Name My Nose

If you are like most people you think of poetry as an ancient art, one which only touches modern life glancingly. You learn a few poems in "high" school, you learn to "appreciate" that certain Paul McCartney lyrics are poetic, that Poetic Metaphors "Exist". That, e.g., Yellow Submarines are Poetic Metaphors for something or other, probably having to do with erotic uses of certain products of bladders or other organs of the human body.

How WRONG you are, BUNKY! Poetry is everywhere around you - and if you have not yet recognized it, then when it impinges upon you it WILL take over. That's right: YOU are a poetry slave. YOU, sir or madam, adult or munchkin, YOU eat words, whether you know it or not.

So... knowing how beloved I am, there is no doubt in my mind that you, my beloved Reader and Much Appreciated Fan, can recall, without even being reminded, that sometime in oh somewhere around late 1995 I was elected to be the StreetLife Gallery Artist of the Month. And you were all there, weren't you? You were there and you saw that to the above right of my display was an emergency light labeled "Enlightenment", signed and copyrighted by me and priced at a hundred dollars "As Is".

The theory was, if anyone paid the hundred bucks for the light, I would take the cash and then tell them that they'd got it "as is", i.e. attached to the wall there, forever.

Well, nobody ever bought those emergency lights. But now I have a far more attractive offer in the same vein. And I also hope it will be poetically instructive to you, by resonating Socratically with your Native Verbalescent Soul.

For just ONE dollar, YOU can name a body part of mine. Almost any body part you choose. You can't name my liver, because Timothy "Neo-Greek Editor God" Harris has already paid one dollar to name it "Intrepid". You can't name my left shoulder, because Ruth (A. Fox) has already claimed it as Moe, acquaintance to Larry and Curly.

A certain significant other, who shall be nameless, a Ms. Anitra "She who also eats raw eggs" Freeman, has placed dibs on the externally situated organ formerly known as "Raoul". (I'm sure you know of which I speak.) And as I write this I am engaged in hot negotiations concerning my nose and Church-of-Mary-Magdalene Cathy.

It occurs to me here that some of you may have missed the part about this being poetry. PAY ATTENTION now! That is exactly what this is! I am (1) selling my body, and (2) - simultaneously! - doing poetry - ALL AT ONCE!

How is this possible, you ask? The answer is: LOW OVERHEAD!! My organs and appendages were formed at birth, thanks to genes and hormones provided AT VERY LITTLE COST to me, or to my immediate ancestors or progeny. But because I possess speech, I am able to sell you the very callous upon which I tread (on my right foot, still unclaimed).

Important: This offer is made for a limited time only, and is strictly limited to available stock. No rainchecks will be provided. Prices are subject to change without notice. Offer void where prohibited by law.

Speaking of the ubiquity of poetry, I recently provoked a friend to such an extent that she whipped her bra off and flung it at me. Witnessing this event was the aforementioned fellow editor Ruth (A. Fox), who immediately told my friend not to expect me to give her bra back, as I (quoting Ruth) "have no boundaries" (!)

This called to mind one of my favorite modern poems of all time, the one by Gloria Steinem which goes "A woman needs a man like a fish needs a bicycle." Sort of an analogy-ku. The variation that sprang to mind was something on the order of "expecting me to have boundaries is like expecting a ferret to have a shell." This in turn recalled the opening lines in my "Campsite on Fern Hill" which went, "Now as I am old and stiff... and happy as the grass is red."

It occurs to me that those of you readers looking for ways to get your modern poetic juices flowing might want to try cranking out a few analogy-kus of your own. But I would never suggest such a technique without first trying it out on a willing subject. Fortunately a willing subject is nearby, namely Ms. Freeman. Here are a couple of the results of her application of my new exercise.

"You (speaking to her computer) can be usefully recycled into a lot of coffee cups!"

"Expecting me to come up with analogy-kus after I have been up all night yelling at my computer is... like... totally ridiculous."

Well, I think that shows what an astoundingly good exercise I have come up with here. It evidently stimulates one's writing creativity as well as being hit in the face with a bra, and I can now recommend it as heartily as I recommend chewing steel wool.

Which reminds me to remind all of you that next month's issue of the Real Change is to be our 1998 Food Issue, and yours truly has been tapped to be the judge in the Street Recipe Contest. Got a killer back alley recipe for pigeon? A very special way to fix Dinty Moore Stew without a stove? A better idea for using those common dumpster finds? Send it to us by the third week of May and you might be a winner!

Cindy, Ancient Muse of Other

Here it is, production week at the Real Change. As always, I'm staring at an otherwise blank document with just the words "insert column here" at the top. For some reason those three words usually get me going. But not this month. Time to call upon my lovely and talented muse Cindy, the ancient Muse of Other, AKA Muse of Few Words. As soon as I do, there she is behind me licking what's left of a Hershey's Special Dark from her fingertips, looking over my shoulder as I type.

"So... that's it so far. One paragraph," she says with a sigh. I hear the disappointment in her voice and wonder what she's thinking. Old abandonment issues well up within me. What would I do without a muse? She's leaving me for another editorial board member... I thought... yeah, that's it... probably that Michele "let's find new writers" Marchand. Curse her!. "Too inbred", indeed!.

But Cindy ignores my anxiety fit and just says, "OK, I'll walk you through it. First: you need a poem -- right here." (She points at the next patch of blank space.) What about? "The Real Change wants submissions from new writers." Oh yeah, I knew that...

Make a Change!

Or, Hey Look! I Got a New Rhyming Dictionary!

by © Dr. Wes Browning

Steak and eggs every morning?

Steak and rice every noon?

Steak and beans every dinner? -

Then drive a stake, please, through me soon.

Thank God I'm not the only poet that writes within these pages,

for, maybe not right now, but in time you know, by stages,

if I was I'm sure that I'd even cause myself to sicken.

(While surely others all around me would immediately be stricken.)

But its not only poetry or steaks that we're talking about,

those were hypothetical examples.

Don't make me yell and shout it out,

send us your prose and journalistic samples...

"OK, maybe you should leave that now and go on to something else."

But I haven't worked the title in, that was going to be the big refrain, you know - write for the Real Change, let your story make a change! -heh.

"Um-hmm, and you should let your column make a change right now."

Oh, I see what you're saying. You're saying I should bail out of the poem with one of those all-weather non-sequiturs. Sure, people can reread the title, great.

So, speaking of change, how about these lengthening days? And what's with this El Niño business? Is the new millennium marking the end of the world as we know it? Are we all going to be globally-warmed like a collective poodle in a microwave until we all explode and there's no one left to clean up the mess?

"More focus." And what in our daily experience is more focused than a microwave oven, one could ask. "Focus on one change."

One of the latest popular causes on the poverty front as reported from Oregon is that of public funding for doctor assisted suicides by the indigent, wherever doctor assisted suicides are allowed at all.

"Otherwise only the economically advantaged can end their lives with dignity, etc. We must make this service available to all, etc."

I can't resist comment.

I know that assisted suicides are a fine art (as are hangings, they tell me) and that they take a lot of preparation and time. But they have got to be cheaper than extended stays in hospitals hooked up to respirators and IVs and heart-pumps and whatever else's been invented lately. All of which are after all just as sophisticated as killing someone neatly and painlessly. And many of those life-extending technologies are already covered in part by public funding, with the result of being serious drains on public funds, at least in the view of a great many people, including many policy-makers, and many voters.

Does that sound like an important concern? It's just a caution. I don't want to end up having more access to assisted suicide than the rich simply to save them money.

How was that for focus? "Too essayish." So I'll just have to rewrite it, then? "Or you could just add a Limerick. That might be fun."

The One That Got Away

A Limerick I'm sure would be fun,

But I know the one here will not be the one

'cause the one I know will

is that one about Bill -

and Monica, et al, that I haven't begun.

Mmm, Grovel

I have sunk to the lowest depths of depravity. For each new fix I crawl and I grovel, I beg and I plead, I crawl and I grovel. I am no longer a man, I am a receptacle for one and only one need, a need that grows stronger each and every time it is satisfied, a creeping vine choking my humanity to death. So, for that reason, I crawl and I grovel... (hey... I'm really starting to like this word "grovel"!) I can barely write these words, except for the grovel word, as my fingers ache to reach for the one thing that can relieve me of the agony I am feeling.

But I must write! I must expose the one who did this to me, so that others might not fall prey to his evil snare. So that others might not have to crawl or grovel. Unless they wanted to. Oh, I am sure there are those who like to grovel. Yes, I read the Stranger. But I am likewise as sure that the vast majority of us only like to talk about it and don't like to do it. ("It" referring to groveling, of course.)

Now where was I? See how I've become!? This is starting to affect my memory! And it's all the fault of RC Director Tim "The Pusher Man" Harris, who knew what would happen if he installed SimCity™ on this computer.

There is no escape from it. Everywhere I go its hooks pierce my eyes:

Piercing Hooks,

by © Dr. Wes Browning

Luxury houses, apartment buildings,

factories, cars, condominiums.

Bus depots, railroad tracks,

or any number of stadiums.

Everywhere that I turn, they turn as well to face me.

With evil malice do they grab me pull me & then do place me

in front of this computer screen...

My soul screams "Please, no more!

My derriere is sore!"

- whence I run out the door.

Only to be greeted once again

by schools and police stations,

and houses (under construction),

and hospitals and seaport cranes

and airport hangars and aero-planes,

- and all else that there are in major cities

like libraries, parks, musea, and univers'ties -

sights which grab my heart and would rip me apart,

if I didn't return to this computer screen,

there to build yet more SimCities™.

Speaking of diversions, I have been listening to the news lately, that is, when I haven't been in the office indulging. Now I have no intention of abusing the privilege of this scribbling outlet by using it as a soapbox to present my own political views unrelated to issues involving the mission of the Real Change. However, current events have compelled my thoughts to dwell upon a certain incident in my homeless past which might possibly be seen as representing an allegory relating to who-knows-what is going on, but is in fact really about nothing at all of the kind , so don't anybody get their hackles up, thanks.

So anyway, I was homeless, as I just said, or maybe (I don't remember actually - blame TH) I wasn't homeless but just looked like I was. I was walking west on NE 47th through the Fraternity District. A gentleman was standing alongside the sidewalk there, speaking to two other people. He was college-age, about 2 inches taller than myself, 50 pounds heavier (I was thin from malnutrition), looking like a jock. He could have been on the swimming team. He was in so much better shape than I was at the time that he could easily have killed me within minutes, if we had to fight.

All the more reason that I was astonished that he would threaten to kick my ass as I passed by, saying "I'm sick of having to look at you people". It wasn't as though I could have threatened him in any way.

In fact, I had just before that merely glanced his way and given him a faint smile and a nod.

Well, I'd been a cab driver for five years by then, so without even thinking, I flipped the SOB off and kept walking. I knew immediately that such defiance was foolish but I couldn't help it, it was a reflex, a habit, from years of receiving abuse and formulating answers to it.

He followed me for two blocks yelling and threatening to beat me up for having given him the finger, while at least a dozen students watched and said and did nothing to stop him. Finally I came across a large rock next to the sidewalk, picked it up and turned to face him. Since no one else was going to defend me, I prepared to do it myself.

I was shaking, sure that this time I was going to end up in traction at least.

At which point he demanded that I drop the "weapon" and that I stop threatening him!

Needless to say, his appeal to me to disarm was totally ineffective.

Playing Catch-up

I was alarmed recently when I realized that not only had I not written a poem in two months, but that my Opus 1 ("The Unfinished Poem") had fallen seriously behind schedule, and that if it wasn't brought back on line soon, cost overruns could be expected.

Opus 1, some of you may recall, is a five verse poem scheduled for completion in 1999. Its manifold fiveness is intended to point to the condition of humanity, which is symbolized by the number five, the sum of the female two and the male three, or maybe the other way around.

At any rate we have only seen, so far, versions 1.0 and 2.0. Version 3.0 is six months late and 2.0 was never even properly debugged, so

it is with some apology that I am led to unveil

O Boy O Boy O Boy O Boy O Boy

or Opus 1, The Still Unfinished Poem,

(Version 3.5)

Check comes each month from the SSA -

Get to eat a cheeseburger ev-ree day!

O Boy! O Boy!! O Boy! O Boy! O Boy!!

Church down the street wants to save my soul -

It's wiener stew! In a big green bowl!

O Boy! O Boy!! O Boy! O Boy! O Boy!!

Farmers gotta have their produce sold -

So my Stamps can buy it (if it's cold)!

O Boy! O Boy!! O Boy! O Boy! O Boy!!

Food banks dispense the surpluses -

etc.

O Boy! etc.

Speaking of Food Stamps, I don't have any at the moment. This is the normal state of affairs at the end of every month, for all recipients of Food Stamps, because the US Government has determined that Americans eat too much, and therefore makes sure that everyone on Food Stamps gets just exactly enough for two and a half weeks and no more. "It's important that our poor people set a good example for the rest of our citizens", said one unnamed source, recently.

Ok, I said it. But you know that's how they think.

One consequence of the end of the month shortage of Food Stamps is a corresponding shortage of spare change throughout the land. For as all recipients are aware, the law permits ninety-nine cents worth of change per day in Food Stamp transactions. (Thus the Food Stamp Program also subsidizes the shoelace industry about half of each month.)

Of course it is only an apparent shortage of spare change, as the panhandler's success reveals. This speaks to yet another aspect of the concept change - sometimes I have the change, then times change, and Sam or Wally has it.

Change, Change, Who Has the Change?

- A Poem Cantabile.

Change, change, who has the change?

If I don't get any soon,

I'll get even more strange.

I'll punch at the air and holler and swear,

I'll smash all the clocks and swallow my socks,

I'll get on a stage and I'll rant and I'll rage,

I'll act like a goon, I'll play the bassoon -

if I don't get any soon.

Change, change, who has the change?

If none comes my way,

My brains will derange.

I'll think wild thoughts of government plots,

I'll watch TV and believe whatever I see,

I'll make up new "facts" and spread them with tracts,

There's nothing I wouldn't say by the end of the day -

if none comes my way.

If you are one of the Sams or Wallys near the end of February, and you've read this far, you might be especially interested in the Dead Poets' Slam scheduled at the OK Hotel on the evening of Wednesday the 25th. I will be one of the live poets in attendance, as I perform haiku and low-ku, in competition with Portland's 1997 Haiku Slam winner. Come for that, or come for the Dead Poets, but whatever you do come and bring that change with you.

Dear Poetry Editor

Many people seem to have gotten the impression that yours truly must be the poetry editor for the Real Change. They write letters to me that begin "Dear Poetry Editor" and ask me to please see that their latest septina or paean to the changing seasons or a pantoum they wrote in college gets printed in the Real Change. They usually ending with "sincere thanks", or an equivalent.

In fact the other editors won't let me be poetry editor. For example Anitra Freeman, on whose kitchen floor I have slept, says to the idea: "Yeah, right." Similarly Stan Burriss, editor and poet who frequents these pages, has responded with: "not in this life, buddy". The only such role the editorial board has seriously considered offering to me is that of "bad writing editor", making me Keeper of the Round File, based on my demonstrated proficiency in the genre.

I was reflecting on all of this recently, oh about half an hour ago, right after I noticed that I had a column to write by the morning and the bars were all closed. It occurred to me that we all write badly at times but that not all of us are able to be truly awful on a regular basis.

Or are we? Is there, out there in the world, on the streets - you know, apart from this office - a vast untapped potential for bad writing that we weren't aware of?

After all, it's a matter of will rather than talent. Is the will there?,

This inspired the following brief unscientific quiz intended to flush out the will to write badly.

Bad Writing Quiz

1. Choose the statement that seems most accurate.

a) In order to begin writing, the tunes have to be so cranked up you can't hear yourself think.

b) You have to ply yourself with liquor (or chocolate, or whatever) first.

c) You never remember starting to write. You just wake up in a ditch in Tukwila next to a manuscript. The manuscript is in your own handwriting.

d) You have never even seen your writing. Your writing personality refuses to share his/her memories or thoughts with your normal personality.

e) Other ____.

2. You have written (check all that apply): * a love sonnet, * a sex sonnet, * an S&M sonnet, * a stalking sonnet, * a free-love sonnet (with extra lines), * all of the preceding.

3. Which best expresses your attitude toward rhyme in poetry?

a) It happens. Get over it. Get on with your life.

b) Poets who never rhyme are state enemies. They seek to rip apart the our country's social and moral fabric.

c) Poets who always rhyme lines are fascists.

d) Other ___.

4. For the purpose of this question, imagine that you belong to a writers' workshop, whether you do or not. Which would characterize your involvement?

a) You would facilitate the meetings.

b) You would dominate the meetings.

c) As soon as the meetings start you would go to the bathroom, you would go to the bathroom and not come out until it was over.

d) Other ___.

5. When you speak you find that (choose one):

a) people hear you but don't listen.

b) people want to jot down every word, to cherish your words forever.

c) people leave the room.

d) None of the above. You don't notice what other people do.

e) All of the above.

Quick and easy scoring: If you answered "other" or "all of the above" in almost every case, you not only are capable of writing badly all the time, but you probably would prefer to, and all you need is to find somebody to print your stuff. Good luck!

Prolonged painful agonizing scoring: mail your answers to me, Dr. Wes Browning, at 2129 2nd Ave. Seattle, WA, 98121, , and, down the road, when I can't think of anything else to write about, I may evaluate your quiz in excruciating depth and print my conclusions. So be sure to include your full legal name, address, phone number and hope I don't use it.

Search Me

Lately, Dylan's been saying, "The sun is beginning to shine on me... but it's not like the sun... that used to be..." Well, there, that's right. For one thing, the Union Gospel Mission is in the way.

The good news is I'm newly housed. The bad news is that that's the backside (not round enough) of the Mission out my window. Or, if I really crane my neck, I can gaze upon the building that was tallest west of the Mississippi back when Smith-Corona meant something besides "what, you don't use computers?" Back when cotton was King and papyrus ruled Middle-Earth.

So one minute you're poor and homeless, next minute you're just as poor as ever, but you're peeling it out for rent in the Old Quarter, the Altstadt. You're living in the perpetual Pioneer Day Festival. Because you desperately need a change in your life and even this is an improvement. Even if it means starving. That much less money per month for food.

As I write this at a Mac in Word 6.0, my words are automatically saved by a stupid - idiotic - moronic- imbecilic - brainless machine every five minutes. Odd, because it takes five minutes to write five words. So - what's the rush?

Are you hearing the poetry? Do I sound ungrateful? Lean in closer...

Opus Take a Number, and Sit Down and Wait!

or, No, Not You! The Poem.

Want to know what's great?

Being homeless a while!

Then you get a section eight!*

It makes you smile...

There's nothing better!

Oh, yeah... it takes a year -

You pray for good weather,

Drink lots of beer...

and stay out of sight,

cause cops got the power

to harass you all night

at any hour

because you exist.

It's the LAW!

[*: Section 8 = Government subsidised housing.]

Let me now prosaically explain all that for the poetically impaired. Yes, you can get subsidized housing, but, depending on your circumstances, you may have to wait anywhere from six months to eighteen for it. Meanwhile you can have no housing at all to speak of, or you will lose your eligibilty. And during the time that you have no housing to speak of, the police will take exception to every breath you take.

Speaking of police harassment: - so I was going out the Speakeasy Cafe the other day, after checking my e-mail (you know how I have to check my e-mail everyday, because I get so much...) Well - I decided to take the back (alley) exit, in order to evade my many beloved but occasionally inconvenient fans. That was my first mistake.

My second mistake was looking homeless. Until recently I have cultivated the look of a graduate student. But I just couldn't pass up the offer of a free army-brown jacket with detachable lining. It isn't really an army jacket but at ten feet you'd think it was, so now I look like a Vietnam period Vet, and those Vets are all homeless, right?

My third mistake was suddenly realising that there was a splinter in my shoe. Right out the door, still in the alley. I should not have done that. That realisation in itself may have been an actual illegal criminal act. I took off my shoe as a result of that realisation, fished out the splinter and tossed it aside.

Suddenly, I was surrounded by two bicycling police-women (I am not making any of this up) asking me questions like "Did you just find a rock in your shoe?" and "Yeah, right, are you sure it wasn't a needle?" and "You know, we find that a lot of drug addicts keep their fixings in their shoes and take them out in alleys. You weren't doing that, were you?" - said one of them, facetiously.

"No" I said.

"Is that so?" they said, not believing me.

Like it mattered whether they believed me or not. I had committed no crime. I had not even been seen doing anything suspicious. Taking something out of one's shoe isn't, in reality, a suspicious act, unless the one doing the suspecting is an SPD officer who doesn't know anymore what's suspicious and what isn't.

Normally the police would not explain their own bizarre behavior. But these women must have been new. After they finished searching me, and after finding no drug paraphenalia on me (because I don't do drugs) they acted embarrassed and apologetic. One of them said "you know, we have to do this, because the businesses around here have been complaining so much, you know..."

I said nothing. I looked at her badge and knew from past experience not to respond. A response gets you a kick in the ribs, and you're black and blue for weeks. (Are you reading this, Norm Stamper? Let me know. Please. I get very little feedback. Thanks.)

She read my silence as disapproval. I said "I don't care what the businesses complain about, I don't do drugs, so why do I have to be detained and searched?"

She then asked me if I was homeless, and when I admitted that I was, she said, "well, see?

that's the problem, isn't it?"

Right.

You, who are reading this - you are next.

Me For Mayor

If you are reading this paper close to the beginning of the month, and if you've been paying attention, you may know that Seattle is about to choose a new mayor.

I myself discovered this fact just last week. Here's how it came to my attention: I was just minding my own business, using the computer to make joke pictures of Tim Harris, our Director. With my back thus turned, he and our production manager were discussing who the Real Change ought to endorse for mayor. They were both certain that there was no way we could endorse either of the two official candidates, so that we would have to endorse a write-in.

Who should we pick? Well, lets see, they thought , who's not here? Why, Dr. Wes can do it! Dr. Wes will do anything! And the next time they spoke to me they said I'd have about 600 words for that wire service article and oh, by the way, we'll be running you for mayor hope you don't mind. Mayor of what? -- I asked, naturally. Of Seattle, they said.

Now I am told that this means I have to have a platform. We're sure you'll come up with something, they say. OK, well then here is my platform. These are my solemn promises to you the Seattle citizen should I be elected mayor.

1. If you have a complaint I will actually meet with you and hear it, once or twice. Maybe. If I feel like it. Lately I've had a cold.

2. I will cash my paychecks promptly and without complaint.

3. I will not maintain a house in a foreign country. Or, if I do, I will not spend much time there.

4. I will create a photocopy of my butt on Mayor's office stationary and send it to the City Attorney's office, and I will include an attachment to the effect that it is the view of the new mayor that the City Attorney's face is not a sidewalk.

5. Just for a hoot, I will propose laws designed to restrict the hours that homeful people can be on downtown streets. When people object, I will say, "Well, they have homes to go to, don't they? So why should we have to look at them?" When people still object I will laugh insanely and lock myself in my office for days.

6. When downtown businesses offer money to get their way with City Hall, I will politely decline it, reminding them that the City's policies are to be determined by its citizens at large and are not on an auction block.

7. Inauguration day: beer and pizza for all!

My slogan: "Let the vegetarians feed first. Then, while they're at it, we'll move in!"

Speaking of moving in, Operation Nightwatch and friends got out at 3am on the 24th for their annual count of Seattle's homeless.

As usual they only counted those who'd passed out in Seattle's "living room".

Don't get me wrong, I'm not complaining. I know that the Count is important and supplies a lot of useful information. For example say I want to camp in the Pioneer Square area. Consulting the tables I find that 77 of the 108 street people found there on the night of the 24th were either in public parks or under roads or bridges. Not one was found in a parking garage. So for a quiet restful night's sleep I should head for a parking garage, that's where the privacy is.

But, seriously, I won't be sleeping in Pioneer Square at all, because I don't want to be anywhere that I can be so easily spotted. By Operation Nightwatch, by the police, by thieves, or by anyone else.

When I have slept outdoors, I have always done so outside of the areas that are included in the count, because they get too much traffic, and I have made myself as invisible as possible. So invisible that I don't believe I could ever have been found by anyone who failed to trip over me. And that's the way most of the homeless people I know go about it.

But precisely because we make ourselves invisible we are never counted. The public sees only those who either don't care about their own privacy or who are in no condition to hide themselves effectively.