Narrative Poem: The Talking Bush.

 

So I was walking along the alley

when a scraggly bare bush spoke to me.

It said:  "Take off your hat, mug."

"You're on holy ground."

I gaped a moment, then said:

"Are you talking to me?"

"Yeah" said the bush,

"There ain't no one else here, chump."

Whether it could talk or not,

this bush was rude.

I decided to ignore it

and continued down the alley.

"Hey wait!' it called after me,

"Dontcha wanna know my secret?"

"Tell it to the dumpster" I replied airily,

before turning the corner.

Now the alley became just a path

paved with clinkers. There were

a few scrawny trees. Piles of junk.

And a glowing red pool that was singing.

The lyrics went something like this:

"Come along to my shore,

where my face you'll adore."

I threw a clinker into the pool,

which turned into a handsome older woman.

Dressed for the opera, with a diamond tiara.

"You have released me from a curse 

placed on me by Abe no Seimei" 

she said to me.

"What is your wish?"

"A ham and cheese on rye"

I replied without thinking.

"Who the heck is Abe no Seimei?" 

I asked.

"Donald Trump in a former life"

she replied, slowly melting away

into a blue mist. 

I threw the sandwich away.

Uneaten. 

Haiku: 小さな音の快適さ

 

the rush of hot air --

the comfort of small noises;

pull the covers up.

熱気のラッシュ-

小さな音の快適さ;

カバーを引き上げます。

far off train horn moan --

the comfort of small noises

in my night cocoon.

電車のクラクションのうめき声から遠く離れて-
小さな音の快適さ
私の夜の繭で。

the bacon hisses --

the comfort of small noises;

no alarm clock now.

ベーコンヒス-
小さな音の快適さ;
現在、目覚まし時計はありません。

Narrative Poem: Fast Food.

 

"I don't mean what I say"

I told the police woman.

She ignored my comment

and took me before the desk sergeant.

"Disorderly conduct" she told the sergeant.

The desk sergeant wrote busily

while green ink flowed out his ears.

"I have many witnesses to attest to this"

I continued stoutly,

for when my friends and neighbors heard of my

arrest they flocked to the police station.

"He also picks his nose in public"

added the police woman. Unnecessarily.

"He said Don Ameche was his father"

said my roommate. "But then he later

confessed it was a lie."

Mr. Birnbaum, who lives across the street,

piped up "Yeah! He called me a mole hole -- 

then publicly retracted his statement at McDonalds."

"It was at Subway, you pickled walrus!"

I yelled at Birnbaum -- for he was obviously 

trying to defame me. "I never eat at McDonalds."

There was a gelid silence.

Then spake the desk sergeant:

"Take Mr. Birnbaum away; he's a spy."

I was then released,

and treated all my neighbors

to sandwiches at Subway.

Where I admitted I often

ate at McDonalds.

A letter to my kids. Sunday. Jan 23. 2022.

 Dear Scions;

I hope your Sunday has been as quiet and peaceful as ours has been so far. We went to church this morning at 8:30. Your mother was called and sustained and set apart to be a Temple Family History Specialist. After Priesthood we came home, where your mother visited with your brother Steve while I went in the bedroom for a long nap.

We figured out where the flour moths are coming from – a big box of Honey Bunches of Oats that someone gave us a while back. We’re constantly being given stale and bug-ridden food – we usually catch the bad stuff right away, but sometimes it gets past us and thus the bug outbreaks. Bleah.

I’m baking a loaf of Irish soda bread to take over to Sarah’s today around five. We love making this kind of bread, cuz it’s so easy. Just takes a lot of buttermilk. My lunch today, in fact, was a big dill pickle and a glass of buttermilk.

Do you ever get homesick for North Dakota? Think you might like to go back there to live? Well, it’s going to get awful noisy there – as this news article from a recent Billings Gazette attests:

‘North Dakota’s bitterly cold winters make for the ideal setting desired by a new industry eyeing the state: cryptocurrency.

Interest has picked up over the past year in locating data centers within North Dakota. Such facilities consist of computer servers that can be used for a variety of purposes, including to mine digital money in the case of some of the companies considering the state.

Data centers generate a lot of heat. They tend to require a significant amount of power and cooling equipment to function well.

“Every time I talk to a utility and mention data centers, they say, ‘Oh yeah, we’ve got all kinds of people talking to us wanting to come,’” said John Weeda, director of the North Dakota Transmission Authority.

Data centers are needed for cloud storage. Banks use them for financial transactions. The facilities are increasingly in demand to facilitate cryptocurrency transactions, which are recorded in ledgers known as blockchains. Computers lend processing power to validate those transactions, and they are rewarded with more cryptocurrency such as Bitcoin.

That so-called “mining” process is energy-intensive, as electricity powers the servers and the fans used to cool down the hardware.

The fans associated with a large standalone data center could generate a lot of noise, and city officials say the facilities inquiring about coming to Bismarck may or may not place employees on-site. Officials have expressed concerns about the potential for data centers to catch fire, as has happened in other North Dakota communities such as at a Grand Forks computer server farm in 2019.’

It sounds like North Dakota might be a good place for your next fortune, though – if you have Uncle Benny-type money laying around. Just make sure you have good fire insurance.

Next, as the offspring of a clown who started at the top and worked his way to the bottom, I’m sure you want to know about the comedy scene here in Utah County. With which I have nothing to do at present, although your mother and I have talked about going to Open Mic Night on Mondays.  From the Salt Lake Magazine, this bit of purple prose:

A Mormon, a Catholic and an atheist walk into a comedy club…and the Diet Cokes they order are the dirtiest punchlines in this story because this club is in Utah County. Ask anyone who has made their final exodus from Utah County and they’ll tell you the culture of Happy Valley leaves much to be desired, but the strange milieu of prevalent cultural influences were the perfect conditions to create a petri dish in which the bacteria of a burgeoning comedy scene can grow. A squeaky clean comedy scene, the germs of which have become Utah County’s main cultural export, partially thanks to the viral nature of social media. We endeavored to discover the secret of the scene’s evolution and laud the success of the comedians, performers and content creators at its core.  “I kind of love and hate Jim Gaffigan fans,”  says Tanner Rahlf of the famous comedian known for his all-audiences brand of humor. “They’re like ‘he’s just so clean’ but I watch what he does as a comedian myself. He’s not good because he plays clean. He’s good because he’s a great comedian.” 

These days, he hosts the standup nights at ImprovBroadway and believes that just as sketch and improv comedy in Utah County have blown up, stand-up is the next big thing. 

“You can feel it in Provo,”  says Tanner , “There’s something about to burst. I’m seeing some of the funniest stuff at the open mics that I’ve ever seen. It’s palpable. Audiences are craving more standup. There is a joy and a rush for the audience and the comedians. Like we’re all in on the same joke together.” 

So I guess we’re in the right place at the right time for my next big comedy break- through. I wonder if you can do stand up from a rocking chair? I’d like to try it, anyway.

Well, it’s nearly time to go back to church for our Temple Preparation Class. The bishop asked us to be in the class as an example to the young couples called to the class. Trouble is, most of the young couples the class is for don’t show up. So it’s just us and the instructor. After that we’re off to Sarah’s. 

Roses are red/violets fade/I hope you enjoyed/this long gasconade!  

Love, 

Heinie Manush.

Haiku: 寒い落ち着きのない夜

 

Cat glares at the moon --

peony bushes rattle;

the cold restless night.

月を睨む猫-
牡丹の茂みがガタガタ鳴る。
寒い落ち着きのない夜。

mice shoot down the road --
the wind stands up a brown leaf;
the cold restless night.
マウスが道を撃ちます-
風が茶色の葉を立てます。
寒い落ち着きのない夜。

the blurry moon winks --
a hubcap rolls off a car;
the cold restless night.
ぼやけた月のウィンク-
ホイールキャップが車から転がり落ちる。
寒い落ち着きのない夜。

Haiku: カタツムリの遅いトレッド

 

slow tread of a snail --

a straight line to the next leaf;

brown, withered, and stiff.

カタツムリの遅いトレッド-
次の葉への直線。
茶色、しおれ、そして硬い

slow tread of a snail --

glistening beneath itself;

no butterfly, he!

カタツムリの遅いトレッド-
それ自体の下で輝く;
蝶はいない、彼！

slow tread of a snail --

seeking dampness and darkness;

stymied by a twig.

カタツムリの遅いトレッド-
湿気と闇を求めて;
小枝に悩まされた。

Letter to my kids. Saturday Jan 22 2022.

 

Dear Sprouts;

Well, we made quite an exotic lunch today. Soba noodles with quail eggs, and Japanese potato salad with seaweed and pickled ginger. The soba noodles turned out great; I will be adding them to my repertoire of standard Torkildson fare. 

We went shopping this afternoon. The Great American Pastime. Garments for me, and something called a Ninja Magic for your mother. It makes smoothies. 

It has otherwise been a lazy day. We slept in until 7:30 a.m. The urologist I saw 2 weeks ago gave me some medicine called Nocdurna, which suppresses the urge to urinate at night. So I’m sleeping a bit better and longer lately. 

I’ve been thinking about the happiness that comes from silence. At least it comes to me when I stay silent and surround myself with silence. So here’s a poem about the subject:

Silence is gilded for bozos like me;

A muted existence can make a man free.

Whenever I shoot off my mouth it doth seem

It makes others burn up from some laser beam.

I may have opinions and feelings real strong;

But it would be smart if I just sang a song. 

Or better yet just remain silent and smug;

Smile with a head shake and maybe a shrug.

In my brown recliner I love to lay back

And relish the noise and the racket I lack.

Tumult is not a state I would endorse;

I’d rather just mime it, not yell myself hoarse.

So let others posit as much as they please;

Give their advice and opinions with ease.

Me for the quiet life – no scuttlebutt!

At long last I’m learning just how to shut up!

I guess that’s all for today, mine heirs. As soon as your mother finishes watching “Dial M for Murder,” we’re off to the Rec Center for 20 minutes of stationary cycling. After that, who knows? Maybe go bowling . . . 

Love, 

Heinie Manush.

My Day. Friday, Jan 21. 2022.

 Dear Offspring;

A challenging day. We got stuck with doing 8 extra rewrites because the internet is down in Idaho due to snowstorms. So we had to turn down a steak dinner with the Varkavissers – a  couple from Rhodesia who wanted to take us out because of the many meals we’ve shared with them.  (2:57 p.m. ~ This just in: the internet is up and running again in Idaho, thank goodness!)

Your mother continues to create more wonderful cookies. Today she glued together raisin/oatmeal cookies with a sweet cream cheese fluff – and they are to die for. When people come to our door now, it’s not for the food but for Amy’s cookies. I’m thinking we can dispense with the meals entirely and just do cookies and sweets.

We stopped at the Post Office after swimming this morning so I could pick up some postcards. I stopped mailing them pretty much back in October after marrying your mother again. There just didn’t seem to be the time or the money for it. But now I’m ready to print out my obscure thoughts on cheap cardstock again. So moi bought all the postcards they had and got a sheet of 20 postcard stamps as well. I’ve put haiku on four of them today so far and mailed them to Pres. Biden, and several journalist friends – whose home address I have. It does no good to mail anything to a reporter at their newspaper, since they are never going back into their offices again. Apparently.

Maybe I’ll get good at haiku if I live another 20 years and keep writing it.

In the meantime I have nothing more on my mind today than sharing my haiku with you offshoots, with whatever commentary/explanation comes to my feeble mind. Here goes:

most things don't happen --

if they do happen, they're wind --

moving clouds away.

Your mother has the marvelous ability of not worrying about the future, because of her absolute faith in Heavenly Father. I, on the other hand, worry about everything and project future catastrophes by the dozen each day. I am trying to learn to turn off the siren that is constantly blaring in my head, warning of danger ahead, and just live quietly and accept what comes next. Which is a pretty Zen concept. So I’d like to believe that . . . most things don’t happen.

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

sunlight on the wall --

it's trying to be yellow;

but not all that hard

Sunlight in winter is like cold white cream. In summer it’s molten silver. Our apartment walls are yellow – the sunlight doesn’t do anything to it that I can tell. It’s just a poetic conceit. Nothing more. Although I admit that early morning sunlight and then twilight can affect me deeply. In the morning I am always created anew, and as the night approaches I have to fight to keep from despairing over the dead weeds in the patio. Us artists are too flibberty-gibbet to stand!

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

Crows on a streetlight --

Lords of all bloodied roadkill;

offer them french fries.

Those long dusty rutted country roads in North Dakota . . . 

Lined with wheat and sunflowers.

I remember those roads like my own children. They spoke to me. Though I never really understood what they said. But there were always crows on the telephone wires and on streetlights, or stooping over something flat and grisly in the road. And I’m going to try to convince your mother this evening when we go back to the Rec Center to stop at McDonalds so I can get a big order of french fries. I lust for them right now. Have been lusting for them for weeks. 

Okay. Amy has started to do up the dishes so I must join her with the drying.

Roses are red/violets repine/I always get stuck/for a last line.

Love,

Heinie Manush.

Letter to my kids. Thursday Jan 20 2022.

 Dear Tykes;

I start out with a thought I had this morning –

I’d like to sneak up to as many hand sanitizer dispensers as possible and replace the goo inside with Super Glue. Then see what happens. 

Next, I have an idea for a new placard to take to the streets when the weather warms up –

Optimist For Hire.

($1000.00 per hour.)

All I need is one taker . . . 

Now I better write a haiku for your mother:

Blending blueberries –

Her hair in a ponytail;

I will sip her lips. 

Now I’m going to go collect on that haiku . . . 

(Your mom says she won’t post it on her Facebook page, because “it’s too sexy!”)

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

And now for the clown news.  I assume you all know who David Arquette is. I don’t, but then I’m not in touch with reality for long portions of each day. Anywho – he wants to become a clown. And I quote:

David Arquette is not clowning around when it comes to becoming a professional clown.

In an appearance on the Live with Kelly and Ryan show Wednesday, the 50-year-old actor talked about his love for clowns and his long journey to becoming one.

"I love clowns. I've been in sort of a clown period of my life. I'm studying to be a clown and I'm working with an amazing organization called Healthy Humor. They go into hospitals and entertain people who are going through a tough time and make them smile and bring some joy and love and laughter into their lives," Arquette told host Kelly Ripa.

"I'm a huge fan of Bozo the clown. I personally am studying to be a clown myself. I have been taking lessons. It takes a lot of training. You know I've never been able to juggle, but my father taught me a nose flute, and this is what I can do as my clown thing," said Arquette while demonstrating how to use the nose flute.

Do you guys remember I used to play the nose flute? I even bought them for some of you. I may have to get some for the grandkids; I can buy a set of twelve plastic nose flutes on Amazon for ten bucks. Of course, if you parents give me TWENTY bucks NOT to buy them for your darling children . . . 

And in just plain circus news, I felt very excited to read this in the newspaper the other day:

SARASOTA, Fla. – The Ringling Bros. and Barnum & Bailey Circus, which shut down in 2017 after a storied 146-year run of three-ring entertainment around the world, could be making a comeback.   Officials from Florida-based Feld Entertainment, which owns the circus operation, said during a recent panel discussion that a new version of the circus without animals is expected to make its debut in 2023.  Many observers believe that animal rights protests targeting Ringling Bros. contributed to a decline in ticket sales that led the company to cease operations. It grew famous on the strength of animal trainers like Gunther Gebel-Williams, among others, working with lions and tigers. The company dropped elephants from its shows in 2016 and said at the time that ticket sales declined more than expected.  In 2023 we will be relaunching Ringling Bros. and Barnum & Bailey Circus,” Feld’s chief operating officer Juliette Feld Grossman told the VenuesNow Conference in Seattle last week, according to a report published by venuesnow.com.

According to the report, Grossman got choked up as she spoke. “You can see it’s emotional and exciting for us as a family. We really feel that Ringling Bros. has incredible relevance to today’s audience.”

Nicole Zimmerman, a Feld spokeswoman, said the company is “still in the planning phase for the relaunch of the Greatest Show on Earth” and an official announcement about the return of the circus is expected sometime in 2022.

Ah, the old tanbark trail! Naturally, I now daydream about hobbling back into center ring with my musical saw and my can pyramid. I know it’s probably a pipe dream, but, hey – so was marrying your mother again!  If that can happen, anything can happen. If Ringling does come back, I guess I could do what’s called ‘carpet clowning’ or ‘meet and greet.’  That’s where the clown just stands still to shake hands, signs autographs, and have his picture taken. Or makes animal balloons, etc.  I could still manage to do that, because it’s not too physically taxing. How do you think your mother would react to life on the road 9 months of the year? I just asked her and she said “Where my husband goes, I go.”  She was remembering our time in Bottineau, North Dakota, back in 1981, when the local newspaper asked her about our plans to leave the place to move to Circus World in Haines City Florida.

What a disaster THAT turned out to be!  I’m sure I’ve told you about it before; your mother had a miscarriage, I got fired, and we moved back to North Dakota to live in the Little House in back of your mother’s parents’ house. A definite low point in the Torkildson family chronicles.

 

But why dwell on the past? Today is beautiful. We went swimming this morning. I baked Irish soda bread. We made a chicken/rice casserole that is to die for. The sun is out, for once. And both your mother and I are in fairly good health. God is good to us. I hope he is as good to you little moppets.

Roses are red/violets reek/may your sorrows flee/to far Mozambique!

Love,

Heinie Manush.

 

 

Letter to Our Kids. Wednesday, January 19. 2022.

 Dear Kidlets;

I reached a watershed of sorts this morning; I weighed in at 289.4 lbs at the Rec Center. Your mother offered to feed me a pecan log to celebrate, but I settled for some Gatorade instead. I attribute this weight loss solely to your mother – she is my coach and my inspiration. My feet are now back to normal, human, size, as well.  (I wish I could describe her many virtues without gushing too much . . . )

Your mother works as a tax preparer during the week from 4 p.m. to 8 p.m. nowadays, as I think I’ve told you. Those hours she’s gone hang heavy on my hands. To liven things up we make dinner ahead of time to serve to people in the building at 6 p.m.  Before that I usually read. Or try to read. I’ve reached that stage in life where the minute I sit down to read I begin to nod off. I no longer fight it. Perhaps just holding the book while napping will provide me with some information through osmosis. After dinner is served out I lie down to take a good rest, since as soon as your mother gets home she wants to ride hell-for-leather to the Rec Center for a workout before the place closes at 10.

Here’s the haiku I wrote for her early this morning:

buried in the dark --

her hair awash on pillow;

gold for the kissing.

I’m sure something more will occur to me to write about today. (It’s only ten in the morning and we just got back from swimming at the Rec Center, and stopping at the store for a head of lettuce and organic celery hearts.) Right now I feel the need to pick up a book so I can take a brief nap.

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

Oh, and here’s another haiku I just wrote – at 11:15 a.m. (MST)

most things don't happen --

if they do happen, they're wind --

moving clouds away.

I sent this one to Andy Newman, a reporter at the NYT.  He likes my stuff. He took the trouble to email me back about one of my haiku a week ago:

“Thank you for that ray of beauty and strangeness Tim.”

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

I asked your mother to make me some scrambled eggs this morning. They were real good, but I forgot to thank her for them at the time. So at noon, as we were taking some chicken salad to the Hispanic Office in our building, I told her “Those were great eggs this morning. Thanks.”

To which your mother replied “I laid ‘em myself.”  Then she went off into gales of laughter at her own joke. A true Norwegian. She’s still laughing and snorting over it right now. I’m worried she’ll reopen her hernia stitches!

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

Well, we are still waiting to find out what needs to be done (if anything more) in order to regain our temple marriage sealing. We’ve talked to our bishop several times, and he did more head scratching than anything else. Even our stake president doesn’t quite seem to know how to handle our unique situation. So the bishop finally just said “Call the Temple to schedule a sealing and see what they have to say about it.”

What they said was that we have to wait to hear back from the President of the Church. Your mother already wrote him, explaining why she divorced me, married Rick in the temple, and then divorced him, and then married me civilly again. Who knows how long it will take President Nelson to get to our plight? We pray that he will make a determination soon, because life is uncertain and either your mother or I may shuffle off this mortal coil before any decision is made. So please remember us in your prayers in this matter. 

Despite our best efforts, the apartment is getting cluttered up – to the point where it now looks like a permanently installed indoor yard sale. Your mother has made a valiant effort to keep everything organized and put away, but there’s just too much bric-a-brac to deal with. We have 2 wheat grinders. Two vacuums. Steve has left a bunch of his stuff with us. We have six computers. The linen closet is bursting at the seams with towels and gauze bandages and essential oils and ointments. The laundry in the baskets multiplies daily like rabbits until it flows onto the floor. I can’t open a kitchen cabinet without being inundated with plastic containers. As soon as my ship comes in I’m buying us a 3-bedroom condo in St. George, with an indoor pool, hot tub, sauna, and warehouse. This is not meant as a criticism of your mother. No, it’s just that the two of us like to live large and wide – but we’re restricted to a sardine can. When my ship comes in, when my ship comes in . . . 

My, but we are pokey today. It’s already past 2 p.m. and your mother has to get ready for work at H & R Block in another hour – but we still have 2 more articles to rewrite. We just couldn’t get things together this morning. Too many misfires and false starts. I’m guilty of wasting much of our time with articles that we have already rewritten – they all look alike to me. Luckily Amy has a better memory and can tell when we’ve already done an article I’ve picked out to rewrite.

Amy is cooking pork short ribs wrapped in bacon, and I hope she gets to eat one before she leaves. I’ll probably leave mine until this evening – I just had a third of a microwave burrito that chewed like cardboard and tasted like an overwintering leather glove. Bleah. 

I guess I better send this off. Roses are red/violets have bugs/If you were here now/I’d share lots of hugs!

Love,

Heinie Manush.