week of September 3 - 9, 2007

A Man With No Teeth Serves Us Breakfast | I'd Like to Bake Your Goods | Stolen Mummies | Brendan Constantine is My Kind of Town
Up Liberty's Skirt | Feeding Holy Cats | Mowing Fargo | I'm a Jew, Are You? | Lizard King of the Laundromat | I Am My Own Orange County
Paris: It's The Cheese | Poetry Super Highway | Judaic Links | Rick's Bookmarks | Cobalt Poets
E-mail Rick | Other Cool Rick Stuff / Upcoming Readings | Who The Hell Is Rick

The Santa Fe Springs Drive-in Swap Meet Talent Contest Martha wore a string bikini, juggled spoons. Mindy sang a song, left her hat on. Leonard did impersonations then lit himself on fire. Ronnie rode his bicycle, accelerated to 175, hit the ramp and barely cleared a hundred busses. Melinda roller skated upside down in a swimming pool. Mrs. Valdez baked a pie inside her electric guitar. Mona did magic tricks with her nose, made money disappear, stole her mother's keys, took the car. Paul ate an entire can of asparagus-- not the contents, just the can. Lance melted credit cards with his bare hands. Karla hovered above glowing coals. But this week, a first time competitor won the talent contest at the Santa Fe Springs Drive-in Swap Meet. It was Larry. Speaking in a rapid stream of audible, conscious thought, Larry said one good thing about everyone in the audience as he looked directly into the eyes of all 409 spectators one at a time. He used the following words, some of which were repeated several times: beautiful capable intelligent resilient energetic giving gracious kind patient reliable tenacious talented generous friendly insightful inspiring courageous trustworthy honest creative thoughtful supportive gifted wise valueable important enthusiastic grateful. This is how Larry changed the world one day at the Santa Fe Springs Drive-in Swap Meet Talent Contest.

Practical Life So much relies on a life of practicality. Floors obsessed with being clean, dust afraid to settle on the mantelpiece, in fact, dust is not allowed to even land; time spent worrying over pennies in a jar, maybe sorted by their date; knives washed and dried and oven-baked backed up in recycled plastic bags from milk, a life revolving round clean, clear light in freshly washed windows, all things kept and cared for, little tiny boxes plastic wrapped, tied, the overlapping bagging trick, with string and ties and bags again and string and ties and bags again, all hidden objects looking as if new. It comes from history, her story as a child, the oldest raising brothers, keeping house. Ah, spotless porcelain toilet bowls, a streakless shower stall, in fact, an unused shower stall, a tub that one could eat a salad from. I shake my head. An always shining bathroom sink I splash some water there just for spite for making me so damned obsessed as well, but I suspect she sneaks back in to wipe it down. I've begun to watch her closely now just in the corner of my eye but I've never caught her yet. Even plants are terrified to drop a leaf, the spider mites know better that to come around, too many friends might clutter up the house, outside news hovering on the surface is swiped away along with dust. And in that universe of places and their place, repetitive routes and routines, a life of dull frugality evolves. Such a life of eat and sleep and serve and clean to sweep and vac and dust and mop and wash and iron but never dream never dream never dream past tiny, quiet, sad moments that are nice. I've tried to figure out the polyester everything, the mud-brown quilted gulag jacket that she wears, not the breathable, waterproof for Christmas that I bought for her, the one that smartly, loosely hangs and trendy crumples up. I've tried to figure out her preferences in clothes. Ah, they do not wrinkle, they always hang the same without the iron. Such cleanliness? Such tidy order in the house? But who am I to ask? I love her, even though her nitro puffer her nitro puffer when she's resting at the Shopper's Drug Mart bench, when she needs it most when she needs it most sits on her dresser back at home. I ask? She says, “Oh, it gets too foamy in my purse." . A shorter version previously published in Ygdrasil, Nov. 2003 and in the collection Going to the Well, Ascent Aspirations Publishing