Day 15 / The Poetry Farm in Orfordville, WI; Chicago, IL; en route to Milwaukee, WI / Cathy Wagner We spent Friday, Saturday, and Sunday morning at the Poetry Farm in Orfordville, Wisconsin. I am not sure whether the Poetry Bus is planning to stop at more Poetry Places after this. Possibly as communities begin to realize the Poetry Bus is on its way, they will decide to become Poetry Places with Poetry Elks Clubs and Poetry Wal-Marts. New Jersey has a Poetry Rest Stop already in the form of the Joyce Kilmer Rest Area (“I think that I shall never see / A poetry bus lovely as a tree”) but the other states will need to step it up; the bus is on its way. The Poetry Farm has 11 acres of apple orchards, grapevines, cherry trees, strawberries; Lisa Fishman, Richard Meier, and Henry (I’m sorry don’t know last name) live there with son James, who’s two and possibly the happiest, friendliest young man in the Midwest: he had a hello for everyone. “Ha-hi, Joshoo-wa! Ha-hi, Anselm!” He can say “Anselm” much better than I can, and his dragon noises are terrifying. Friday night we were treated to the most delicious tacos I’ve ever eaten, made by an anarchist catering collective. Anarchist catering collectives do not do dishes, but Rick Meier does, and the poetry bus people sat around and drank and stuffed themselves and let the anarchy take care of us. The stage for the reading was an old wooden flatbed cart in a field under the stars. The highlight was Joshua Beckman’s and Tyler’s collaborative musical about Erasmus Darwin. Crap, I’ve got to go catch a plane, and since I left my bag and computer on the bus, which has departed for Lorine Niedecker’s house on Blackhawk Island and is heading on to Milwaukee after that, I can’t blog on and on, dammit. Green Mill in Chicago last night was a fascinating clash of aesthetics; the Poetry Bus barely “won” the slam and luckily the prize, five large cans of sardines, was stolen by some caring audience member. I love sardines but the bus windows don’t open very well. Adios to poetry bus and thanks Suzanne Buffam and Chicu Reddy, who put me up last night and provided me with contact solution, toothpaste, pj’s etc. See you—Cathy Day 15 / Ft. Atkinson, WI / Anthony McCann What to do with all these feelings? This morning I feel as maudlin as Frank O’Hara in the morning. All these feelings flow from me towards you, my new and dear and now departed from the bus, friends. But they, these feelings, find no exit and they flow and splash along my insides—the underface of my surface. I warned you I was feeling maudlin. Light flashes along my borders and now a small child passes. She is saying something. What is she saying? She is saying, “That’s a creepy bus.” Soon after I am approached by an angry old dude who wants to know, “what are you guys doing here?” Maybe I should explain where we are first. A Jellystone Park RV campsite between Milwaukee and Chicago. A raucous reading last night at the Green Mill in Chicago but we find no place to park the bus and leave around midnight. So now this angry old dude, the groundskeeper, wants me to explain us. I play deaf and dumb and let Joshua explain. Later, I see the same guy spray insecticide on a garbage bag for five minutes. Then he starts sucking sewage out of the RV waste dumps with a terrible device. I say about him, “Let’s just thank god the dude is not our dad.” Travis answers. “The terrible thing is that he actually is.” Everyone up and we decide to play mini-golf. All around us—creepy statuary. Yogi Bear in a heil Hitler pose. And Cindy (I’d forgotten Cindy), in that obscene mini skirt that marks her as a lady but mostly succeeds in making her look more nude. Every minute someone says “pickanick baskets.” Now back in Milwaukee first time in 11 years. My body is adjusting to the weight of my heart. A few more hours and we start up again. Time enough, I hope to find a Laundromat. Day 16 / Ann Arbor, MI / Anthony McCann THINGS I FIND IN MY POCKETS Two Doctor Fresh Travel Toothbrushes, markedly unfresh Sad tobacco strands One dollar and forty seven cents in change But no pens. How could one man lose so many pens? MYSTERIES I FIND IN MY POCKETS Cathy’s baggage tag with her old Boise address. (?) Lyrics from the group of songs Matthew’s been writing about the couple that tries to save their relationship by going on a camping trip but then gets lost in the woods and dies. (Whenever this storyline comes up we all laugh till hot sickly tears run down our blotchy cheeks.) SHOUT OUT To Joshua Edwards and his fabulous roommates for letting me have the exotic experience this afternoon of hanging out in a real APARTMENT. THINGS PEOPLE LEAVE ON THE BUS Tina Brown Celona left her space, the best spot on the bus. In the back back. The mafia booth of the bus, sort of. Very comfy, and I have taken it over. Though this is very poor compensation for losing Tina and her singularly inimitable presence and poems. Speaking of singular presences and poor compensation—Cathy Wagner also got off in Chicago but left, in her place, all her stuff. As we never found that Laundromat yesterday Cathy, we are now all wearing your clothes. Over and Out Day 17 / Ann Arbor, MI en route to Pittsburgh, PA / Anthony McCann Driving through Ohio, from Ann Arbor to Pittsburgh. Spasms of starlings freeze in patterns of fuzzy static over the yellow fields. I remember that starlings are not a North American bird. They were introduced to our continent by some crazy dude who decided that America needed all the birds mentioned in Shakespeare. Erin calls today from Florida and for a moment it’s almost like she’s back with us. Last night in Ann Arbor, another good reading. I get to meet Ken Mikolowski, who wins my unfunded prize for coolest story about giving a poetry reading. Back in the day, in Detroit, he used to read at MC5 and Stooges shows between the bands. At that point Iggy was regularly sticking his microphone down his throat and vomiting on the crowd. And Anselm Berrigan gets now, belated but deserved, the award for best dream had on the bus. While out at the Poetry Farm he dreamt of bears on the subway. Now pulling into Pittsburgh as I type this. Losing power soon. Over and out Day 18 / Pittsburgh, PA, Lewisburg, PA / Anthony McCann Last night in Pittsburgh we were at the Gist Street reading series, which is my favorite place in the world to read, along with Machine Project in LA. Thanks to Sherrie, Rick, Nancy, and James for everything. Stories from Pittsburgh for your entertainment: One day James is working in his studio and through some magic trick of the light the hooker and the john to whom she is giving a blow job are suddenly shadowcast 30 feet tall onto the wall. This goes on for 10 minutes. Other times James, exasperated, has called the cops to complain about people screwing in his yard. The operator asks: could you describe the perpetrators, sir? Another story. Rick’s father, a master of aikido, used to have his five sons charge him in the living room, while he dispatched them flying left and right with a flick of the finger. That’s a magic power I’d like to have. This happened, of course, in Omaha. Another shout out: We are arrived here in Lewisburg. Through some other kind of magic trick we all allegedly have hotel rooms tonight. I’m positively giddy with gratitude. I tell Ellen, my wife, on the phone, how I’m so looking forward to watching the Mets on the TV in my room. She misunderstands me. “Watching the bed?” she asks. “Watching the Mets!” Over and out Day 19 / Buffalo, NY / Anthony McCann This is for Matthias and everyone who has slept or napped or both on the bus so far. Goodnight Catherine. * In the airport for seven hours waiting for my plane to decide to leave—in Buffalo. I meet a dude who asks me to explain myself. I do and then he explains me to me. He says, “I guess you didn't have any choice being a poet . . . I guess it’s predetermined. Like being gay or a liberal.” This is exactly what he said. What would you have said in response? |
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