Something Worth Noting

Since my abandonment by fanstory I have kept up with the site. I suppose it's one of those perpetual bouts I have with morbid curiosity. It's like watching the footage of Kennedy's head snapping back and to the left over and over, you know its coming, you know it's horrible but you just can't stop watching.

On some weird level I guess I'm justifying my low opinion of fanstory. Validating the fact that all things gravitating to it are being sucked down into a whirlpool of false hope and neglect. I have to say that my point of view remains consistent: fanstory still exists inside of it's own vacuum.

There is a sign at the front gate of fanstory that all members keep supplanted just behind the cerebral cortex. In massive, flashing neon it says "Thank you for not discussing the outside world". It seems that all of fanstory's successful testimonials are encapsulated by two words: "Self" and "Published".

Like the rest of the real world, I still believe that if your crowning literary achievement is self published then you really haven't been "published" at all. You've just been duped out of your money by good salesmen preying on desperation.

( I rule out my uncle on this one, he actually makes good money self publishing, though he isn't writing fiction. He's selling factual stories to an existing market of readers. So Kudos to you, Gene, I'm not lumping you in here.)

But this is not another simple fanstory bloodletting, though it may seem as such.

No.

Last week I actually found a poem posted upon fanstory with which I connected. Honestly, I can say this has only happened 4 times before. The poet in question shows promise, has an eye for detail and a gift for painting narrative. The subject matter is palpable and so familiar that I believe anyone can identify with it. I felt transported inside the poem, the environs strange and familiar all at once.

The poet calls himself Desertpoem and the poem is entitled Ode to a Traffic Light.
Here, now, are his words. I believe they should be read out here in the real world, not exclusively ignored inside the vacuum of fanstory.

Ode To A Traffic Light

Driving downtown,
chrome to chrome
caught every hanging light,
reds in a row--
exhaust was the reason this sunset bled,
as metal rivers reflect these currents
of our vanity, always the hustle
with an insatiable thirst,
crowded avenues on a collision course,
mean machines jacked-up in a mechanic's
candy-apple dreams,
and then off to my side...

It was heat suffocating in the teeth of August
and cheap Chianti overflowed onto tablecloth,
seating for two nestled back outside an open cafe,
red and white canopies uncover umbrella devour.

Unfinished plates take their coy empty stares,
awkward apologies as loose ends were frayed,
it germinated this spring from compulsive bloom
tangled secret deceit behind a motel room door.

The wine ignored and pasta cold,
requesting the check while impatience
strained as he glanced at his watch,
and I imagined from her mouth,
breathing between burgundy stained lips,

where are all the gentle men?

Across the street, a neon sign sizzles
above the tattoo parlor man,
alien surveillance in a rosy tint
as he folded dragon tail forearms,
and dangled a cigarette with a grin--
then the light changed to green,
and I drove on, driving downtown,
going home.

I love this snapshot frozen in time and want it pulled from the teeth of fanstory, where it languishes in thick witted anonymity, so that it can languish here, in the anonymity of my blog.

I'm not sure I've done the man any favors. After all, he may be looked upon with suspicion at fanstory.com since I've keyed in on his work. It's also not as if anyone will ever burn up the synapses of this server to read my words, but I wanted them acknowledged just the same. Granted, this poem isn't perfect. It could use a bit of editing, but, for fanstory, it is extremely close to being there.

It reminds me of a poem that I enjoy by Tom Waits called

Ninth and Hennepin

Well it's Ninth and Hennepin
All the doughnuts have names that sound like prostitutes
And the moon's teeth marks are on the sky
Like a tarp thrown all over this
And the broken umbrellas like dead birds
And the steam comes out of the grill
Like the whole goddamn town's ready to blow...
And the bricks are all scarred with jailhouse tattoos
And everyone is behaving like dogs
And the horses are coming down Violin Road
And Dutch is dead on his feet
And all the rooms they smell like diesel
And you take on the dreams of the ones who have slept here
And I'm lost in the window, and I hide in the stairwayAnd I hang in the curtain, and I sleep in your hat...
And no one brings anything small into a bar around here
They all started out with bad directions
And the girl behind the counter has a tattooed tear
One for every year he's away, she said
Such a crumbling beauty,
ah there's nothing wrong with her that a hundred dollars won't fix
She has that razor sadness that only gets worse
With the clang and the thunder of the Southern Pacific going by
And the clock ticks out like a dripping faucet
til you're full of rag water and bitters and blue ruin
And you spill out over the side to anyone who will listen...
And I've seen it all, I've seen it all
Through the yellow windows of the evening train...

That ending conveys the same feeling to me as Ode's "I drove on, through downtown, heading home"

"I've seen it all through the yellow windows of the evening train"

In both we are merely passengers inside the body of the poem, peering out of windows into a world that the poet allows us to see.

Great work, DesertPoem. I only hope you don't become as jaded with fanstory as I did before its all said and done.