Goines On: †hank you Jesus

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Whenever Goines passed the “†hank you Jesus” sign in the front yard of his friend and neighbor who was an ordained Christian minister, he checked whether someone in the family had cleaned it yet. So far, over many months – maybe more than a year – they hadn’t done so. The accumulated dirt and grime on the sign had become as noticeable as the words beneath it, and Goines had often itched to bring some Clorox wipes on his walk to clean the sign, or just come back after a walk especially for the purpose. It would be easy to do, wouldn’t take a minute. He wasn’t sure why he hadn’t done it. Maybe because it would be trespassing, even if he was “doing them a favor.” Maybe they wanted the sign to be dirty?

All Over the Place: Freedom

By Michael H. Brownstein

[From an anecdote by Alexander Yakoulov, who tells of one of Stalin’s trains on the way to Siberia stopping very briefly at a crossing and leaving behind a litter of small scraps of paper full of addresses, names, and phone numbers]


I was there when the train stopped,
Vents open in the cardinal corners like scars
Or better — the pox mark left by a crucifixion.
The day was a solid blue, so pretty, beautiful.
I could not know what was soldered in behind
Sealed doors and steel curtained windows,
But I could see the litter of paper scraps like rain.
When the train left, I picked up as many as I could
Pretending to be the one in charge of cleaning platforms.
When you bend to work, it is easy to deceive.

The Loneliest Liberal: Mo...m

By James Knudsen

[Originally published on February 28, 2015.]

Two-thousand fourteen ended with my siblings and me officially joining the ranks of the orphans following the passing of our dad Mo. I commemorated the event by changing the wallpaper on my smart phone to a very “Mad Men” shot of dad that was taken at a studio. This was replaced after a month with a picture of Dad and Mom which remains to this day.

Goines On: Table thought

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Goines could tell that Mrs. Goines was thinking of something unpleasant during dinner. Between bites and chewing, her lips would twitch and quiver as though she were mouthing thoughts, but not mouthing them sufficiently for Goines to read. Both of the Goineses usually, and normally, occupied themselves during meals by thinking of this or that, occasionally breaking in to the other’s thoughts with an announcement of what they had just been thinking. “Do you remember when Nat told Gabriel in that restaurant that she could get Legionnaires’ Disease from eating the food?”

Fiction: Jaudon – An American Family (a novel) [16]

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Chapter 16. Gay Paree

Claude Jaudon and Joc DeSalle made the crossing from Liverpool, England, to Le Havre, France, on the good ship RMS Scythia. Le Havre was a busy port of entrée, with ships from every country on continental Europe in its harbor.
    Aboard ship, Joc had inquired where Claude was spending the night. Claude hadn’t given any thought to spending the night in Le Havre. He had planned to catch the train and sleep aboard it until Paris. With most hotels full, Joc offered to share his room with Claude. Claude gladly accepted and now they stood on the dock awaiting a carriage to take them and their baggage to the inn where Joc had reserved a room.

Father’s Art: Works of Billy Charles Duvall [1]

Detail from “October 1978”

Introductory

By André Duvall

With great respect and admiration, I am delighted to present the first in a series of posts sharing the artwork of my father, Billy Charles Duvall. Painting – primarily oil on canvas – has been one of his hobbies since 1978. A self-taught painter, he has had a lifelong interest in the work of artists from varied cultural backgrounds, and in reflecting their art in his own experiments with structural, artistic additions to his home, inside and out.

Sketches from the Twin Cities: Bloomington Haikus

Morning rounds

By Geoffrey Dean

[Composed in Bloomington, Illinois, this summer.]








bench in graying greens
greets at a corner bus-stop –
moss meets moisture here

Goines On: Side by side with Jesus

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Goines watched the birds cavorting around their feeders. He wanted so much to be one with them, their brother. In a flash, he saw that he was their brother – as much as it was possible to be. Because he loved them, cared for them. Cared about them. And in another flash, he saw that hunters, especially trophy hunters, were not – and could not become – at one with the animals they treated as objects. He remembered Kant’s categorical imperative.

All Over the Place: The Prince of War

By Michael H. Brownstein











My stomach full of casualties of war
Mango juice, pomegranates, Asian apples,
Sweat from carpet makers tethered to fabrics of goat.

Book Review: A Slipknot into Somewhere Else

Poet Michael H. Brownstein’s “Journey to the Borderlands of Dementia”

By Moristotle

A lot of books are easier to read and review than Michael H. Brownstein’s A Slipknot into Somewhere Else. Maybe most books. Some of the poems in this collection, on their first reading, seem to be only just begun and not yet fully formed or developed, as though an early draft had made it to press by mistake. But read them again.
    For that first impression of “undeveloped” is when the work of reading begins, and – if you enjoy the intellectual and emotional challenge of reading difficult poems whose author you trust – the pleasure of discovery also begins, not only of meanings and associations in the poet’s words, but also of depths and meanings in yourself. This review may be more a report of some of my experiences reading the book than a critical appraisal of it (that, fortunately for me, is one definition of “review”). Other readers will have their own experiences.

Goines On: When it isn’t a turtle

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On his early morning walk, Goines saw a newspaper headline on one of the driveways he passed. He bent down to rotate the bag so he could read it: “Mueller denies exoneration.” A shame – a shame! – Goines thought, to have a man in the White House so depraved and criminal as to completely drain the possibility of having respect even for the Office of the President while he occupied it.

Fiction: Jaudon – An American Family (a novel) [15]

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Chapter 15. The Deal

Ricardo entered the Wayfare Hotel. In a number of the leather chairs spread across the lobby sat men smoking cigars and reading newspapers. Most still had their coats on, as the lobby was chilly if you weren’t sitting near the large fireplace in the wall about halfway to the registration desk. A lone woman sat in one of the chairs with a baby. Ricardo guessed she might be waiting for her husband.
    To his right, on his way to the check-in desk, was the entrance to the bar. He glanced inside, hoping to spot J.F. Jaudon. He was disappointed not to see him, but he knew that he would be along sooner or later.

Goines On: Miracle in Paris

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When Goines was in Paris in April, he witnessed – and was even able to access his camera in time to photograph – a miracle so powerful that he had, in the ensuing months, once or twice considered going to church again.

Interview: Tiffany McLemore on the road advocating

What it takes to knock on a stranger’s door

Interviewed by Moristotle

I met Tiffany McLemore when she knocked on our door to look into advising us on our health insurance. She came in person rather than telephone because I had indicated (falsely) on the postcard I’d mailed back “for information” that we had “no phone” – my reason of course being that I didn’t want a telephone call. I was actually expecting an email, if anything. Certainly not for someone to knock on my door.
    But there she was, smiling, friendly, open, kind. I felt as though I could open up to her, so I confessed that the only reason I had for mailing back that post card inquiring about our health insurance was to see whether I could get one of the promised Walmart gift cards. I was struck by the ease with which she said to my wife, who was standing beside me: “He’s a funny guy.” My wife didn’t disagree.
    I think that the knock probably says a lot about Ms. McLemore. So I emailed the address on her business card later and asked her whether she would like to do an interview. Graciously, she said yes. My questions are in italics.

Goines On: About face

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The dream Goines had just awakened from was still vivid. A maga-church had opened in town. A broad neon sign beneath its curious, presidential cross – presidential because the top of the cross’s vertical was missing – blazed the name, “Church of the iMAGAlate Conception.” A cavalcade of black SUVs paraded around the packed, many-acre parking lot and came to a halt when the second vehicle was abreast the main entry walk. President Donald Triump stepped out and only nodded at the thousands of parishioners craning their necks for a look, for a meeting of their eyes with the eyes of their hero. Their disappointment was audible as the President made his way solemnly to the entrance and to the podium facing the 2,000 occupied chairs of the auditorium.

All Over the Place: A Spirit of Water

By Michael H. Brownstein



I step into the hot tub
Slip into three sidestroke laps in the pool
Enter the sauna and steam room
Fall into my father

Poetry & Portraits: River

Drawing by Susan C. Price

River
By Eric Meub

[Originally published on February 8, 2014]

An unexpected gust puffs flames into
the candles, blowing suns across the glow
of water. Flashes let the waves slip through
like fabric over muscles in the flow.

Goines On: Oak weeds & Queen Ivanka

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Mrs. Goines broke in on Goines’ reverie with, “Here’s another little oak tree I’m going to leave. We’ll see what comes of it.”
    Goines wondered whether Trump would still be dictator when the tree was 20 feet tall. “Trump won’t still be alive then,” Mrs. Goines said.

Fiction: Jaudon – An American Family (a novel) [14]

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Chapter 14. On Board

Claude rolled off of the large-busted German woman he had met the second day out to sea. Hana was married to a railroad tycoon, who had stayed in New York City.
    Both Claude and Hana were fighting to breathe. She was in her early to mid-forties, nice to look at, with the largest breasts that Claude had ever had the pleasure to wrestle with. He had found while still in college that an older woman made a much better bed partner. They had no expectations or drama. They were there for the same reason he was. And when it was over they would go their separate ways, until next time.

Interview: Poet Michael H. Brownstein

Who are you & what do you think you’re doing?

Interviewed by Moristotle

Poet Michael H. Brownstein came to my attention by way of an email a little over three months ago: “Bob Boldt told me about your site…How can I submit poetry?” I told him, he submitted, I invited him to join the staff, he accepted, and less than two weeks later his first submission appeared here, in his column, “All Over the Place,” followed by another poem every Sunday since.

Goines On: P-M-U-R-T

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Goines jerked awake, cold and shivering, drenched in sweaty T‑shirt, from as horrific a nightmare as had ever afflicted him. Goines had been driving, and he shuddered now remembering looking in the rear-view mirror and seeing the nose of a pickup truck with five legible red letters, as though he were seeing them through the windshield of his vehicle and about to collide head-on with them. The letters must have been affixed in reverse on the hood behind, like E-C-N-A-L-U-B-M-A on an emergency rescue vehicle.

All Over the Place: Heaven’s Earth

By Michael H. Brownstein

The three women have been married to the same men for thirty years

And still the touch of their husbands brings a shiver of delight.

It’s like ice cream, the way it melts in your mouth and satisfies a craving,

The way a cold headache is both bothersome and necessary,
The way birth of a child is the most important thing in the world

After love and forever affection of a husband coming home from work,

His hands callused, his nails dirty, but his face the stars from heaven to earth.

Copyright © 2019 by Michael H. Brownstein Michael H. Brownstein’s latest volume of poetry, A Slipknot Into Somewhere Else, was published by Cholla Needles Press in 2018.

Mary’s Voice: Posthumously Speaking 14

(8" x 10" canvas board)

“Barn on a Bluff” revisited

By Mary Alice Condley (1925-2007)

[Editor’s Note: We are grateful to Billy Charles Duvall for sharing this painting by my sister Mary Alice Condley, and grateful to his son, Columnist André Duvall, for spotting an earlier painting of a similar scene, which we posted as “Posthumously speaking 5” on October 14, 2014, and identified as “‘Barn on a Bluff,’ 1970s (12" x 16").” Billy’s painting is quite a bit smaller.]

Goines On: Goines’ last day

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On the last day of Goines’ life....Goines wondered how that sentence – that paragraph – would end. What would he have done (or be going to do) on that day? And it could be any day.

Fiction: Jaudon – An American Family (a novel) [13]

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Chapter 13. Oil

Ricardo sat on a small trunk with a suitcase next to him. Everything that he owned in the world was waiting to be put on a train and ride with him into exile.
    The buggy stopped and the driver got off to help load the trunk. Once everything was tied down, the driver popped the whip, and the life of Ricky Rodrigo stopped and the life of Ricardo Rodrigo began again.

Roger’s Reality: Lord of Storms

By Roger Owens

Tuesday, September 3, 2019. We see the reports that a storm is coming. We saw them as far back as last Wednesday. This is not unusual in Florida. It is so not unusual that it is hardly, no pun intended, a blip on our radar. It follows one of the most common tracks, coming off the West African coast somewhere northwest of the Bight of Benin, the name of which I, personally, have always found romantic, dangerous, adventurous; a name from novels of wooden ships, pirates, and slave traders. It crosses the Atlantic, glacially gathering strength like a boxer lifting weights, determined to bulk up for a fight far in the future. It creeps into the southwestern Caribbean, and our consciousness, like news reports of a string of grisly ax murders in a nearby town, disturbing but not personally threatening. Yet. It makes our stomachs tighten up a little, but we are not currently ready to allow it to affect our monotonous daily existences.

Goines On: The intelligence of a persimmon tree

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Three more green, 2-inch persimmons had fallen during the night. Goines wasn’t keeping count of the fruits he saw on the ground below the bird feeders most mornings. The first to fall, weeks ago, had been less than an inch in diameter, maybe about half an inch. And they had gradually become larger and larger. Dozens had to have fallen by now. Maybe more than 50.
    Goines hadn’t yet counted the fruit remaining on the tree, a count of the number of persimmons that might make it to harvest – in October or November. Such a count would decrease as the tree continued to shed its excess weight. For that was what the tree was doing, according to Mrs. Goines: protecting itself from a limb-breaking accumulation of heavier and heavier persimmons. How did the tree know to do that? Goines wondered. It was wondrous strange.

Copyright © 2019 by Moristotle

All Over the Place: Frost in a Time of Conflict

By Michael H. Brownstein










The ice storm begins in the heart
quietly waking its way to the outer limits of toe and finger.
Without a hat, ears soon
fear the crush of heavy cold, breathing
an act of war, breath
an air raid of snow squalls, large chunks of hail, frozen rain.
Is this the hell of the ancient Norse?
Somehow the vapor surrounding us
a napalm attack of frostbitten knives into eyeball and flesh.