Part XVIII

Homer’s (the blind man’s) poetry as seen by helmut s.

“Iliad XVII”

 

 

 

book seventeen

As Zeus watches

blood and tears flowing,

he knows he has a winner.

He shakes his head at the mortals,

“Poor creatures, why did we give you King Peleus,

a mortal doomed to death…

…so you could suffer the pain of wretched men?”

Yet looking at hills of bodies slain and butchered,

smelling in the sun, and here and there

an armless body moving like a worm,

disgusted he aims his spit at one of the nearby islands:

“There is nothing alive more agonizing

than a man’s shell, who still breathes

but crawls over reddened soil.”

And subsequently he orders a few

of the bloodiest of the bloody scenes changed,

the use of more tomato-juice and cuts,

banning some of these earthworms

from his celluloid. He obviously plans a PG version.        

 

variables

 Variables were data which was variable.

Charts showed the relationship of the parts
to the whole: All charts did such to some
degree, however in percentage the pie chart

was peferred. It was no sweat to
generate a chart for a computer, just
clicking on the chart wizard did the job.

Concrete allusions some might
call these those variables.

 

 

 

EGOTRIP

“How can I move to a named cell?”

Shouting he was. Sophia ignored him.

He clicked on the drop down menu

in the Name box, clicking on her Name.

There she was more beautiful than ever,

EGOTRIP, he changed it to HER TRIP and he

buried the story about Deborah and the

GONE F……G in it.

And Sophia’s screen flickered

irritated as he was logging out

 

 

J 10:00 p.m.

restless

…ears filled with: “Work! Work! Work!
You-must-you-must-you-must-you-must”

The voices unstoppable by wax or by cork.
he left his latest love, just to adjust,
Annoyed with these voices’ unwanted infusion
between his ears, he left her
all by herself without company or intrusion.

“The default alignments are for numeric
entries Right justified and characters
align Left justified, not only generic.”
He lectured himself. Helen the actress
was centered in the wide open door.

Her beauty stunning came into
view the light shed on her, superior.

His thoughts as deep as her valleys, whereto
his eyes sans spectacles were glued.
He remembered her magnetic field since she
touched him as he was standing next to her.

“Howdy!” A kiss flung, said he.
“Where you go now, hun?” was her answer.
He departed with a “I shall be right back.”

His gut feeling was “Too nice an evening
to lock myself away.”

“I have to work too,
Helen said as he was leaving,

“At least till two”
Helen said, yet did he listen?

 

 

must

 

his brain tried to tell him: “You must work!

YoumustYoumust! You! MustYou?”

Annoyed he had left the keyboard

of his workstation.

He defaulted like he did on his mortgage

walking away from her like from his first wife

characters in a life time, all justified.

Helen aka Sunshine was looking at him

wondering to what no-good-he-was-up-to-this-time.

And he was and she knew it all-to-well.

O-:

 

 

a field

He remembered now: Two
names can be used in one single cell,
as he left once more on a trip
over to the Salad bowl of the nation…

Dark soil on the Nikes and in his tires’
groves told where he was coming from.

He used the Trace Dependents button
as a Troubleshooting tool, to find errors,
to learn about formulas and functions,
and to find the rest of the rowdy

bunch which belonged into the same formula.
“This-data-table-thingy-worksheet is very
simply,” he said to himself,
“Nothing but the result of my number-input.”

He did not ask himself the question of
“Why would one who has every
thing else want to have a database
beside it being such a great toy?”

Conversation-piece, spreadsheet,
budgeting-tool, list of inventories,
fun which kept any novice busy,
or to control and record information
impertinent for future use?

He enjoyed playing the field
like playing a record in a database
referring to the field as a single
element within a record. Each cell
was comparable to a file in
which the record made up of
fields was stored.

 

 

concrete

Next to the story of the fields, another

man, dry skin, cracked hands, cement

under and around the square fingernails.

One didn’t have to ask

what he was

pumping,

the rig outside, with the hoses

in the back and the two wheeled concrete-

shooter had his name on it.

 

 

 

 life

Beside these two      men at the wine

and beer bar, five     tables were filled with

noisy characters.     Spanish was spoken every-

where. Tanned hides, carried to the market

on high heels clicking-clacking-dragging

and shuffling on the concrete

just outside the

door…

 

  …rodeo time

 

 

Chinatown

  …where cigarette smoke used to hang above

the tables. The law had changed now

cigarette-smoke sneaked in from the door.

…where the smell of fish, burned

oil, stale beer and sour wine

mixed with the sweat-stains

on the men’s shirts.

…where the few women

smelled just like the place,

fishy, rancid

oily sweaty bodies

nowhere to go.

The past-time the future,

the future past

as time past

into past

past…

  …where Mexican

music was playing

and Spanish songs

were sing-sung …

…there she looked different,

had an accent,

an air of authority followed her.

…there she smelled different,

it wasn’t the shower talcum.

…there the field worker

next to him said: “A cop,

passing off as a hooker!”

Loud enough

and every body knew.

…where word traveled fast

in Chinatown.

 

a winner
…the one who said “Holla!”

Both concrete guy and worker

touched her wiggling butt.

An average woman’s body

covered in a light dress with

?sweet stains showing,

passing through, trying to get by,

wanting to leave town for good,

but had to walk work-walk

work-walk to work to work.

She smelled cheap,

just like a woman smells

who had not had a bath all day

sweet perfume covering up

telling about the heat of the day

of tastes of passion

short lived in the parking lot,

standing up in driveways

on her knees in the alley behind those

apartments over there.

Her smile was childlike,

she acted or was she lost.

“I need money for a hotel,

a room, to clean and pretty up!”

And she told us about herself.

Wanting enough money to buy

some clothing at Salvation Army,

enough for the next meal too.

Tomorrow she would make

some more money,

maybe enough for the bus

a ticket out of here.

This town as beautiful as

it might have looked

to farmers, workers and locals

she called appropriately

her end of world the butt-hole

to hell  since released at four

this morning from the women’s jail

walking from Natividad she was

and still near broke.

The MST driver did not let her

on the bus, for she had no shoes

on small feet a long walk

with a hardened soul.

Oh wonder the few lucky bucks

sucking off the vacuum cleaner salesman

and the ten bucks from the cab driver

didn’t last, went for essentials

lipstick, Trojans and a steak dinner

to forget the razor-tipped wire

fences, dreaming of a white

picket-fence she was too once.

No she talked and the guys listened

checking their wallets the concrete guy

says, “Sweetie? You have a name?”

“If you have a room you may

call me whatever you want. If you

have spare cash you may do me

however you want! Deal?”

He called her Sexie and off they went

his motel room on North Main

couldn’t wait much longer.

Walking out the door there was

nothing cheap about her.

Proud, happy, small hands gentle

held by big hard rough hands.

A happy big hard working fellow,

a small time crook on his hand,

both having found each other,

wanting what the other had to offer

a fair deal, both able to give

no illusions no false promises

consenting adults.

A pretty woman, a winner he was.

A good healthy man, a winner she was.

And just like a winner

holding a trophy,

she was holding his hand.

 

 

food

  “Twenty bucks ain’t cutting it…”

she shouted, out on the street.

“Who do you think I am?”

“The bus fare to Florida is a lot more.”

She was coming closer,

“Johnny! eh!

Sweetheart, buy me some shrimp.”

He heard him say, “Sorry

can’t do!” and she was coming his way.

“Where you from?”

“Monterey!” he answered her.

She said: “Call me Georgia.”

His mind was spinning,

he already had had tripe soup,

an open faced sandwich might be nice.

Smell of French fries, Greek salad,

Black olives, came from her mouth

lined with white teeth,

framed by dark red lips.

Her feminine presence let him

forget the stink of cigars, stale beer,

and lingering cigarette smoke.

She had the goodies displayed,

a pretty red dress, high heeled shoes,

scratched knees on naked legs.

Smooth skin, dark by nature.

Food for thoughts, mustard for the hot

dog, all kinds of relishes, much

was offered in addition to satisfy

his craving for salsa and meat.

No! He didn’t want crabs,

that’s why he skipped much of

the selection along the railroad

track. At Guituirez he had bought

a plate of roasted carne,

flour tortillas. To go one order of

Mexican langustas, food at the best

in Garden of Eden out West.

She offered herself with

“Want a date?”

 

Dates are good food

and healthy for the digestion.

Oh yes! He was

getting hungry very fast.

 

ILIAD XVIII

…and have a most beautiful day, every day!