You guys know my dear friend, the Walking Man, an encourager, truth-teller, and all-around great guy, a stalwart Detroiter and unrepentant wise-ass. To steal from an old ad, If you like him on the blog, you'll love him in his new book, Stink: Poetry and Prose of Detroit. If you're interested in reading great poetry or learning about the essence of my very favorite city, Detroit, you need to read this book. Mark has a brutal honesty and sense of humor that makes it a very compelling read. Congratulations to one of my dearest friends on his fine work!
Michelle's Spell of the Day
"No one changes the world who isn't obsessed." Billie Jean King
Cocktail Hour
Drinking suggestion: Watch for the trailers of the third season of Californication --Meet Professor Hank Moody, indeed.
Benedictions and Maledictions
Happy Friday! And happy belated (by one day!) birthday to my dearest Higgins. You regular readers will know her as Hank's fabulous sister -- pictures tomorrow to commemorate!
the walking man does more than just blog ? Impressive.
ReplyDeleteMichelle,
ReplyDeleteCongrats to Walking Man!
Great pic...Fall is my favorite season, and what a lovely witch...:)
Wise-ass! Madam I take umbrage at the first half of that statement. But sincerely thank you for what you wrote.
ReplyDeleteThe first run of STINK is gone but a second is being done and should be in my hands by the first of Sept.
The list is forming at detstink@gmail.com I will send an email saying I got the order and a second with my address in it when I get a confirmed tracking number.
Yes I am the only place the book can be acquired from because it keeps the cost down. $9 including postage to wherever.
STINK
I light a scented candle
and leave it in the wind…
the odor takes me places
I’ve already seen;
I stand outside the abandoned spaces
and sail in on the shallow light.
I see the ghosts
of everything;
writhing in an endless
mass orgy
of over making;
everything
while sucking
polluted air from
the dark hole production
of the coal mine…or was it salt?
One or the other.
In turn,
ghosts
tell me tales
of being
men once
loved becoming
ignored;
reduced
to
just
another
mouth
to
feed.
The images talk
and I smell the smoky tales,
rising on the scent
of a low burning candle.
from attic to cellar,
from machine floor,
to tool room door,
cast off clothes
and the dreams they
once protected,
now left behind
when the final whistle blew.
Fading stories
(with pictures)
flow freely;
the fights,
the strikes,
the fucking for fun
and profit.
Mysterious stories
of babes born in years
fat and skinny;
birthed
when socket wrench A
met tab B
inserted into slot C;
tightened to torque producing
product pushed out in a three way
fever fucking
Folktale’s of piggy back rides
through living rooms,
long since burned down
for insurance money
that paid better than any buyer ever could.
Whispers of dreams come from
the exhalation produced
in a lost virginity
stolen through 40,
no 50, hours of labor
and the
screaming,
moaning,
accusatory
crying
when the
crashing,
falling,
tumbling
wealth left only
the phantom images
of days gone by,
bloated from
naked possessions
now repossessed only
to rise on the musk
in the rising smoke
of a long dead wick
blown out in
a tornado of time.
6-10-09
(c) Mark C. Durfee
I'm looking forward to my copy.
ReplyDeleteWell. Greatness over here too from Mark!
ReplyDeleteSweetie, even without your recommendation, I will get the book! Because of you, I now consider Mark (WM) a friend as well. Thanks, Girl! ox
ReplyDelete