Michael Gillan Maxwell

Book Review: Microtones by Robert Vaughan Červená Barva Press 2013

Microtones by Robert Vaughan
Červená Barva Press 2013 Gloria Mindock ~ Editor and Publisher

Robert Vaughan’s 2013 release, Microtones from Červená Barva Press contains two dozen prose poems of varying lengths and a variety of rhythms and structures. From the shortest, just four lines, to the longest, going on two pages; Vaughan’s poems are like songs with a hook that make you want to hear them again. Microtones is like a hand carved box filled with little treasures, a leather album with photographs of people and places you want to know more about, or a double record on vinyl with 24 three minute songs you play over and over.

From the opening piece, The Outlaw, right through to Wrestling With Genetics, the poem that closes the book, the arc and flow keeps the reader moving from one poem to the next. However, you can also pick any poem at random and it shines just as brightly on its own.

Vaughan’s writing is deep and nuanced and evokes both a visual and a visceral response. The poems flow with an ease and grace that is musical and lyrical, in language rich with unexpected images and surprising passages that stop you in your tracks and make you slow down, go back, and read them again.

“You hang mid-air, arms akimbo, glance askance. Resigned. Jubilant.
As we are when any end is imminent.”

Robert Vaughan is a keen and compassionate observer of humanity; his writing, at times, tender, poignant and sad, yet unsentimental and tough when it needs to be. There’s also a healthy dose of irony and humor and a playfulness with language that is unique and refreshing.

“He’s the tetherball attached to my pole, the flying trapeze of my soul.”

You slide into each poem with so much ease, that, before you know it, you’re off and running. Microtones celebrates the predicaments of the human condition and the ephemeral quality of human relationships, and mourns their passing, while at the same time, still holding hope for the future.

Though Microtones is work from a seasoned author, it is also fresh and exciting new work from a writer just really hitting his stride, an artist who speaks to us, in full, with a vibrant voice, and whom we can expect to hear from again.

Microtones is available from Červená Barva Press
http://www.cervenabarvapress.com

Robert Vaughan’s website is http://www.robert-vaughan.com

June 9, 2013 5

Funky Little Blaze Orange Pork Pie Hats

Driving into town daydreaming about the dream I had last night. Not the one about my father, but the one about designing a line of men’s wear made exclusively from potato skins with snappy names like Dudz from Spudz, Potato Pants and Tater Tees. I pass fluttery paper cornstalks, vineyards rusting under sullen skies, pickup trucks clustered at trail heads and men with shotguns creeping toward corn fields.

Walt Whitman’s redneck body double is in the diner, writing on a napkin at the counter. Could be a shopping list, directions to his hunting camp, or a new collection of radiant poems. Seems like I’m the only one in the place not wearing green and beige camo and a funky, little blaze orange pork pie hat. Where are the Fashion Police when you need them?

A man and a teenage girl stand at the counter, their hands are covered with blood.
The girl shows off a photo she just shot with her phone of the buck she just shot with her gun.

Walt Whitman says: “That’s a big deer sweetheart! How old are you anyway?”

“Fifteen, but my dad let’s me drive his pickup.” She leaves to wash her hands.

In the grocery store I spot a man in the produce department squeezing bananas. With his meticulously groomed white goatee and wire rimmed glasses, he’s a dead ringer for Sigmund Freud. I want to tell him about the dream I had last night. Not the one about my father, but the one about Henrietta swimming through a sea of roses.

I want to say: “Doctor, would you mind if I lie down on your couch over here by the tomatoes for just a few minutes? I need to tell you about my mother.”

June 9, 2013 4

Fly the Friendly Skies

(Published in “real”
Pure Slush Vol. 3 (October 2012)
Thank you publisher and editor Matt Potter for including my story in the same company as so many wonderful writers. It’s not too late to get “real”!)

Fly the Friendly Skies

The well-known slogan fly the friendly skies runs through my head as I board the monstrous plane that seats 10 across in coach. I’m in the middle of the plane, aisle seat in the center section, surrounded by a large group of public school teachers traveling to attend a conference. We’re settling in for the six-hour flight from New York City to San Francisco.

As the last few passengers straggle in, a young man in T-shirt, jeans and sandals, with a short beard and unruly mop of curly hair passes by. He stops directly behind me, shoves his attaché case into the overhead compartment, and slides into the window seat across the aisle. He smells a little funky, as if he hasn’t showered for a couple of days.

The attendant closes the curtain that separates first class from coach, as the last passenger to board walks up the aisle. The passenger is a young woman with lustrous shoulder-length, black hair and hazel eyes, wearing a short, white sleeveless dress, nylons and red high heels. She’s as glamorous as a runway model, and I don’t think there’s much chance she’s traveling with the school teachers, but I can always hope. She’s laden with glitzy shopping bags from various 5th Avenue stores and maneuvers up the aisle holding the bags in front of her. She apologizes for all the commotion, smiling and nodding her head at passengers as she passes by and heads for the center seat directly next to the man who just sat down. The aisle passenger gallantly volunteers to move to another available seat, so she’ll have more room for all her things. Window Seat Guy looks delighted. He should be.

On the other hand, I’m crammed into my seat next to a mountainous and dour woman who’s reading a Bible. The headphones clamped over her ears make it clear there’ll be no small talk; which is fine with me since I’m seriously delinquent in my Bible studies. She’s already claimed the armrest between us and is even spilling into my space.

I briefly consider offering to switch seats with her to give her more room, but I realize I’d really be trapped and possibly crushed. I quickly change my mind and thumb through a magazine article about marijuana farming in Humboldt County. Window Seat Guy and Glamour Puss are chatting up a storm about all the wonderful things New York City has to offer. He helps by carefully tucking her shopping bags under the seats in front of them. I raise an eyebrow. I see where this is going. Lucky bastard, he gets Glamour Puss and I get lady wrestler who’s giving off the vibe she’ll bludgeon me to death with her Bible if I make one false move.

The plane takes off and climbs to cruising altitude. Passengers talk, read books, listen to music, work on their laptops or adjust the seat back and rest. Window Seat Guy and Glamour Puss lounge across all three seats like they’re lying around in their living room. Ensconced in pillows and blankets, they’re drinking wine and giggling themselves silly. Bible Lady is already fast asleep and snoring like a buzz saw, head lolling on her ample bosom. Every so often she stops. Dead Silence. While this may be preferable to the harsh rasping and gurgling, it’s also disconcerting as I’m thinking she must have sleep apnea. This goes on for at least the next hour and I do my best to shut it out by eavesdropping on Window Seat Guy and Glamour Puss. They’re drinking more wine and carrying on about Broadway shows and shopping and restaurants and God knows what all. I sigh and go back to my magazine article profiling Humboldt County as the vanguard of high-octane marijuana farming in California.

It sounds like Bible Lady’s breathing has stopped altogether. I’m alarmed enough to start mentally reviewing CPR and mouth-to-mouth resuscitation protocols. Just thinking about it makes me sick to my stomach. Still no sounds of breathing. I grit my teeth and lean closer. Just as I get my ear up to her face, she erupts with a violent snort and a loud gasp that sends spittle flying in all directions. I pull back so abruptly I bang my head on the seat in front of me.

Bible Lady settles back into a regular breathing pattern and I settle back into my seat. I notice her Bible has fallen off her lap. I gently pick it up and slide it into the seat pocket in front of her. I’m just starting to enjoy the quiet when I realize it’s too quiet. There’s no sound coming from Window Seat Guy and Glamour Puss. I know they can’t possibly have sleep apnea too, so I turn to look. They’re lip-locked, tongues down each other’s throats. I jerk back around in disbelief, my mouth hanging open.

The other passengers stick their noses in books, snooze or watch the movie, which ironically enough, is The Wild Wild West. I whip open the magazine again and fix my eyes on the page, but I can’t concentrate enough to read. The cabin is dark except for scattered reading lights and the flickering movie monitors. The other passengers are at least pretending to mind their own business. They read, do crossword puzzles, chat and do everything but pay attention to Window Seat Guy and Glamour Puss, who are now rustling around and muffling giggles as they rearrange themselves in the mountain of pillows and blankets. No way can I ignore this and I sneak a peek back to see what’s going on.

Glamour Puss is sitting on Window Seat Guy’s lap, facing him. They’re wrapped in blankets doing their own interpretation of “the beast with two backs.” Once again, I turn away in disbelief. Am I the only one who knows what’s going on here? I can’t believe Window Seat Guy got so lucky. That could be me back there, except he’s the one with the cojones to reach out and grab a once in a lifetime opportunity and I’m a rule follower. I’m a rule follower sitting next to a snoring giant who might be suffocating while Window Seat Guy gets to act like Caligula.

I eventually drift off until the captain’s voice jolts me out of my slumber. “We’ve begun our descent to San Francisco International Airport and will be landing shortly. It’s been a pleasure having you aboard.” I look back to see the couple sleeping like babies. Window Seat Guy is resting his head upon Glamour Puss’s shoulder with a blissful smile on his face. I shake my head as I turn back to fasten my seatbelt. I gotta hand it to the guy, I think, and actually chuckle out loud.

“Did I miss something funny?” Bible Lady asks.

“Oh good morning,” I say, “I didn’t realize you were awake. You certainly are a sound sleeper.”

“I took a sleeping pill,” she says. “It helps with my fear of flying. I could have slept through a hurricane. Did I miss anything?”

“Nope,” I reply. “Just another long, quiet plane ride.” The plane arrives at the gate.

“I put your Bible in the seat pocket,” I say. “I was afraid it would fall on the floor, and I didn’t want to wake you.”

“Oh that’s sweet,” Bible Lady says. “You didn’t have to be so worried about disturbing me.”

“Well, blessed are the meek,” I reply.

Window Seat Guy and Glamour Puss stand in the aisle beside my seat like they’ve just been introduced at a cocktail party.

Glamour Puss says, “My name’s Adriana. What’s yours?”

“Josh,” he replies. “Here’s my card. Look me up if you’re ever up my way. I’m an organic farmer up in Humboldt County.”

They move a little way up the aisle. “They seem like they’d make an awfully sweet couple,” Bible Lady says. I smile and nod as I stand up and move back in the aisle so she can exit. I see the graphics on Window Seat Guy’s T-shirt: a marijuana leaf surrounded by the words, “Organic farmers do it in the dirt.” I realize I’m still holding my magazine and toss it in the pile of blankets on Window Guy’s empty seat.

June 4, 2013 0

Swimming in the Lagoon

SWIMMING IN THE LAGOON

Sometimes you can’t swim at the beach. Tens of thousands of them have died, their bodies bobbing and floating on the surface of the water. Alewives, little fish in the herring family, all washed up on the sandy beach and rocks along the shore, piled up at the high water line. Great heaping mounds of them form iridescent dunes. Their stinking, desiccated bodies covered with flies, brittle, crackly, and rotting in the sun. The only place to swim is the lagoon where Shivering Sands Creek flows into Lake Michigan. The placid water feels warm as a bath. The smooth, sandy bottom feels soothing underfoot. But there are random patches of quicksand, and if you step into that stuff you’ll plunge straight up to your waist in sticky silt that is crawling with leeches. When that happens, you claw your way out as fast as you can move, scrambling out of the creek, squirming from the thought of it, crying for Mom to help pull the slimy bloodsuckers off your legs. Then you go right back into the water. It seems worth the risk just to be able to go swimming.

(Originally Published in “Orion headless” December 2011 Thank you Sarah Fitzpatrick Comito!)

May 21, 2013 0

The Tall Man’s Secret

by Michael Gillan Maxwell

I turn the corner and come face to face with Ed, who’s stark naked at the kitchen sink. He chugs a glass ohot tap water from a measuring cup and belches loudly.

“Good morning,” he says, as he pisses in the sink. “I drink 6 cups of hot tap water every morning. It keeps me hydrated and then I have a lovely shit.”

He finishes up and shakes off, then swirls water around the basin with his hand.

“It’s the Tall Man’s Secret,” he says. “You should try it.”

“I’ll pass. That may be the perfect height for you, but I’d have to stand up on my tip-toes and flop my balls up over the edge just to reach it. Please tell me you don’t wash dishes in that sink.”

“Of course I do,” he says. “I rinse it out each time. It’s cleaner than the bathroom. Someone always misses the toilet and pees all over the floor. It’s disgusting.”

“Well that someone must be you, because you’ve lived here alone for the last twelve years.”

“Exactly,” he says. “That’s another reason I pee in the sink. Because I can.”

For the next two hours, Ed goes nonchalantly about his business, buck naked the whole time. He putters around the house, writes e mails, waters plants, vacuums the rug and sweeps the porch. I pretend to ignore his nudity. He pauses briefly during a long, rambling monologue about secret underground bases and reptilian extraterrestrials and I seize the opportunity to abruptly change the subject.

“Hey, I need to get some shots of your place,” I say, pulling out my iPhone. “How ‘bout we start with a nude study of you?”

“Whoops, sorry,” he says. “I should have asked if it bothered you. I go au naturale from 6 every evening until noon the following day.”

“A man’s home is his castle, I always say. Where else can a guy let it all hang out?”

“I’m gonna make a breakfast smoothie,” he says. “You want one?”

Ed pulls vegetables out of the fridge and tosses them in the sink to wash them. I’m starting to get queazy. He dumps a full bottle of Guinness into the blender.

“You start with a beer. It’s full of B vitamins. Throw in raw beets, celery, bok choy, spinach and liquid amino acids. This stuff’s an antioxidant bomb. You’ll be levitating, and your shit will be a lovely shade of red.”

“Good to know. I can hardly wait,” I say.

He crams the chopped vegetables into the mix and pushes a button. The blender churns the concoction into a dark red, dank smelling, foamy sludge.

“I need to relieve myself first,” I say. “Not to worry. I have flawless technique and never miss. It’s the Short Man’s Secret.”

May 14, 2013 3

The Suburban Cowboy Catalogue

My piece “The Suburban Cowboy Catalogue” has been published in the current edition of Defenestration Magazine.

“The Suburban Cowboy Catalogue,” by Michael Gillan Maxwell

Thank you Eileen Lavelle for including my piece in your publication!

April 11, 2013 0

Images from “On the Green River in Utah” Volume I

Selected images from “On the Green River in Utah”

Camp III Evening on Bow Knot Bend

High Desert Plateau

Camp I Canyon Wall

Base Jumper

Reflection

Self Portrait

Monolith

Take Out At Mineral Bottom

Cotton Wood Tree

April 11, 2013 4

Art Exhibition at Leidenfrost Vineyard ~ April 2013

(Poster by Carol Spence)

I am exhibiting the following pieces in Magic & Light, a show at Leidenfrost Vineyard, during the month of April

Woman on Beach

Along the Quayside

Icarus

Cello Player

Passing the Last Buoy

Schooner

The Sky That Night

March

In the Evening

Two Egrets

Storm Cloud Over Manihawkin Bay

Blue Moon on Seneca

April 9, 2013 4

Group Therapy

My piece “Group Therapy” is up on the Lascaux Flash Fiction Contest website. Thank you editors Stephan Parrish and Wendy Russ.
The link is below:
http://www.lascauxflash.com/2013/03/21-group-therapy.html