The Best of Mad Swirl : 12.28.13

"We're all moving, moving, moving. Isn't it nice?" Charles Olson

••• The Poetry Forum •••

This week in Mad Swirl's Poetry Forum... we peeked into perforce perpetrations of paradise, parsed by pedestrian pet perils; we dallied in decked hall depressions, condemned commercial consumer concessions; we rendered a Yule rule powerless and invalid; we went for the holiday save, hoping to get as good as we gave; we sought asylum and security at a safe site; we defied the news-cycle norm, looked on those sans shelter from a storm; we indulged in editorial angst, encouraged efforts toward placement elsewhere. Oh, the awesome angelic chorus, sang the week which passed before us, heavenly harmony, infused with human cacophony - peace on earth, good sales for men... ~ MH Clay

Just in case you missed it, here's a taste...

Editor’s Lullaby

(In response to a loud sequence of Waaaa! and Aaaa!)

Thank you for your submission.
I regret to inform you
that we are unable to use it
at this time of night.

There's nothing new here,
in your indignant tears.
They didn't grab me.
This needs a better twist.

The title of this should just be Waaaaaa,
but really, with all these repetitions
and self-indulging emotion
your poem is beyond salvation.

We wish you good luck
in placing your poem elsewhere.

Will you kindly shut up --
don't ruin your relationship
with the editor.

- Irena Pasvinter

(1 poem added 12.28.13)

editor's note: Yes, friend poets - Editors! Can't live with'em, can't live without'em. - mh

Weathering 13 lines for Jude’s day

The sky's whispers grow restlessly apprehensive
Gone are glimpses of gold, grounded in grey
Opaque cloth for captured dead swirling copper leaves
Buttoning the hapless folk. Lean hard into the west.
The growl of the winds so sure of portents
Beckoning the howls crying fast for the rains
Darkly Oceanic firmament carries its impeding wilderness
Whistling up skies, casting sadness on morning
Still, land holds dry despite this ill suspense,
Shall blinded night tangle masked in effusions?
Will sombre silence be strangled to shrieking?
The horrified humanity is cowering coldly beneath
Tempestuously flailing charred statues of earth.

- John O'Boyle

(added 12.27.13)

editor's note: This just in: Impersonal portents, not ascribed to evil, more to benign indifference, are so perceived from this warm distance. When the cold and wet threaten death, malignant messengers those winds become. Hunker down 'til the menace passes. - mh

I miss my safe land

I felt cold metal pressing me from every direction
Round cylinders with quick death, ready to spring
I found myself cowering in fear
And trembling with rage, pure hot rage

Where does my freedom go?
My sense of safety, my freedom to live
Death was a friend, an end that can't be missed
Yet here, it was casually dispensed

I felt the poison drowning me in my blood
And the smoke filling up my lungs
I found myself struggling to fight the drug effect
And have control, full control of myself

Where does my consciousness go?
My awareness and sharp reflexes, the soberness needed to live
Death was inevitable for those who lost control of themselves
Yet here, they happily go blind

I felt the demands crushing my existence
Trivial complaints and careless thoughts, ignorance all round
I found myself wanting to yell and shake them off
And make them see how big the world really is

Where does my patience go?
My respect for other humans, the sense of kinship and good for mankind
Death will come, thus we need to make life count
Yet here, everyone is alone, even in numbers

I miss my safe land without guns
I miss my safe land without drugs
I miss my safe land without ignorance
I miss my safe land where I belong

- Ary Yogeswary

(added 12.26.13)

editor's note: An asylum seeker's song. We sing it, all, where we can be safe. - mh

Gifting

Would you like to give me a gift; something special?
Something which cannot be boxed, wrapped, returned with receipt
Or re-sold to the highest bidder?

Give me:
• Your attention
• Your concern
• Your acceptance
• Your tolerance
• Your laughter
• Your trust
• Your best wishes

Any one of these is a gift I would treasure
Any one of these would make me happy beyond measure
Any one of these deserves my best in return
Any one of these

So, would you?
Not sure?

OK, I’ll give you mine first…

- MH Clay

(1 poem added 12.25.13)

editor's note: Wait… you don’t want the latest e-gadget? You really don’t want us to spend lots of money to show you how much you mean to us? Whoa! Oh wait... me thinks our Poetry Editor gets it! The truest gift we can give is the giving of ourselves to our family, friends and fellow mad ones. What a concept! Hopefully it catches on… - jo

Yule Shoot the Carolers

Oh, ho-ho, what’s that, poet, you hate Christmas? It’s capitalism
with the heart of cannibalism as Coca-Cola Santa blows
sharp frozen snot rockets over sleeping Afghan children?
You want to slap the smile off Walmart’s mascot because
you survived the Black Friday plague but carry disease:
a Claymation childhood and a craving for hot cocoa.
You’ll use Red Rider to assassinate neighbor’s ornaments,
shooting down stars and couples in accidental mistletoe moments?

You’ll survive the Yule times, you’ll see, not by a king’s birth,
Ho-ho-ho! No! But by one good Christmas blockbuster.
Muppets and Griswalds can bring cleansing artificial snow.
Even Grinches and Scrooges are due for a 38th
no matter if the North Pole is run on slave labor,
no matter how many buy bravery by daring to want or desire.

All art is pursued bliss, and some will hate this, but all I wish
is for all poets to have a Mad Merry Christmas.

- Tyler Malone

(2 poems added 12.24.13)

editor's note: By editorial decree, we extend this Yuletide blessing to lovers of poetry, as well. A blessed Eve to all! (See another from Tyler on his page - a bonus gift.) - mh

Blah La La La La, La La La Baaahhh

(sung to the tune of Deck the Halls)

I don't like Christmas.

Deck their pockets with lots of money,
Fa la la la la, la la la la.
Being broke just ain’t that funny,
Blah la la la la, la la la bah.

But I used to love this season. Even after I stopped believing in Santa and Christianity. I guess somewhere along the way, the magic just ~poof~ disappeared as fast as it came. Maybe it was when the pressure was put on to spend spend spend, to feel feel feel.

Troll the stores with all the masses,
Fa la la la la, la la la la.
Fill their overflowing glasses
Blah la la la la, la la la bah.

In this supposed joyous season, everyone seems to be in a race for the best price, the biggest splurge, an urgency to land the golden fucking egg. When did it become such a symbol of materialistic posturing? Why don’t we tell the retailers to shove their Black Friday's, Cyber Monday's, today-only sales up their greedy asses? Maybe bake something for somebody instead. Paint a picture. Do something! Why can't it be more Thanksgiving-like than a spend-what-we-don't-got fest? I'm sick. I’m sick of it. I'm sick of the pressure from it.

See the sales set out before us,
Fa la la la la, la la la la.
Cash or credit? Come join the chorus!
Blah la la la la, la la la bah.

This season, like all the ones before it, I am playing along to the holiday shuffle song. But my heart's just not in it. Each year I get more depressed. Each year I feel more stressed. Each year I feel obligated to sing along. Each year I find I "should" on myself for all the things I should be doing, should be buying, should be feeling.

Follow me in "fuck this season!"
Fa la la la la, la la la la.
But don't get caught, they’ll call it treason,
Blah la la la la, la la la bah.

One of these seasons I am gonna boycott the whole fucking event. Huddle up in the corner with my spiked eggnog and flip the bird to baby J in His holy manger and to fatman Santa in his sleigh. And to think, I really used to dig the sentiment of this season! But these days it has become a big-business, money-making, retailer-driven, theological mad mess. It's sad, I must confess, sad 'cos it's true.

Sing this madness, all together,
Fa la la la la, la la la la.
Disenfranchised birds of feather,
Blah la la la la, la la la bah.

Merry (bah) Christmas!

Blah la la la la,
Blah bah blah baaahhh!

- Gianni Sacco

(1 poem added 12.23.13)

editor's note: A Consumer's Carol for all who "like" these sentiments to sing. - mh

EL PERRERO

¿Cómo cantaremos la canción del SEÑOR
en tierra extraña? (Psalm 137:4)

We woke before the sun. The days were long,
Dusty, hot, but I didn’t care. Outside
Was where the animals were, that is, where
I needed to be. Goats, chickens, wolves, dogs,
Anything not me. I could (& did) watch
For hours. My schoolroom was my grandfather’s
Farm: the rest of the world could have melted
Away & I really couldn’t have cared
Less. Fighting an itch, not fighting an itch,
Amounts to the same thing. I fled to my

Dreams & stayed a year in San Diego,
Becoming me, but a different me.
I loved this new country: I could not speak
The tongues of my first employers, but the
Dogs I understood just fine—they wanted
Out, out, out. Until their owners hired me,
All they got was the suffocation of
Unthinking love, love that knows no bounds or
Heights. Trapped on pedestals, robbed of work or
Purpose, they bit, attacked, snarled, bared teeth, ran.

Love is free or it is nothing. But they
Were denied even that, inside all day
And all night, stuck in halls, backyards, & high
Walled dens. Love can put a hell where heaven
Would be, & these dogs were captives. In this
Place people will pay you good money to
Say the ludicrously plain; I prospered,
And moved my business to L.A; I
Am now quite wealthy. I must hire helpers
Each new year. My friends back home are happy

For me but (still) amazed. "They pay you HOW
Much to walk the dogs????" And of course it’s not
Quite so simple as that. My clients here
Have strange problems--the kind that happen when
They’re idle, bored, or alone. Yet the dog
Seems to care. So he or she is now turned
Into a miserable little thing,
Wearing tiny coats, or pink shoes, or signs
That say "I Love Peace." They are force-fed love
Until they puke. Then the owners are stunned

When their poor dog, with no escape, turns on
Them. You should hear the calls I get! “Fluffy
Won’t eat!” “Timmy won't wear his suit!” “Chulo
Snaps at me!” Then I get there & find a
Dog who hasn’t been for a walk in months.
We love cause/effect except when we are
The cause, the first mover. I will never
Go back to Mexico; this is home, &
The USA has heaped blessings on me,
But I wonder sometimes if we should set

Every dog free, send them to the farm
My mind visits…..where dogs were just as they
Are, no one's special pet, chasing fireflies
In spring, guiding us through early fall nights,
Running after each other in the lakes,
A nimble reminder we live in a
Kind of paradise, to let the past be
The past; to never fear what could be, some
Note to yourself about life: our time here
Is mostly sweet & we have no idea.

- Brian Wood

(1 poem added 12.22.13)

editor's note: Turns out it's not just canines who live a dog's life. (Welcome Brian Wood to our crazy conclave of Contributing Poets with this submission. More of his madness on his new page.) - mh

••• Short Stories •••

Need a read? Of course you do! Here's what Short Story Editor Tyler Malone has to say about this pick-of-the-week short story, “Clown Car” by Steven Gowin: ”Send in the clowns! Give me your tired clowns, your dirty clowns, your masses of impoverished entertainers that fuel children's nightmares. Send them in so we can grind them into puddles of paint and red noses and slap that makeup on another equally less fortunate soul.” Here's a taste to tempt you...

photo by Tyler Malone

I drove the clown car (used to, anyway) before I quit the shows.

To be clear, I ain't talkin' about ass clown drivin'... racing like these young no class fools do.

No. What I say is that KiKi LeBlanc worked the circus. Never mind white face, never mind Bull Clown. My job was take the falls, act the dope, finish at the wrong end of the slapstick for the blow off. Auguste, the fool.

I know you gotta find out about that car. Can't wait. OK. First off, clowns don't come up no trap door and flood out. Think about it. You can't count on a trap door every venue, and we used a tent most of the time. Them roustabouts dig no tunnels.

My car was the real deal. Kept a little bitty Chevy, American brand, and painted it red white and blue with big white stars—patriotic clown shit, understand? Blacked out the windows so no fool sees in; beefed up the suspension.

Inside, you strip everything. Ev-er-y-thing: seats, door panels, consoles. We got the dash out, tore out that firewall and engine too, rigged up a Go Kart motor. Backfired like a son of a bitch, but that was a good thing. Smoked good too.

You wanna keep readin'? Of course you wanna! Get the rest of your wanna on here!

•••••••

The whole Mad Swirl of everything to come keeps on keepin' on... now... now... NOW! Every second, every minute, every hour, every day, every week, every month, every year, every decade, every every EVERY there is! Wanna join in the mad conversations going on in Mad Swirl's World? Then stop by whenever the mood strikes! We'll be here...

Movin’ Movin’ & Movin’

Johnny O
Chief Editor

MH Clay
Poetry Editor

Tyler Malone
Short Story Editor