Eating Skripes

Me, I'm good at naming things, see? Even renaming things! Cats, dogs, furniture, houses, trees, squirrels -- even people. Especially people. I got a gift -- it's a gift, I swear. Now, if you had amnesia, and you didn't know your name & you came over to my house, I could name you in a jiffy and it would fit you perfectly. I named my daughter JuJu, and my son....he's a Skeeter if you ever saw one! Look at him. I see you agree with me. I named my granddaughter Petals, and my grand nieces Pepper-Reee-Aw and Keerlee Lee-Branches. This here sofa ain't no SOFA, who came up with that name? Makes no sense. You agree, don't you? Yes? Good. This here SOFA is what I call a Boo-Wa-Large. Sit yourself down on the Boo-Wa-Large while I gets us a few Mooches from the Piner. THEN WE CAN EAT US THEM SKRIPES OVER THERE ON THE STOVE.

Poem - living in the land of leech

for Crystal Reghetti

do you recall
the land of leech
and how everybody there
big & small
spoke that strange
nonsensical language
that you made up
as we ate home-
made sausages at
the kitchen table
for breakfast?
i even joked
i'd like to go
to that place
the land of leech

it has been many
years now
but you know
more than ever
i feel like going
to the land of leech

then i realized
i am already
living there

4/96

Two Ladies

I was sleeping at the hotel. Two ladies, they were talking all night, almost to 4 AM, in a foreign language. It sounded like Russian or Polish. They weren't too loud, nor were they trying to keep the noise down, so the volume rose and fell as they sounded amused and lyrical. If I could have understood what they were saying, it would have been hell. Sometimes I head a male voice interjecting, but he was unimportant to the overall discussion. All night, sleeping and slightly waking up when he spoke, I was surprised to hear anyone else other than the babbling ladies, but I forgave him. We all put up with his interjections with good humor, he was comfortable with his ironic position as permanently being on the side-lines to the real action. Then at 5 AM, I head two kinds of snoring, one for each lady. The snoring sounded like it was in English. Sleepily, not even half out of dreams, I thought, "Amazing! They talk all night in Russian, or Polish, but then they snore in English. So sublimely strange. And even more lyrical."

Me and My Rap Song

I have this horrible rap song stuck in my head. It loops around and around certain lyrics. "Don't you want a girlfriend that is fly like me? Don't you want a girlfriend that is free like me? Don't you? Don't you?" Meanwhile, I have been writing great poetry, all of it extremely depressing, and this bothers some of my readers. I think I can find some happy poems from my notes, written about ten years ago -- they can be fixed, I think. And the rap song rolls on, the sultry fly female voice sings, "I know you want me, I know you do...I know you like me...something something something..." More music. Now I think the song is making me happy, because it won't stop.

Poem - Kepler

DESCRIBING ASTRONOMICAL STEPS
IN A GENERAL EDUCATION PHYSICS CLASS
WITH BITS OF MATHEMATICAL ABSTRACTION
ALL OVER SIMPLIFIED AND CORRECT
IN ONLY A FEW SITUATIONS

BUT MOST THINGS ARE LIKE THAT ANYWAYS

Notes: May 12:

Kepler: A true giant (non-smoker), living at the time of
Galileo, that other giant of a guy (non-smoker).
Wrote various laws on napkins/ luggage & ticket
stubs & hotel stationary:

1. Planets move in elliptical paths
around the Sun without any
pit stops, or laying eggs*

*The Mileage
Law.

2. A line drawn from the Sun to a
planet sweeps, waxes, washes,
dusts, vacuums, or
calls a maid...asks for a janitor,
or otherwise asks for the Army
to clear equal areas in equal units
of time*

*Principal of
the Cleaning Lady.

3. Harmonic Law

P² = a³

P= Pomp/ a= Average/

Amount of pomp gathered
(in astronomical units)
of consternation
or level of annoyance
by a galactic
body revolving
'round Sun of other planets
once using this formula

Philosophical idea, getting all these P' s & a's
blended together, for instance:

P² = a³

11² = 5³

(Jupiter) = (Jupiter)

121 = 125

(Grave annoyance,
a cosmic falling out;

Jupiter, far from
the Sun is a little less
annoying than Neptune

but Pluto is the worst
a virtual black-sheep
of the family)

Kepler: Oh, what a Mensch. His predictions,
not just a magical thinker, propelling us
into modern thought with his modernity

Kepler: Father, Mother, Originator, Co-conspirator,
Manager, Idealist, Thinker ---

Oh hell --

Stated with pride and simplicity, virtually
the Georgewashington of Astronomy

(P² = a³)

Kepler: Friend of Tycho Brahe and Galileo Galilei
(they took names and kicked asses), known by
Newton -- surpassing Euclid, Plato, and the fat guy
in all the restaurants with the mustachio

Kepler: The Boy-Hero, Crime Fighter, Mathematician &
Adventurer & Private-Eye

Kepler, the Unsung Poet of the Mind:

Planets
sweep out
pie-shaped
wedges
of area
during their
orbits

taking no
more than
giving in
motion

so we shade
in that area
that is
swept
out

and soon
the Planet
is a bead
on the
edge
of a black
disk

Poetry - poems written on the road

#1 boston

calls out to home
but no calls returned

people come & go
on planes alone

they leave each other
without saying goodbye

as if it was understood
how we are connected

but we do not understand
alas we do not

#2 the place

when you go to the
place and sit at
a table for two
but you hang your
coat on the other
chair

everyone in the joint
knows you're dining
alone

as far as they know
it is like that
every night

even if it isn't true

#3 sales talk

sales talk sales
jargon

i've overheard it a hundred
times or more

"she's a real worker bee"
"i gotta step up to the plate"

"love it or leave it"
"how do they treat their people -- bad."

salesmen talk this way
but they could be doing anything

eating dinner or
waiting for a flight

butchering cattle
or digging graves

#4 comfort

she sits alone in the
sushi restaurant
she looks unhappy

i am alone also
i hope i do not look
as unhappy as she does

i grab a few red napkins
write this poem and when
i look up she has her meal

though she is still alone
she feels better with her dinner
and i find comfort with my poem

Poem - this night

this night
i am in a restaurant
outside it is raining
other than that
i do not know myself
or where i am

logic dictates i
must be someone but
realistically i could be
silverware or
that glass of wine

but through thinking
i will myself to be
from the point of view
of the person sitting in
the chair enjoying a meal
arbitrary as that is

precious strangeness
remains
one thing as real as it is
unreal
meal concluded like a
life ended

table cleared and reset
with just a few
crumbs
from the last
underneath the next
diner's feet

My American Airlines Horror Story

Air travel is not what it used to be, you hear that all the time from people who have to travel frequently. Here is my airline travel horror story.

It started with an American Airline ticket for travel on Sunday, January 6, from Orange County to Chicago O'Hare, with a stopover in San Francisco. The flight was due to depart at 2.40 PM, so I called at about 10 AM to verify the flight would be on time. Mysteriously, American Airlines thought my daughter and infant son would still be traveling with me, even though I had changed the ticket & their flights for a different time a few days ago. I recorrected the information for the flight, it would just be me.

When I got to the airport at a bit before 1 PM, I saw that the line for American Airlines stretched the entire length of Terminal 1. There must have been about 300+ people waiting to check in at the American Airlines counter. Every other airline there at John Wayne Airport had a few people checking in, but American Airlines was the only carrier with a stupendously long line. I reached a ticketing agent by 2.20 PM. I explained to the agent that I could have made my flight, if not for starting at the far end of the terminal. She said that I could go on a non-stop flight to Chicago at 4.00 PM.

Ticket in hand, and luggage checked, I processed myself through security -- the line there was negligible. At the gate, when the plane arrived, we were told there was a mechanical problem with the plane. The American Airlines employee at the gate said that a part had to be sent from Los Angeles. Then, the attendant said they were not sure when the plane would be ready. Then, we were told to stand by for more information. At about 4.00 PM, we were informed our flight was completely canceled. Hotel vouchers would be provided for people who did not live in Orange County.

Another long line formed at the gate counter. Only one American Airlines employees was there to process us, so the progress was slow. Soon, three Orange County sheriffs showed up, and stood there staring at the crowd. One was on a Seqway, and as we stood there barely moving, he'd twirl around on it, showing us, I guess, how skilled & important he was. For a short time, there was another American Airline employee helping, but then after about 20 minutes she left. We'd have traded three cops and an idiotic Seqway demonstration for one extra American Airlines employee, but it was not to be.

While we stood there, because the line was moving so slowly, several people (including me) asked the woman at the gate politely if more American Airline employees could help hand out vouchers. We were all told that there were no other employees available. Absolutely no help would be coming. After about two and a half hours of standing in line, I got a hotel voucher, and a "dinner voucher" for 10 dollars. We were told that everyone on the canceled flight had been booked for a non-stop 7 AM flight the next day at the same gate, and we should keep our boarding passes. American Airlines said in the morning, there would be a special place for us to drop our luggage off, and to keep the tags on the luggage. When I checked into the hotel, I discovered the meal voucher was not redeemable at the hotel, only at the airport.

So I woke up at 4.20 AM the next day, got to the airport a bit before 5 AM and there was no one there who knew where we should be handing our luggage to. People from the canceled flight stood in the international departures line, and so American Airlines processed us there. When I got to the ticket counter, I was told that there was no 7 AM flight to Chicago. I was scheduled to depart at a 9 AM flight. The agent switched me to the earliest flight, which was a 6.45 AM. My luggage was retagged.

At the gate, waiting, at 6.20 the agent said that the plane waiting at the gate was the wrong plane, and needed to be switched with another plane. It seems that American Airlines forgot to move the broken plane from yesterday & it sat there all night. We were able to board the new plane by about 6.50 AM. Once aboard, we were informed that we would have to sit on the tarmac at John Wayne Airport for about an hour, due to President Bush landing at Chicago O'Hare. After about 30 minutes, we did take off.

Basically, the take from all of this is my time (or any other traveler's time) is not important, or valuable, in any way to American Airlines. American Airlines demonstrated quite clearly customers are trivial, treated with no more concern or feeling you'd expend on bags of luggage. Having the longest line for checking in, forcing people to stand in lines for hours for vouchers with the police in the background, denying us extra personnel to speed things up, it shows the airline doesn't give a damn how much time they waste. American Airlines could care less if you make it home on time -- and when things go wrong at the airport, there is no customer service when the public interfaces with actual airline employees.

I know there are worse travel related airline stories out there...it shows how off the mark and arrogant, or just indifferent carriers are today, post 9/11. Once they get a traveler into that controlled airport environment, they can do anything they want with you.

P.S.

A special thanks goes out to Chicago O'Hare....when I asked, there were no door-to-door shuttles to take me home. I ended up renting a Lincoln town car for $67 bucks to get me to my front door.

Poem - from HOME - a meeting

there is a
beautiful girl
walking along
cloumbus street
in north beach

by chance she
looks through
the long windows
of the cafe puccini

our eyes meet

we both almost
look away past
that polite
customary second

but we don't

and she looks
into my eyes
as she walks by
all the way

and like that
she is gone

From HOME, a collection of Poetry, Writing, Illustrations and Photographs
By CM Spaghetti

News - Fourth Collection Finished - HOME

I have completed my fourth collection of poems, short stories, and illustrations, titled "HOME" -- above is the cover. You can go to my store at CafePress and order a copy. This edition will most likely be edited a bit, but the bones are solid and the meat on the bones is good strong flesh. Pardon my bad writing. From HOME, here is a poem, titled "Weeding". I hope you enjoy it.

---------------

weeding

because i was
fired i payed rent
through weeding

grubbed pulled out
the grass and the
spiked weeds
growing in bunches
weed growing sparsely
interspaced
nestled between the
rocks and white gravel

wanted to use gloves
got gloves used gloves
handled the
soft rotting rose-heads
fallen in the shade
of the path that
ran behind the house

weeded took off
the right-hand glove
weeding thinking
about things took off
the left glove and
got a drink of water

filled the cart
full of weeds
the sun dipped down
where i thought
it would be shady
all day long but
no longer cool
at 11 o'clock

weeding along
cleared a great mess
of fallen vines with
a pitchfork twirling
them up like spaghetti

took them on the
tip of the fork
into the field
balancing the wood
shaft on my
shoulder as i
walked

i could feel
the weight of the
vines digging
into my shoulder
as the shaft bobbed
hurled them all down
in bright sunshine

vegetable matter
on top of more
vegetable matter
in the place where
we burned trash
and dead cats or
other rodents

and still
there from previous
burnings

ash
flew up with a sigh

-----------

Look in 2008, in the summer, for a "micro-book" titled "LUNA", poems to the moon, written in 1993. I need to find a publisher for it, the book being 3x3 or 4x4 inches in size.

Merry Christmas!

Getting ready for the big day, one of the elves comes to me -- he has his hat in his hand. And I haven't ever seen an elf with his hat off, so this can't be good. He says they can't find the list. I'm so goddamn busy I'm ready to shit bricks and mail them to Timbuktu. What list? I ask. THE LIST. Says the elf. Jesus Jumping Christ in Red Plaid! I exclaim. Did you ask Mrs. Clause? Yes! says the elf. So after that, we tear up the workshops, warehouses, storage & lofts, we rifle through the stables, look under every tree, present, box, trunk, hay pile & bail, turn over every wreath, look in every nook and cupboard, to no effect. Cookies and Cockeyed Crumpets, we're F--d! No List. Who had the List, last? They name the elf, Fonterloughighoblo, and he's not here, so we all go to his house. And lo, there he is, passed out dead drunk, the list is in shambles, all over the place. I can't make head or tail of it, the pages all mottled, crumpled and smudged. I see he used some of it to start a fire. So there it is, with no list we had to improvise. Because of Fonterloughighoblo, 2007 was the year everyone got a crate of Spam.

Remember Me?

Hi there. Remember me? We met a few weeks ago at a bar when we both were getting drunk. I can't remember the name of the bar, but it was the one with the huge patio with colored electric lights. I pretended to smoke, because you'd go out to the patio and light up ever 20 minutes, even though it was about 25 degrees & freezing ass cold. One time I loaned you my jacket, you looked cute in it with the sleeves hanging down 5 sizes too big. I noticed your hair was light, but not blond, and your eyes were hazel with fine gold flecks. You also had a cut on your chin, you said a motorist opened his car door when you were riding your bike and you crashed into it. The guy didn't even check to see if you were okay, he drove away and people stared at you laying in the street. You seemed to like me because I didn't try to come on too strong or say the typical guy things you hear all the time, but you said I shouldn't be too interested, because you have a boyfriend. But later I overheard you saying your boyfriend is an asshole and you think he's sleeping with his ex-wife. I want to say I'm nice on the outside, and if you get to know me better, you'll find I'm nice all the way down to some dark unpleasant secrets. And if you get to know me to that point, my behavior could do a subtitle change. But I think everyone is like this, to be honest. I think you are experienced enough to know that. I am not looking for someone experienced enough to know that we all have dirty secrets, deep down. But I think it is unavoidable.

Scrapping the Universe

In Heaven, there are mixed reactions to the proposal of shutting Creation, the "Universe", down. Hell, on the other hand, is delighted. Satan and his band of merry rebels think they will be getting all the scrap if external phenomenon is retooled or unmade, just like last time, which happened so long ago you couldn't quite imagine it...and it really isn't any of your business. Hell goes through quite a growth spurt each time interdependencies are all unmade. There is a sort of silent agreement between Heaven and Hell, regarding the size of Hell. Hell shouldn't be too big, and certainly not too small. And the requirements for a bigger Hell goes with the creation of a new universe as two peas in a pod. God isn't slimming things down, you see. He's trying to get it right after many excruciating attempts. He almost has it down, the Genesis thing. Now Heaven will convene for about 45 million years and talk it through. That is equivalent to about 2 weeks our time.

Train and Teredactyl

A few days before Christmas, little curly haired Julian, who is almost 3, mugged Santa. But it didn’t start out that way. Paul and Molly took Julian to the Mall, stood in line so Julian could sit on Santas lap. For small children this can be a harrowing, horrifying experience -- it usually ends up being good -- but sometimes the wheels come off and a small child has a complete mental breakdown. When his time came, with some trepidation, small Julian looked at the funny guy with the beard in red. And right there and then, Julian made the blessed & magnificent mental connection between TOYS and SANTA. "TRAIN!" exclaimed Julian. "TRAAAAIN!!" He yelled again, almost jumping up and down. All was well. Santa acquiesced, and so Julian left the interview very satisfied. But then a bit later in the toy store, Julian saw the best rubber teredactyl in the entire universe. On the way out of the Mall, passing near where Santa was set up, Julian launched into action. When his parents were within striking distance, he broke from his Mom and Dad, running as fast has he could for the fat guy in red. He barreled to the front of the line between kids and parents, jumped onto Santa's lap, screaming, "No TRAIN! NO TRAIN!!! Ter-DACTL!!! TER DACTL!!!!" So this Christmas, I do believe Julian got a Train and a Teredactyl. Never get between a 3 year old's Christmas gift idea and Santa!

Poem - winter/ snow

winter
snow

i stand
outside

i listen
to the

crackling
trees

their limbs
covered

in a fine
layer of ice

CM Evans - 4 Poems Live Over @ Opium Magazine

Four of my poems are live over at Opium Magazine. Opium is online, and also goes out to print. Issue number 5 is the latest off line offering, featuring writing, poetry, illustrations and more. David Barringer designed the cover & Todd Zuniga edits it, along with an army of tireless lit volunteers. Please do pick up a copy.

Poem - nevermind

carrying an
over under
shotgun
cold to the touch

see
moisture beads
on the steel
as i look around

i thought
i was real but
there is nothing
in this moment
but here and this rain

falling soft rain
in a wide field
of just stubble
rising gently that way

soon i
nevermind
shift the gun
walk on past a fence
walk on


From POETRY from the CITY of BRASS
by CM CHICAGO

Christy's Mom

When you were an infant, your mother decided she had to leave. It could have been even in mid-sentence, when she was talking to your father. She literally walked out of the house one day, with the clothes she happened to be wearing -- not a scrap of luggage, not even a toothbrush or a comb. She never came back. You told me your father was stoic about your mom going, he hardly ever talked about it. If you ever asked him about your mother, he said he wasn't sure why she left or where she was. At first you asked because your dad kept all of your mothers things, he never cleaned or cleared them away. It was like someone was on vacation, or away on business and they'd be coming back any day now. As you grew up, you saw over time how her perfume bottles and erring holders, coils of necklaces, small crystals on her side of the bureau got old and dusty. The jewelery tarnished. When you dad wasn't around, you looked at her dresses, and other clothes still in plastic dry-cleaning bags hung in the closet, with her shoes. Over time the articles of clothing got dead, and deader, which is impossible for inanimate things, but it was still true. Later, when you were 25 and had a little girl of your own and dropped out of college, your sister said mother was married again. Your mom was living in a big expensive house in Burlingame. One afternoon you drove to the house, and spied on her when she parked on the driveway. You watched her walk into the house. She wasn't smiling, she seemed very serious with frown lines on her cheeks, cold. You didn't feel like meeting mother after you saw her face, so you drove away. You never hated her, either, until then.

Me and Bobby

One evening out riding, I clipped a side-mirror on an expensive sedan. When I crashed, I bent the front wheel of my bicycle and smashed down on my shoulder, ribs, and hip. I remember laying for a few seconds in the street, a truck narrowly missing me. I jogged away, dragging the bicycle. I was more afraid at being caught by the angry owner, than if I was seriously hurt. Eventually I was home where I found one of my roommates, Bobby, cooking a late dinner. I examined the bicycle in the kitchen while he cooked a big meal. It was fucked. My ribs hurt. My roommate was happy & ate and there was nothing to do. I had to do something, anything to not be alone like this. I decided to walk to a little cafe, but when I sat down and had coffee, the cafe was closing. I picked up my cup and put it into a grey overflowing plastic bin on the way out. Alone again, I walked back to the small flat. My other roommates had come home. Silent disapproval was in the air. I had left the broken bike in the kitchen and Bobby, who hated the other roommates, was blitheringly drunk. I watched Bobby play a guitar, drink more beer, and howl songs about love, while the other set of roommates watched television in the back of the flat.

Ten Ways to Cheat Playing Monopoly

10. Roll for other people. If they aren't attentive, under or over count the roll for your benefit

9. If you're playing with kids who can't count money quickly, short change them

8. Tell people Boardwalk and Park Place aren't worth buying

7. Swap out the game dice for fixed dice for important rolls

6. Ply your opponents with alcohol, help them make the right decisions

5. Throw away, or hide the game rules, and make up rules beneficial for yourself, when needed. For example: establish an informal rule that all monetary penalties from Community Chest and Chance not payed out directly to a player, get put into Free Parking.

4. With #5 in place, if you take a break and nobody is looking, skim money off of Free Parking

3. Hide Monopoly money from another game set all over your person for those must needed purchases -- do this also with an assortment of good Community Chest and Chance cards hidden to replace any bad ones you get

2. Be the Banker

1. If you are going to lose the game, right before you are bankrupt, kick the whole board over, Say, "Oops!"