Sketchy Sunday: 11-10-2024

 New Pens On Trial:

Psunday Psalms: 10-20-2024

This is an excerpt from a series of poems I was working on around 1975, Rapid Transit Poems, drawn from my observations and experiences commuting on BART to and from work at the Oakland Tribune. I envisioned a chapbook but never finished the project, a frequent occurrence in my literary strivings. It's a bit of a flashback to my younger days as a would-be Beat poet transitioning to the Hippie (or as the Mike in the poem loved to joke, "Hip Pie") mindset. There was a lot of stoning and droning in those dear days. It wasn't legal, so was partnered with a certain amount of accompanying paranoia, depending on how potent the pot was. Mike and I would repair to his apartment at the Alician on Alice Street on occasion after work and imbibe in (GASP!) Reefer Madness! This excerpt is about one of those afternoons, I hope you enjoy it.

From Rapid Transit: Poems to a World Transported

Stagger out of Mike’s apartment

stoned and droned again

down the old marble stairs

of the Alicia apartments

permeated with old-lady scents

and mentholated pain relievers

Did Mike ridicule me as I left?

Laughing because I said thanks?

~POT PARANOIA~

Too much to consider

Here’s the street:

walking past the Hindu fakir

with his laundry under one arm

and Vedic sutras tattooed on his brow.

and on to 14th Street toward BART

watching wary city faces floating past

wondering why I exist at all

feeling guilty for no good reason

just as I was taught as a child

I am a lost, a worthless sinner

heading down the stairs into the

the bowels of Hell, the BART station

and lo and behold running into

John the Printer from the Tribune

(UGH! Last thing I want now

is an encounter with a fellow wage slave)

and we discuss as though we’re sane

the wonders/horrors of automation

and John gets on his Richmond-bound train

and I wait for the Concord train

and then it’s here, I’m aboard

still feeling nagging PARANOIA

remembering how I freaked out

on the way home from Mike’s last time

fantasizing that the Filipino girl and her child

were Vietnamese refugees, homeless,

deprived, abandoned by their

Yankee GI lover/father

until I noticed a middle-aged tourist couple

staring at me strangely and I realized

I was weeping maudlinly

tears streaming down my face on BART

and now this trip today

two young men sit facing where I stand

discussing my state of mind 

~TERROR~

but no, their deliberations 

I realize

are not about me

and even if they are, so what?

Across from them a young woman sits huddled

over a textbook

working equations of her life …

two stops later a seat is vacated

next to a woman just past

her external prime. I take

the seat, ignore her

though she’s intrigued by the flutecase 

in my lap, my attention caught

instead by two young mothers, one with a baby,

the other with a boy of about 10.

The baby’s suckling on a bottle,

one foot wagging just as my own son’s did

when he was nursing.

These two mothers are happy

knowing everyone’s enjoying

one of life’s happier intervals, a contact high

from them and their kids. They’re not commuters,

not feeling weary and down after

another’s day’s drudgework

like most of the rest of us

on this rush-hour train. We all

smile and I may weep again,

this time for joy at these happy moms,

their sons, I love them

I love everyone on this train,

I love all, but there’s no way

for me to announce it, I’m too shy,

too high, too paranoid.

It suddenly occurs to me to wonder why

I told workmates today that yes, I saw

a UFO at age 18 at Manhattan Beach CA

(as if I’m not already considered weird)

but who gives a shit, I did see something. 

the beings if any aboard that cigar-shaped

saucer with shining light portholes

didn’t stick around or try to abduct me

into outer space for diabolical experiments,

they just whizzed off into the fog

in the blink of an eye

before I could even call Aunt Dorie

to come see.

Just before we get to Concord (at more earthly speed)

a guy asks me about the flute case (the

woman’s gone, I didn’t notice her exit the train,

didn’t talk with her … something sad

about her face and lonely, too).

This guy tells me he sings in a church choir

understands the joy of making music

and how it soothes

the savage soul.

Then we reach my stop, I get off the train

And drive

"Aaahhh, at last!" 

home.

Copyright Bob Loomis

10-23-1975

 

Sketchy Sunday, 10-13-2024

 Counterpoint:

Sketchy Sunday, 09-29-2024

 This-A-Way!  Actually posted on Monday due to travel:

Sketchy Sunday, 09-22-2024

This one seems appropriate somehow for the Autumnal Equinox. New pens, new season? I know, it's a stretch. A stretch-a-sketch!

By Bob Loomis, 2024

Sketchy Sunday, 09-15-2024: Memoirs of a Marooned Duck

My masterpiece. A collage. The first Awed Duck perhaps.

By Bob Loomis 1988/1994

 

An Autobio Entry

As part of the endless sorting of old stuff we are doing, I stumbled across an old 12x18" newsprint sketch pad dating to 1966. It contains some early and often long-winded and pompous-know-it-all poetry and a few sketches. I'll reproduce some of it here. Alongside my more recent poetry it at least proves I've become less know-it-all-ish, if not less long-winded. I'll likely only scan the art with these entries because the tablet's just too big for proper scannig on my equipment. Herewith, the cover (partial) and one shorter poem, writ while Beverly and I were on our first road trip together up the West Coast to Canada and back:

First Impression

WOW! What a change!

Coming through the bridge-border

Oregon into Washington,

Longview

a preview of other 

bypassed 19th century

towns? 

"If this is Washington,

don't think I like it."

We'll find a motel soon.