Victor Wong on the #31 Bus by James Lee Jobe
appeared
in The Sacramento Anthology: One Hundred Poems
I
am riding the bus in midtown Sacramento on a damn cold afternoon
whenVictor
Wong gets on, Jack Kerouac’s pal, fine actor and poet,
he
sits down beside me. I decide to run a game on him, and pretend
we
know each other, “Vic! What’s up man?” He turns to me,
with
that one eyebrow cocked crazy up high, he doesn’t let on
once
that he doesn’t know me. “Oh, you know, same ole same ole.
How
are you?” I answer, never say my name, just chat.
The
bus gets into the busy downtown streets, people get on and off,
Victor
pulls the cord, lines up to the exit. We say goodbye.
Just
before he clears the door Victor Wong looks at me,
straight
through me, says, “Hell, I’ve never seen you before in my life,
have
I?” “Nah,” Victor Wong laughs like hell as he steps onto the
sidewalk,
looks
up at me through the window, same eyebrow up, the afternoon
suddenly
just a little bit warmer than before.
A Retrospective from February 1998:
Three
Poems & a Book Review by Heather Hutcheson
First
published in Volume 3 #2 of One Dog Press of James
Lee Jobe
“Heather
Hutcheson, a native of Palm Springs, California, has
An
MA from Cal State Sacramento and is a member of the Board
of
Directors of the Sacramento Poetry center. Heather is also
managing
editor of Poetry Now.
These
poems show Heather’s range as a poet.
She
has the ability to tell a story well with a minimum of words
and
in plain language. She is not afraid to open her life to the page
and
turn that to defining some inner scene.
Also
offered is Heather’s review of Robert Bly’s then recent collection,
Morning
Poems”—James Lee Jobe
1.
Disbelief by Heather Hutcheson
I
stare at these words like they are
A
doctor mouthing “Do you understand?
Your
mole is cancerous.” I’m last
in
the mall lot. I swear I parked
parallel
to the “Y” in Mary’s and find
my
car finally aligned
with
the “R” in Sears. It’s real
disbelief.
Not the instant you see
the
red lights in your rear view.
It’s
ten minutes afterwards
when
your fat tongue squeezes out:
“Thank
you” to the highway patrolman.
It’s
thepop quiz on Nostromo, the one book
You
didn’t read all semester and
The
instructor decides it’s worth
50%
of your grade. It’s bumping
into
the wrong guy in an alleythe single
occasion
you’re carrying more than $10.00.
I
mean, how was I supposed to know
all
of the stupendous acts I performed
in
the name of poetry didn’t count
(even
as much asthat quiz)?
And
just now,
You
get round to telling me this?
2.
The Cocktail Waitress
She
spends her days changing her hair color
and
checking the mail. She makes leftovers
for
her kids to heat after se’s gone,
and
polishes her spoon collection—
all
of the places she’s been.
And
she writes her weekly letter to the editor
and
she meditates for 20 minutes at 10:30 am
in
her backyard bathtub under the fig tree.
She
tries to get that smell of smoke and spilled
beer
off her skin. With loofah, old wash rag
whitewash,
she pinks herself. Dry.
She
smokes two long thin cigarettes
As
she waits for her sequins, star-spangles,
To
fluffin the backyard dryer. Then she rolls on her shiny,
suntanned legs, straps
on
her (regulation black) two-story shoes,
and
sqeezes into her shoulderless un-dress.
At
work, she dodges, drooling, winkig men.
And
her eyes say, (to the hair-sprayed
Hags
and prom-night prima donnas),
“No,
you are whitetrash.”
3.
Best friend's
getting married
I.
here comes...
our old
song
like throw up up the aisle
of a fast bus. Here comes
the rush, the crowd
of memory,
the pull,
that jerk
s you back:
II.
You only have him
in pictures:
Both of
you in a big booth
over your first cup of coffee
the first time
you tried to stay up all night
since the Royal Wedding.
Here
you are after the science fair.
He said he let you win.
And,
look at him looking at you
after your first perm.
Here's
one on your birthday.
III.
That one
must be you, tan,
almost sparkling.
happy.
You
hardly remember that self.
IV.
Gather all your photos up,
send them away
(like they are a door-to-door salesman)
and you stillhave the memory
of how it feels,
how it
feels
to fall in love with your best friend
and
never tell him
because
he should know.
"Morning
Poems" by Robert Bly: a review by Heather Hutcheson
Upon first inspection Robert Bly's "Morning Poems" reads much like a
recipe book.
Not the brand of cookbook designed with superlative photographs of
tortes and appetizers
for an early Fall brunch in a bright kitchen. No, these are the
ingredients of stews. Of a man
who has been stewing for a long time.
He turns morning meditations into reflections on childhood, aging,
death, spirituality
and poetics. He offers up instructions for getting througfh life. Take,
for instance these lines
from "Bad People":"A lazy part of us is like a tumbleweed./ It
doesn't move on its own.
Sometimes it takes? A lot of of Depression to get tumbleweeds moving.
Here, "A lot" is
much more than a dash or a pinch, we are certain. We are certain, also,
that these instructions
will "help a little". And we know from reading this collection that a
little help is enormous.
In "Looking at Aging Faces" Bly reports: "So many things happen:/
People move away, or your
mother becomes crazy/ And bites the nurse."
He buffers this later in the poem when he declares:
"Some faces remain whole and radiant. We study them/ Tofind a
clue.../Memories like that/ Help."
So, maybe more than recipes, these poems these poems are
maps---diagrams painting to the
closest fire escape. Perhaps, they are numbers to dial for help. Bly is
the voice on the other end
of the line that says, "It's okay. You're okay. Even more, he assures:
"You are safe." And does
an excellent job to convinceus of this in:
People Like Us
There
are more like us. All over the world
There are confused people, who can't remember
The name of their dog when they wake up, and people
Who love God but can't remember where
He was
when they went to sleep. It's
All right. The world cleanses itself this way.
A wrong number occurs to you in the middle
Of the night, you dial it, it rings just in time
To save
the house. And the second-story man
Gets the wrong address, where the insomniac lives,
And he's lonely and they talk, and the thief
Goes back to college. Even in graduate,
You can
wander into the wrong classroom,
And hear great poems lovingly spoken
By the wrong professor. And you find yoursoul,
And greatness has a defender, and even in death
you're safe.
Estate Sale
by Monika
Rose
If you
go into a dead stranger's
house to buy useful items
flagged with price tags--
remember, these things
are negotiable: flowered vase,
paste jewelry, jello mold
***
The
living room: crocheted doiles
pinned where head and hands touched
preserving upholstery past its natural life
so many ceramic figurines
as if life could be still, in one place,
posed just so
a settee, a faintingchair, a wooden desk
with a bound composition book of essays.
***
The
study:
books with an old person smell
hold an invisible mold, a waterydampness--
picture frames with accumulated interior scenes
a bowl of fruit gleaming on a table
a lamp throwing a shadow of light
child-like
flat oil paintings of pink desert
narrow forest path with impressionistic pastel
a blood sunset in primary colors
frothy ocean shore and its distant blues
the
frames will be perfect
for your own creative scenes
***
The
bedroom:
so many wigs of fake grays
hat boxes with gaudy gold earings
the woven comforter
gauze pillows, more doilies
so much latent comfort
***
The
kitchen:
sterling knives, tea cozies
a toaster from the 40s
hand painted plates of strawberries
endless coasters, dish towels
embroidered with dancing vegetables
Envision the woman's invisible claw still poised
over the china teapot
and a sterling gathering of a lifetime
***
For
this sale--
you can't take it with you,
might as well
leave it for someone else
to turn over
haggling of the best price
when you go.
