Prose Poem: Peter Baker turns to brick making

 

There's a brickyard outside

of Reston, Virginia.

I go there sometimes to watch

the workers make bricks by hand.

 

They slosh the red clay mud

around in rough wooden troughs

before pouring it from buckets 

into wooden molds that dry 

in the sun. For many weeks.

They do peaceful, quiet, steady work.

Mostly older men in faded overalls.

But one day there was a man

in a grey pinstripe business suit.

Sloshing the clay mud around.

His face was round and contented.

I decided he must be a famous person.

Who gave up the hurly-burly of fame

to make red clay bricks

to build homes and libraries

and courthouses.

"Do brick makers get paid well?"

I asked the guy loitering next to me.

"I suppose so" he replied.

"They all drive Volvos."

At the end of the work day

I followed the man in the suit

to his Volvo and then followed

him home.

Past fields of bright green grass

that looked spray-painted.

He pulled up a gravel drive

to a wonderful old house

hidden amidst chinaberry trees.

I pushed the buzzer at the gate.

"Who lives here?" I demanded.

"Peter Baker" came the scratchy reply.

"The reporter? Why is he making bricks?"

I asked in confusion.

"He wants closure"

replied a different voice,

equally tinny and scratchy.

I got back in my car and drove away.

There were no clear answers here.

My curiosity bubbled over.

But I figured every person

has a right to their privacy

and I had a duty to mind

my own business. 

So I went home to look in a book

where I remembered reading

that Winston Churchill joined

the English bricklayers union 

but was ousted because of his

conservative views.

 

From which I concluded

that great men build alike.

 

 

Prose Poem: Fried Cheese Curds from Amanda Hess.

 

In Wisconsin they have fried cheese curds.

With a conniving oily sour taste.

Every county fair has 'em.

I lived off 'em all summer long.

As a feral child.

 

I was abandoned by my parents

while we were in Green Bay

during the big game.

They told me to go get a Coke

and when I came back they were gone.

 

 That's the story I told Amanda Hess

one night at a party in Oshkosh.

I don't think she believed me. 

But every Xmas since then

she sends me a box of fried cheese curds.

 

I hear she's a reporter out East.

That she lives in a house 

that's floats over the Hudson,

held up by a blimp.

And she never uses the same pencil twice.

 

Me, I repair bent tokens

for the Milwaukee Transit Company.

I never met anyone as interesting

or as compassionate as Amanda Hess --

before or since.

 

If you're ever out East 

and meet her, you might

tell her that the shipped

fried cheese curds she sends

me always get stolen

off my front porch nowadays.

Prose Poem: Travis M. Andrews, meet the REAL Jeff Goldblum!

 

It's not that I have anything against

the reporter Travis M. Andrews.

I don't. I read his stuff all the time

in the Washington Post.

 

But I have to say I was put out

when he published his book

about Jeff Goldblum.

Without talking to me.

 

Because, you see, I am 

the real Jeff Goldbum.

I have the birth certificate

to prove it.

 

I made all those movies.

I lead the Mildred Snitzer Orchestra.

Did all the video games.

And started my own theater group.

 

That guy Andrews interviewed

is my stand-in. My stunt double.

How the mix up occurred 

is an unfathomable puzzle. 

 

I thought about suing

or, at least, egging his office.

But, nah -- Andrews writes so well

it's a pleasure to read his book.

 

Even though I regard it as fiction.

 

******************************************

to which Mr. Andrews replied via email:

"Tim! It’s been far too long. So happy to hear from you, and loved the poem as always! I award it five Goldblums."

Prose Poem: Penelope Green hits pay dirt.

 

I sell treasure maps.

And they're not too expensive.

People get a kick out of them,

thinking they might hit paydirt.

 

Of course the maps are worthless doodles.

They won't even locate the nearest KFC.

But they're colorful, filled with place names

like: 'Dead Man's Hole' and 'Croaker's Corner.'

 

One day this gal named Penelope Green

stops at my little kiosk at Times Square.

Says she's a reporter for

the New York Times.

 

She wants to buy a treasure map.

But I smell something fishy.

So I tell her I only sells maps

of Manhattan. Nothing else.

 

She slides a 100 Grand candy bar

across the counter towards me.

What could I do?

I give her one of the treasure maps.

 

I didn't think anything more

about it.

Everyone in Zanesville, Ohio,

suddenly decided to move to New York.

 

So business was brisk.

Nice thing about Ohio people

is they never complain.

Then I open the newspaper.

 

There on Page One it says

"NYT Reporter Strikes Pay Dirt!"

 She dug up a mess of pirate gold

in Hoboken. Of all places.

Didn't say anything about my map.

Maybe she found it some other way.

With a metal detector. Maybe.

But I'll tell you this much --

If any other reporter ever

saunters up to my kiosk

to buy a treasure map

I'm gonna ask for a 50/50 split.

 

 

Prose Poem: Generous Robin Givhan

 

I don't know about you

but I think of reporters

when I think of them at all

as self-absorbed and predatory.

 

In the past I've been rooked

pretty bad by 'em.

Like when I got fired over

that homonyms thing.

 

They called me up and got

sound bytes and quotes --

and then made me look

like a ring-tailed lemur!

 

But Robin Givhan, now --

she's different.

She's generous; she's kind.

She's the jewel of the Washington Post.

 

She's never interviewed me.

But I know if she did

she would be understanding.

She would quote me verbatim.

 

Her writing is dripping with

the cream of human kindness.

He prose shines like brass tacks.

She is a good egg.

 

I sent her a letter once,

asking to be interviewed.

About anything she wanted

to ask me.

 

She replied promptly.

Sending her regrets

that there was nothing

notable about me or my life.

 

It was very nice of her to respond

so quickly.

And to top it off she enclosed

a discount coupon for Red Lobster.

 

That's classy.

Putin Poems

 

Peewee Putin's on the prowl

till Ukraines run him afoul.

Go ahead and rob and rape;

you'll regret it, stupid ape.

Judgement waits, and can't be scared;

you'll be caught quite unprepared.

When you talk of puny Putin

it is often cuz he's scootin'

far away from all his sorrows

while he's killing the tomorrows

of the people he's oppressing --

and I bet he likes cross dressing!

Paltry Putin thinks that he

is the top of history.

But the apparatchiks know

he is melting like the snow.

When he's gone I hope Ukraine

will once again have hope that's sane.

haiku

the windowsill dust

floats up in the morning sun,

 

disturbed by a sneeze.

 

 

 

Prose Poem: Paul Farhi and the Magic Bag

 

One day while walking home from work

at the Washington Post

Paul Farhi (who reports on style)

found an old carpet bag.

It had an antique rose dusky pattern.

He was enchanted by it.

And since it was just lying by 

a street lamp

apparently abandoned

he picked it up to bring home.

At home a wonderful scent

drifted up from the bag

when he opened it.

It reminded him of warm misty nights

on the dock of a lake

and the sound of children

gently breathing in their sleep.

There was nothing inside the bag

as far as he could tell.

But after the bag was open

all sorts of blessings came to him.

His editor praised his work

and gave him a raise.

Cottage cheese tasted like Camembert.

As long as Paul kept the bag open

his life was redolent with good things.

But when he shut the bag the toilet 

backed up

and the tires on his car went bald.

So he tried to open the bag again.

But he couldn't get it to unclasp.

When he jimmied it open

with a screwdriver

there was a fearful wail

before red foxes began dancing.

Dancing around his living room.

With cruel grins and sarcastic

barks.

They are still at it in Paul's 

living room.

But he has moved out;

 into the

Mandarin Oriental Hotel.

 

*************************************8

Mr. Farhi's emailed response to the above:

"Thanks. There’s a lesson in this for all of us. I’m just not sure what it is." 

Prose Poem: The Cultured Dan Bilefsky.

 

If there's one guy I know who has culture,

it's Dan Bilefsky.

Never have met the guy.

But I read his stuff in the newspapers.

His articles make me ashamed of wearing

brown shoes.

Of sopping up gravy on my plate with a 

piece of bread.

After finishing his last article,

all my clip-on neckties were

tossed away.

It's getting expensive to be like

Dan Bilefsky.

He ain't elegant, exactly.

It's more like he's just so

well-traveled and knowledgeable.

I might do like the old joke

says:

 I got so tired of reading his cultured articles that I gave up reading.

But in the meantime

his articles give me hope

that we can win the 

culture wars.

Or, at least, take back

Alsace-Lorraine. 

Prose Poem: Jennifer Brooks drinks lemonade.

 

"I think you're pretty great" said Jennifer Brooks to me.

She was interviewing me

for the StarTribune newspaper.

 

She looked pretty great herself.

With a long string of Chiclets

around her neck.

 

"Why did you steal quarters 

out of your mother's purse?"

she suddenly asked.

 

How did she know that?

It happened sixty years ago.

I had wanted a candy bar.

 

"We reporters know everything"

she said, as if reading my mind.

I decided to brazen it out.

 

"Your information is incorrect"

was my reply.

"My mother's purse had a hole in it."

 

She didn't miss a beat.

"Then why didn't you buy

her a new one?"

 

This was not the way

I wanted our interview

to go.

 

Luckily a shotglass

magically appeared

in my hand.

 

"Lemonade?" was my arch question.

"With gingersnaps?" she asked shyly.

"But of course!" I replied gallantly.

 

Afterwards we played

Minnesota Monopoly.

I let her win.

Prose Poem: I owe my career to Sydney Ember

 

I owe my career to reporter Sydney Ember

and will be forever grateful to her.

It happened this way:

I was stuck at a small market radio station

in Northwest Iowa.

One of those places where the Dutch

Reformed Church has taken root

like dandelions in a graveyard lawn.

I read the news and was supposed to

dig up local stuff to read on the air.

But those Dutch Reformed bozos were

a hard nut to crack. News-wise.

They would talk to me about sports.

About church picnics.

About the next tulip festival.

But they were tight-lipped when it 

came to hard news.

Traffic accidents.

Brawls and assaults.

Robbery and theft.

Niets.

The sheriff; the cops; the state patrol.

They were all in cahoots. Members in

good standing and not likely to spill

the beans to a buitenstaander like me.  

Then Sydney came to town.

Reporting on state caucuses.

For the New York Times.

She was a live wire. Let me tell you!

She dropped by the radio station to

pick up a free rain poncho.

And we got to talking.

I told her of my problems with

the local yokels.

And she said: 

"Kid, when the authorities won't talk

you just say they are reserving comment

until the families are notified."
 

I nodded my head. Not really understanding.

Then she turned the key for me:

"Local families will go nuts wondering if

one of their kids or cousins died or was arrested.

They won't give City Hall any rest." 

She winked at me and gave a nod

as she rose up the chimney --

"You'll have the cop shop spilling their

guts to you after that!" I heard her exclaim

ere she drove out of sight.

Now the sheriff's deputies bring me homemade bread pudding at least once a week.