A POEM FOR MARION KIMES
by David Fewster
A cause for bitter reflection
(I think it was ’90, ’91)
was the time I went into an antiseptic, nondescript
Belltown deli on a lunch break
To find Marion Kimes behind the counter.
“Well Hello David,” she drawled,
smiling in stained white apron.
Although I had been vaguely aware
the unexpected reality of actually seeing
Red Sky Poetry’s gritty Texan queen of truth & beauty,
pushing sixty and slinging hash, gave me pause.
I couldn’t help but feel that
underneath that beatific smile
hard and sad.
Nobody today lacks a backup plan, in case
truth & beauty don’t pan out.
They’re all software consultants, systems engineers,
technical writers, public service administrators, web design
specialists,
with benefits and security supplied by Amazon, Microsoft, or
the
State.
(The last three entities, by the way,
are one and the same.)
They can go from their jobs to
their featured reader gigs at chic new Greenwood wine bars
without having to change clothes.
But every Sunday night, Marion would put on her outfit
of striped yellow and black,
like a bumblebee in the drizzly Seattle night,
and teach us to fly free,
gathering pollen where we may.
HOW THE HOBOES DINE UNDER MT. TAHOMA
Catch Michael of “Operation Keep ‘Em Warm & Fed” in front of the library
Before seven-thirty for a wake-up coffee and day-old pastry.
Breakfast at 9 at Hospitality Kitchen.
Brunch at Nativity House.
Back up to St. Leo’s for lunch.
They have a big flat screen tv there now.
Last time I was there, I think they were playing “Jarhead”—I don’t know,
There were guys blowing stuff up in the desert,
And afterwards they were in a canteen
Like some scene out of “The Breakfast Club.”
High tea a Nativity House is three-ish.
Hot dinner at the Rescue Mission at 5:30—
Liver, tater tots, beans, macaroni & cheese
Spaghetti and unidentified meat chunks, bleached bread, creamed corn,
Powdered eggs and bacon shards
Oatmeal laced with high-fructose, artificially enhanced, maple-flavored syrup
And thousands of stale but tasty doughnuts.
For a midnight snack, there’s always the lucky hope of
Raisin bagels at the St. Leo’s breadbin.
Institutions know the value of the High Starch Diet.
You can always tell when one of the women has come back to the Ave.
After a stretch in the joint.
They go in junkie-thin & meth-skinny,
Nothing but a bag of abscesses and bones,
And come out ready for the clean-up spot
On the Kiwani’s Women’s Bowling Team.
They call it the Purdy Diet.
Hell, I even gained weight on this stuff
After I got out of St. Joe’s.
So the next time somebody at the bus stop
Hits you up for a couple of bucks
“For Food”—
Keep in mind
The only reason to go hungry in this town
Is because you were so fucked up
On rubbing alcohol and crack that you
FORGOT TO EAT.
And nobody feels sorry for you
Because you got a bad memory.
TOP 10 REASONS FOR PICKING UP CHICKS
AT THE AA MEETING
TEN
Most of them are single. Or divorced.
For the usual variety of predictable reasons.
NINE
You share previous interests in common.
EIGHT
Chances are they’ve never practiced
Safe sex.
SEVEN
Free coffee.
SIX
Smoker tolerant.
FIVE
Don’t need to be taught rules
Of co-dependency.
FOUR
Mutual 2AM sugar cravings
Only to be satisfied by a pint each
Of Cherry Garcia.
THREE
No family baggage,
Because neither set of relatives
Have spoken to us for years.
TWO
Won’t be so lonely during relapses.
And our top reason for picking up chicks at AA meetings—
ONE
At this point,
They really don’t expect to do
Better than you.
IT’S HARD TO GET A GOOD LUNCH, ANYMORE
In 1953, Morris Graves, the great painter of
Existential Birds in various forms of
Spiritual Crisis, invited an elite group to
Careladen, his home in the forest 30 miles from Seattle
for a special art opening.
The expectant connoisseurs arrived to the sight
of a deserted courtyard whose center piece was
a banquet table covered with the remains of a dinner party—
tarnished silver, withered bouquets, coagulated gravy,
fuzzy green roast beef, decomposed frommage,
while aural ambiance was supplied by classical music
interspersed with a recorded pig fight.
The “exhibition” was a symbol of protest
against the pretentiousness of art openings.
The guests were not amused.
In 2003, Laura Bush wanted to host a symposium
with the crème de la crème of the literati.
Delicious refreshments would no doubt have been provided.
Sam Hamill refused to go,
causing the greatest publicity debacle
involving a poet since Robert Lowell told LBJ
to stick it where the sun don’t shine.
The First Lady was not amused.
Administrators and artists,
Bureaucrats and bohemians,
Sit uneasily together at table,
Unsure of who will be poisoned today,
Caesar or conspirator,
while the caterers of this sad world
weep Evian tears into the foie gras
and wonder where all the love has gone.
David Fewster
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