway, on my side of the bed, natch. Now I don't know what kind of cat litter everybody else uses, but ours is gravelly. It makes a grating noise when dug and scratched and tossed in burial action against the plastic sides of the box. Tiny bits of gravel stick to little kitty paws and then to the quilt when they jump up, one by gravelly one, to sleep on the warm bed. This makes the resident Mother of All Martyrs...me...highly irritated and uncomfortable in my own damned bed. Rick will not even think about trying another variety, because "That's the kind I use. Period."
When it was that the cat nation decided that dark of night was for frolic, frantic digging and all-night defecating is a mystery. Rick cannot explain to my satisfaction why it is that we have to bear witness to each and every episode of this activity. "I want the box there, that's why!", bellows His Nibs. So I tried sleeping on the couch to "show him". HA! He never even knew I was gone; he had the cats to keep him warm. I tried sleeping in the guest room next door and all the little lions stampeded back and forth all night long from his bed to mine, with forty dumps in between.
The darlings were only supposed to be with us for a few weeks til they were sufficiently human-handled to make good pets and then Rick would take them to the local no-kill shelter. He promised! Well, so much for that, the lying rotter. You can't get anyone to take cats nowadays, there are too many of them. "Free kittens" signs all up and down the county roads out here. I don't know what to do, except give up the fight. There will be no getting a good night's sleep forevermore! Between Rick the Marblehead and Sootyfoot I, II and III, I will never have another sinking into pristine, fluffy sheets with a hint of rosewater ironed in as long as we all shall live. It will be "The Princess and the Pea" every time I roll over and get a shard buried in my posterior.
It's beyond me why Rick is so darned stubborn when it comes to this...does he not know all my exes are dead, muerto, kaput? No...I did not kill them. There apparently is some tacit understanding among Ganesha, Zeus and Quetzalcoatl that if you treat Miz Jo badly, you get to seize up, fly off the planet and go to Hell early. Wasn't my doing. It's probably the umbrella of protection held over me by my sweet Dad, rest his soul, who always prayed fervently for my soul six times a day (and phoned me up each time to tell me).
I don't know, RickyBob...honeybunch...if I were you I'd rethink all that "everything is about me" crappola. We have 40 acres, mon cher. Plenty of room for a shallow grave.
--Jo VonBargen 2011
_
There would have been the long
lazy languor of mornings in bed, slow
dancing in the steamy kitchen,
and cool, sensuous water
lapping the rocks of a strong
and eternal bond
One can never remember what
crimp in the heart caused the ache
for that unreality, but after
a hard fruitless decade,
what is left, - the love part - is the only
thing that matters even though
vastly diminished, with
the topography changed:
the mountain is the valley
and oceans fill the deserts
There is no making sense
of that vision or even
my cryptic, lingering affection, but
everywhere one looks is your
formidable intelligence,
a vast landmark, Mount Rainier
poking its head through the clouds
And then the cruel knot in you
that poses as an ordinary heart...
Our two continents subduct each
other but do not wear away,
leaving a hot, steaming chasm,
a trough in the sea full of dreaming
fish and pirate's gold
and the colorful flotsam and jetsam
of a futile, perhaps well-doomed
expedition
-- Jo VonBargen 2012
_
(Written years ago for a poetry editor
I then hated, but whose harsh criticism
ultimately made me a better writer. Thank
god I never sent it to him.)
I crossed my heart with
self-prophesied promise and you
knew, didn't you, that stinking musk of
pride in rut, and that I'd
obsess like this, ankle-hung,
while you shook loose the shit like
soil from a lump of wet
crabgrass
Damn you and your shiv through
my blessed assurance! Now I can't save
the world anymore, nor
you from your penance of
this empty breast gone milk-dry past
plumb to numb
cyan blue
How can I live, you pearl-lusting
swine? All I have left are
gombroon shards and one
bloody crumb cake. You may as well have
just desserts, amigo. Take
the cake, eat it, too...who
the hell cares anymore
Go slurp
your poems cold off the bare
linoleum floor. As for how
I'll brew mine...
your bleached-out skull
will do fine
--Jo VonBargen 2012
_
(Dedicated to victims of abuse everywhere)
I.
between your killing me
and my dying
I pipe in the music
to carry me
and in spite of that
my heart won't rest
so I turn up where
I'm not expected with my
bouquet of poems
and a cuppa and plunk
my ass down
now they might close a door
but I'll go right in
if they welcome me
I'll leave
you have made me
a breeze, no more than
the history of a
statue or the embers
of fire, the
crackling part that flies
off to nowhere
along my margins
of despair
you might come across
your name, but it
has nothing to do with
anything
except that part that was
everything,
for you exist...sort of
and you don't...sort of,
and that happens
to all of us
doesn't it
II.
I seem to have been
mocked by your spitting
lizards, who are
too much for my
stomach this day
so I storm
lost cities and
prowl broken streets
slanting my
come-ons accordingly
I have no peace
so I leave none
but does it matter? of
course not
if I write no verse
they'll publish
my boots
with which I'll
continue to give
as much pain
up the ass as
I can
--Jo VonBargen 2012
_
In 1993, after sulking over my soap opera life and everyone in it, I sold everything I owned and moved to Alaska, where real danger lurks around every corner and the elements are a fierce challenge. My brother, Chip, was a journeyman pressman there, working nights. Blowing into Anchorage on October 17th with the first snow storm, I found a little efficiency apartment at McDuffy’s Hotel in Eagle River and lived there for a year.
Hibernating and feeling sorry for myself for three months, I finally went out and got an admin job at an engineering firm, walking to work and back home every day in the dark (the sun rose at 10:00 AM and set at 3:00 PM). At that point I couldn't afford a car, nor did I particularly want one. Eagle River is a beautiful little town in the foothills of the Chugach mountains. If I wanted to go 20 miles down to Anchorage I hopped on a bus. I loved eavesdropping on conversations between other riders on that bus! On one occasion, the driver stopped in front of a lively yard sale right on the main road and yelled, "Is anybody in a hurry?" We all shouted "No!" and he opened the doors so everyone could pile out and rummage through the goodies! Alaskans are very intriguing people. Snow that winter was up to my hips.
Here’s what I learned:
You can’t know and appreciate yourself and your strengths until you’re cut off from all your familiar crutches and have to depend on your own resources to keep warm, keep safe and feed yourself. When you live in a place, like I did, where you can turn a corner (even downtown) and come face to face with a bear or moose, you learn that much of what you previously feared was horse hooey and mostly made up in your own insecure little head. Real fear is trudging through a snowy wooded area on a shortcut to the bus stop, coming upon a huge pile of bear shit (still steaming), then gingerly making your way over his still-warm tracks knowing that he’s likely watching you from the alder thicket. That clenches the spine and the rectum in a way you cannot possibly imagine.
The first week I was there, a woman in a pink nightgown went out her back door to see why her dog was barking and was killed by a moose; a man was kicked to death by another moose in front of a door at the University of Alaska and a female hiker on the bike trail looping Eagle River was attacked by a coyote who ran out of the woods, bit her on the butt, and ran away. Over the next few weeks, a grandmother was mauled to death by a bear in front of her grandson on a hiking trail and a man sitting watching TV inside a worker’s lounge up on the North Slope was mauled by a polar bear who looked in through the window, saw him, and broke through the glass.
You come to appreciate what friends and family mean because they are 4000 miles away and you can’t exactly hop a puddle jumper and go home for the weekend! And much to your chagrin, all those petty grudges and resentments you held against your parents or siblings for forty years seem pretty lame when you realize the damage you’ve done to your own life just to spite them all.
You learn that, while it’s nice to have a soul mate, it’s likely to be much nicer when you finally meet one after you’ve learned how to live and survive alone. You have to go deep inside your own being to find who’s really in there. That true you, the real you, is the one you want to offer to someone else real if the occasion arises.
You learn how to say no. No to the leeches who only want to bleed you dry. No to yourself when it’s not in your own best interest. No to the fears you’ve been dragging around all your life. Fears are funny things! 99 percent are products of the imagination, yet they cause untold human misery as we numb ourselves down to try and escape them. One thing you learn for sure: no matter how deep it is or how long the self-induced coma lasts, you have to come to sometime. And the baggage is still there until you ditch it yourself, while you’re awake and have come to understand how much you don’t need it.
What’s left is the true you, the glorious possibilities for your life, and a deep, soulful thankfulness for all that you have and, indeed, had all along.
--Jo VonBargen 2012
_
All my best poetry lines for instance
that come either while I'm driving so fast
my ass lags behind or when I'm climbing
the clouds into slumber and the earth
drops away below me
the names of half the men I've slept with
some of the books I read last year
how it felt to be ten twenty thirty forty
how to get to some places I've been going all my life
when exactly Christianity gave up on the poor
when Rome fell when the Mayans when
the Visigoths the mammoths the Edsel
what I thought I needed to say
to be mad this morning like I was last night
the dawn goddess's name too short to remember
what Sisyphus did
when the electric fence is on
that much about the sixties
why there are mosquitoes
his point of view
whether it's lie or lay
when tomorrow would never be what it is today
--Jo VonBargen 2012
_
There doesn't have to be this war. I read a lot among different groups and see biographers putting down fiction writers, journalists slamming bloggers, linear thinkers pooh-poohing poets, etc....some in very graphic, mean-spirited ways. What the hell? If I'm attending fully to my own affairs, I shouldn't even have time to criticize my brother/sister writers.
We wordsmiths are as alike and different as stars in the vast universe. We all have our likes and dislikes. But one thing we all have in common is that we construct thoughts from words. Acts of creation. Creation. A gift, for which we all ought to be grateful. Why does it have to be them and us? Labels don't belong among people who think. There are millions of us writing each and every day, every single one having value, every single one with something to say. We may not all use proper grammar or spell worth a damn, but we all had to start somewhere, didn't we? What I see is a dearth of respect...for diversity, for difference of opinion, for alliances, for even our common humanity. At the very least, we should respect the effort. All try their best, even if it doesn't meet one's own standards. What did we once know that we've now forgotten?
WHY DO I WRITE?
well, because some words would seem
silly said aloud, so I pen them
because parts of me
spurt everywhere
and I cannot contain them.
you leak as well, but you
you like sponging me.
I adore your spew.
I can't not.
I've seen things. I know things.
I want you to see and know, too.
I want to know what you know.
no one here thinks Words
are holy. but you do.
I can't not.
it doesn't matter what style I use.
it might be poetry, it might not.
it might be opinion or essay.
it might be fiction or fact.
it's all built from words.
I can't not.
no one at home thinks I have value.
I do have, and I honor it. you
prove to me every day that
you value me as well. I
love and honor you.
I can't not.
there's a toolbox here, chock full.
it has words of a gazillion hues.
I love to paint with my fingers,
always making a huge mess.
your crafted oils amaze me.
I can't not.
no one at home cares what I feel.
I think what I feel is human.
your humanity radiates.
I paint feelings in ink.
I fondly finger yours.
I can't not.
no one at home gets my wry humor,
but you do. I giggle away at yours.
I'm told this is a waste of time.
you and I can fritter away a
day, feel accomplished.
I can't not.
there are the hurting to consider.
I will give voice where none is.
I will paint the ugly, the need.
I will add my words to yours.
we'll make the deaf hear.
I can't not.
why do I write? see all above.
and 50 million reasons more.
I honor the gift and try to
live with the disease. I write
for me, for you, for us.
I can't not.
--Jo VonBargen 2012
_
what's a girl like you doing
at McDuffy's Hotel all
alone in Alaska, for
God's sake, asked
the plumber
I'm having
an adventure, said I, not
even sure that was
why, gazing out at the loneliness
of black crows against
the snow
this is no place for
weak and inquisitive
girls, barked the grizzled old
fart, snake in gnarled
hand, voice all whiskey
and piss
what makes you
think I'm either, I sniffed,
righteously
miffed
well, I'm not
sure about the one, but you've
got that curiosity
in those
green, green
eyes, said he with
a wink
hmmph, I snorted, with
total disdain, I'm curious
about that little tinge
of misogyny in
your blue ones
shaking his head,
he deftly unplugged
the pipe, in a hurry
to get home and look that
one up
...and smoke it
--Jo VonBargen 2012
_
For my very sane friend, Oscar Sparrow
Stay, my sanity...do not leave me on this unfamiliar
plane with its onslaught of haze and - in the sky - clanging.
Should this great wail of whorling ferocity seem strange
to you, stay nonetheless. Bend your ken to the wind, to
the light, to the mineral, or to any liquid to reflect them,
while I am snared in this clearly corrupt orbit
Stay with me, here, in these shadows, observing - through
fog and drear - analogs of dying and death. Come along to
the poles at the ends of the earth where sun strikes
obliquely and a slow exchange between darkness and light
crawls on the edge of monotony. Stay. You will see an aurora
reflecting in kind the harrowing fireworks of Hell
Observe. Do not be without fear...but this is my lot. Turn
your gaze to the door which begs to be entered. Stay close
There are no gardens here, only phantoms in twilight, cold
sentinels charged with fate's mystery. Stay close, through
the clanging of souls, the tearing of shrouds, small children
playing where earth explodes. Stay close. They hide things
here midst tin and bold brass. All move with impudence to
the sound of drums thumping, leaden and brusque
Save my heart, sanity, which - lapped by memories washing
back - almost drowns. Hear - from long ago - a cry, see how
quickly years rush past, how they disappear, sucked down
among stones, every remembrance snuffed. From this, my
dark corner, reach with me toward light, any light, even
this sinister light, for I am lost as to what I once knew
Stay close, sanity, as it becomes clear we are prey, yet
offered one more hour of trembling human life, and we will
take it because I live in the moment and not one instant
would I lose, for only this has meaning. Stay, because in
shadows I will dissolve as darkness reclaims. See how
readily my illusion soars, setting its mirages free
Oh. Have you left me, then, sanity? This queer agitation
pervades, tilting my face toward heaven as a slow turn of
eyes struggle to see. Where are you with whom I can share
this sordid limbo of sad, crippled lives - whose birth and
rebirth is merely a failed miracle - like mine and all other
prey? I sense you, I see you - only in fitful glints - this day
What now, sanity, another mirage? Ethereal, at least
Mysterious, delicate, a slow buzz of lightning softer than
webs, passing like breath, silent as stone. A leap! to
luminous voices chirping, interrupting the dark, crickets
along a baseboard of eternal design. Sonar pings yo-yo
from the back of beyond. Music - Asian - steams over mazes,
exotic and rolling from age to age
Look! Elbowing in the marketplace - the madness of desire!
A twirling mirror ball, divine opium, the coolest decor.
Anticipation throbs in the throat, though I'm sure my
madness is now complete; I will never, ever move even
one bloody stone in the Great Wall. There, my dear sanity, all
is fixed, the script written, and I will seek only Silence,
content in the vastness of my depth of unknowing
And so, nothing more. Oh, crutch of sanity, you disappear
as you came, and I know nothing of you. The torrent
overwhelms, bears you away, and leaves nothing of your
footprints in my dust. I will go doggedly on, for this is
the vow that was born in me, the dying fire that quickens
in a shriveled twig and shudders into flame
Pray for me, that I go down as I have lived, unflinching
--Jo VonBargen 2012
_This was first posted in September 2011 under "Stories". Based on a vivid dream, it incorporates elements of the results of spousal abuse deeply buried in the psyche, so I thought it might speak to someone else.Déjà Visitéon my daily walk I see just
ahead a frantic woman...
oh god! she shrieks, curdling
my heed, then, nothing
sprinting fast, a thud pulses
my ears, the heart warning...
I halt, panting, at the house
where she seemed to live
tentative, my feet creak the
old porch, then pause...
an open door, no movement,
my hesitant helloooo?
on the floor, scattered papers,
an overturned desk, air still like
the last global pall...
eerie silence
swallowing hard, the dark
portal breached, I peer madly...
the heart quickens to choose
stand or flee
~I know...I know this place~
like in a bad dream, I see walls
pocked with fury, drapes purpled
in ache, sobbed poems
in shreds on a Navajo rug
feet stumbling in gloom,
I shudder: shards of pottery,
strewn petals the vermilion of
killed dreams
~where is she, good god, I
have to help her~
sun nearly set, I frenzy on
through shadowy rooms, their
lived-in decor now stiff, arranged
corpses, splayed in regret
a soiled, crumpled duvet seems as
rust seep on a stitched shroud,
bitter light from the bath glares
faith snatched down a drain
dusty pictures, old flutes, a
leather drum, lie bereft on
a once-grand piano
now empty of clair de lune
a reflecting pool draws me
through the veranda door, its
still surface mute in the hush,
unwilling to wisp its secrets
~oh god...I remember this~
rounding tall pampas grass
to return to my quest, dread
falters my feet, fierce resolve
blunders on
ears perked on sound seeming
skyward, I look up...far, far
past Borealis to the confluence of
keen spirits shouting my name
with thunderbolt knowing, a hard
clench of spine, I streak toward
my kin on the Ghost Road, out of
reach of her fate...and mine
--Jo VonBargen 2012
"POWERFUL" "I fumble for keys as you fall on the ground and roll under the tires"
YOUR THIN BONES Letters I Never Sent You http://www.amazon.com/dp/B005LKBR6A
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