Carter Monroe

Sittin’ in With the Sun

poetry by Carter Monroe

United States of America.

Certain selections in this book have appeared in various forms in Poems

Niederngasse, Poethia, Thunder Sandwich, Third Lung Review, and Lost

and Found Times.

Sittin’ in With the Sun

Introduction 1

Ra Postcards 2

Visions of Inebrio 12

Bukowski Headed to Nashville 21

The New Lost Blues 22

Every Night in Tunesia 23

About the Author 24

Introduction by Carter Monroe

There are two series of poems in this offering. The first, “Ra Postcards, “was

conceived from an idea proposed by poet Jeffrey Little who wished to do a

tribute to the late jazz giant Sun Ra. His project (which I hope to one day see

and possibly be a part of) was tentatively titled “Postcards from the Planet

Earth.” After discussing this cybernetically with Jeffrey, I wrote "Ra Postcards

#1 – 4. I had been away from serious composition for well over 20 years, and in

the lingo of the jazz musician, "was trying to get my chops back." I believe

this group of poems was the first step in the right direction.

The second series, “Visions of Inebrio,” gets its title from the journal I kept while

attending college in the early 70's. I recorded verses here and there in a manner

similar to Kerouac's "Blues" efforts. They served as a kind of poetic charting of

events. As a fiction writer, I've found that I have to set aside a regular period for

creative thought and planning. I view the actual writing of prose as a transcription

of sorts, the idea or the story having been conceived at some point in the past.

When I'm in between projects for whatever reason, my creative time comes in the

form of my afternoon ritual. This includes watching a soap opera, reading poetry,

listening to music, and drinking. Sometimes all four things may be taking place

at the same time. Virtually all of my fiction has been created during these sessions.

“Visions of Inebrio” is the first verse to present itself in this manner.

Ra Postcard #1

spouted riffs like leaking jars in meandering mode planned but not

sky rocketed sax/keyboard/rhythm section traveling in feigned dilemma

the sun, himself, thinking of words philosophy negotiated through striking

black/white keys in sync understood and garbled only in terms of the seemingly sane

where does it go, did it go, is it going in time/place, distance/space, planet/race

and bird and diz, miles and mingus, monk and trane watch from heaven's bandstand

squinting, off and on, perusing, straight and stoned, peering perilously into saturn-ringed zone

waiting for a caustic moan to acidify and define that which they can only hear

maybe ornette can help maybe sid or mo or even jc maybe they can ask louis

if he ain't busy and if he is who's left, fletcher don't wanna be bothered

Ra Postcard #2

the cards and money watch the players cynically

through taint-plastered regression

saint louie chicago 1949 transit shock

comes blaspheming in fire balls of blue light

surrounding this gideon ideal with a hellish glow . . .

sonny motions to the tenor man who moves from the stand and nods

Ra Postcard #3

cracking crackling periodontic sidewalk

college town 1955 coulda been

the cars gave things away

48 yr old man, drunk

coulda been 1972 with a different head

no beer no wine not even in a bag

tattered golf shirt, tail out

prominent bulge egotistically protected

a sandwich shop-renaldo's net

combat boots and bodies laced with metal

designed arms, legs, and faces

and places you can't see

"gimme a ham sandwich and a budweiser"

they don't write it down or hide their smirk

"you eat boring food"

they snicker

he pushes the glass away

drinks from the can

a half gone before first bite

non-music blaring buzzed-up guitars

"you know who that is"

they ask and grin

"i know it ain't the sun, man

i know it ain't the sun"

the drummer sets his sticks aside, grabs his brushes and goes light

Ra Postcard #4

a dancer from across the street calls herself tangerine

'62 more or less and she's got more cat tracks than a white bird fan

they usta let'er in for head, now it's for laughs

"nothin' but horns tonight," she says for no reason then

"come on man, jesta little touch, get me by this one time"

a suit tie fedora pulls away-moves his hand/fingers across a thin mustache

"all i got's a cigarette babe"

she looks at the sky, righting herself against the back of a chair

"reefer, man . . .all you got's reefer"

she scans the room, head shaking voluntarily unlike her free hand

"tobacco . . . you know like a chesterfield"

head falling as face finds a smile

"i don't smoke that shit . . . it'll killya"

the music stops, sonny begins a yoga chant, the rhythm section answers, they dance

Ra Postcard #5

chops not great-not returned

old fashioned rehab pre betty ford

they locked the door from the outside

took turns standing guard

no food for the first three days

the landlord complained

about the noise, the screaming

he ate on the fourth, soup and bread

kept it down on the fifth

philly joe had shown him

years back, had been his man

never played with more than five

til rescued by the light

now methodical and precise

he tries to recover his soul

keeping time all the while

and remembering

sonny, standing, playing with one hand, the stage lights reflect a purple aura

Ra Postcard #6

no trepidation in points to be made

as standard work rock fair increases visions

and it ain't gotta be night

his sky is prominent, stars out always

the lectures from the heart

pontificating in scat laced karma

the direction of saturn, the birthplace

never in doubt, no hazed confusion

this is where it's at, he says

it's all for real and there's this plan,

predestiny, and another level

for once there is a soprano sax, he solos briefly, the sun shines

Ra Postcard #7

word man now decked

out in opulent regalia

the mysticism reflects

the constellations/the musics beam

as if alabama has become

some astral mirror

providing rebound for

the revelation

june turns a slight whirl as she approaches the mike the sun is elsewhere, frowning

Ra Postcard #8

crafted design of want

belies a thing

called judgment

the wafted craving

a signal of the need

creates its own pillage

from images of sate

inscriptions marked

as spots brown

emerge on the hand

face fingers touch

each other

in nervous contrast

ignorant

The bass player takes a seat, wipes the sweat from his brow

Ra Postcard #9

it escapes

the sound

like a metaphorical

binge of sorts

searing its way

past blatant forms

of non-consciousness

the jackknife aspect

volutes itself

and regularly

a preface

barricades the light

in pompous revolution

hurdling a satellite

carousel into

a black hole

deep in the background, a triangle is touched lightly. only the sun hears.

Ra Postcard #10

recalcitrant precipice

exposed in secret

all the dogs

and other canines

roost in stagnant

metaphysical improbability

narcissus lies

to himself

to herself

the audience

defines itself

as falsely accurate

the percussion builds

to a crescendo

the sun takes a bow

Visions of Inebrio

For Jeffrey Little

Visions, I.

afternoon miraged escapist endeavors miranda'd by fact

of sacrificed dreams/potential now released in scandalized

malevolent anonymity-the sounds of which differ with the

protrusion of the sun and the intake of the stimulant

inebrio sits in buddha-like silence for 11/12 hours each day

patience is his key - an adult for periods then a pleading child

released w/out repercussions or self-analyses from neowomb

and overhead blanketed pillars reflective of tinctured prison

at first he begins to sing, watching all the while an archetypal

blonde image showing through screen of cabled electronics

the first tune is always a subconscious billy-the-kid thing

from which he awakens and reads back-and-forth poetry

Visions, II.

clocked revolution, an issue only in terms of magnum p. i.

not much beyond to capture that whirling interest possessed

and dylan sings, “sugar for sugar and salt for salt, if you go

down . . .” jack’s letters, the second version, always within

reach of wandering, nervous hands and journey flattened

by remotes not in use, but sometimes exchanged - the channels

commercials might force a roam but who knows

after six this day the mute calls, bellowing dogmatically

arrangements are made for the melodies to take the lead

the augmentation begins to come full circle w/three

things, now, being done at once w/out lines or separation

he can’t hear that one, he whispers, but loudly, it’s

not comfortable to remember days of wine and flowers

dead, rotted, like so many four-leaf clovers suppressed

and the words compose themselves inside like a waitsian

rap discoursing among the iconoclasts invisible in stereotype

of crumbling brick alleys, burn barrels, broken glass, and

sterno carries it skyward like the reminisce of hostages

and ghosts – flaking the paint of preconception – ideals

are a thing from a shattered, valvoline-slicked yesterday

where ruination was a condition reserved for the wealthy

Visions, III.

forced exits to veranda-placed ashtray, feet negotiating

steps toward earth, he has a vigil, a policing, is the red

car home or the gray one, are those lights connected to

a timer-dogs barking why and why not – the baby’s on the way

how long can this peace last – the speech left a half-hour ago

it’s only the sounds now, neil young, trane, lyle lovett

their words and theirs alone he thinks in appreciation

gratitude, as it were, precedes wayfaring somnambulism

no need for alarm – clothes shed – language brooding

the lifetime channel-female biography hosted by subjective

link to lives impassive and “in this business you have to . . .”

finally, the pillows placed w/valentine candy nearby

Visions, IV.

there's a thinly veiled undercurrent

beyond which a reaming drum roll

sears as if rhythm is all inclusive

in terms of chafed benevolence

the monastery closes at eight

leaving the entrails tempted by

fantasies replete with jungian

subjective counterparts pulsing

and the walkers continue raising

their arms - an act of unknowing

defiance, but the best that they

can do, circumstances dictating

partial indemnity and a low budget

final resting place between a native

american burial ground and joe's

funeral home, 515 south grant st.

Visions, V.

in between piles and stacks

cd’s, jewel boxes, cassettes,

envelopes, unlabeled videos

there’s a life entrenched and

flypapered to a shaman grip

of ethereal explanations in-

serting thoughts abandoned

and left for waif uncultured

the double-negatived illiterate

contractions running through

the screen set up portably

in benign, ancient popcorn

movie house of soul/black

and white the dreams always

lack color or so they say

Visions, VI.

caricatured insomniac peeps through a bellicose vein

les and eddie, carter and ralph, zappa and varese

fiddling around in sync to a series of constellations

that ramificate in a cerebral bouquet of metaphor

untouched by misunderstanding and confusion is

an infected battering ram leading to a platonic MRI

he don't wish it was christmas 'cause there'd be

real people, flesh-and-blood types, walking in and out

of this wood/brick/vinyl/carpeted studio arrangement

and they'd be saying, "i like it, but i don't understand it"

and he don't know howta take that 'cause it's the same

way he feels about most things, primarily foodstuffs

"why do ya call it a casserole"

but yes, there's a rapture, a sweet, cunning barbarosa

medicine man in route to mexico to sweat out his mind

in clay construction of resurrective initiatives cloaked

in a post-mescaline haze, purposely masterful in a

sort of strict nine manner - the closet door can't be

locked away, so light is something he'll have to deal with

Visions, VII.

as the sun’s lamp

grooms the fabric

of the furnished

room – he wonders

and doesn’t’ know

if he actually speaks

or not – what is

love – has he

known it/does he

feel it/has it ever

been returned or

was it something

he, himself, gave

like a donation

to someone who

had more to

begin with than

did he

Visions, VIII.

what he really wants,

but he won’t say it,

is a box of crackerjacks,

the new kind, the toffees

nobody else would

eat them with beer

but who makes taste

rules anyway

nothing left but the

remains of a bag of

pork skins and a

can of mixed nuts

four packs of

cigarettes lie in

the basket – one

is unopened

today he’s reading

creeley and gets to

him pretty quickly

four beers/five smokes

by nightfall it’ll be

a wash, but he’ll

know something that

he didn’t know before

Visions, IX.

unwanted/unwelcome nostalgic binges

clamor for a residence permanent in

rustic residue of past temptation - the

walls become flexible, entrancing a

vague capitulation of pining yesterdays

no more david crosby - it's too late for

purity of sacred non-promises - his face

turns red as embarrassment always

pushes the past to the day at hand, but

thank god for discipline and for being a man

Bukowski Headed to Nashville

"Let it be known that on June 7, 2001, Dude discovered Charles Bukowski. A little bird sat on my shoulder and read it with me. The bird cracked up and fell a couple of times."

- Edison Edwards

a caustic mugginess surrounds the territories this day

light becomes dots - the phone is scratchy - the banjo

sits in the corner beckoning, work -vs- play the theme

he reads of morning vomit, first light beers, and a dirty

bathtub replete with lines and green and rusty water

the women are there, always, and buk don't make love

somewhere, probably a clock radio, there's a bach

fiddle song running up and down a consciousness

held together by cynicism and a fifth of scotch

the nasties come from time to time, but he chooses

not to separate the fear - emotions are all the same

the only thing that's funny - that makes him laugh

is the over and over seeking of rut - the white rat

negotiating the corporate trails - the cheese is

somewhere at the end w/a BMW and a time-share

The New Lost Blues

andy warhol ain't pop no more 'cause contrived ain't what

it's all about - tarantino don't know shakespeare, but he

don't want to - my banjo playin' friend calls the place

"trashville" and art ain't likely to be made in no studio

everybody sees the old towns as death and what if i

tell you that nothin' is relative and not to argue with me

or with the heads on the corner stoppin’ cars and comin'

away shakin' their own heads and squeezin' their spirits

base sounds extend themselves for blocks and gritty

glass lies helpless, the dust of broken empty "40's"

what would jack think about this "real" about this

excrement of progress that feeds on everything but

itself and souls can never be maggoty there's always

somethin' worth savin' gerard'll tell ya if ya know how

to pray - the secrets revel on the other side on the

dark levels under the ground the rocks the manholes

surreptition ain't what it used ta be - the signs are there

for the invisible taking - a tramp's vision might be just

the thing for this millennium moment - a traipsing of statues

shunning a block of bastilles - the morals got lost in

the growls persistent gnashing of maw and rotten ties

and swarms of termites cloud the barren trout streamed

desert - "is that what that was" - dunes - "i can't hear you"

and i drive by - aware of platitudes - in a 1952 mundane

every night in tunesia

how strange you should refuse to know that I know

that you should hide in eastern jungian confines

anima/animus melting in a forge of buddha

hardening to keep the heart from itself

no bellows can cool such a cauldron of loss

i'm freudian as such, there's no medicine here

the fortresses of books, magazines, local dailies

keep the public verbal dogs at bay - a cage

without windows from which you could view

your insides collectively meshed is more than

a trap you've set for yourselves unacknowledged

and "i don't want to think about that now"

parents gone, eaten alive, offsprings back and forth

ignoring the innocence, pursuing the guilt - the path

is too tough, has always been stymied by shame

the blankets spread about, the order you require

all this i know as I sit with eyes closed my own

closure being sought in fantasy of word and sound

About the Author

Carter Monroe lives, works, and writes in the provinces. His novel, Journey, is

available online at 1stbooks.com. He participated in a conspiratorial effort with

Robert Canipe and Tim Peeler entitled Writers on the Storm, which is to be

published Fall 2001.