So Easy, So Easy

The first time I heard you
in ‘68, I stopped as if
a rider pulled my reins and
I heard a someone shout, “Whoa!”
It was my own voice.
When I finally saw your face,
those big hot chocolate eyes,
the Cheshire cat lips from which
came an angel chorus that could
coo babies to sleep or roar
the rust off a battleship,
a lifelong crush began.
Now your gift is silenced.
But older me maintains your
image and voice inside,
where that boy keeps burning his
torch to the nail-hard, yet
cloud-soft spirit carrying you
through your days and mine.
The youngsters can’t yet know
what it means to fall in love daily
for half a century with the
unattainable nonpareil. I do,
each time I spin “Heart Like a Wheel.”
Then, it’s so easy to fall in love…

Every now and then, though I try not to think about it, I realize what we lost when Parkinson’s Disease  silenced the brilliant gift of singer Linda Ronstadt, the artist I’ve crushed on since 1968. This poem reads like teen-aged fanboy blathering because one wrote it. It just took about fifty years in the writing.

Tuesday, 6:30 PM


Right now I imagine Dr. Bascomb is checking the computer for information about his next patient. He needn’t because he knows exactly who was coming to see him at this time — he’s been thinking about me all day — but he checks out of habit, nonetheless. He’s obsessive that way. And I know all about obsession.

Bascomb peers out his office door into the waiting room and gently calls, “Hi, Ted, come on in.”

I, Theodore Czemielewski — C. Z. Miller on the book jacket — jerk my head up from reading an US Weekly magazine I found next to the table lamp in Bascomb’s small dark waiting area. Bascomb’s face registers surprise, no doubt because he sees me reading a gossip magazine. He’s always seen me writing in a notebook, from our first appointment almost three years ago until today.

“What’s that all about?” his expression asks.

For a guy who is supposed to be a clinical observer of behavior, he’s never really gotten a handle on observing his own. He should never play poker.

Hi, Doc, how’s it going? Yeah, I know, last appointment of the day. I’ll make it worth your while. Don’t I always?

My visits to Bascomb are monthly now. At one point, when we started, I was seeing him twice a week. I needed to see him that often, he said. Everyone else in my life said so, too. Once he started me on the new meds, I tended to agree with them.

We each sit down in our respective chairs for this appointment. Bascomb parks his cashmere-sweatered frame in the high-backed executive chair behind his shiny mahogany desk; I take the leather side chair to his right. I like to be close when I talk to him, eye-to-eye, like we’re conducting business, which I guess we are. I never have used the leather couch over in front of the opposite wall. There are too many sobs echoing over there. Shadows of crazy block the light.

Bascomb opens his portfolio — he has a thing for leather, I guess — and writes at the top of a pad of lined light green paper. He stops writing, frowns, and turns his yellow pencil over and erases what he’s written. Exhaling his annoyance, he blows the rubberized crumbs of whatever error he made into the wastebasket at his feet. He doesn’t take such things well.

I prefer a mechanical pencil to a wooden one, Doc, but only because mechanicals don’t get worn down to nubs that used to be their points. I like a sharp point on my pencil, don’t you? It makes me feel more nimble of translating thought to written word. Not that the thoughts are all that sharp, but it’s better that I get them out before they become obsessions.

What’s the difference between an obsession and a compulsion, Doc? We’ve never talked about that, just danced around it. Is a compulsion one of those things that you suddenly feel you must do or have? Is an obsession where that compulsion becomes the biggest thing in your mind, your day, your life? I can string those like the links of a chain stretching the length of my life. You have any obsessions, Doc?

This obsession I have to write fiction, even though for the longest time I didn’t submit much of it, strikes me as one of those ‘You’re crazy if you keep doing the same thing over and over and expect a different outcome’ things. But we’ve both determined I’m not crazy, right, Doc?
What? Oh, yeah, obviously I submitted something to get a book published and all. Yep, it was a couple months after I started seeing you. That’s when I figured you can’t win if you don’t play. Gotta play to win, right, Doc?

In order to play, I revise those bits of whimsy that I’ve already crafted. In my case, though, I’ve always felt I’m kind of like a Cub Scout bending nails trying to make a birdhouse compared to the stuff real writers do. They’re the house framers or finish carpenters. But now I realize my stories are the truth, just like theirs. Funny, isn’t it? How can I call something the truth that is, by definition, a lie? I guess they’re my truth, seen through my now-clear eyes. They’re stories that have happened somewhere in the dark insides of my mind, given life and light by a little self-recognition and the glow of a computer screen or the lined white pages of a notebook.

Which brings me around again to the pencils. I think there is something almost noble about writing literature with a pencil. Not the ink-versus-pencil war fought by know-it-all crossword geeks. I hate those guys. It’s more the feel of the words scratching their way out and onto the page, digging themselves out of my mind’s prison like escapees would with a spoon. A noble effort against tremendous odds and all the forces against me.

Until the end, Elmore Leonard wrote – though with a pen – on legal pads. Every day. Well, there’s the difference between Old Dutch and me. Legal pads and forty years of oh-my-gosh fiction. I must admit that I really like reading his old western stories more than his smart-ass detective/crime stories so loved by his ass-kissers like that sports guy with the Daily News.

He reminds me of those nitwits that’d call Howard Stern and start yelling at guests like they’re part of the show. They’re not. They’re just smartass wannabes. Not to say sports guy isn’t a talented writer. He’ll tell you that himself, so he doesn’t need me. He’s just got more balls than I do and got an earlier start at all this than I did. He must have matured earlier than I did or maybe I’m a late bloomer of fully-formed and descended literary testicles. I think I still have one undescended, but I’m afraid to look.

I never asked, you’re not one of those Freudian guys, are you, Doc? Folks like me, who graduated with a useless degree in English, were taught to look for those sex things in literature by our professors. You know, sometimes a cigar is a cigar, a flower is really a flower and a rope swing is really just a rope swing. Sometimes not. Yeah, I’m looking at you D. H. Lawrence, you freak.

Back to the obsession thing. The writing obsession I have is not as strong as all those other ones I’ve had in my life. Maybe it should be more like the ones where I thought of little else but that target of my mind and heart. In some cases, they know who they are. Most don’t, but they eventually will.

The writing is more a guilt thing now. I feel guilty if I don’t do it. Maybe that’s because of wasting all those years doing nothing but working and watching TV, not even opening too many novels or even trashy pulp things. I don’t read a hell of a lot more now, but I crack them open every once in awhile. It’s got to be something special to keep me interested over the span of weeks, including taking the book with me into the bathroom, parking on the toilet and sometimes not even using the throne for what it’s there for. I just need to find an alone spot to stay in the groove of the world the author’s making.

Is that an obsession or a compulsion, Doc?

That groove may be why I keep writing stuff. I get into a world of the author’s making. Even though the author’s me, I still want to know what’s going to happen next. I don’t like to start a story and not finish it until weeks later. It’s something I want to get done in one sitting. The first draft, that is. I‘m not one who does much revision and that must be why I didn’t submit too often. To submit means that I would have to obsess over the quality of the writing and maybe I was too lazy or too afraid or didn’t feel I have the right stuff to obsess over something I’ve already finished. Like taking a dump. I’m going to carve it into the Venus de Milo? Nope. I’m gonna walk away and leave it for others to pick up, more than likely in their shoes. Disposable, you know?

Which is what art might eventually be, when you get down to it. It’s disposable shit that is kept around by hoarders, those other obsessive people that I don’t feel a part of, but keep dropping loads for nonetheless.

Maybe a call to Dr. Freud might be in order after all, Doc. Sex and potty stuff seems to be all I’m talking about today.

Now where was I? The readers’ and writers’ obsessions have fed my family since the book happened and they almost feed my ego. What? Of course I have an ego. I want to be respected by those other writers, even though I don’t feel I belong among them and they always seem such arrogant pricks when I get together with them. Their obsession is so much cleaner, so much greater than mine. Bigger, more necessary.

Maybe I don’t really have an obsession. What do you think? Oh, what do I think? Well, maybe I just found a way to root all these things out of my head and onto a piece of paper, like some Rorschach blots. I don’t know for sure what they mean, but I feel better having made them. Some other folks look at them and see cats or clowns or their moms or bicycle-riding doughnuts doing wheelies in the clouds. #And then these people think I’m special. No, I’m just a guy trying not to feel guilty about wasting his life just by living it all these years, just living it. And I guess I feel good getting all the drama over with.

Do I feel guilty now that I’m writing more? Sure I feel guilty, that’s why I came here. Well, there are a couple other reasons, too. Look, I’m made to feel guilty that I’m not exercising, not reading, and not being the provider I used to be or could be.

Even though I never was doing much when I was a lump in front of the TV all those years, at least I was there, she says. Now I’m somewhere else trying to get all these things out of my head, make a deadline for something that nobody’s really going to give a shit about in five years or five months or tomorrow. Sometimes that ‘somewhere else’ is inside my head.

Now she says she thinks I was better when I was on the old medicine from the first doctor she sent me to, rather than the stuff you’ve had me on the past couple of years. Better for whom, though? On the old medicine, I felt nothing at all, except for the times I blew up with anger. It was like I was in the fuzzy interior of a long dark tube. There was light at the other end, but I could never get to it, so I just hung out, suspended inside, feeling nothing. Occasionally, I would blow up, remember?

When I got off the old stuff, I started to see things as they probably really were, you know? I started feeling things again, real emotions and caring about myself. I started writing stuff down like I used to do when I was in college. The professors said that I might be a writer if I applied myself to it. Instead, I applied myself to that girl, and she applied herself to me, and now we’re married twelve years and dreams got shelved.

Well, they were shelved for awhile. Things are different now. Now, I eavesdrop on all the conversations I hear up here.

I point to my temple.

Secret time, Doc. Better sharpen your pencil. I know my wife’s been calling you about me. I know you’ve been calling her, too. That’s okay. You hear plenty of secrets and I’m sure you’ve got a bushel of your own. Nobody’s perfect. Does she know about your obsessive cleanliness, how you can’t handle making mistakes, how you’ll lie to patients just to keep them coming back? Do you know that you’re not her first walk on the wild side? Sure you do. You’ve had plenty, you’ve seen it all.

Oh, about my secret. I stopped taking the medicine you gave me two weeks after I started. I was feeling so much better after I weaned myself off the old junk, I just wanted to stay with life unaltered. Didn’t know what I had been missing.

I guess I was missing how she’d have all those secret phone calls. How she’d go out with the girls because she was sick of sitting home all day waiting for her doped up, meal-ticket drone to get home and take over the stuff the queen didn’t do all day anyway. Well, her being out allowed me to connect all those notes I’d been making, thoughts I’d been scribbling down, turning them into stories. Into truth.

Hell, no, I never showed them to her. What did she care other than how they might reflect on her? She still hasn’t read the book. But then I’m pretty sure you read to her from your book, the one you’ve been writing there about me since we got together.

Look, our time’s almost up. Here’s your co-pay, Doc. Don’t bother making me another appointment. We won’t be seeing each other again, at least professionally. It’s been great. Couldn’t have done all this without you. No lie. Appreciate all that.

Oh, yeah, I forgot to tell you. Just got another manuscript accepted and the publisher offered me a three-book deal. Couple hundred thou up-front. Approbation, baby. I’m going to be pretty busy for awhile, so I guess this is goodbye.

When I leave today, please be sure to call the little woman again with the good news. How you’ve got everything under control. What do you mean, ‘Don’t be ridiculous?’ You’ve probably got her on your cell’s speed dial. Fifteen years ago, I would have. Anyway, tell her I’m coming home with a surprise, okay? And not to worry because I’m cured. I mean, just look at me; look at all I’ve done, all I’m doing. Very busy, very busy. No more time to talk.

And, with that, I stand up, extend my hand, and when he cautiously offers his, I reach past it to pick up the pencil on his desk. Taking an end in each hand, I hold it in front of my face and break the offensive Number 2 Medium in half, or close enough to it.

Bascomb will probably measure the two pieces, one against the other, when I leave. That’s just the way he is. Always in control. He really needs help. Then he’ll call my wife. She always has to know how things are going. Controlling, that’s just the way she is. She can’t help herself. And she needs some help. I’ll pay for it. But I’ll bet it won’t be with Bascomb. That’s just the way the world is. It needs some help, too.

And me? I’ll always provide for her. That’s what I have to do. I just do. Oh, and I’ll write it all down, because life — no matter how skewed, corrupted, secretive, sad, or happy — is all grist for the mill with a guy in my position. And I won’t be under anyone else’s control anymore — not hers, nor a doctor’s, nor some medication’s. Never, never, never again. I’ll always see to that.

After all, I know all about obsession.

Not sure if I’ve hit the prompt for Day 5 of my Story a Day Challenge — a story about with a character like me. This guy has more than a few of my foibles, hangups and views, but amped up to Crazytown levels. I think. Also, the style and structure are different for me. But maybe it isn’t. Maybe I’m C.Z. Miller after all.


You sit and ask yourself these questions every day,
questions about self, the world and the world
within yourself. You must be relentless
in this interrogation, taking it beyond
mere Question and Answer into
Answer Known and So Why? So What? So Who?
And So Why? once more.
Sometimes the response is instantaneous,
others you must drag it from within your darkness
by a chain. The brave ones know it’s the sneaking
imminent ones, the ones beneath your tongue,
hiding in plain sight of your heart,
the YOU concealed among those look-alike boys
who eagerly cast lies on the breeze,
who provide that most difficult extraction.
And this is why sometimes you have to break
the rules of order, writing these things
under a stark, bare light, at the end of a rubber hose,
scarring yourself with worry and woe, joy and hope.
Relentless, the poet must ever pry.

Poem #15, the Ides of April halfway point of Poem-a-Day NaPoWriMo 2015. This was a call for an “adjective” poem. Maybe I succeeded and maybe I didn’t. But I at least dug within and DID.

Maude Obsession

Maude Fealy, Photo via Wikipedia

He borrowed her photo from the Internet.
It depicted a beautiful girl from 1908.
She’d infected him with an infatuation
for which he sought no cure and
he carried her around in his phone
the way previous generations kept the photo
of the pretty girl that came with their wallets.
“Sure she was my girlfriend, once,” they’d say,
and quickly slap shut the leather,
lest the guys looked too closely.

He couldn’t do that with Maude.
She obviously was from another era,
though had beauty enough for any.
Whenever the lonelies embraced him,
or the trout pouts and phonies
ignored his goodness, he dialed up Maude.
“She’s not my girlfriend,” he’d say,
and slowly click shut the app
after one last longing look at her.
Because, of course, she really was.

The Things I Carry


Image Credit: James Speed Hensinger | Vietnam 1970

That dream returned last night, the one where shadows
dressed for bed crawl toward my resting place.
All I can do is lie there and wait,
knowing it’s coming, pickled in a perspiration
exotic, torporific, frantic, paralytic.
I dream these nights of being in-country,
asleep in a faraway land I did not know,
but in a bed I do.

The dark figures, with faces vaguely familiar,
sometimes raid my slumber when I see
their waking work in an old friend or
in scorching color on television.
My dream-self awakens to the nightmare pop-pop-pop
of small arms fire, the b-r-r-rap-b-r-r-rap
of the M-60 spitting All-American fireworks
into three-dimensional silhouettes, and then
comes the tripwire boom of upright, soaking reality
in which I do not wear olive armor on my back 
nor upon my shoulders lug a sackful of
the things they carried.

My burden has no measurable weight but that
which I give it. My rank is guilty civilian,
a lifer who lucked out in the 1970 lotto
that saw boys next to me busted by
an insane spin of numbers.
Awake in this safe and dark bedroom,
I envision bodies and lives broken,
maimed, lost. And God help me, there are times
when I lie back down and stare at those ghosts
on the dark ceiling, and in some distorted sense
of shame and confusion, I may envy some 
their losses.

I had a hard time with this one. I wrote a very “Joe” fireworks poem yesterday in its place, but every time I looked at the photo up there, a prompt from my friend Kellie Elmore, this new (too darn long) poem came exploding back at me. It’s something that’s been simmering inside me — even wrote a short story about it — since long before I ever saw that photo. I post it with great reservation because I revere what these guys suffered and endured and don’t wish to diminish or dishonor that with the prattling of some stupid hump of a middle-aged “poet.” I guess what I’m trying to say is I had to write this someday.

When the Lilacs Bloom

When the lilacs bloom, pungent and purple,
spring freshets run from my nose,
eyes and memory. I clench my face
like a fist and shake it with each sneeze
in explosive protest to the flower’s
reputed beauty and all months beginning in M.

Locked within bleared and puffy eyes,
it’s my mind sees the plaster Virgin,
a finger missing from her right hand,
enshrined in lilacs and pale blue crepe paper
in the corner of our classroom.

I can feel rosary beads in my hands,
an abacus of calculated Catholic indoctrination
for a boy longing to sin just once,
preferably with one of the alabaster virgins
pressed close to my compass points.

Funny what flowers like frothy amethysts
will do to an old man when a young man’s
fancies would turn those pubescent blossoms
of my youth to thoughts of budding lust.

Think I’m caught up now for NaPoWriMo and Poem-A-Day April. Don’t ask where this came from. I have no idea. I was free writing and I thought how close May is today.

One More Time

“You know, she was my girl before Bobby, but she…he was always one to ruin everything he touched,” Captain Ed Hermanski said, wiping tears across his cheeks.

“Yeah, Bobby was crazy about Jen, and swept her right off her feet, didn’t he?” Officer Jack Donahue replied, feeling the acrid smoke sting his eyes.

“Sumbitch ruined what could’ve been…but poor Jen always told me he was crazy jealous of the least little thing, even threatening to…”

Donahue blinked at the firefighter and choked out, “I been here so many times over the past few years, hauling Bobby away after he beat on poor Jen, screaming about “cheatin’ whore this ‘n’ that, but she always took him back.”

Hermanski wiped his eyes again as turned to his radio, ordering some of his men to pour more water into the back of the blackened skeleton of what was once “his girl’s” home and said, “Yeah, if only she called m… you one more time tonight.”

A quick Five Sentence Fiction based on Lillie McFerrin’s prompt word RUINS. I guess that word has more than one meaning. I may have captured a few here.

I Been There


I been to South Bend and North Troy,
Boston and Houston, too.
I been in a city where I found a street
by that name, only they pronounce it House-ton.

But it was never home,
‘cause, you know…

I been to London—the little one in England, New,
and the famous one in England, Olde.
I been lost in the Sierras and Adirondacks,
Montreal and Jersey, too.

But they was never home,
‘cause, you know…

And I been in your head and you in mine,
peeked through the windows of our souls,
bounced upon each other’s hearts
like beds in the lonely dark.

And I thought they was gonna be home,
‘cause, you know…

A rambling lunchtime piece about a rambling (and lost , from the looks of it) poet guy. poet and guy.

Closing the Door

Brown eye

Brown eye (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

That thought came wafting back again today.
This time a song blew the door open a crack.
Even though you would never push it wide
to fill that empty space, a gust of curiosity
slipped a faded picture across its threshold.
As always it showed that captured half-smile,
but until lately I never noticed the off-boil simmer
in those hot cocoa eyes whose gaze I tried
but could never hold. It’s for the best my grip
couldn’t stand the heat, and your focus alit
upon more distant objects of what passed for desire.
I nudged shut the door and the wind swept away
most of the memory out where, really, it belongs.
But some dust of it I never can blink out.
I guess that belongs where it belongs, too.

The Murder

English: Crows in flight This field is close t...

English: Crows in flight This field is close to the junction of Nottingham Road and Loughborough Road in Leicestershire. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Black pen-nib crows write sure,
harsh and profane above me, all
flourishes, loops and T-crossing,
shouting outbursts of joy
in their own creativity. And I stand
here watching them, feeling guilty
that I’m not flying across some page,
envious of that abandon and their
bumptious “F-you” to those of us cursed
with too much of our own gravity.

Groundbound, I drop my spirit
and my eyes, and fold back my wings.

Now I sit here and curse you all,
crows and men, envious I’ve yet
to test my wings in the open sky,
feeling guilty for listening to
your caws for your own cause.
I stand and give a little jump, write
my little “F-you” to all those flyers,
real and imagined, and curse this
murderous might-be fear and
my own already accursed gravity.