In the fall of 1868 a cigar manufacturer named Hull commissioned and then
buried a figure made of gypsum, human in shape and twelve foot tall. The
following October, as planned, workmen hired to dig a well “discovered” the
artifact and very soon people were paying fifty cents apiece to see a “giant
ancestor.” Scientists declared the whole thing a sham; people kept coming.
David McCulloch, from whom I get the tale, reports, “The giant also played a
part in the elections that November. It was a small part, but not without
interest to those amused by or gravely concerned over the extent to which sham
and nonsense were taking over American life.”
The New York Times reported that the East Timor soccer team was expelled from
the Asian Cup and ordered to forfeit 29 matches when an investigation found
that East Timor officials had falsified birth and baptism certificates for “at
least a dozen Brazilians."
The chickens learned that I am writing a play about Churchill and Eisenhower.
Mimo said she wanted a part. “Who would you like to be?” I asked, wondering.
She stood with wing across chest, “Nevah, in the history of something,
something…has so much been owed by so many to so few…chickens.”
Cheddar decided she could be like Ike. Deep breath, “I like…bananas.”
“That’s your Ike impression?” I asked.
“I’m sorry, I lost focus.”
“Try again,” I said.
She gave it a go. I stood there open-mouthed, like Simon Cowell on some talent
show. She had most of the famous “military-industrial complex” speech
memorized. “In the councils of government, we must guard against the
acquisition of unwarranted influence, whether sought or unsought, by the
military-industrial complex. The potential for the disastrous rise of misplaced
power exists and will persist. We must never let the weight of this combination
endanger our liberties or democratic processes. We should take nothing for
granted. Only an alert and knowledgeable citizenry can compel the proper
meshing of the huge industrial and military machinery of defense with our
peaceful methods and goals, so that security and liberty may prosper together.”
One Ting and Another
It is late at night.
My cell phone will ting when the message arrives.
If ever.
The college must decide if ice on the way means closure.
We all need closure.
Is it not true, we all need closure?
Portland schools announced early in the evening.
Beaverton schools, same thing.
Where is our ting?
The dean e mails, “we will decide, stay tuned,”
so now I hear Aretha Franklin sing, “We will survive.”
Sticky music holds me.
I toss, I turn, I check my phone.
Eventually I slip into sleep.
In my dreams
I fly down to Maracas Bay, Trinidad and
buy myself a "bake an’ shark...an' ting."
I help myself to ting and then…
more ting.
(“Ting” are the condiments).
No wait…
ting.
We’re closed.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TjeGM1YJhhM ;
<https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TjeGM1YJhhM>
When I Fly
When I fly
in July
think only this of me
that there’s some uncomfortable corner
on a clapped-out seat
that is the way to England.
Two big men
touch my knees with theirs,
and the passenger ahead
leans her seat back back.
For twelve hours
the recirculated air
dries all our eyes and brains out
like an iced east wind.
But then we’re through the liminal customs hall
and the fog of jet lag lifts.
It’s a scorcher.
Here’s a village fete,
a nice pint in a country pub
and a pie
and chips
and something undiscovered.
We give our talks and
B. and sit down for tea with my Dad.
He drives us slowly by the Spitfire and the Hurricane outside Biggin Hill.
We catch up on Brexit news
and talk of golf.
When I fly in July
think only this of me:
I’m so lucky not to be...
dead.
On the Inauguration of Lord Sidcup
You all trust in God.
For me,
it’s us.
David Ritchie,
Portland, Oregon
