September 13-19, 2004: Robert Earl Stewart and Cynthia Atkins

Robert Earl Stewart and Cynthia Atkins

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Bio (auto)

Robert Earl Stewart received a B.A in English from the University of Windsor and an M.A in English from McGill University in Montreal, where he also assisted in teaching 20th Century American fiction In the spring of 1999, he returned to Windsor to work as the editor of a sports newspaper. Later, he spent two years as a reporter and photographer for The Windsor Star He has also worked as the marketing director for a live arts theatre, and owned and operated illuminati Freelance Concern, a one-man for hire journalism, editing, photography and private investigation firm
In February 2004, he received an Ontario Arts Council grant for his novel-in-progress. He lives in Windsor, Ontario, Canada with his wife and young son.

The following work is Copyright © 2004, and owned by Robert Earl Stewart and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsoever without written permission from the author.

Cinema du Parc I laugh all the way through The Garden of the Finzi-Continis during Passover in the second row at Cinema du Parc Upon entering the men’s room slits for eyes and mellowed to the point of having kittens there was a Japanese woman in her house shirt washing her hands at the sink speaking at me through the mirror, something I couldn’t handle, and not just through the roar of the hand dryer, but through the language barrier created by her insisting on speaking Japanese me shouting “Is this the men’s room?” before disappearing into a stall, ghost urinating, and planning my escape into and through the crowded lobby of my tightwhipped contemporaries People come to visit me Drinks are served My studio apartment in The Ghetto is hotboxed beyond it’s dimensions We walk from there to see The Exorcist, one midnight only Met at the top of the 1970’s stair gallery by a tendril of starch of life exploded and a wick of hot grease and la securité In my chronic condition, it was apparent the movie was too evil for the venue To say nothing of the eccentric seats and giant hairs jerking in the grain of the screen, the warm tubular pop of the sound system, the stoners counting breaths in the flicker– Covered in hickory sticks after a first row snoring clinic brought on by an afternoon at the Peel Pub on the Red Cross tab, I high step out of Brazil and have an as-of-yet unfinished jeremiad addressed to Terry Gilliam buried in the walls of 3450 Durocher #4 where I no longer live And then, one night post-Halloween after rewatching L.A Confidential three empties left neatly in the aisle at my ramshackle seat, on Milton beneath a parked car I find a cache of someone else’s photos Smoking I’ve been thinking of smoking again Twice in the preceding pack-full of nights My dreams have waxed tobacconist and I wake up smelling it in air around us, ropey rings loosed on the room as if blown by the stain of my head and torso on the sheets –The most depressing: I am propelled to the counter A non-descript counterman awaits my signal “One pack of duMaurier Lights, flip-top,” I entreat I am in possession of the cigarettes I pay exactly four forty-five I wake up, wondering why I went back to my old brand, given the chance to start a new love affair, with new smoke –The most frustrating: I am in a Montreal pipe shoppe It’s the kind of place that should be selling cuckoo clocks, only they deal in a universe of pipes with all the charm of a Sears-Roebuck credit department The pipe I want says all you need to know about me I am surrounded by my high school crowd, naturally urging me in the ways of out-cooling rival factions But the pipe I want keeps moving, relocating like a praying mantis amongst other stick insects, and we’re running out of time, and I still have to weigh carefully what flavour of smoke is most befitting an alternative celebrity of my stature You only get one chance to impress someone with your impeccable éclat and élan when it comes to burning things a few inches from your lips I am familiar with the snobbery of pipes –The most telling: I’ve been to Cleveland, again but not as an extra drinking companion at a rugby tournament This time, I am home already, and have an ebony cigarette holder with me And I treat it like a small Chinese boy, cleaning it and tucking it in a small case, explaining to you– the only thing we need to know about you, is that you’re a girl, and you’re smitten with my dishevelled, rakish, reformed matinee idol looks– all anyone could possibly want to know about the Venturi tube within the holder, that eliminates untold percentiles of high temperature tars flak, flak, flak– But look at me there, in some wicker chair, holding forth or gassing on, whichever you prefer: it looks like I’ve lost the forty pounds of pastry since my last cigarette And where’d I get that silk shirt? My chest hair Shirtless in the pool– I’ve been doing some of my best idling here” it is apparent I wear a mantle of pastry and shame I’m reading Billy Collins, I have a club soda and a borrowed Dave Douglas CD It is August, it is hot, a storm approaches over Detroit All that is missing is a smoke If I could just keep it to a couple a day, I’d love my wife to find me here at my desk, leaning back from the qwerty, unshaven Nat Sherman Phantom disappearing slowly between my grin Or kick back at a dining room table, where I’ve been trying to fix a friend’s laptop, and announce, with a smoke hanging from my lips, voice thick “Yep, I think we’re fucked “ Or driving in the county, or sitting on the back steps at night, sitting in a coffee bar watching cross-town traffic, in the dining room, lights off, before a winter’s sleep, around the campfire, when children are sleeping and marshmallows extinguished discussing film playing guitar talking long distance after a parade before a hockey game Or, how about when they discover it’s not the smoking, but the people– Then, I’ll be back and you’ll all see how good I look smoking.

What to do When Your Dog Leaves You Rub two sticks together, Jiggle the chain, patch a hole Fill the sorrow to the bone Mask rejection, bury the bone You picked with your best friend Reshape the sofa That has taken the shape Of  a sunken ship Leave the juicy bag at the restaurant Relinquish the smell Of milk  and newsprint Kick the dish, brush the chair, Turn out the lights, Put out the fire (first appeared in Chelsea, 2002) God as a Character in the Room Owning the world order— The solo held post—Final night watchman, almost Hitchcockian— Ghost or guru,  All-knowing in rooms where everything goes still— But the lady at the window is a hummer, in other words, she always hums— no songs, just notes, humming                  to give the silence a voice The moon or a blinking eye follows us home—Did we see what we saw, or what we were already  looking for? (Be careful what we wish for—)     In the omniscient glass of hours, at the diner of time where everything is dated, nothing is sacred.— Elvis and Jesus are one and the same Its ok, we’re pagans, waiting for an excuse to clank our cups—until we are served Adam and Eve on a log— Outside, on the busy street a troubled noir of clouds— where a brown-suited man gets holed, not holy in a drive-by-shooting Humming the news at the kitchen sink, Eve had an alibi— The moon or an owl perching on a branch of snow,                 saw everything perfectly. Family Therapy (I) Mother/hood, a bald egg in a grocery bag The chromosomes have their say, their stay in it The TV shows were all smiles and cocoa Environment Crisis management My siblings also hatched, perfect and imperfect The fitted sheets still warm from the dryer I am my sister I am my brother I am my brother’s sister, I am my mother’s keeper I hold the secrets I am the writer I am the sister of a schizo- phrenic My elder split– My sister taught me how to shave my legs, little slits of blood left like a lunchbox in the mud I’m learning how to be a member of my family, of my society I’m wanting a text book on the matter At the dinner table, tension played mirror, mirror We all had our place at the table That space we wanted to be erased from Night by night, it took us one course at a time I’m looking for a cure, because anguish is harmful to live with And yes, I am a little pregnant Set another place? Erase another place? I am my child’s child, doomed for failure The father is my lover, the sheets spilled his seed, something took hold When I opened my eyes, my father held out a puppy. Blue Train                                    (after John Coltrane, recorded 1963) My father loved the crisp drill of winter, a real cold snap At cross purposes, my thoughts drift to hot chocolate, swirling in a cup A safe harbor It was an era of buttons, (the dark ages)—simple circles, two holes, few repetitions—, then the lower courts of public opinion Tip of hand, the rim of minutiae had been elevated to an institution The string was pulled, everything but the kitchen sink fell out of the bag Was it the latch of a purse snapped, my mother’s marble handbag, circa, 1963?–November’s rawest day, Kleenex after Kleenex The black—and—white T.V—ambulatory Blue train of black Cadillac’s—a brain snatched, blown to pieces— I was three My dad read me “Green Eggs and Ham,” I piecemealed, Texas book depository It was a dark, Gothic architecture– Tall hats lining up like circled wagons I figured it wasn’t small potatoes, it raised the noise level My mother pushed a tear from her lipstick, and paid the Charles Potato Chip man at the back door When the blue suited boy saluted, Taps was misplayed like a storm brewing on the sea My brave father now shut forever in the black box of winter And there is nothing more final than the sound of that train passing on the coldest shoulder of the last frontier, where nothing is still anymore (First appeared, Main Street Rag)