Pictorial history - Poems: Flushy the Magic Toilet and Clay

Oranges all the way from Marcy in Grenada Hills, CA. Exquisite.

My usual egg dish for breakfast. Beside it a postcard all ready to mail.

Who sends postcards any more, said Ellen Rosenberg.

I do, I said. I'm a writer.

Don't send me one, she said.

Okay, I said. And mailed it off.

Goodbye Pink Toilet. They don't make pink anymore so I ordered a white one.

Bob Frisch installed it. He'll send me the bill. Wanted everything to be ready for my party on Sunday.

I asked him what to do about a ring around my sink. Buy enamel paint at the hardware store, said he.

Done did it.

I finally sold my Chinese 3-panel screen I put on Craigslist. Dawn will pick it up on Friday. Yahoooo!

Garbage Night. Sadly, I took out my sculpture In Memorium of those killed at Village Green Apartments.

The central piece of it was knocked over when I walked by a couple months ago. 

These are sticks I picked and painted. I threw them over the porch railing in the back yard.

Read about Village Green here. I'm quoted since I used to live there.

Monique Berry, editor of a new lit mag Halcyon wrote and asked if I'd contribute something to the premier issue. I told her this is the busiest day of my life, which it was.

Anyway I did type something up. I do all my composing on my upstairs computer but wanted to remain downstairs. The 'document' feature is terrible on my laptop.

So I wrote the poem in the form of an email. I could read it real good and worked on it some 25 minutes until I got it right. Then I emailed it to her. She'd published a couple other of my poems.

The theme of her mag is peacefulness.

CLAY

The living room floor is spread with
an old sheet spattered with paint
the music, soft and low
materials within my reach

I lift up the red clay from Mexico and hold
it in my hands, heavy as a grapefruit, its
pungent smell making me sneeze

I laugh and caress it in my hands
now pecan brown. Rolling it around on
an old bread board, I stare.
What do you want to be?

A shape forms, though it
has not appeared. Quickly
I form head, large ears,
topknot, wide nose and
dangling earring.

Buddha, you have come
to me. We shall dwell
long and lovingly
here in my house.
You bring me
peace.

I'd also sent Monique - isn't that a beautiful name? - my new toilet poem.

I love it, she said, but can't use it.


FLUSHY THE MAGIC TOILET

Make yourself comfortable
Read a book if you’ve
got a long stay, meditate
for a quick one

How far we’ve come
in the time we’ve been here
on the planet
outhouses, forget ‘em
with the crescent moon
above the door and
the unforgettable stench

Porcelain the choice
of emperors in China
to hold their hot tea with
their long mandarin
nails

I’m made of the finest
porcelain, kiln-melted in
burning-hot temps
that renders me
strong, white as the
falling snow, and
durable as a young
deer's heart.

We like visitors. Come
prepared with what you’ve
got to offer. Take your
time. We’ve got books
on the lid and a shower
curtain with trips you can
take all over the country.

And when you flush, listen
to the quick sound. The
sound of gushing rivers.
Makes you want to raft
down the Mighty Mississippi
like Huck and Tom. Do it,
soon, by God, before
it's too late.