Issue 3
August
15
2001
bluetyger editorial...
WaterFest 2001 Art Exhibit After Action Report...
Gibson WaterFest Portofolio...
Battle of Georgian Bay...
Anne Langford - Poetry...
Jacques-Henri Lartigue - Photographer
Poems Erratic by William J. Gibson...
2x golden 3...
Summer reading...
4 old cameras 3 old photos...
Editor: William J. Gibson
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Poems Erratic: "blanco", "Gustav", "Mr. Lube Meets August Strindberg", and "On the Evening of November 28th"
by William J. Gibson
blanco
The room wanted everyone to love it.
Some did. The rug softened itself overnight
as if there was indoor dew
and there were worms digging
just below the surface.
The roof was on fire
but you could see no smoke
and the sticks we cut to put our marshmallows on
were not long enough to teach the fire
how to be productive.
I saw an owl there one night
watching for rats to stream out
but it was just me walking to my car,
rain starting
the beginning of the
end of something
that had cost a lot
no sales slip
to hand in at the refund counter.
The wallpaper faded from the shadows of night
to the faint glow of morning
and then by noon
grew black with sunlight punching holes
through the windowglass
and me walking barefoot
as usual looking for a beach
and finding
prayer pebbles the really holy kind
all of them blue like the sea in the fancy travel photos.
The door had a key
a chain
a bolt
a nuclear reactor
and pterodactyl seraphim
hovering
the perfect entrance to Napolean's retreat
like Fred Astaire I stumbled in
and retreated like Gunga Din.
A circus of old films pouring like syrup
pouring out of my TV screen
across my floor to warm my toes and ankles
a year after midnight
and a decade before dawn
simple
simple
simple
Gustav
Airfix 1/72nd scale
In a plastic bag
the tree of parts
held below the folded instruction sheet
two staples sealing
Messerschmidt Me 109 G-6
was it only 79 cents
One inch equals six feet
I built the killing machine
the warbird,
painted it the camouflage pattern
immersed the decal sheet in water
placed the call sign letters
the squadron badge
the iron crosses for the wings
slid the swastika to the tail
I was fourteen
and ignorant as a fourteen year old can be
I put the tiny kill marks
on the rudder
let it all dry
put it on my shelf
the G model was called the "Gustav".
Mr. Lube Meets August Strindberg
The speedy syrup of Lister Sinclair
and the CBC poured out of the speakers
of my 1988 Ford Escort to flood
the dark blue interior
including me
with a documentary
on the life of August Strindberg.
The dark intensity of his passion.
The early drunken days.
The paintings, the women.
Love and hate.
Strumming his intentionally mistuned guitar
in the early days in Paris.
August didn't mind the snow blanket
being woven around the exterior of my car and I.
We all waited for Mr. Lube to finish off
the Honda Accord, for him to let it escape
and then to lure my Escort and Strindberg and I
into his glass-doored lair.
The nervous breakdown of the Inferno period
coincided with my passing the idiot checklist.
"Lights on.
High Beams on.
High Beams off.
Lights off.
Turn signals on.
Step on the brakes."
Ahead of me the glass door
failed to hide the snow
showering across the darkness of early afternoon.
The white pieces thrown by the wind
in a remote flood from right to left.
A blank reminder
that sometimes you can indeed see
which way the wind is blowing.
On the evening of November 28th
I was sitting in the kitchen
Waiting for the pot of water to boil
So I could put the macaroni shells
In the water for tomorrow's casserole
When I heard it
The washing machine throbbing
In the basement
It made the house feel like a ship
And I was deep below decks
Warm and safe
And the captain was somewhere up above
Knowing where we are heading
Across the ocean
Carrying the ridiculous cargo
Of our fears and dreams
And schemes
The angels looking down
Shaking their heads
And their wings
With concern and amusement
Creating a chill wind
To make me shiver
In the warmth of the kitchen
Reminding me to look up
And then to look at the clock
And hurry to check the shells
By running cold water over one small shell
To wake it up from its hot tumbling dream
Contents Copyright (C) 2001 William J. Gibson.
Articles and photos are Copyright (C) 2001 by their respective authors.
No part of this publication may be reproduced or stored in any form without prior written consent from the author(s).
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