Please accept my apology for the formating of the script, haven't got the hang of putting stuff in blog. I know there are errors in  the script and the seciton of credits need dialouge etc but I wanted somebody  to reqad it to see if it holds the viewers attention. I wrote this version as if it was my filming script. I have heard that director's want the bare bones in term of comments etc. Are my comments too vluminous? The sacript is copyrighted b y the by the author in 2006.Tks for your time.

 

 

 

So This Is Christmas

 

 

 

                                  By

                                  M.R. Merris

 

 

     for

John Lennon

and

Art Bell

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

credits.

 

Station 10 years ago (early 90s).

Jeff Christian in his office at the radio station on the phone arguing with his wife. He is on the top of his form. His posters are on the wall, there are clippings about him in Newsweek, Time and Variety on his desk. It is 3 to 10 PM and the boss opens the door and yells at Jeff to get his ass on the air or he will be broadcasting the grain futures in Iowa. He slams the pone down, composes himself and runs out the door just in time to hear his theme song, John Lennons All I Want is the Truth."

                                                       Cut to

Jeffs rural home,

Wife arguing with Christian hangs up and goes out to the car and drives along a rural road towards town. From the argument we see she is leaving Christian for good and is taking the next flight out of town. The car rounds a bend and we see a bright white light on the other side of the bend. The camera pans up to see the light is coming from a UFO (Saucer). The car stops suddenly when the light hit it. The wife frantically tries to get it going. The kids are screaming.

                                                                                          Cut to

station

Jeff is on the air talking about UFO and the government conspiracy to keep the public in the dark. He then goes into how he bought his wife a new Volvo station wagon with the vanity plate of KINGJEF.A inbound line rings. Jeffs producer gets it and puts it on hold. From Jeff's computer screen we see the call is about Jeff's wife. Jeff, thinking it is a joke, takes the call and the caller.

                   Cut to

 

side of a  rig watching a car burn                    

POV of the caller. The listener explains that he was listening as he was driving his rig on the road that Jeffs wife was on when he saw this Volvo station wagon pulled over in the side of this road. He stops his rig and in his headlights we see the license plate KINGJEFF.

 

                    Cut to

Jeff remains professional and ends the call. He signals for bumper music and then goes into the same office we saw him before and calls a buddy in the county sheriff's office and ask if they have had any reports about a burning car. The officer said yes, and he names the road that the Jeffs wife is on. Jeff knows in his gut that it was his wife. He hangs up the phone, puts on his coat and leaves his office. He goes back to the studio and in hand signals tells the producer to go into his theme song. He goes to the puts his headphones on and waits for a couple of bars of the song. He then signal to stop the theme song and says," this is the last time I will be on the air, thank you." He takes the headphones off, unjacks them and walks out of the studio into a snow filled parking lot and gets into his pickup and drives off.

 

                                                                                          Credits

 

 

Background  Images

Camera pans news papers and the same news magazine 10 years old about Jeff. They tell of his sudden departure from the air. A sudden gust of wind blows those papers and mags off to the floor. The camera focuses on the desk chair and a single magazine with a current date opened up to paper clipped article about Jeff. The headline is, What Happened to Jeff Christian."                                                                                            Cuts   to

                                                                                                                                                                      Blackness

 

 

 

                                                                             Dec 18

                                              Story Time

SCENE I

Intruder POV: Night outside of a farmhouse in the winter. a good 6 to 7 inches of white snow is on the ground.  We hear the intruder breathing and the yelp of coyote or wild dogs in the background as he approaches the house.

 

cut to:

The master bedroom: a alarm panel imbedded into the side of the nightstand starts to blink then buzzes. A sleeping middle age man is startled awake by it. He checks the panel and is shocked by what he sees on it. He resets the alarm and it still buzzes. He studies the panel to determine what zone the intruder is in. He reaches in the night stands drawer and removes a 9 MM pistol and slams clip into it. He reaches underneath his bed and pulls out a bulletproof vest and a helmet equipped with pair of night vision glasses and tinted visor. He slips into a pair of black pants and boots that are laid on a chair. He goes to laptop on top of his bureau next to the door and hits a key. Takes a deep breath and opens the door quietly and sneaks out onto the hall.

 

cut to:

Intruder POV: He is near the front porch and is searching for alarms or booby-traps and finds none. He clicks a switch near his throat and we hear a silence and then a double click in his earpiece. This is his order to move in for the kill. He takes out his weapon, a silencer on a 9MM, slips a key into the front door, opens it quietly and walks into the house.

 

cut to:

Owner's POV. He glances in mirror that hangs directly in front of the stairs leading down to the first floor and sees the intruder in it. The owner crouches down and waits until the intruder is in the house and has closed the door. The owner withdraws a remote control device from a side pocket of his fatigues depresses a button and a red led comes on, he returns the remote to the pants pocket and slides the safety off his gun and crawls around corner. He sees the intruder in the mirror at the foot of the stairs. Th owner is crouched behind solid wood banister at the top of the stairs. We hear him take a deep breath, checks the mirror to see where the intruder is. He slides the visor down over his night goggles. Takes hold of the gun with both hands depresses a button on the side of the gun and jumps up as a blinding spot light comes barrels into the intruders eyes.

                         

 

 

                            

                        Owner

 

Hold it.

 

 

Blinded by the light the intruder flops on the floor and shoots the light out and rolls to his right toward the living room and to his surprise finds the doors closed and locked. The owner shoots the intruder twice in the knees while he is checking the lock on the living room door. The intruder drops to his knees and clicks throat-clicker four times.

 cut to:

A Jeep Wagoner parked on a country road. The farmhouse is in the background. In the back seat are two men dressed in black like the Intruder. In the front passenger seat is a man in jeans, button down blue arrow shirt and a dark green cloth coat. He has a headphone on and hears the intruders four clicks as well as the men in the back seat. Surprised appears on his face briefly before control takes command.

 

cut to:

The intruder is at the living room holsters his 9-MM and swings out his silenced Uzi, sprays the banister area and drags himself to the door finds to find it locked. The owner takes shelter behind the wood veneer metal banister. The intruder attempts to open the door and finds it locked. He tries to shoot the lock open and finds the bullets bounce off the door. He lies on the floor with his back to the door and hits his throat clicker five times begins to empty his gun at the banister.

 

cut to:

 

The leader is about to turn and give order to retrieve the intruder when he hears a pick up truck racing toward the farm house followed by a police car with lights and sirens on. He evaluates the situation while the men in the back seat grow tense with anticipation of being sent out. The realization that they wont be able to save their comrade creeps into the face of all of them. Finally the man in the passenger seat clicks his clicker five times and pulls off his head seat and motions to the driver to drive on.

 

cut to:  inside the farm house: the intruder hears the five clicks. He clicks six and puts the gun into his mouth and kills himself. The owner grimaces at the sight of the man killing himself. He hears the siren and begins to struggle down the stairs. While going down the stairs he reaches for a remote down the stairs he reaches for the remote control in his pants pocket and clicks it twice. While he goes toward the body he activates a voice-activated tape recorder from a microphone attached to his vest and begins to take verbal notes. He removes his latex gloves, scissors and a vial from various pockets in his vest none. He looks for distinguishing marks and id finds none. He then takes off the mans night-goggles and clips a lock of the man's hair and gets finger prints He then removes a tape measure and a camera and lays the tape measure next to the man and begins to document the intruder appearance and the gear. While all this is going on he is talking into the tape recorder making notes on the mans ethnic origins, weight, height build etc. He also identifies the ammo, gear and the lack of serial numbers. After this he stumbles over to the to the staircase slides open a panel and drops the hair sample, camera, fingerprints and all tools plus his gloves into the compartment. We hear the items falling and hitting a metal plate. The owner looks down into the area and turns on a switch. We hear what sounds like an electric train on a track. He puts the panel in place and goes to the stairs and waits for the police.

 

cut to:

Outside of the farm house. the state police arrives allowed by the pick up truck. We hear the cop and the driver greet each other like they know each other for a long time. The driver in the pick up truck is younger than the cop and stays in the cab taking notes. We see him checking his watch for the time. Also we hear a police scanner calling for back up and we see a tape recorder attached to the scanner. After the cop goes inside the young man gets out of the car and beings to take pictures of the outside of the house. Especially of the footprints in the snow cut to: Inside the house: The cop is looking at the body looks around, he looks at the owner

 

                                            COP

Finally got one Jeff.

 

                                           Jeff

He reaches into his pants and pulls out a tiny tape recorder and turns it on. Says the date and time and then raises his eyes to the officer

    

                     Can you please repeat your question officer Smith.

                            

                                           Frank

(frustrated)

 

                        What happened Mr. Houston?

 

            Jeff

I heard a disturbance down stairs and came down to see what was going on. I found a man in my house and I told him to stop. He shot at me and I returned fire striking him in both knees. Before I could disarm him he killed himself.

 

                            

                       Frank

                   Is that the way happened

 

                           Jeff

                   Yeah it is.

 

 

                           Frank

 

                   Your gun please.

 

                           Jeff

He stands and gives his fire arm to the police.

                                             

                           Frank

                   This yours?

 

                               Jeff

You know damn well it's mine and you know I have a permit.

 

                               Frank

Just making sure, for the sake of the record.

(He points to the tape recorder walks over the body and picks up the intruders gun with a pen, looks at it and smiles.)

 

 xxxxx civilian version.

             

                  

                             Jeff

And ten to one the serial numbers are filed off or it was stolen a week ago from two-bit pawnshop in. Denver.

                  

                             Frank

                   Did you check for serial numbers?

 

                             Jeff

Officer I would not think of disturbing the crime scene

             

                             Frank

(pissed)

Jeff turn that damn tape recorder off for a friggin second.

 

 

 

 

 

 

                             Jeff

(turns the tape recorder off)

OK you got three minutes. But your better be willing to repeat everything you are going to say in court.

      

                        Frank

Damn it Jeff I am not the enemy. I have known you all my life so don't give me any shit about this. This guy is a pro and you and I know it. And you know we are going to find jack shit on him or if we do it is going to be all lies and bull. You have made my life a living shit pile ever since you moved back to the ranch after your folks died with all this UFO conspiracy crap. You just won't shut up about what happened will you, you won't leave well enough alone will you.

                       

                             Jeff

Will you forget Frank? You saw them too.

 

                             Frank

That was 30 years ago Jeff! Leave them alone? They killed Maggie and the boys. They are going to kill you. And they will find you and I won't be around to cover your stinking ass.

 

                             Jeff

Glares at Frank then softens

Sometimes I wish you weren't Frank. It might make this easier...

 

(He glances at this watch and turns the tape recorder back on. He mumbles the time and date into the recorder.)

 

                   Is that all officer?

 

                             Frank

                   Yes it is. You better come with me, we need a statement. Jimmy is out in the truck he can wait until the crime lab folks get here. Did you call Gene?

                       

                             Jeff

No, Jimmy can from he truck. Gene  probably got my page. I will check with Jimmy on the way out.

 

 

 

                             Frank

Grab your coat. I got coffee in the car. It's going to be a long night.

 

                             Jeff

(Walking around the body)

                   Just like old times Frank.

 

                             Frank

(walking out onto the porch)

Jeff, shut up.. please... Lily wanted me go Christmas shopping with her in the morning. God she is going to be pissed.

                  

                             Jeff

(Nodding to Jimmy as he walks down the stairs.)

Just tell her you are with me talking about the old days.

                  

                             Frank

Then she would be really pissed.(to Jimmy) would you look after the place until the crime lab gets here. And please don't go in. I will have to throw you in jail for disturbing an investigation if you don't stay away until they are done. I promise you will fist crack after they are finished.

 

                             Jimmy

                   Anything you say Frank

 

(Jimmy gets back in the truck after taking a couple of pictures of Frank and Jeff.)

 

Frank and Jeff gets into the car and drive away, Jim waits for about 10 minutes until he hears Frank telling dispatch to send the crime lab out. When he hears that he drives back down the driveway and out onto the road until he gets to Jeffs barn he walks carefully in the snow until gets to the barn and goes in. He disappears for a couple of minutes and come back out with a clear plastic bag and two VCR tapes. He clears his tracks in the snow and drives back up to the house to wait for the crime lab.

 

cut to: wide shot of the house as the crime lab techs arrive.

All these poems are copyrighted by the author in 2006.

I would like commnet. tks flor your time.

 

                                                                                                                                                                                        

 

Fistful at Fifty

 

 

 

 

 

Selected Poems

 

 

 

 

         M.R. Merris

 

 

 

 

China Coaster Press                   Benicia CA

                                                                                                                                                                       

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Lizzie, Lizzie, Lizzie

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

for the forgotten, the failed ,the forlorn

my boys

and the people around the tables who saved my life,

 

thank you.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Fistful at Fifty. Copyright c 2006 by M.R. Merris.All rights reserved. Printed in the United States of America. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotation embodied in critical articles and reviews.

 

The author wishes to thank all he previous employers for giving him the means to live while writing these poems.

 

First China Coaster edition  2006

 

Designed by the author.

.

 

Intro

 

These raw rants, bull shit musings and stories have been written in the hotel rooms, steam ships, brothels, airplanes, ball rooms , bars and trains of America and the Far East for the last 30 years. Some are finished and some are not, just like some of us. Dont ask me about their meaning, music, lit. influences, style etc. or why should anybody care, I dont have the answers .

                After 37 years of carrying these around in backpacks, sea bags, boxes and in the back of my truck I though a fistful to open your hearts was deserved. After 50 years thats all that is left, a fistful of poems.

            To paraphrase Doc. Williams;

 

Ladies please raise your skirts, because the language is foul and the heart pure. Gentlemen dont laugh so hard that you soil yourself, you might just learn something.

 

                This is way off, but I know Doc Williams is in heaven with Michelline, Buke and Welch smiling, and that is good enough.

                My thanks to the professionals who have read and commented on these poems, it meant a lot. What meant more, and still does, are those in whose eyes tell me they understand them. After 37 years  that understanding is still all  the payment this poet will take.

                                           M.R. Merris

                            Midnight

                                              7/30/2003

                              In the Company of Wolves

                            Benicia ,CA.

 

 

 

 

all the world and you babe

 

for Marge Gibeau

 

 

the world beat across the City

and back until you found yr. passage

into the corner cave.

into its cool darkness amidst the noonday sun

you fell.

 

there among the weak, the wounded

the gossamer trapeze artist

you found us.

 

and we held you

and we laughed and imbibed the grape,

the drippings of the grain and forgot

who

we

were.

 

but forgetting forged fiercer

screams finally heard only by you

alone

in a room

without a view.

 

and again you found us,

now

the broken bent gargoyles of your dream

and we held you

and we cried

and we laughed

and fought for serenity in our hearts.

 

 

and we watched

you grow

into the proud rose

of you

amongst the wine, gin, tangerine

memories.

 

and it was good,

and it was enough,

and it was gravy,

just like

he said.

 

but the dampness of the earth has kissed your lips

and you left us and I will miss you,

will miss you long,

long

after

the last

call.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

cheerleaders

 

                                                                                                                                                                                 for Debbie Gordon

 

 

 

 

after 20 years I can still taste my nuts as

i sat on the bench, praying

to the Virgin Mother to

help me not to peak at their blue panties.

 

i still hear my screams in Olangapos whorehouses

from nightmares of their smudged waxen lips

fresh from their boyfriends cocks beneath

back seat high school letter jackets

admitting in 5^th period lunch how their fathers

cried to stupor begging

tenderness while their mothers drank to

oblivion beseeching death.

 

i still feel their porcelain

porcelain hands attempting to touch my withdrawing

cheek w/ a word that is still unknown,

friend,

instead of touching my heart, my body

like I prayed for every night.

 

i still taste my rage

running rivulets off their perfect

boobs bathed in bleached white wool

broken off the pedestals I put them on.

in my failed paragon

I wanted them whole

i wanted them pure

i wanted them for myself.

after 20 years

i am haunted by how much I havent had to confess

by how much

i missed.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

something in the way love moves

 

 

something in the way love moves

that makes boys find themselves into men

and confuse the yen for cunt with friendship

and find that thy miss both in the end.

 

something in the way love moves

that turns dolls and dishes into children and

homes that are put together for 3,5 and 20

and makes you scratch yr. head when they fall apart.

 

something in the way love moves

that sears the heart with the sterno

of quicksilver joy

and makes us wonder in 3, 5 and 20 if it was worth it to begin.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

sat. morn Chesapeake

 

 

                                                to Anne Waldman

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

this is the nut,

you are born alone and die alone.

all thats in between is running to belong,

all thats in between is the poem.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

crocker bowl

 

 

 

 

 

 

i think why i cant leave

this shell, go down

or up the tree

just,

go.

 

and my mothers blue

crocker bowl (cracked 4 years}

is out

before me.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

jewel not yet diamond

 

 

for Stephanie Mines who liked the

last stanza and for James Taylor for

ripping him off of it.

 

 

chasm

blue streak love

stretches ft. to silence.

 

void

is

the same

no

mater,

here

or

there.

 

all

is in,

is in

you.

 

i can feel

it,

can feel

it

 

and it is the silence between

foot steps

on a country road.

 

 

2 for anyone who wants them

 

 

 

 

-hot tub-

 

i tremble

in the

transparent terror

of my finger

tips

stretching for

anyones heart.

 

 

 

 

-last nights lover-

 

 

 

in

towards me

is

you

tasting me

in you.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

but it goes on so holy: irony

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

-poetry-

 

gainst the grasping yield

of humans trying to live,

it fails.

                            

 -economics-

 

flat to the face;

gear teeth grind down.

on the train spineless men watch it die silent.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

images

 

 

 

 

 

 

you always

come back

to the handful

flashing

in belly.

find the right

key for each

and the knot would

unravel.

until then

peace

just bites

your heels.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

note on love to Jessica

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

in winter full moon silence

we stand

w/ scars that were fresh wounds to bone.

we stare

we remember

we wait

for the next

time.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Jesss Xmass poem 1977

 

 

 

 

 

jess its your 5^th Christmas

and ive missed them all.

 

5 years of Asia

5 years of sea

 

5 years of the bottle and

battles for my sanity.

 

im sick and tired of rummin

im tired and sick of sea bags.

 

jess I dont know your eyes

nor your voice

 

only a remembrance of your mothers belly

3 months before your birth.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

  before the fall

 

        for Marijane McAdams

 

 

 

 

while I cleaned

the lube oil coolers

in the South China Sea

my tears

ran rivers

in the grease,

fish gills,

dolls heads,

heaped at my knees.               

while I cleaned,

i bloodied your memory

w/ my fists

on the deck plates

screaming to be set free.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

a poet is dead

                       

                                                                                                                                    for William Wantling

 

our brother is dead.

the one who sat us down

and told us the truths

that we didnt want to hear.

who showed us that we werent

the only ones that cried

from the ache in our gut

as it caught the wind pain of the world

and ripped it from the mast of our comprehension.

the one who forced fear to be a 4 letter word

by pushing us into it.

who showed us a poet is a man, then a shaman.

our brother is dead.

 

the one who cracked the insanity?

that engulfed us from birth

and led us to discover

strength

in its ruins.

who worked under the darkness

In front a forge,

honing w/ his honesty

the edge we

needed to castrate the demons in our dreams.

our brother is dead.

 

the one who was a monk of the streets.

imprisoned in the monastery of the truths

he bit his shackled hands off

and escapade into death.

our brother is dead.

 

in the sunshine they found him.

bloody stumps beating the sky

tears furrowing skull

spittle in beard

words stuck to tongue

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

china coaster

 

I

 

the slant eye.

the whorl of the cunt.

the cantos

of the foreign

tongue wanderin across yr. ocean/mind.

nd it all began on the main deck

of a T-2 bound for Haifa

you were Ulysses and it was before the Great War in London.

 

II

 

(in the looking glass water of the being)

 

 

the wind

caught the seed

of yr. wanderlust

and held you.

you heard false remembrances of her heart

you held the hand of Kobe, Kowloon, Yokohama, Seattle, L.Beach

you adored the Goddess of Frisco,

like your sea daddy 15 years before.

you wondered if wandering would reward you

in yr. cold aloneness of the Great Northern Route.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

whores

 

 

 

                                introduction

 

 

 

 

in the broken pain of loneliness

they come to you

providing;

sex,

courage

escape.

into the neon strobe

of their protection

you

run.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

whores

 

 

 

 

 

fox

 

 

 

shes the prettiest whore in the bar.

she marries every night

and divorces

every morning.

if she takes a overnight she gets cat calls

and stares.

if she has a steady boy friend

the pretty boys,

the fighters,

the drunkards,

wishes she were free to fuck.

so in the beer bottle image of last

nights customers

the thin veneer of hope

in movie magazines

fingernail polish

and platform shoes

is shined

by the razor blade

formed

between the setting moon

and the rising sun.

 

 

 

 

whores

 

 

 

 

 

pearly

 

 

 

 

you met her when she was a kid.

she shouldve been home having crushes

on seniors,

but she wasnt.

you took a shine to her.

the shine in her sallow cheeks

and the youth in her tease

ceased when your lessons

filled her body and broke her cherry heart.

 

she crosses the street w/ red eyes and veil in hand.

its Saturday and you know she has just come from       church.

you ask her what the priest said.

pray.

and she leaves you a woman.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

whores

 

 

 

 

 

cita

 

 

 

 

she was the first in P.I.

and that is why it hurts.

you picked her up on the rebound

when her belly was 5 months big.

w/ yr. money she bought baby clothes, bottles

white and pink towels,

when her time came, she nearly died

and there was no man pacing the floor worrying

cause you were shacked, drunk and passed   out.

you talked of marriage

when drunk on pity chased with beer

but a hard on has no morals so you left.

a year latter you went back

to say hi and the belly was 3 months big.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

whores

 

 

 

50 Pesos

 

 

you put 50 pesos between her teats

and she looked insulted, like you didnt pay her bar      fine

and her room wasnt lined w/ names

and addresses of one nights husbands

who were always divorced the next morning.

 

you put 50 pesos between her teats

and she looked insulted, like her aunt didnt sell

her to Papasan and Papasan didnt beat her because

her boy friend put his drunken Marine head thru a

door because she didnt have hair on her pussy.

and you shut her calm voice out of yr. mind in the cool P.I. dawn.

 

you put 50 pesos between her teats

and she argued like a bitch because she

wanted to take you to the gate. she followed

you out in her robe, the money green against

the silken green of her night-robe. and you leave her

cryin real tears cheeks red w/ the

reflections of the dawn. and you leave

in  a cab w/ a junior engineer who raps about the

tanks. and you leave her for yr. stomach

turned, the whorl of love displaced the beer

and you didnt want to get burned again,

burned again in the cool P.I. dawn.

 

 

whores

 

 

 

ending in blue

 

 

you know you cant

hide

but you run anyway.

away

from when you played with the pressed

hopes of glances, lollipops, balloons and

Friday phone calls.

their profile was twisted

in the spring sun

by the Monday morning of

change

and they were past you before

you knew it.

 

you know you cant

hide

but you run anyway.

away

into the Mexican hat dance of

men hurting women

women hurting men..

you know you cant

hide from

howls of the wounded

in the battles of the heart.

 

 

 

 

Quasar*

                                                                                                                                                                                for Hal Hughes

 

 

 

 

when I read the poems

something in them,

in me,

lives.

lives

in the streets of Olangapo,

in the rats with big cigars,

in the beggars, thieves,

in the whores who feel me up

while I drink and laugh

and play the fool,

the gambler who has played his luck to the edge.

 

when I read the poems

something in them,

in me,

lives

in the final pot of the night,

the life and love of the poems.

 

forgive me,

i have played the fool,

the gambler who has played his luck to the edge

and lost.

 

   

*Quasar was anthology of poetry in published by Hal Hughes and Stephanie Mines. It was the authors first  publication

 

 

 

 

                        a love poem for the bottle     

 

 

 

 

 

you have been

a jaded

and scarred lover

in the nocturnal past.

 

you have been

the jagged curtain

between

the light of dawn

that was inside me

and the blackness

that was

beyond the Jackals.

the Whore House of Hell

was masked

w/ your redeeming

mouth juices.

let your soul be clean,

you said and

i was desperate

enough to believe you.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

the way back

 

 

For Gary Snyder

 

Forward

from a letter from Gary Snyder circa 1977

 

                                                               

 

 

i came back from the woods

no half pint of sweet red wine

in hip

pocket,

no 22                                                                                                      slung over my shoulder

for all those who love me,

including myself.

i came back

to

go

Forward.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

longing

 

                                                                                                                        for Betty B.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

i want you to lay yr

lovely waist

your flat back

into my belly

so that i can wrap my arms

around the shoulders

of your heart

and have you whisper

the secrets of yr. dreams

into my forearms

in the selfless

still

night.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

held

 

 

 

 

i fucked to be held,

she said as my eyes

seared her

nipples unprotected by

bra.

 

the sunset

of her smile

faded fast

bulwarking the ebbing

shame simmering her soul.

 

my groin became God

and caught my heart

before it stuttered,

i did to.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

south fork of the Yuba

 

 

                                                                                                                                to Gary Snyder

 

 

 

 

it must have been six years ago, in

the spring, when I went to look for

Lew south of the bridge by 100 feet. it

was on a boulder, in the warm sun, while i

was sitting that he startled me,  ranting from

the bushes, go for it kid. that rang as loud as his

ring of bone had rung 14

years before to this wet eyed wiper on

his first trip to Kobe. now, my

eyes still swell and my back goes prick when

i hear that ring in your voice resonating

with what is to be done, while

my son sits on my

back and shakes your finger.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

in Octobers light

 

                                                                                                for Jonah Merris

 

 

 

ive seen the face of God

too often

stuck in a granite valley

or in the

stretch back neck  red wood trees

or in the lines

of Snyder, Welch, Carver, Buke.

yet

never in the sunlight

as it twirls itself into my sons curls.

never in this October light as it paints itself

into place.

never.

never.

i wonder why i need something so dramatic

so grand

when the small, good things will

do.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

every other night

 

              To Beth B.

 

onetime she came over and

we talked on that spring lawn.

her voice stripped our winter silence

as fright flashed its vicious teeth

in her eyes.

she was a moan that

I couldnt hear.

 

that summer while drinking wine in Frisco

I remembered that lawn

and all I didnt listen to came back

came back,

like when I held his scars ache in her

while she held mine in me.

 

and now

i still mourn

that i wasnt there

to hold her

as i did when she needed me

as i needed her

every other night.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

stuck

 

 

 

 

 

it comes on it the 7^th evening stretch.

there she comes walking down the street

the kids in front of me sing it

like i did the first time i heard it,

waiting to be chosen

25 years ago on a playground in Illinois.

 

its like a song stuck in the hearts ear

always toe be sung over and over

always forgettin the same words

always feeling the same fears,

always waitin to be chosen

on a playground Illinois.

 

somewhere in

those little black berry stained hands

and frozen asphalt burned knees

lies the child still waiting

and this unnerves my self-damming din.

 he holds me

as we wait.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

far past the tide line

 

 

as TV body bags bulged

w/ both sides children

my jeans did

with both sides souls.

 

it was my anger

it was all my fear.

 

as napalm flamed neon skies

skinning my redden eyes

to its dark heart

Jagger cried,.. . Its just a kiss away in my ear.

 

it was my anger

it was all my fear.

 

as i watched a last crusade of hope

my parents noticed frightened and silent

as my dreams bore fruit in mud and breakfast in bed.

 

it was my anger

it was all my fear.

 

as i lay wake w/ night-sweats

remembering the nobility of my rage

and my cowardness

 

it was my anger

it was all my fear.

 

 

 

 

 

 

i still cant forget those who lived

and what is remembered of those

 who fought without and within.

 

it haunts me, haunts me

far past the tide line

of my youth.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

bar talk

       

 

to Cathy Merris-McNealy

 

 

sun setting in the breeze

kids need supper

wife in bed with cramps

taxes due by midnight.

the phone rang

the wife took it.

it was mom.

i could hear the Jackals laughing again

and my bones  knew it was  my sister.

 

the one who looked like an Indian princess in  Manhattan

before she returned to small town Illinois.

the one whose back broke

from stocking bars and working kitchens

in two different states for 20 years.

whose doc finally said nothing could be done,

just disability and dope.

whose tongue two weeks before

was so dope thick that

when she called me honey

i cried.

that one

had O.D.

and now was in withdrawal.

 

 

 

 

in the town of her birth

in the town of her mother's birth.

the town  of her grandmothers  birth and death

in the town  where her grand father

drank in sweating silent red brick streets and

danced other women in full moon snow still nights

while the Jackals of the Whorehouse of Death

circled laughing.

and now his granddaughter,

my sister ,

is looking in their eyes

to see if she wants their laughter

or her life.

   

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

this is for the one that you left in the morning

 a  long time ago: warm hands

 

 

                                                            for Marilyn

and what I was too scared to  let happen

 

 

 

i forgot the way i described her skull

"..a baby with night attached."

and how I warmed my hands

on her breasts

braless beneath her sweater on

those winter mornings.

i forgot how when she would laugh nd lean into me

my spine shuddered

poem to flesh.

 

i forgot how early that summer

she wrote that she was late.

a week later another came

everything was fine

and she was moving in with

 

i forgot after a fall in Kobe i came home for Christmas,

there was another from her

she was leaving  him

there was a number,

i never called.

 

 

 

i forgot her until yesterday when my boy told me

that a girl told another girl who told another girl who told him that the first girl liked him and what the heck should he do,

run or stay.

my hands

shuddered cold and i

muttered" warm your hands" at a light on

Telegraph and 51^st.

he looked at me like I had lost it.

and you know

he was right.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

miracle

 

 

                                                            for Ray Carver

 

 

 

sitting on the shitter

elbows on knees

looking at a caricature of Jarrell

it engulfs me,

gratitude.

what i failed to get

doesnt matter,

what i got  counts.

one day

five years

or twenty

Carver was

right,

its enough.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

for those who come next

 

 

 

 

listen to the waves

hopefully thru the din

of loved ones speech.

walk the wake and wonder

where we came from.

look thru the driftwood

and find pieces suitable

for a box, a bowl or a coffin for some unnamed pain.

sweep the cabin clean

and leave something for the next.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

self-flush

                                                           to Liza Dodd

 

I have stumbled over and

scrambled and traced

and tied down and

researched and retrofitted

enough misplaced and

mauled and skinned

shiny copper wires

to last a man

a life

time.

yet

still I go about making

my daily bread and

trying to forgive myself for

putting sweat and

thought and caring into

monkey-paws of

wires so that others may speak

instead of me.

i feel the October air, even

in late August, and

my heart and

mind and soul regrets

the copper spaghetti i have

laid and

how I didnt seem to

connect to you and

if i did, somehow i

didnt get an answer-back, and

this makes me feel like

the toilet I pee in

empty.

take

this as an apology for

not giving you what

is in me and

intern

not letting me

witness what is in

you.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Loosing

 

 

I have been loosing things lately

my wife

my boys

my home

my wallet

my heart

my mind- dont laugh too hard

or too long

you might find that

you have lost yours as well-

and sometimes even my soul.

but it didnt really worry me until I lost my Swiss army knife.

for some reason that startled

me, forced me

to be awake

to see that things i lost were lost thru holes.

holes in my pockets is how

i lost my knife

and holes in my life

is how I loose things.

some drunks have told me that loosing thru holes is a way

from separating wheat from the chaff,

that what is meant to be

stays,

no matter what.

and our job is to see what we can learn

from the loosing

from the keeping.

i know this might sound like bullshit

 

 

coming from mouths of drunks and junkies

but I have wiped the vomit from these same faces and have seen

God smiling

and  know it is not

and  know it is not.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

                                                                                                                               

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

valentine to an old romantic fool

 

 

 

 

 

 

i gave my ex her

valentine yesterday so to

day i think

i will give me

my best,

this ;

i love you,

you silly old bear

and am so

proud the  way

you have walked thru the

fire these past three years while

the Whorehouse of Hells Jackals hungered for your soul.

thank you

for your strength

to get down on your

knees every morning

and ask for

help

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

M.R. Merris b. Feb. 12, 1953. in Jacksonville Illinois. Started writing poetry in the 8^th grade as a class assignment where his first attempt earned a F. Started drinking at 13 and became a black out drinker by age 15 Shipped as merchant seamen for 2 years and then enlisted in USN. In the 80s, clean and sober, he returned to civilian life and lives in the S.F. bay area. Married late and became a father early he was divorced after 15 years. 6 months after he left the marriage he was laid off from his job of 15 years.  He was unemployed for two years. Currently gainfully employed he is currently working on book of stories titled Waving Goodbye.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

China Coaster Press                            Benicia CA