Professional Documents
Culture Documents
December
Huffstickler
c o n t e n t s
Ida Fasel 4-12 Joy Hewitt Mann 13-14 Simon Perchik 15-17 Herman Slotkin 18 John Grey 19-20 Joanne Seltzer 21-23 Fredrick Zydek 24-25 Paul Grant 26-27 Robert K. Johnson 28 Bill Roberts 29-30 David Jordan 31-33 Robert Cooperman 34-49 Felicia Mitchell 50-51 Photo of Ruth Richards by Barbara Fisher 52
Waterways is published 11 times a year. Subscriptions -- $33 for 11 issues. Sample issues $3.50 (includes postage). Submissions will be returned only if accompanied by a stamped, self addressed envelope. Waterways, 393 St. Pauls Avenue, Staten Island, New York 10304-2127 2004, Ten Penny Players Inc. (This magazine is published 8/04) http://www.tenpennyplayers.org
A door ajar, rooms of a house, Simple things going on in a house A dog, a cat, a woman at table: Marthe. Principally Marthe. Marthe in the stillness of her bath, shimmering in gleams of yellow, golden orange, coral rose like some unearthly being, or guest of her glass, a shining one, her robe forming itself to its folds like a rainbow, arching halo by halo. Marthe, a hundred paintings of her. From 30 on she never aged.
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Color tells the truth of the world, black and white only its paradoxes. The luminous takes its text from within, every brushstroke a reverence. Sparks of color, luminous expanses, bright molecules under physical pressure of feelings, calmed as he gave familiar things the facts of light they have.
Violet cool inside. No need to tell the days apart. Sitting time, lying down time, eating time, mirror time. Color and Marthe. To his friends a stingy woman with a stinging voice. Color spirals inward on swirls of color. The way he knew her. For life.
loves Gala better than his mother, better than his father, better than Picasso, and even better than money. That serene face, that glowing body, that orderly mind finely tuned to his tempered his inner tumult and put bounds to his boundless careening. My wife, brush never pell-mell.
Her face in profile, leaves sprouting from her head. Tree of his creative life. Her body in full form, front or back. Sometimes glimpsed in a surreal landscape or bordered like a Valentine in lace or abiding like a guardian angel: mad about her.
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When she came from her house to his, he sat her in the light and took on light himself. Their marriage became a shared conversation that kept on getting better, she in a deep gaze, he talking from the clouds. But how well she was spoken of over and over whatever his manic symmetry and mighty painters means in immeasurable taste for life established the center of the world.
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Brushstrokes to wait out, then glass to glass, bubbles nimbly pacing a laugh.
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Standing in the parking lot, your hair as long as mine, both in beads, our feet sandaled even in the chill of late October, we must have drawn attention.
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Simon Perchik
This window sweetening the air hangs as if some fruit would light your room again even the walls wont break off fixed on a window that rises to be lost, its tears falling one upon the other go over it slowly in time your kisses and the glass shoe
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you see through in time your foot will harden take hold, become the branch that rings the world never letting go the last thing you saw in time your whispers further than great mountains lay exhausted in the snow
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just stop and the air thins out loses its way a fragrance saddened by the white thread still graceful in the sun by the hair and thighs and mouths that fit exactly.
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The unpicked women and men, however, do better. We walk through November apple orchards, arms slung through each other. We havent dropped to earth, to never bloom again. We dont turn to mush, and go to much useless waste. We just ask, How are things with you? like were both still on the tree, like staying put is harvesting.
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He complained, told her tennis is about the stroke not the spin. After that she won almost every set while he lost proudly. And they married. And they were happy. And I came along. And they rejoiced. And the jealous gods soon took him away.
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He turned into words written on stone, grass enhanced by flowers, metaphoric youth associated forever with clay.
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This is no fragile bond. It is deeper than bone. We have buried each others dead, wandered great deserts seeking fine and shining kingdoms only to learn they were always within us, and locked ourselves away from the world when it got too busy. Sometimes this dance deals more with energy than with form. We are as willing to be with one another as rain is eager to gladden the leaves and lawn. At night, when we read ourselves to sleep, I revel in knowing weve lost the fear and need of the hunt.
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I wouldnt touch her with somebody elses dick, but maybe I should at least call her. Its only $2.99 for the first three minutes, and Im over eighteen with a ragged credit card no closer to being maxed out than my heart is, and maybe just maybe she knows something I dont. Probably not . . . but stranger things have happened. Stranger things have happened to me, as a matter of pathetically fallacious fact. So maybe I should call her. God knows, the nights are longer every year. Maybe I should at least call her.
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go round and round a dusty dirt oval. I could tell shed have a cheeseburger too, if I ordered one myself. She only ate half of hers, explaining partially why she was so slender. I held her cool hand in the car and kissed her on the front porch of the house where she lived. She said goodnight, smiled, and met me with urgency when I kissed her a second time, then hurried in the house. Jim thanked me, which wasnt necessary. Pheenie couldnt find words, which was okay. I told them Id enjoyed meeting Mary. Wed rehearsed everything except how wed feel when she died a few weeks later.
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We made love, nightgown bunched at her breasts, slid into sleep entwined in damp embrace. Rising from bed next morning, she hesitated, opened the nightgown, peered inside.
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Oh, she whispered. Oh, no. I looked up from my pillow. Im all red, she said, lifting the gown. Streaks of scarlet trailed down her body, across tiny breasts, over sloping belly, along slender legs, creeks of red slicing soft, milky countryside. I laughed. Tears leaped to her cheeks. She dashed off, locked herself in the bathroom. I knocked, tried to apologize. The shower hissed to life. She washed away every trace of scarlet woman, tossed my nightgown in the trash. The marriage lasted five years.
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The Long Black Veil: On His Deathbed, Emmett Ritchfield Robert Cooperman
I spoke not a word though it meant my life, for I had been in the arms of my best friends wife. The Long Black Veil
I wanted to tell my wife, Now that my lifes running out in spasms sooty as our coal-fouled river, all I can think of is the unhappiness I heaped on you when I failed to say, Go to Miller, find some joy in this life thats all we know of heartache and glory.
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I had my own guilty secret in Grace OBrien, but feared scandal more than I loved my mothers buxom servant. Worse, an envious mastiff, I made a gilded prisoner of Emma in my dark and bitter mansion.
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Worst, I wanted Miller to myself, the friend of my childhood and youth, the boy I played Indians and swore a jackknife-bloody brotherhood with. Still, I let him hang for a murder I knew he didnt commit, raging at his betrayal of our boyhood, when he and Emma would steal away for passionate interludes, deluded that I didnt know.
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For all that, I tried to beg forgiveness of Emma, but what fell from my carrion lips was that Id glimpsed Miller in the life beyond, and hed cursed her cowardice for not shouting in court they were together when Edwards was murdered.
The dark rumbling of a monster from hell Claims me, for that last act of lying malice.
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The Long Black Veil: Emma Ritchfield, As Her Husband Lies Dying Robert Cooperman
But sometimes at night when the cold winds moan In a long black veil she mourns over my bones. The Long Black Veil
Emmett raved I would smother him with a pillow: Vengeance, he rasped, for your lover hanging for a murder he didnt commit.
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Ive seen him on the Other Side, he continued, after a cough rattled him like a coal car. He curses your cowardice, a last spasm lifted my husband, like a canarys frantic wings at the first whiff of gas and he was gone.
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Strangely, I wept, though wed been enemies from the moment Miller stood upon the gallows, Emmett silent about his innocence: vengeance for our betraying him. But I was no better: wild as a ferret in Millers arms while the banker was murdered elsewhere; still, at the trial, I too said nothing.
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Deaths grim smile widened on my husbands stretched-thin face. More tears poured from me, torn between wanting to spit at him, and knowing the truth he spat at me, adrift now, without the man I had sworn to love, but couldnt, even before I was first warmed by Millers smile.
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The Long Black Veil: Emma Ritchfield, at Her Husbands Funeral Robert Cooperman
I spoke not a word though it meant my life
For I had been in the arms of my best friends wife. The Long Black Veil
Go quietly into the ground, dear Emmett, and find a peace you never knew and I never gave you once you brought me home to these coal pocked hills, when I discovered, to my wedded shock, that I opened like a mountain rose, only with your boyhood friend, Miller Waggoner.
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Though you never forgave me loving him, nor his betraying your eternal bond of Tom Sawyer and Huck Finn, you kept your own mistress, and even on your deathbed cursed me, while I had to stop myself from flaunting my consuming fire in Millers arms that in yours never even singed me.
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Dear Emmett, I sob now while the minister drones on about dust, ashes, and resurrections uncertain hope my tears jagged as chunks of quartz, can we not forgive each other? Your answer: the silent clatter of freezing curtains of rain.
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Still, I pray that you and Miller clasp blood brothers hands in Paradise, grip fishing poles, a jug of good mountain liquor, and find the trout stream woodsmen dream of.
While I conjure that sweet fairy tale, I tell myself youd have forgiven me at the last, had you the strength to speak.
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The Long Black Veil: Nettie Greenblatt, Widowed Peddler Robert Cooperman
I spoke not a word though it meant my life, For I had been in the arms of my best friends wife. The Long Black Veil
While everyone else in this coal town tossed me coins, afraid my touch meant theyd have to scrub off my Jew-dirt, Mr. Waggoners housekeeper served me tea in her kitchen, clean As my mothers house on erev Pesach. She craved someone to sigh with her: her heart beating for her employer like a caged wolf banging against its bars.
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Shed dream of him, pressed against my yielding softness, while I smiled: shes all elbows and knees hard and sharp as a blacksmiths tongs. While she cried, I thought of my Hiram, and our peddling the roads for years, until he sighed, How I love you, and died in my arms, heavy as the stones of the smashed Temple.
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Hes with the Almighty now, Mr. Waggoner too, though hanged for murdering Mr. Edwards; he was guilty only of King Davids sin of loving another mans Bathsheba, he and Mrs. Ritchfield sneaking off for infrequent, secret meetings.
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Now Miss Early cries he wasted his life on a worthless female, and I remember my darling husband, who pointed out the stars to me, each one pulsing, he kissed me, With the Kabbalahs secret for prosperity, long life, and eternal love. At least he got one of them right.
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You can take it out and dab some on any time youre in the mood, and if you mix lemon and roses in the same kitchen theres no telling the height to which you may soar.
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