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    Because I Can't Whistle
    Because I Can't Whistle
    Because I Can't Whistle
    Ebook195 pages1 hour

    Because I Can't Whistle

    By Steve De France

    ()

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    About this ebook

    Steves work has appeared in
    literary publications in America,
    England, Canada, France, Ireland,
    Wales, Scotland, India Australia,
    and New Zealand. He has been
    nominated for a Pushcart Prize
    in Poetry in 2002, 2003 & 2006.
    Recently, his work has appeared in
    The Wallace Stevens Journal, The
    Mid-American Poetry Review, The
    Evergreen Review Ambit, Atlantic, Orbis, Poetry Bay, The
    Yellow Medicine Review & The Sun. In England he won a
    Readers Award in Orbis Magazine for his poem Hawks. In
    the United States he won the Josh Samuels Annual Poetry
    Competition (2003) for his poem: The Man Who Loved
    Mermaids. His play THE KILLER had its world premiere
    at the GARAGE THEATER in Long Beach, California (Sept-
    October 2006). He received the Distinguished Alumnus
    Award from Chapman University for his writing. Most
    recently his poem Gregors Wings was nominated for The
    Best of The Net by Poetic Diversity.
    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherXlibris US
    Release dateApr 26, 2013
    ISBN9781483629469
    Because I Can't Whistle
    Author

    Steve De France

    Steve De France is a widely published poet, playwright and essayist both in America and in Great Britain. His work has appeared in literary publications in America, England, Canada, France, Ireland, Wales, Scotland, India, Australia, and New Zealand. He has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize in Poetry in 2002, 2003 & 2006. Recently, his work has appeared in The Wallace Stevens Journal, The Mid-American Poetry Review, Ambit, Atlantic, Clean Sheets, Poetry Bay, The Yellow Medicine Review and The Sun. In England he won a Reader's Award in Orbis Magazine for his poem "Hawks". In the United States he won the Josh Samuels' Annual Poetry Competition (2003) for his poem "The Man Who Loved Mermaids". His play THE KILLER had its world premier at the GARAGE THEATER in Long Beach, California (Sept-October 2006). He has received the Distinguished Alumnus Award from Chapman University for his writing. Most recently his poem "Gregor's Wings" has been nominated for The Best of The Net by Poetic Diversity.

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      Book preview

      Because I Can't Whistle - Steve De France

      Because I Can’t Whistle

      Steve De France

      Copyright © 2013 by Steve De France.

      ISBN:

         Softcover   978-1-4836-2945-2

         Ebook        978-1-4836-2946-9

      All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

      To order additional copies of this book, contact:

      Xlibris Corporation

      1-888-795-4274

      www.Xlibris.com

      [email protected]

      134428

      CONTENTS

      HELLO, OUT THERE…

      OBLOMOV

      THE SIREN’S SONG

      THE SHAPE OF THINGS TO BE

      COUNSELOR FOR THE MOON

      A LITTLE BACKGROUND MUSIC

      CIRCULAR PATTERNS

      CHAOS AND THE COMMON MAN

      YOUR LINES ARE TOO FAT

      ISLAND BOY

      GREGOR’S WINGS

      THE CIGARETTE

      OVER THE RAINBOW

      ALL THINGS CONSIDERED

      1946

      THE GARAGE ON OWOSSO STREET

      BLACKBIRDS

      THE MAN IN THE MOON

      FEAR AND LOATHING AT THE TYPEWRITER

      THE GARDEN

      FOG

      DANCING

      SOMETHING IS HAPPENING—ISN’T IT MR. JONES?

      I AM A SEAGULL

      AS IF THEY COULD DANCE FOREVER

      THEY

      WHAT THE PRINCE SAID…

      THE READING

      OTHELLO’S TRIAL

      SOMEWHERE NEAR CASTLE ELSINORE TIME OUT OF JOINT

      SPRING RITUALS

      GARDEN PARTY

      THE WATCHER

      COFFEE GROUNDS

      BEHIND THE LINES

      A MATTER OF COMPROMISE

      JUAN GUERRERO CIRCA 1874

      MAN STANDING IN LOUISIANA

      FLORIDA TURNPIKE

      ANGELS OF THE NIGHT

      YES, I SAID…

      RE’DOFRAM

      SUSAN & THE STUD MUFFINS

      THE SHORT HAPPY LIFE OF FARMER JOHN

      A PERSONAL SAVIOR

      CHINAMAN’S CHANCE

      THE LAST FLOWER CHILD ON EARTH

      TURKEY HANGOVER AT THE CORNER CAFE

      DO IT YOURSELF BUKOWSKI MULTIPLE CHOICE POEM

      CAN I SPEAK TO WHOEVER IS IN CHARGE?

      CHECKED YOUR WARRANTY?

      MY CIRCLE OF FRIENDS

      ROMANCING THE URINAL

      THE BIG WIND

      VICTOR HUGO DIDN’T WRITE THIS

      THIS NUMBER IS DISCONNECTED

      THE ANTS AND THE DREAMS

      BIRD FROM HELL

      RENDEZVOUS WITH A PART TIME GOD

      WALTER MITTY DIDN’T WRITE THIS

      THE MIND IS BURNING

      VICTOR HUGO DIDN’T WRITE THIS

      CITY LIGHTS BOOK STORE

      SLEEPLESS IN LONG BEACH

      FINE HAIRED SONS-OF-BITCHES

      WALTER MITTY DIDN’T WRITE THIS

      DOES IT MATTER WHERE THEY DUMP YOUR BODY?

      FLORIDA DEGENERATES

      TENNESSEE LULLABY

      A PLASTIC FANTASTIC LOVER

      MORNING PRAYER

      SHOULD I SIMPLY SAY

      BRICK WALL

      ABSENCE OF MERMAIDS

      LINE

      FROM A 16 TH CENTURY LITHOGRAPH

      INFINITY LINE

      AND THE SOUL…

      HIGH DRIFTING ALARM

      THE RAIN

      BECAUSE I CAN’T WHISTLE

      THE SUPPRESSION OF SAVAGE CUSTOMS

      SUCH STUFF AS DREAMS ARE MADE OF

      PREFACE TO THE AVENUE OF SOULS For Shaula

      The deep-throated cello notes of absolute poetic purity that come from an accomplished, experienced poet playing his instrument as only the best ones do… until your eyes fill up, and you’d swear you’ve been listening to angels sawing their wings against something fragile, and that would be your heart.

      Karen Dabkowski—The Blue House

      A large percentage of the poetry in the journal emanates in the U.S.A. and the best of it comes from the quill of California’s Steve De France, always an elegant writer, and often reminiscent of that great scribbler of the American yarn O. Henry.

      Pat Winslow—poetry critic Current Accounts—London England

      I know it sounds stupid to say such gritty images of loss and frustration and impending doom are delightful, but somehow Steve’s voice—rises just above the unfolding tragedy (as I think one of his reviewers described it) and finds this clear place of calm sensitivity—a place that is not disconnected from the sorrowing world but is maybe just far enough from its desperate heart to become a platform balanced between inferno and paradiso, a never-quite-escapable purgatorio from which the poet can weep for those in pain and at the same time feel somewhat elated by the simple beauty of being alive."

      Lawrence Welch—Monterey Herald

      Some of the writing is so good it just couldn’t be any better. Like the description of love in Dancing, where the mother cleans him, wiping his face into a momentary sanity of quietness, stillness like sleep, and Roy holds her hand. This is beautiful. And this same poem is utterly unsentimental in its revelation of the necessary outcome seen in the flash of this light, this insight."

      Barbara Holmes—Alpha Beat Press

      He is one of a handful of great names in the contemporary alternative press.

      Joyce Metzger, editor & publisher

      HELLO, OUT THERE…

      The phone continues to ring.

      I pick up the receiver.

      It’s someone I don’t know

      calling from a bar. It’s a wrong number.

      Loud music. Bar sounds.

      Listen, a drunken voice says,

      "Rick done some bad shit last night.

      And we had to tie him down.

      Do you want to talk to him?"

      Sure, I say.

      He came on the line. He calls me Ernie.

      Is that you uncle Ernie?

      Yeah, I lie in a slack-jawed response.

      "I did some bad shit, uncle Ernie,

      I broke a bunch of windows out.

      And I hurt some people."

      Do me a favor, I say.

      "O.K., uncle Ernie.

      What do you want me to do?"

      Who called me?

      Cousin Jack.

      Can you reach him?

      Yeah, I could…

      "I want you to reach over

      and slug Jack in the face."

      Really?

      "Absolutely right. Harder’n

      you’ve ever hit anyone

      in your life."

      Why?

      "Don’t ask,

      just do it, NOW."

      O.K.

      I hear a thud.

      A Son of a Bitch.

      And then, the sound of

      things breaking.

      OBLOMOV

      This morning I woke thinking of Oblomov.

      A 19 th century Russian Count

      He refused to leave his house, refused to leave

      his bed. Believed in nothing.Wanted nothing.

      Got nothing.In short, a nihilist.

      It was a story I had read while studying

      in Paris. And as I stand at the sink shaving,

      this Russian aristocrat’s image hangs in my mind.

      Perhaps it was too much Sartre and Camus

      But I identified with this Russian and his malaise.

      I smiled into the mirror. I have a case

      of rampaging Oblomovism.

      I thought at the time we had things in common.

      Both nauseated by each day’s banalities,

      both filled with a rational dislike for existence,

      both feeling a conscious self loathing.

      Each dead at times.

      So the image of Oblomov ruminating

      about the pointlessness of his life

      burns in my mind. Confined in self-exile.

      Is there nothing he wants, needs?

      Yes!. There is Love.

      From behind imported windows built in France,

      time was running out.

      Dimitri, he cries, bring the carriage.

      And for the love of God, hurry man."

      Feverish—flushed—away he flies for love!

      Unfortunately for Oblomov—the Countess

      of his romantic dreams is quite fickle hearted.

      And to be plain she has a carnal appetite, a real taste

      for young lieutenants.

      I cut my lip with the razor.

      My blood soaks the Kleenex,

      as I remember—it was a naked poet

      who told me: "a paranoid is simply

      a man with all the facts."

      I linger on this thought.

      Love & illusions of love did-in Oblomov.

      After this final disillusionment, he returned to his

      country estate. There he grew old,

      quarreling obtusely with his

      overly inbred servants.

      And with a revolver under his pillow,

      never quits his bed, as he

      counted out the remainder of his days.

      I leave my apartment.

      Drive the Harbor Freeway,

      it’s clear I can’t afford

      the luxury of suffering from

      Oblomovism,

      truculent servants,

      even romantic love.

      But like Oblomov,

      I grow older.

      More empty.

      I check my revolver,

      it’s loaded

      . . . the safety’s off…

      THE SIREN’S SONG

      In his house shaped like a boat

      on a journey, he sat & drank

      a fifth of whiskey & the checkerboard day

      went—white to black—as he thought

      on love & decency.

      His village Elders demanded decency.

      He knew then the fears of the outcast.

      Can he

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