(on haikus: or, the truth about bryan)

The move to Ohio was abrupt. Early winter, in fact. A lily of the valley, saved since my great-grandmother’s funeral, died of hypothermia – or whatever the plant equivalent is. It didn’t die alone. The palm followed a few months later.

We marched like Napoleon’s men into what will be, after the revolution, our North American equivalent of Poland. Flat. Dense. Easily conquered – in the right season. The right season being precisely when?

The wooden stairs creaked under the winter weight of sofa/chair/bed/table/books/cds/etc. Light snow fell. The sky, if one can call Ohio’s gray ceiling a sky, made “oppressive” a step in the right direction.

I continued to write – in fits, granted.

Remember, dear reader, that, as an earnest young man, I scribbled like Jack typed – mad and drunk and devoid of editing.

Editing? Please.

Would Pollack edit the sea?

Would Rilke edit the lover?

Would god edit the gospels?

(Two out of three, I suppose.)

Yes, I continued to write. And when I couldn’t write, I edited. All those brilliant young missives, brimming with (dis)pleasure, soon deconstructed.

There was the poem I wrote the first time it snowed during my Birmingham days. Crisp snow-smell, muffled valley-sound perfectly recaptured.

The songs. Little Man. Drift Away. Nicotine. Each more original than the other (if by “original” you mean monstrously derivative).

The first poem that, gasp, dared use the almighty “f” word. I still remember the line, “break your fucking strings.”

My first, and only, attempt at a novel, entitled “Religion is a Good Thing.” Its not.

I became an editor. That is what grad school does, dear reader. It turns the linguistically ok into the verbally eh.

Moved again. It was, after all, a yearly ritual. And, in a fit of depression, threw it all away. The notebooks. The disks. The files. The notes. Everything.

I have since rediscovered a few stray shards. But never found it within myself to start over. My writing was messy and strange and directionless and absurd and beautiful and self-indulgent and young.

I’ve lost all those things.

Hence the haiku. It is measured. The rules are clear. Beauty comes from the economy of letters, not the community of words.

The haiku. It is a small step towards what I was. What I’d like to be again.

(haikus: why not)

(hidden)

i fell asleep, once,
just once, and blame the rest on
my slow-waking dreams.

(joy)

i would like to feel
an easy smile. one that creeps
like iced winters glass.

(...for tat)

its easy, really,
if your body was never
idolized. or static.

(haikus: sure thing)

(huh?)

overheard: "i feel
good, except for the cancer."
smoky, closing sky.

(naughty bits)

i prefer the bar
to pixelized censorship.
just fill in the blank(s).

(dusk)

quick, before clouds close
the shades. see it, brightly now,
sunny afternoon.

(with the enemy)

when we met, stories
were easy and weather, warm.
no sleeping for us.

(pond)

if life was rocks and
love was water, id be a
lazily-skipping stone.

---

(the swedish plot to overthrow america -- pt6)

At night – every night – Geoff staked out the second-to-the-last booth at the Bro’haus. He downed sausage balls and virgin cosmos ‘til last call. Then he left as he came – alone. Though he did pay quite a bit of attention to Anya, what with his being, well, you know. Quite a bit.

(Sausage balls, you ask? The Bro’haus specialized in Southern soul versions of Germanic food. Think pork wienerschnitzel with turnip greens or sauerkraut and ham hock soup.

Anya brought a whole other dimension to the place when the cook headed down to Parchmen for operating a meth lab in the Wal-mart parking lot. In came cornmeal leftse and deep-fried lutefisk and pecan krumkake.)

Did I mention? Geoff hated Sweden.

---

The saga began when Anya had to sober up an “undercover” cop at the Bro’haus. Geoff picked that Thursday night to talk. A lot. About Sweden. And the Invasion. Anya, being Swedish, was, well, concerned. Hence the cop.

Geoff was more than a little angry that the Bro’haus went all-Swedish with the menu that particular night. And it didn’t help that Randy and Blaire decided to play a little joke – spike the virgin cosmos.

Now, for those who’ve not spent much time in neighborhood bars, drunks are like dwarves – there are seven kinds and every single one wants a little alone time with Snow White. Sloppy, Angry, Hungry, Ranty, Sleepy, Horny, and Forgetful.

Geoff was a multiple-personality dwarf, er, drunk. AngryHornyRanty – the triune drunk.

“Bring me another little glass cup of lust, you simple bastard.”

“I don’t work here,” Randy stammered.

“Then have Snow White’s dirty little babysitter bring it. Anya-banana-no-cherry-split with whipped cream and nuts. I hate cherries. Those green maraschino things stay in your colon forever. I saw it on that televised colon thing. It was right there…”

AngryHornyRanty went on for hours, it seemed.

“Wake up!” Anya was not happy with the “undercover” cop. So not happy that she actually asked Diandra to help. (Diandra, by the way, sported a lovely summer dress from Ruth’s and managed to cover his? her? entire Adam’s apple with a tasteful muslin scarf).

“No more cosmos, Blaire!” Diandra screamed.

It finally took Diandra’s promise of something to get “Undercover” Cop to his feet. Really, all he did was call a cab and push Geoff in, ass-first.

It was all part of The Plot.

---

(the swedish plot to overthrow america -- pt5)

Anya loved the Bro’haus more. More than what? Let’s just leave it at more.

(The Bro'haus Cast)

Blaire, the bartender/volkstanzer/BFF. (Anya and Blaire went to The W together. They met after Blaire slept with Anya’s freshman-year kind-of-boyfriend, left her Psy101 notebook, returned for it unannounced, and liberated Anya. (The guy, let’s call him C. Finklestein, later tried missionary-dating a heroin addict and was last seen after his cab rear-ended a Volvo on Hwy 280 in Birmingham).)

Diandra (aka, Tony), the door-dame/queen/Arch-nemesis. (They – Anya and Blaire – hated Diandra. Everyone hated Diandra, well, maybe except Geoff.)

Geoff, the trustfunder/ambigious/Regular. (Oh, we’ll get to Geoff.)

Randy, the weatherman/salty-dog-drinker/Regular. (Randy, the weatherman, worked 5 years at the local NBC station. Five years with the same male roommate was apparently, well, 5 too many. His wrongful termination case is headed for the MS Supreme Court. But he still tells the Bro’haus regulars when to plant tulip bulbs and how long Indian Summer will last this year.)

Melvin, the cashier/activist/Token-Flamboyantly-Gay-Man-in-Columbus. (Melvin. Ah, Melvin. Every small Southern town has a Melvin. He’s a 5’4 Black man, shaved head, always dressed like the lovechild of Tito Jackson and a French poodle.)

Random Sorority Girls, the entertainment/ATMs/Think-the-Coke-is-Just-for-Fun-but-it-isn’t-Partiers. (Anya’s favorite people – the Sorority Girls. It’s probably the “look at us, we’re like totally partying in a gay bar” routine that keeps her from quitting.)

The Extras (aka, deacons, “undercover” cops, and assorted businessmen).

---

Geoff Born (aka Geoff Björn), the first-generation American son of Swedish émigrés, was the heir of the supposedly-bankrupt Nordic-Trak empire. No one remembers when the Björn family moved to Columbus. In fact, no one’s actually seen a single Björn other than Geoff.

Oh, and he changed the spelling to Born. Seemed less Swedish, he said.

Geoff spent most days at the Brickyard Kaffehus poring over IKEA catalogs, ABBA lyrics, and Scandinavian death-metal webzines.

In his spare time, he kept the local newspaper janitor employed, full-time, taking out trashcans full of letters to the editor (LTEs), information packets, and academic screeds. His universal subject this particular year was the proposed Saab/GM corporate marriage.

The Commercial Dispatch dutifully published a Geoff letter every week. What else would they cover?

---

To the Editor:

I read with interest the response to my letter regarding the merger of GM and Saab (“Unholy Union,” The Commercial Dispatch, 22 Jan 90). Despite Mr. Rush’s claims, this unholy union will further the Socialist Infiltration of our United States.

I don’t expect government officials like Mr. Rush to be honest with us about this merger. Socialism will just give him more power with his Union buddies.

There’s a reason it’s called a Union, like in the War of Northern Aggression. Don’t let them win again!

Geoff Born
Caledonia, MS

---

(the swedish plot to overthrow america -- pt4)

Anya went to The W after high school, though no one knows why she stayed. It was still the same Columbus, the same Mississippi, the same Same.

The W, as in the Mississippi University for Women (Womyn?), is flanked by the downtown and the built-on-a-flood-plain-town of Columbus. It’s notorious, in a small-town way, for Hedonism and Human Secularism and Homosexuality. All very naughty stuff, really.

The local prayer warriors, as they called themselves, devoted more than a few Bible studies in prayer for The W’s, well, there’s no other word – heathens.

Salem, a wannabe youth pastor and convener of bible studies, even spent a week fasting and praying in a Methodist Church overlooking the W. He was casting out the Spirits of Lesbianism and Homosexuality that controlled the campus. The local Christian radio station chronicled the, ahem, battle – leading Anya to visit on Day 5 of the fast.

“Yes,” he said, “there are different spirits. One for each.”

“And Transvestites?” Anya asked, half-serious.

“It’s one or the other. Transvestites are like the Transformers of the gay’s community,” Salem continued. “Gaybots in disguise,” he sang with an empty-bellied laugh.

He was only half-right.

---

Anya worked a few blocks from the church at the local gay bar, the Bro’haus. Afro-Germanic party-scene, MS-style.

Ah, the Bro’haus.

Imagine, if you will, the semi-timbered façade of a German-American restaurant. Yellowish beige background, glossed brown beams. All chipped and repainted. Small leaded windows long since obscured by street grime and a thousand Virginia Slims. Solid wooden door complete with scrolled metal handle and a triangular rainbow suncatcher. And a neon, black-yellow-green sign transposing Africa (a continent) and Germany (a country) inside a triangle (a community).

Once inside, the Bro’haus was utterly, spectacularly, and unmistakably gay.

What started life as a one-off German eatery was transformed into a dancing dungeon. The walls were ringed with the original wooden booths and tables – Germanic in every sense. A mirrored ball hung from the intricate-yet-chunky rafters, flashing reds and yellows and greens on the disco floor. Kraftwerk vs. Gloria Gainer, Einstürzende Neubauten vs. Miami Bass crashed from Radio Shack speakers. Leathered gay men careened across the floor.

Did I mention they served soul food?

Or that the servers had to wear dirndls (men) or lederhosen (women) and afros (all)?

Or that I was, thankfully, never, ever allowed to visit Anya at work?

---

(the swedish plot to overthrow america -- pt3)

The aluminum and glass door creaked as we passed from the January air to a hickory-fired grill / hostess area. (Only in MS can the night air be humid-but-chilly). Velvet, party of two, first available.

The wait was short, thankfully, because, really, what would we talk about?

Wanda the Waitress – not her name, but I assume all waitresses are named Wanda – took us through a maze of dining rooms. Our destination: a beaten-up oak table tucked into a smallish room (or a largish hall).

Never take a Swedish vegetarian to a steakhouse on the first date. At least, that’s what Anya tells me while inspecting the fork – bent-tined and too-light for its size – and knife – just spotted and dull.

The Olde Hickory, I remind her, is hardly “a” steakhouse. “The” is more like it. From the white-washed concrete-block walls to the low-slung acoustic tile ceiling, the Olde Hickory is a shrine to well-done chopped steaks and the War of Northern Aggression.

It’s the kind of place blue collar guys from Mississippi would eat if those kinds of Mississippi guys wore collars or had steady jobs.

Amazing this line doesn’t work on the Swedes.

“Even the chopped salad has more meat than lettuce,” poor univorous Anya lamented.

“They have baked potatoes. I’m sure they can leave off the ham and bacon.” (Baked Potato, with ham and bacon, butter, cheese, and sour cream. Jesus.)

I get the point.

This is the point where I’m supposed to commiserate with her re: our gluttonous ways.

This is the point where I’m supposed to suggest we go somewhere else.

This is the point where I’m supposed to just stand up and take her hand and run though the packed dinning rooms, right past chain-smoking Methodists, right out the creaky front door, right around the building to the dark back gravel lot, to, to, to grasp and grope and grab – the great g’s of teenage life.

I, of course, ordered a ribeye.

---

“I’ve never seen so many fat white people.”

“They’re called Crackers.”

“Crackers? Those are white and crunchy breads?”

“Yeah, no, you’re talking about saltines. Crackers.”

“Why? They are too doughy for being Crackers.”

“Oh, it’s not, it’s, no, not from the crackers you eat. It’s confusing. It’s slang. Old British-versus-Scot-Irish stuff.”

“Well, they smoke while they eat their buttered crackers.”

“Like I said, they’re Crackers.”

(Now imagine “Proud to be an American” creaking from a treble-only speaker in the next room.)

---

(the swedish plot to overthrow america: pt2)

“Ok everyone, walk single file. No talking. Keep your hands to yourself.” Ms. Holder, all-powerful leader of the sixth grade, was yelling again.

“No, you cannot go to the bathroom because we’re going to the sanctuary right now…

“Well, you’ll have to wait because that tornado sure isn’t…

“Don’t get smart with me. I know tornadoes can’t pee their pants…

“I said single file.”

This was Anya’s first day at New H.O.P.E. We met – rammed into each other, really –under the pews. Did I mention that the floor under the pews was just concrete? Yep.

“Couldn’t afford even to carpet the whole damned thing. That is not the perfect metaphor for this church?” she blurted out, chopping syllables and dropping vowels. A verbal Gehry.

I didn’t know what a metaphor was. I was, what do the old people say? Smitten.

Then again, it could’ve had something to do with the tornado. We couldn’t see it because of the cheap pebbled glass in the sanctuary windows. But we could see the rain gutters flapping like fish on a hot wooden deck. Didn’t sound the same, though.

The smell. Did I mention the smell? Eau de baptiste, I’d call it. Imagine stones. (You smelled them as a child. Remember? Right before you tasted them, too). Imagine over-ripe juicy fruit. (The gum.) Imagine old church pews. (Sorry, dear non-Christian readers. There is no substitute.) Then drench it all in hot Mississippi rain.

It was way dramatic.

Obviously, we didn’t die. It was a miracle, I guess, since the tornado hit the football field, skipped up again, and then tore the roof off of Jitney Jungle and TCBY.

It was way over.

Then we still had chorale. We couldn’t dance for joy – what with the eternal damnation and all – so we sang a plodding, off-key, “A Mighty Fortress is Our God.”

Anya was not smiling.

---

(the swedish plot to overthrow america: pt1)

In the past week, these, ahem, “people” have called me – what was their term? it was actually pretty cute. – “the three a’s” – arrogant, aloof, and assholish. Granted, I’m not what you’d call a reliable reporter, but, really, did they have to invent a word?

None of this would have happened if I hadn’t been raised Southern Baptist.

Not that it matters.

This isn’t about predestination or millennialism or dancing. Well, it’s kind of about dancing. But it definitely isn’t about those other things.

Nope. It’s about Anya.

I don’t care what you’ve heard from those “people,” but Anya was most definitely not some dimestored, miniskirted prophet. And I can prove it. Kind of.

Ah, Anya.

Anya’s the reason haikus hum. Anya’s “umm” put the “oo” in moon and “o” in blow. Anya’s shadow was like dark, fluid, sensual something.

When you close your eyes and think of a woman, Anya’s it.

How do I know, dear reader? Well, that’s the point, really, of this whole sordid mess.

---