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-- word biscuit --
-- gone edition --
08-14-00 -- ray heinrich
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On July 16 Michael McNeilley died. I knew him as a friend and
a writer -- and I learned a lot from both.
-ray
< gone >
so which side of the joke
happened to land where?
you were in the next room
and i was in here
and you had just said something really funny
and i was laughing
and about to tell you how full of shit you really are
when the door slammed
and it's as simple as that
and it doesn't matter how much i keep kicking it
or how much the cat scratches to get out
the handle's gone
and sooner or later we'll have to give up
limp to the kitchen
and stare
at what's left in the fridge
- - -
Of course, one of the great things about being a writer
(especially one as good as McNeilley) is that you're
never completely dead. Here are some links to lively
bits of Michael (aka mcn):
Love & Beer http://members.xoom.com/mcneilley
10 by mcn http://www.cruzio.com/~mmichael/
12 poems by mcn http://members.xoom.com/mcneilley/12poems/index.html
E.D.G.E. http://gate.cruzio.com/~mmichael/edge/edge1.html
We're all dead and this is hell http://www.bscan.com/esp/mcn/
In Progress http://www.cruzio.com/%7Ezerocity/v1n4/broads.htm
Earth Sucks http://www.zianet.com/mcn/vogon/earthsux.htm
And some tributes in pubs:
Thunder Sandwich http://208.56.181.166/ts10/MCN.html
The Hold http://www.the-hold.com/
Poetry Super Highway http://PoetrySuperHighway.com/
And there's not much here now, but this will grow:
Michael McNeilley Compendium Project http://www.mcneilley.net/
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< love can be a real pain >
(but it sings such beautiful songs)
- - -
< existence >
the beach and the moon sing together
and i try to join in
(it's a subtle tune)
while my feet are busy with the sand
(rocks, they insist)
out
on this lonely point of land
that really isn't here
you see
(since they dredged the channel in 93)
but if it's here for you
that's good enough for me
- - -
< salvation >
a strange flu in late july
makes fevers and coughs and sore joints
seem appropriate
seem a great excuse
to not answer
what couldn't be answered anyway
to lie down
to sleep
(between coughs)
to think of what sits between
life
and everything else
and my cough syrup
is as red as communion wine
and my sacrament
is the next pill
until
the door opens
and it's you
and vanilla wafers
and bananas
and pudding
- - -
< Some things that are yellow >
Legal notepads all written over with notes
for some class on torts and lots of funny
squiggles: all hands and noses busy thinking
into thought-clouds filled with obscenities.
A picture of a painting of a dandelion
growing right in the middle of a sidewalk
in new york city somewhere on 79th street
if you can believe someone writing about
a picture of a painting of a flower that
has a street sign that says 79th street.
Old newspapers beginning with the bicentennial
in 1976 and stacked in neat ceiling-high piles
making little paths that lead from the desk to
the bed to the fridge to the toilet.
A tiny little spider between the aluminum
foil and the window that wonders why it
gets so HOT in the afternoon but not for
long cause she has to get back to looking
for tiny little roaches to catch so she
can afford to have that big family she's
been planning for whenever she's not
wondering about the heat or busy looking
for tiny little roaches.
That particular spot on the carpet that
my dog sniffs every time he goes by except
when the ice cream man arrives by playing an
awful recording of a music box playing a tune
from some 50's musical in which case he leaps
up running and bounces off the pile of newspapers
where the path makes a sharp right turn in an
effort to get to the front door in time to bark
for 5 minutes if no one comes out to buy ice cream
and for 10 minutes if they do but when he comes
back he always stops to sniff that particular spot
on the carpet before curling up under my desk again.
Light bulbs that never burn out sold over-the-phone
by disabled vets that turn out to have been
manufactured in hungary just before the unification
of germany and that also turn out to not produce
much light either but are handy for warming your
hands when you're typing in winter.
- - -
< the blessings of night >
dreaming of home towns
near warm coasts
where they used to drill for oil
and it seems to be late morning
and i'm waiting at a crossing
while a switch engine makes up its mind
just where to put some tank cars
and the window is open
cause the air conditioner is broken
and i stare at a few flowers
small
yellow
just weeds on the roadside
and it's a little hot
but it's not too bad
and you're sitting next to me
on the bench seat of my old pickup
and i can feel you
soft
warm
as you lean against me
- - -
< looking for a new color >
maybe vanilla?
no
it's not
white
or
brown
or
little flecks
or
a light blue just above the label
no
i'll have to ask my nose
what color it is
(this will drive my nose crazy)
"ray!"
my nose will say
(as if IT isn't me as well)
"i'm a nose and vanilla ISN'T a COLOR"
(my nose is always SO emotional)
"but"
(says my mouth, relishing)
"what color would it be if it was?"
(my left eye just loves this as it watches my nose get red)
"wrinkled"
says my nose
"WHAT!"
say my fingers
(my ears just laugh)
- - -
< ancillary dreams >
steve got lucky on stock options
and retired at 38 with about 4 million
so he tried his luck at becoming a golf pro
but that didn't work out
(he told me unhappily at 41)
and a year later
he loaned his brother enough
to start a porta-potty firm
out in montana somewhere
where they figured one was needed
and that went well
and he made another 2 million
but his brother ended up suing him
(he told me unhappily at 46)
and he couldn't understand
and i couldn't understand
(but we weren't thinking about the same thing)
- - -
< hudson view >
up 26 floors visiting your apartment in manhattan
with its slight tiny crack of a view
of the palisades across the hudson
and it's seven minutes before sunset on the third of july
and there's a barge
and a gull
and a ship
and a river that's split by light
on our side it's day
on jersey's it's night
- - -
< construction >
my dog has nails
and a hammer
and is busy building something in the back yard
using the limbs from a neighbor's tree
that fell across the fence yesterday
and i keep asking him what he's building
but he just won't tell me
and he keeps borrowing my tools
and i can't find my level
and there goes my chalk line
and i haven't seen my saw since yesterday
- - -
< yellow flowers >
there is no way to escape yellow flowers
they were here before us
and they'll be here after us
(unless the republicans pass that bill
funding research into anti-matter bombs)
but in the meantime
they're all over the hillsides
and they're appearing in all our advertisements
and they are always smiling
and sometimes
singing a cereal jingle
(while tony-the-tiger can only sneeze)
and they are harvested in bales
and burned to make energy to run TV transmitters
that are used to show more of them
and did i mention the hillsides?
total yellow flower hillsides
with enough pollen to choke bees
and pollinate anything female
so that all the children of everything
will become
yellow flowers
(well, i can think of worse)
- - -
< why we never talked about this >
i never talked about this
cause i had to go to the bathroom
or make dinner
or get to work
or feed the dog
or because i knew
you wanted exactly the opposite of what i did
and if it ever came up
there'd be this terrible fight
and i was scared of loosing you
and you never talked about this
cause you had to go to the bathroom
or get dinner
or do some work
or walk the dog
or because you knew
i wanted exactly the opposite of what you did
and if it ever came up
you'd have to kill me
so yesterday
our excuses ran out
and we talked
and we fought
but nobody died
(though one of us had to sleep in the basement
til 4am when the other came down and said:
"are you ready to apologize now?"
and the other said:
"yes.")
- - -
< weather buoy 46035 >
at 56.91 degrees north latitude
and 177.81 degrees west longitude
weather buoy 46035 has served faithfully for 17 years
reporting each hour to a weather satellite
(itself in a vacuum subject only to solar storms)
just what the cold waters of the Bering sea
(and the mirror sea of air above it) are up to
all 19 hours of summer days and winter nights
through gales and calms and passing whales
through the sea ice as it scrapes
the yellow paint from its sides
17 years to meditate
in the circle of horizon
in the heartbeat of waves
in the perfect point
where all else
falls away
- - -
p.s. National Data Buoy Center: http://www.ndbc.noaa.gov/
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- legal notes - subscribe info - back issues - bio - copyright -
legal notes:
all registered subscribers to 'word biscuit' have my
permission to publish any individual poem or poems
contained within it (or the whole dang thing if you
get to feeling like it) so long as you obtain no
commercial or barter considerations in exchange for
such copies, it's not part of any pro-republican campaign
literature, and you do it within two years of its original
publication date. anything else requires my permission
which might be obtained (depending on the mood i'm in)
by writing to me at: ray@wordbiscuit.com -- and yes,
i love it every time someone is amused enough to make
copies and send them to friends, pass them out on street
corners, read them in coffeehouses, or wrap them in a
good, honest fish.
subscription info:
if you're not a registered subscriber and would like to
receive 'word biscuit' irregularly (of course it's free),
just send an email saying something like yes to:
ray@wordbiscuit.com -- and don't forget gift subscriptions
for your friends, relatives, and casual acquaintances.
back issues can be found at:
http://wordbiscuit.com/
stock bio:
ray heinrich is an ex-texas technofreak and hippie-socialist
wannabe who lives on the outskirts of washington d.c.
he writes poems for thrills and attention. over the years
his work has appeared in many small, insignificant publications
both in and out of cyberspace. in real life he fools with
computers, has always been married, loves dogs, and tends
a BLUE fish and four BRONZE frogs.
copyright notice:
all this is copyright 2000 by ray heinrich and the free
state of dogs. comments are VERY welcome (send to:
ray@wordbiscuit.com ), ALWAYS read and LOVED as proof
that someone out there acknowledges my existence, but
not always responded to which is a greedy, selfish act
on my part which i seem to keep committing but at least
i'm not wearing any pants and the shirt i used to say i
was wearing had a quote on it from noam chomsky and some
chew marks left on it by a small, obstinate poodle who
was curled up, sleeping, resting his head on my feet a
few minutes ago but is now upstairs barking at a squirrel
and now he's back and now, a month later, he's back again
and now, another month later, he's upstairs barking cause
he wants me to come up and walk him which i'll have to do
but i'll be back in a minute, well, it's been a month and
he's watching the baby racoons again and there's no living
with him until they stop catching and eating the moths on
the screen door and you'd think they'd be scared of him
but no they're just ignoring us and two months later
they're lots bigger and we finally got some rain and three
months after that it's finally getting cold except for
my happy feet beneath a warm and still obstinate poodle
and more months later he's asleep in the other room and
my feet are cold and i have every intention of getting
up and doing something about this but not quite yet and
even more months later he's started up a .com with Ilane
to sell virtual cat and mouse jerky and a little more than
a month later he's back having burned out on e-business
and ready to get back to barking at anything that moves.
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