Pacific Views

Is This Heaven? Dispatch 17

... by Mike Palecek

The Next Big Thing: The Cost of Freedom

Well.

I'm sitting here in the Hampshire Hideout Cafe in the uninhabited regions of Iowa.

I'm in a booth against the wall, green vinyl.

I'm sitting alone, hand on my white coffee cup, turned toward the wooden door facing Main Street.

The ceiling fan in the middle of the room is on low.

Mostly all it does is remind us, "it's hot, it's hot."

Local legend says that if you turn it to high speed it says, "McKinley's dead."

As well as apparently being the beach head for global warming, Iowa is for some reason a political hot spot and graveyard.

This is where candidates go to either catch fire or die.

They walk along these deserted main streets and dirt roads, smiling, thumbs tucked inside their pointer fingers, ready to speak. They scour the houses and alleys for eyes in the dark, hoping to be able to dash over to shake hands, smile, nod, lie.

We are the ones who got to pick John Kerry and not Howard Dean.

I heard it was T.J. and Lyla and Carl who decided.

Pretty cool, huh?

Well, I'm sitting here in the near dark on a hot July morning.

I'm waiting for a candidate to walk through that door and shake my Iowa hand and say he's going to investigate 911.

He is going to put George Bush, Dick Cheney, Karl Rove, Donald Rumsfeld on trial for lying and then soldiers dying, stealing oil, torture, stealing elections, spying on us.

He is going to take the lies out of the high school history textbooks.

I'm on my fourth cup of coffee.

I'm watching out the front window. I've seen a few white hairs pass and some grey hairs, but no candidates.

You know this guy who used to be in government has just said he thinks we will be in a dictatorship by this time next year rather than in the middle of an election, if we don't impeach Bush.

He's not some old guy my age living across the street here in an apartment without air conditioning above the Colostomy Clinic.

He was in the Reagan administration and he says this stuff. link

You believe that?

The radio just said that we are in danger of terror attacks. They even play some terror music to go along with the news. Do-do, do-do, do-do.

You believe that?

Ol' Don said he woke up the other morning ... he was in his yellow lawn chair under the tree in his backyard ... and, get this ... all he saw was eyes and a mouth wide open, and a finger pointing at the shed where the mower sits.

He couldn't hear because he had wet toilet paper stuck into his ears so he could nap with the neighbor kids close by playin' kickball in the church parking lot.

This huge hand could have been red, wet, from doing dishes. But anyway, it splattered water on his nose and in his eyes, and then it knocked him out of the chair onto his grass.

And before he passed out, he saw what looked like ol' Lucille's backside headin' back into the house.

He mows every day now. I guess when you're scared you do crazy things.

I haven't seen any terrorists 'round here. I went for a walk last night. You sure can hear the locusts. You can't see them either. I wonder if it's one making all that racket or if there's a bunch of them up there.

I really like it when the train comes through and the engineer just blows that whistle.

Makes you think things are really happening. The train doesn't stop. Headed somewhere else, maybe somewhere important.

Not here.

Margie comes over and holds up the glass pot to ask if I want more.

I put my hand over my cup and shake my head a hundred times.

No, no. I'll have to pee all day if I do.

But what I might do is walk on up to that bench outside the new Taco John's on the highway.

I think I'll sit there for a while.

There's lots of traffic on about lunch time.

Some guys in here'll tell you the United States government is not the real terrorist. Those are the same folks who have been telling us for the past ten years there is no such thing as global warming.

Well, I better go if I'm going.

I just hope I can get up the hill before I sweat to death.

Now, this is from "The American Dream." It's about a town not so far from here. I think that's kind of interesting.

(Author's Notes:)

As I recall, in the summer 1968, Robert Kennedy came to Norfolk, Nebraska.

He was going to speak at the railroad station that these days is a flower planter or native prairie grassland display, I think.

I remember going down there myself, on my bike. I was just out of the eighth grade. I wanted to go to pick a saying out of his talk to live by.

I sat-stood on my banana seat and listened and watched him stand at a podium and gesture with his thumb inside his first finger and I heard that Shaw quote that I thought was Kennedy’s at the time.

… “but I see things as they never were and say why not.”

Sounds like a plan for someone who wants to try writing novels, I suppose.

At the time I was a pretty mediocre paperboy.

We lived through John Kennedy’s murder and Martin and Bobby, barely.

Most of us still breathe.

I remember the night I went to sleep while we weren’t sure yet if RFK was dead. My mother said that for him to recover was “what this country needs.”

Well, we didn’t get it.

Through my adult life I have breathed through a number of presidential elections and watched the Democrats get creamed with such sorry candidates that it was all a person could do to drag himself down the church basement steps to vote and then run home to gargle with Listerine.

“Back then” we believed Oswald did it.

We believed in the Warren Commission, Johnny Carson, the Catholic Church, the Norfolk Daily News, and the Omaha World-Herald, because we were brought up to believe. Go Big Red.

We believed in the network TV news anchors — and anything on radio news was true, of course. This isn’t Russia.

Now we have the Internet and we don’t believe in any of that stuff — we know they killed Wellstone and did the whole 9/11 thing themselves, actually stole elections — but still we drift toward fascism as if on a rubber raft on a lazy Sunday afternoon on the Niobrara River, not having the energy to really care about anything, or even lift up our heads to see where we’re heading, just toss the empties into the water and stare up at the sky.

And leave it all to people in Congress who are either cowards or too rich to care or both.

We go to sleep at night without hope.

Bobby Kennedy died.

If any children, my own perhaps, are trying to get in close and hear what I’m going to say, grab something to live by, they might hear, “What time is the game on tonight? Is this enough beer?” But … there is still some time on the clock. When we die we will be dead for a long time.

We’re not dead yet.

Kids, here is what I think.

We should change the national anthem from that firecracker farce we now have to “This Land is Your Land,” and sing all the verses.

And we shouldn’t stand up like tired robots every damn time somebody plays the other one.

And I know you give it all you’ve got, but you can easily end up giving your “110 percent” for a tyrant, and that just ruins everything, like those young people now serving in the military for George W. Bush.

We shouldn’t pay taxes for bombs or prisons.

We should let any Mexicans who want to come here to come on in, this being a Christian nation and all, Wally.

Any bishops or priests or ministers who say war and bombs and whatever are A-Okay should be sent out to get a construction job.

Phony bastards.

And the Democratic Party — oh, God, the Democratic Party — should say a prayer and light a candle and do penance and look over those pictures of the folks lining the tracks when they brought Bobby Kennedy’s body home.

Stand for something.

Care about something.

Feel something.

Imagine health care and poor children fed and bomb factories bulldozed and prison walls torn down and say “why not.”
________________________________

Very Cool Department:

I received this link yesterday in the email.

It is from Shane LaChance in Rhode Island.

I was supposed to be interviewed by Shane on my book tour this spring, but I drank too much beer in the hotel in New Haven.

I tried to get to Providence the next day, but I only got as far as Madison, Connecticut, and ended up on my knees in the front lawn of the First Reformed Church, praying to the gods of puke that I might just die in peace.

But Shane and I somehow kept in touch. I sent him a book and he did this awesome thing, putting together this short film that really gets to the heart of what my book is about.

Thank you, Shane.
____________________________

Pomes & Shit:

&sp;&sp;by Mike Palecek

The Newsroom

Small town, gotta go
No prima donnas here
Getcher camra, go downtown
Got a cat fell on its ear.
And this could be a story
Who's that fella, yeah ya knooow.
He's the former-priest-gone-rapper,
Calls himself the letter "O."

Came back home here after college
To maybe save the world or else
Maybe take a job at Piggly Wiggly
And marry Bobby's sister Nels.
But there's no world to save 'round here
'Les you count the crooks on Main.
Maybe the plant and its illegals,
And why in August there's no rain.

The Jaycees want a "pitcher," they say
Of their Hot Dog Day balloon.
"Put it on Page One, above the fold,
"And put it there real soon."
And the Boy Scouts are a sellin'
Things we all usta wear before
And remind us every year
To put a news brief on Page Four.

When the Air Force bombed Iraq
We all saw it on TV.
Got them yellow ribbons, "We support"
"Bring the boys home, keep us free."

So where'd you say that dog is sittin'?
Yeah, should be a great shot, we agree.
And whose cute girl in the furry dress?
The bank man's younger daughter, yeah, I see.

In Argentina we'd be martyrs for-sure.
Do the right thing for the cause.
But in Lynn Grove we drink coffee,
Punch the keys, then mop the floor.
And I'm home in time for Seinfeld,
And Bobby's sister locks our door.

Bobby Kennedy

Back in 1968 RFK came to my town
Talked to the people at the train depot
Men on the roof of the Monkey Ward,
Looking to shoot Robert down, I think.
I said to sister Donna, see them men?
She said go d'liver your papers.
And don't bother me no more, James.
Just don't bother me no more.

Well, I stood on my bike with my papers,
Front and back pouch, quarter-fold.
He said, Some men see things
Kids see some things, too.

They had a parade and a lunch with a view
Then took him to the airport and off he flew.
We went on with our business,
Yeah, that was pretty cool, but
Don't bother me no more now
Don't bother me no more, kid
Don't bother me no more.

Norfolk, Nebraska turned to LA Californ'
And Bobby, we all called him Bobby
Was a bleedin' on the floor.
Heart and soul on the kitchen floor, boy.
And momma told me Jimmy.
She always called me Jimmy,
You go to sleep and don't think
Don't let it bother you no more, son
It won't bother you no more.

In the morning they said that he died,
And I cried. And the train just sighed.
While the police lied.
Said it wouldn't bother us no more.
Naw, it don't bother us no more, now
We got our own lives that's for sure.

Don't bother us no more, now
That don't bother us at all, pa
Hey, it don't bother me no more.

Someone mopped the floor, son
And it can't bother us no more.

Johnny, We Hardly Knew Ye

Arctic Circle, 7 o'clock, 1972
Norfolk, Nebraska, Saturday Night
Waitin' for the rest of the crew.

"Heeere's Johnny!" Ed would say.
But we never saw him
Except on the tube
Through Mrs. T's bedroom window, hmm.

Or sitting in the living room between Mom
And Dad.
They'd listen and smile at Johnny
While blue reflections of Sinatra and Astair
Danced on their faces.
We played in the front yard chasing lightening bugs,
Running races.

Here's Johnny! Here's Johnny.
Hey, Johnny. Here we are.

We never shook your hand, but watched as you
Met the world one-by-one.
We stayed home, played cards, drank beer
And played ball.
We never saw you, around town.

Here's Johnny. Here's Johnny.
Hey Johnny. Here we are.

Could you see us?

I once thought Jack LaLane
Could see me through the tube.
Get off the couch, he'd say, do some pushups.
I'd move to the chair on the side
So he couldn't see me
Eating pretzels.

Did you ever just want to come home
Mow the lawn and listen to the locusts
And the mourning doves
And eat popcorn.
Just let Ed keep on laughing. He's stupid.
Are you?

We'd meet at 7 Friday and Saturday.
Parents' cars lined up in two facing rows.
Veetnam, The Beatles. Allende. Charles Manson.
It all went right by us, on TV
In and out two back open windows,
Away like a rooster pheasant does fly. Right by.

And still here we sit.
Arctic became a Taco Bell.
We shoulda been big shots
Like you, John, 'cause you know
There's guys in this here booth
Much better than you.

Me? I'm still on this couch.
Still looking for my big break.
Not gonna take no small time.
Got a job mowin' my sister's lawn,
And then mom's.

Next fall I'll be 40, but
I'm still gonna make it.

A boy with a big dream
Not just a kid with no song.
Us guys here in Norfolk
We crave the big spotlight
'Cause Johnny done showed us
How to be a big star.

A Letter From the Pottawatamie County Jail

Up for chow, it's 5 a.m.
On a Council Bluffs Saturday night.
Roll the first one, Bugler pack,
Yeah, should make it through this day
Down the hall comes the breakfast tray.

Down the hall comes the breakfast tray
Down the hall comes the breakfast tray. Hey!
Down the hall comes the breakfast tray.

Line up guys, tuck in your shirts,
Trade my roll for your cereal.
Dark outside on a December morn'
There's frost on the window
A kid on a horse on a Christmas eve.
With a star on the end of its nose.

We're the prisoners.
We're the losers. We're the Injuns, Faggots, Niggers.
We're the bad boys.
We're the punks.
Mop the floor, boss? Get a light?
Roll and cereal. Milk, butter, bread
Light a cigarette, go back to bed.

Listen to the lights come on downtown.
See the cars go rumbling by.
See the winners drive right by.

Get tough on this here crime.
See those children
On Visiting Day.
Saying hello to daddy.
No kids, he can't hold you.
He'll be home again some day.

The car broke down Wednesday; my mom is real sick.
Your boys need shoes and a glove
You need cigarettes? See what I can do.
The car needs gas
Don't yell at me.
I think I've got the flu.

At night the supper tray
Brings beans and weenies and a peach.
TV cops break down doors.

Doug's s'posed to go home in 'bout a week.
Walk up and down and back and forth
And figure it all out in your head.
Play Cowboys and Indians, cops and bums, you got me man, I'm dead.

Then down the hall comes the breakfast tray.

Hey.

Good Morning, Maria

Three kids in El Salvador
Their heads chopped off
Just last night after prayers

Well, good morning, Maria
How are you?
Thank you. I'm just fine.
I'll take my messages. Anything to sign?

And a mom in North Omaha can't find the
Milk bag, 'cause it's all gone
Her kids are crying, where's the Cheerios, some suckers?
Go on
Stay out of the street, hon'.

Well, good morning, Maria.
And how are you?
Thank you. I'm just fine.

Ah, it's a beautiful day, says Congressman Bob.
America's safe and strong.
Good morning, Maria
Can't stay too long.
It's a fine life, but hectic, they say.

Overhead there's a big plane, too loud
We can't hear what the priest he is saying
Something 'bout Jesus, I'm sure.

And the kids sit on the street
Licking their treat
Their mom in her blood she does lay.
And Congressman Bob is enjoying his job,
Who wouldn't want it that way?

Franciscan Rodeo Nuns

It was about 1960, when my mom says to me
Son, here's some shoes.
And don't you refuse.
It's time you was all you could be.

We walked to the school.
Hell, I ain't no fool.
I tugged on her arm all the way.
We walked in the room,
Twelve nuns and a broom.
So, this is how it's going to be.

Everywhere that I looked there was kids there were books
And there was nuns shouting in rhyme.

"Mom, let's go home.
We got ice cream and cones!
"Come on, follow me, there's still time."

But she bent low and whispered,
"Don't mess with them, mister."

These nuns ride bulls on the side.
They're tough, they've got blisters.
Remember your sister?

They'll make a new shawl from your hide.

She walked out that door.
My face fell to the floor.
Then a nun took my hand in hers.

She squeezed, then she sneezed.
She grinned and she wheezed.

She said, "Put your wrap in the cloak room, my son."
I felt somewhat assured, then saw all those kid firs,
Skins of the rodeo nun.

I broke into a sweat.
I looked nervous, I bet.
Thinking of what I should do.

Should I stay here and fester
Or bolt now and best her,
That shit-kicking buckaroo Hun.

I stayed, I got quiet.

I drank cold milk, drank diet.
And the nuns taught us songs 'bout the moon.

Us kids were all happy and we felt a bit nappy,
When our moms picked us up around noon.
________________________________

Palecek website: www.mikepalecek.com

Palecek blog: http://isthisheaven-mike.blogspot.com/

Palecek books: KGB [Killing George Bush], Joe Coffee's Revolution, Terror Nation, The Last Liberal Outlaw, Looking for Bigfoot, Twins, The American Dream.

Contact Mike: mpalecek@rconnect.com

Palecek books are available through local bookstores, Amazon, cwgpress.com, howlingdogpress.com, badgerbooks.com, newleafbooks.net, essentialbooks.com, mainstaypress.com.

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