Yesterday while driving in a dreadful storm, I saw a car with a faded bumpersticker that said, Never drive faster than your angels can fly which cast me back to the 90s, when angels were all the rage, book upon book touting their life-affirming powers -- Find Your Angel Guide, Guardian Angels Are Here, Angels For Every Occasion. You get the idea. I never thought much about angels (I'm more of a saints and martyrs girl myself) and resisted the notion that people who had died were acting as angels for my wicked soul. I figure that they act like they did in this world, which is sometimes good, sometimes bad. The one angel story I recall from my youth besides Jacob and his long night wrestling with one consisted of a woman who was walking down a deserted road at night. If the storyteller was worth anything, the road would be misting with rain, as dark and foreboding as any John Carpenter movie. The woman walked by a mean-looking dude who did nothing to her as she prayed for her safety. The next day, predictably, someone tells her that there was a rape on the same road she was walking! When she asks why the man didn't attack her, he was said to have reported that she had two huge men walking with her. She'd gasp and say, But I was alone! until she remembered praying for her angels who had appeared as men. The poor second woman was shit out of luck, I suppose. But for the story to work, there has to be someone who reminds you how lucky you are and how many bad things can happen to you if you're not vigilant.
So you can see that this story is a bit galling, not unlike a Pat Buchanan speech, which as the great journalist Molly Ivins joked, It probably sounded better in the original German. Still, I do believe in angels. The Bible was rife with them, most of them complicated as anything, some fallen, some not. Like Jacob, we wrestle with them all the time. I often have dreams that mimic the angel story -- walking in between tall buildings at night, rushing to get somewhere. Sometimes I take the time to look around, see all the beauty that the urban landscape holds. My imaginary city speaks to me in the language of neon and stray wrappers, love and loss. That sort of thing.
Michelle's Spell of the Day
"I have been noticing/ how everything loved must/ reach the touch of grief to the lover." Denis Johnson
Cocktail Hour
Jerry Falwell Remembers His First Time
1 glass of scotch
1 copy of Hustler
Drinking novel suggestion: Veronica Mary Gaitskill
Benedictions and Maledictions
Happy Wednesday!
108 comments:
Jerry Falwell is a lot more fun than Jimmy Carter's sister! Get 'er done!
I'll second that emotion!
Go Red Wings!!!Kill those dirty Ducks!!!
Michelle, with your positions on gay marriage and abortion I must classify you as a "cafeteria Catholic." I do enjoy your blog, though.
Speaking of angels, do you like hairy chests on men, Michelle?
I liked hairy chests in the movie "Fur." Hairy balls, too. Shaven and unshaven.
We're gonna get those "Angels in America" lovers and we're gonna cut their balls off!!!
Walk like an angel, talk like an angel.
Eighteen more days until the last day of the Sopranos!
Your guardian angel protects you.
Satan was an angel. By the way, I'd never read, let alone taught, "Paradise Lost" before being assigned to teach it at U.C. Berkeley.
I thought of myself as an angel when I attended the wake of Christopher Moltisanti.
I thought of myself as a dead angel when I played the role of the dead Christopher Moltisanti in his open casket wake. Thanks for all your support of the Sopranos, Michelle. Only three episodes left!
I've got a book around here somewhere about all the different types of angels. One of my favorite movies is the Prophecy, not the mutated bear one but the one where the angels are having another war among themselves. It's pretty cool.
Michael Imperioli will win the Emmy for his brilliant acting in the Sopranos, especially his mind blowing death scene in the "Heidi and Kennedy" episode of the Sopranos' last season. I predict.
Speaking of wrestling with angels,Michelle,I wouldn't mind getting you in a scissors hold, if you know what I mean.
I'd give her my claw hold.
Wrestling at the beautiful, air-conditioned, Cobo Reeenaaaa!!!
I'd bounce her around the ropes a few times.
Jerry Falwell... one of the greats. Today he flies with the angels.
Hell, I'd do a bong with her at my place.
I'd get her in a head lock and then pile drive her into the turnbuckle.
I'd head-butt her crotch, in bed.
These comments are disgustingly unangelic!
I eat her pussy alive, no kidding.
Perv.
They say that beings of pure evil, vampires and demons among them, leave no reflections to be seen by human eyes. It is said that this is due to a lack of a soul; by this logic, angels probably have no reflections, either. But I do see one soul--reflected in double image, of yin and yang, of poetry and laughter, of the beauty and her enchanting shadow smiling over a lake of glass. I'm no angel, she said to me once, the smile on her lips and eyes fading with gravity of the tales she told me that day and so many others, so long ago. Her desk was cluttered with the debris of her earthly life, the walls around her decorated by the faces of those souls closest to her, the darkness blessed by lit candles. She talked of a future only she could see--at that time, I could only fear what I could not see. The only mirror in her chamber I glanced at quickly, seeing if my soul was still there. I still don't see the future, but it is not so fearful. An angel may very well be hidden in that dark mirror, in that window divide, in that lake of glass. I don't see one, but that may be false sight. Maybe my angel is there, holding back the vampires and demons with a swift terrible sword, waiting for the day I will see them for what they have always been. Maybe I will see that they do leave reflections, however faint, gleaming on lakes of glass. Maybe I will see one looking after not just my lonely soul, but after the one who eases my burden with the sight of her reflection on the silent, still waters, keeping the unseen demons at bay.
Boobies!!
You still don't have a woman, do ya, kiddo?
Plenty.
you can have rosie, turdlick
I am Rosie. Cockshit.
Kiddo.
I'm going to leave, now. Talk a bunch of crap while I'm gone, that really impresses the hell out of Michelle. It does!
Toodles. Angel asswipe.
Wipe your mouth, turdlick. Your breath stinks all the way to here.
let me know if you ever get a chance to procreate--not that that will happen here. Id like to see what kind animals you'll have, muttly
toodles
maybe you are rosie...
I thought you left, ass face.
Don't say you're leaving and then leave your shit here, dungman.
I have a friend that swears she saw one. It was sitting between her and her son after a pretty brutal car wreck. It's one of those stories that makes the little hairs stand up on the back of your neck.
And hell, I figure my neck's been saved several times. So it'd be pretty cool to give someone the credit for that.
I see angels all the time; they're no big deal. Except Michelle. ;O)
I just came in my hand and wiped it in my hair. Top that, Donald
I knew you weren't a hankie kind of girl, mr rosie mcdonalds.
The asshole Rosie just stole my Rosie. Just can't leave without his shit.
and never talk to anyone here about leaving shit behind them, you crude sexless troll...
quit masterbating and talking to me
you are a disgrace. write two sentences or something. defend yourself, sweetie
or leave and don't address me again
With you here, asshole, I don't need a defense.
I disagree with everyone here. Jail ouse rock is my favorite song of all time... and you're my favorite writer. I' ain't no angel or no teddy bear, m. I ain't old Kentucky rain, you know.
I know you do.
Wulla, thought I'd be a little tension breaker here, ma'am. I got better things to do and write than get into this shit knee deep.
I need a quaalude after this. Red and green pills all over a triple cheeese burger. Love me tender, baby. Love me sweet.
bitter boy beat himself black and blue enough yet?
You are a bully, rosie. quit while we are all nice like him.
Eat shit and die, asshole.
bullies smell like you, coward. I've told you my name, Why do you hide, little insect child?
nobody loves you, bitter boy.
But I do
Turn the other cheek, buttfuck.
this is the only time i really feel alive, as trent reznor said.
Why do you ruin it?
You're not sucking my ass hard enough.
at least i got laid this year
handy boy
You laid your mother.
How many times did you fuck your sisters?
go copulate with yourself a bit harder. Your delusions will never be real enough. You are a curse on those you know. You need a life. you need attention and I am your babysitter, potty mouth. You made it happen to yourself. look at the shit, or are those your rotten teeth. maybe insides are best kept skin deep. Your insides are malignant ans spill thus onto the page. Thank you for being my writing prompt, you simple boy. You do speak truth as short bus and special. I believe that I have regressed by engaging in you who can't even approach the level of thought that is in this writing.
But I will keep responding, as my little toe's wit need this vigorous workout.
Ciao
yay, toes
i would like to suck your but, head
He stole us asshole.
He's a fucking plagiarist. A professor of plagiarism.
take what I want from you, rosie. I don't care if you hide in a short bus.
Tell us your name so that we might know greatness, bitter boy blew.
keep coming, jerkoff
He's fucking his mother right now.
You're gonna get my cigar up your queer ass, professor.
I never needed to talk about your mom. You must be panicking, Thank you for being lower life. I love you, despite you fear that belays each response.
Ciao
Its a pissing match I love this
I have no life or sex. I would die of my hand and a razor if I wasn't getting attention now.
We'll tie him to the pole at the Bing and watch Phil cigar fuck him!
Then we'll watch professor plagiarist eat cigars!
hear that, m? He thinks I'm a prof!
OK, little dogie, I'm the potty training professor. As evidenced by my speaking with you.
I love writing.
Michelle will hate us both, now.
You were the only one she hated before.
You is a professor to us!
Sounds like a plagiarist professor to me, too.
Sounds like a nigger lover to me.
He is a nigger lover.
Sounds like he likes eating nigger shit.
So that's where all that shit comes froms.
Sounds like a big man in nigger town. Evidently, nigger town.
Angels like the Creator are spirits. There are angels of HARMONY and HEALING and Peace as well as angels or spirits of DISCORD, STRIFE AND HATE. Yet do they, these spirits have place in this mortal realm? For simplicities sake we will define this mortal realm as defined within the limits of time.
The only answer is yes because eternal being have place everywhere both within and without of time.
Yet like God, as the dispensationalist Christian texts would have you believe, that in this age of man a spirit needs a human to manifest itself because spirits are not natural in this age to appear. God no longer doe the burning bush thing and hasn't for many millenia. why because with the rebirth of man man is now once again able to be a spiritual creature. Ergo spirits become manifest through man. whether they be spirits of satans dominion or the Lord and Master of ALL creations.
If I were the one of the majority of posters today. I would think long and deeply as to which spirit I was manifesting. Not only the rude and crude childish comments about Ms. Brooks, a kind and wonderful person but also the blatantly racist comments.
I do believe that some of you think you were replying to me using some pseudo guise but this is todays only post from The walking Man in any form today. I am ashamed for you all not only for your what you are manifesting which is more HATE in a world that needs less but also because Michelle and especially THE MAKER OF ALL LIFE has to see you at your worst.
make peace not hate
TWM
I'm sorry to trick him into exposing his true racist being. He's no tony--he's just a rosie and I love him. He loves me! Like a fifth grader in love!
TWM, this man knows he wasn't dealing with you. He found something to take his mind of his swollen little doink and look what spilled out: psychological malignancy and social excrement.
He loves being insulted by us, as we are so much nicer than his world is to him. They drove him here--I'm certain he has nobody else to bother but someone like m.
And he does like me--for whatever reason
I usually enjoy the comments on your blog but today i was disgusted with this bunch who hide behind someone elses name. If you are going to write such tripe sign your real name or don't bother to comment. KIP
The Winter semester has ended at Kindergarten Kollege (MCC) and all the kiddies have come out to play. I'm NEVER going to retire!
Sorry to have egged him on, everyone concerned. I just wanted to drive him mad enough to leave, not go off like David duke. I said one thing that was so true:
"this is the only time I really feel alive"
quoting from a Nine Inch Nails song that I love.
I meant that about writing, about poetry. I meant that about my friend's heartaches, challenges, insights and triumphs. I only feel alive when I create something, and Michelle helps me to do that when I can do that no place else. I couldn't get a groove, and it upset me. So I did what TWM and you, m, before me tried to do: send him packing for an easier target.
After I left and wrote a long email to a good friend and all, I saw that he had not laid off, but entered the most despicable part of his tirade. I know that this is wrong, but I wish I had stuck around on the page just so I could have nailed him. The creator of those mindless comments needed to be stood up to. I called him a bully, and there was no denial. Mark, you are right, bullies should never be tolerated.
You know who I am. I may right shitty poetry and stories, and get dissed or ignored. Either way, cool. But I am a bully only to bullies, as my father was a sinner after his own. I said awful things today, but only towards their source of inspiration. I didn't think that I was feeding the bonfire like that.
Here today's metaphor: I use the wrong right.
What a conversation there!
I'm glad that you keep blogging even after a year. It influenced me and Jim and... well Eddie...
=D
it was a break shit kind of day.
Everyone needs an outlet.
Dear friends of Michelles lovely spells: I know you all mean well and we are all true to our feelings and opinions. I feel as passionately about Michelle and her blog as well. But please I urge you not to bloody one another in the name of love. We are all mortal people and this too shall pass before we can understand what has happened to any of us truly. Bravo dear Michelle on a lovely post as always. Bravo and Peace on the boards from a GP man who also works in Detroit and is proud of both and even more so of having the privilege of reading here.
no truer wall existed
eight miles to downtown
dividing everything
except love
and her brother hate
and they did mix freely; her lovers
lived and died and still are loved
in detroit's carbide embrace
but the wall
reminded everybody
of the balance
the blood
and how many miles separate the two
only the dead are free of this:
the expectations of our Fathers, who being the figure of [The Lord] on earth to a tickle me Freud shrink are aloud to teach their children that to love what is different than thyself is a sin inaccrochable among its lesser peers be aloud to speak with a tongue not riddled by worms.
Indeed, the dead are also free of this:the words of hate flaring like burning matches that cook the flesh of the finger as it burns up it's flinder to a broken husk of britle ash, the only evidence left is smoke diftig on the merciful wind, a force of nature that cleans the garbage of the city when nobody else will.
And the dead are free of this: The ability to ask another not to stand on their face. Because of the nature of the beast, their voice will not be heard. Many of the living are only a bit louder than this.
an old gray wall
behind a brick
two-story liqour store
with a broken open sign
that never freaking closed
had a swastika spray painted
across the mosaic of bricks
for three years
quite a welcome sign
to the new neighbors
who in the dead of their first night
were arrested
for painting over the symbol of hate
with colorless gray
only a shade or two different
from the original
a subsatnce that looked like blood
in black and white films
from before our time
if I were a hammer
I would hammer the toes
of every pederast
every racist
every murderer
and every rapist
until pancakes for
the giant wharf rats
under Bagley Street
are served with morning joe
but I have only a voice
to nail a cross with;
a hammer I am not.
the things I have broken
were all fragile
to begin with
is there any torment
worse than the disappointment
of a good friend?
Will not the light
of heaven's judgement
burn the flesh from my sin?
Or will I have to wait
with everybody else
a cue of souls
trudging toward the infinite horizon
waiting for their second chance
just to sit and talk to god
you aren't perfect
She whispered over my shoulder
slumping as I was
into the sewage
a computer monitor
my guiding light out of hell
I felt my tooth with my tongue,
still shattered.
I felt my stomach wrench,
acting out the prologue.
I felt my attention slip fom love to lust and back
perfect?
perfectly slipshod
As a writer must be
you aren't perfect, either
it was all I said
just one more line
the right amount of light
and shade
that would make it all right
that would push it over the top
She yawned and rolled over
I was almost finished
I thought I owed you a poem the other day, but now it's delivery time--for real.
I've never written this much in my life.
For real.
I too believe in angels, I have given birth to four of them and I am also surrounded by them. They are the sparkling lights I see when I walk about during the day..energy yeah!
Wretchedly Drunk at Mais-Tais on the Eight
Eric Bachman,
Warrior-Poet,
one who has a lot of work to do.
I scribble in lead
to you
wonderful reader
of choices made not lightly
meaning so many verbs of hate that you see
hate to so many minds
that I cannot forget
to my mind--my peace
remembering
as I drove south up into the D
94 to Woodward
Tuxedo the river taking to me
to the Grand Boulevard
of gray rising fog in the morning
past a border of speeding souls
and dogs with their men in uniform
with their guns aimed for hearts
and that is supposed to keep
hearts like mine in their proper place?
I will fucking drive for you
My love, forbidden
and as sweet as everything
we ever deny ourselves
glossy in my mind
are the memories
are our bodies
emerging together
from the shower
each piece of clothing
slowly pulled on to stretch the few minutes we had left
thinking nothing must have happened
ever on the earth like
us before
that day
that the father was waiting for me
in the living room by the door
chasing me from the house
shotgun breach snapping closed
and blood pounding from every emotion
the both of us
closing in
his hands shaking as much as my
I tell you he knew love, too
He just happened to have a shotgun
and I was a dead man talking
walking, both backwards I think
but I didn't run
just walk--a little fast
alone
looking down at where
I might be laying soon in the
swanky Detroit
style
foreverness
until
I felt
sweet she
bounced out back and
in through the front
next to me on the floor of judgment;
my love
maybe saving me
did save me
had to have have
--my love and loved so far gone now
In memory
mine is
sweetest
to taste
pulsing; we are only human blood.
crush of my heart
died another death that day and now
my soul stands right here
on this entry
look at it’s blinding heart of fire
on this friend’s leaden monument
to hate
strife
and redemption of one willing to try
soon it will fade away
sinking into the circles of hell
below the straits;
but only to you am I speaking
with this scribbled and sadly obsequious
message of love
my hands only now know the words
my heart used to know with you
Oleshia—I knew you
as few other's could have
from ethereal Mais-Tais’s floor
humid with lust and desperation
to the days and nights
numbered so short
days; alive
numbered
to your father's shotgunpoint
and a kiss at my car door
south of a border many maggots think
and spit on my ears deafened by the roar of blood
keep saying that I should never have crossed
the line
I hear no noise, I see no line
of maggot craftsmanship worth remembering
or respecting
but if not for their existence
and that so many rare flowers
grow so beautiful and stay that way forever
even after their death
south of the eight mile divide
I might not have found
the will or the words
to say goodbye to someone beautiful
in a way she would have loved
For every occcasion
a spell
a drink
a laugh
an angel
Prophetess, soft hands saying
all the words given any soul
making them her own
even if they
could only be inspired
and a picture to say anything
that might have been left out
and I'm sure that was only by accident, if its even so
God, was it only four days ago?
I'm sorry that I lost some of your people for Michelle because of that scene. I wish the Downtown poet still wrote in. I miss those little poems of mighty isis/mightyeyessavingrcity. I took pride as you might have, even. He knew me as the pizza guy, and that was it. They were sweet, poems, however.
A long road I'll walk to beg heaven's exoneration, and longer still to ask meekly for one more blessing. Please, take care of all those I don't even know about whose fellings I hurt by my zealous, thoughtless words and foolish actions. And in the name of the Father, through his son, Jesus Christ who died on earth for all of our sins, I offer this small prayer.
Amen
ha ha!
God will listen
to a sore asshole
if he really feels
as sorry as he must look
in His eyes and hers
but in neither name
will I a utter curses
such as these profane bloody
things that were born to kill--
all of a culture's shit
smeared on a sinking lead wall by
hands and tongues of childemons
A prayer isn't only what you want;
a fat favor from your God
they need to be rationed
by all crude mortals
such as this weak shell
and half-soul typing
wanting judgement day
to be a go
when it gets here
Prayers are the divine counterpart
to that which a guilty man will beg
and a criminal take and kill for;
they're trully every color
every taste
and sensation
and only the quietest are ever heard
really
they are something so rare
they can't all be used up by one
who barely accepts the light
for what it is, even on a good day
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