ALL RESPONSES |
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Three days prior to opening
I road my bike through the streets
of the fair grounds watching
vendors clean and smoke.
Big Bertha sat inside an air-conditioned Airstream
gnawing on a chicken leg while watching Dark Shadows.
I knocked incessantly, not ceasing
until the door whooshed open,
almost off its hinges and Bertha
screamed red-faced, “What the hell do you want?”
“I want to see how fat you are.”
Her enormous arm extended in my direction.
Pudgy fingers grabbed hold of my neck
and yanked me inside.
“Am I fat enough for you?”
“You’re pretty fat.”
The air was on, the door closed leaving
just Bertha and me and Dark Shadows
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there is never enough
time
for the county fair
the reasons for fun
lost in all the spinning:
yellow, blue & red lights
whirling
the girl drums in your blood
hands, fingers down your bones
drawing the sinew of your spine
closer into the darkness of her breasts
winds her hair vines round your wrist
twirling
the way she looks
you just know
she wants to run with you
through the dry night leaves
of the county fair
swirling |
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Platoons of people on the Midway,
sweaty, but for the most part
patient, interested in eating.
Gimme what you got, the motto.
Squads of smells: People,
anything on a stick. Sunlight
sizzles and oils drip.
Cold and snowy somethings
come only in a cone.
Brigades of people milling,
pushing against the fair’s
warm belly, that great, big
mother pig. They say, Gimme
what you got and make it plenty.
Make it last forever.
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THE MERRY-GO-ROUND
The ground is moving
Everything is spinning
and blurred.
The lights have tails
and look like shooting stars,
all moving
in the same direction
on this Merry-go-round.
I stand because for me
there are no pretty horses to ride,
but I don't really care
because the music is loud.
I close my eyes,
and feel the breeze
that caresses my face.
Soon I realize
I don't want to get down
from this Merry-go-round
at the state fairground. |
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Stomped On My Worm
To me, it was the best ride of all—
the snake-trolley at the State Fair.
Everything I want to see is farthest
from the gate. Every place my crumbling
feet won't take me any more.
And it's gone. They've gone and shot
the snake-ride, for oldsters and little kids
who can't go far and always have to pee
before they get there.
To look legit, I now must get a wheelchair,
do "Joe Egg," and take along
an older friend to push me. Hell I will.
It crawled at a snail's pace through crowds.
Wasted batteries, broke down
at regular intervals; seldom bit
a living soul, and got us to the Art Show,
Heritage Hill, back to the Animal Barns,
all in the same afternoon.
I'd hop on at Turkey Burgers, squeeze in
at the rear, breathe the scent of deep-fry,
and say, "aaahhh." Now I take a trekking pole,
(to everything its stick) wait ten minutes
for a break in the crowd, ease my ankles
to the wildlife station, decide if I want to hang
by an old snake of ski-lift cable creaking
toward the northwest passage. I don't even know
if there's a get-off at that end.
The State Fair is its same-old, year to year.
Clockwork, except for the worm-train.
Deep-sixed it. Aerating Machinery Hill.
I've a notion to sit on a tractor with a petition
in favor of painting a lane and worming it back
on the grounds. Losing a tradition seems.
like carelessness. Miss my train, I do—
and the State Fair, from this year on, I guess.
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The familiar smell of deep-fried foods pulled me into the crowd. I had my priorities. Corn dog. Cheese curds. Mini-donuts. There was a time when fair-goers would have felt guilty about ingesting lethal amounts of cholesterol, sugar, and trans-fats -- not that it would have stopped them. Now, all unhealthy substances were left out. What was left was flavorful, satisfying, and even had entirely convincing textures. This was due in part to the artful manipulation of synthesized agricultural products, but also to the advances made in the cultivation of old standbys like soybeans and wheat. So, go to the fair, eat and drink all you want, and don't lose any sleep over it. And even if there were no dietary concerns, the fact remained that life expectancies had increased by %50, not only because of medical advances, but also through drastic improvements in nutrition.
I quickly found a booth with a short line; deep-fried bacon-cheeseburgers on a stick. I purchased one with an order of battered fries. There was a open table in one of the nearby beer joints, so I grabbed a chair and sauntered up to one of the beer dispensers. It was a hot, humid day, so I ordered a cold liter of Belgian Ale with a twist of lemon. The malty fermented beverages that were now available had a kick, but absolutely no unpleasant side effects, perhaps one of the most incredible scientific advances of the last 100 years. I drank until my eyes had a mystical sheen on them like the coating of faux lard on the inside of my mouth.
Relaxed, satiated, swimming in living memories, I went for a walk on Machinery Hill. Where large green tractors once stood, were self-contained mobile processing units, solar-powered hydroponic stations, and remote-controlled cultibots. The newest airborne fusion vehicles were also on display, hovering in place on the power of seemingly endless fuel sources. I had seen all of this before, so I strolled over to the livestock barns. Hogs in excess of 1000 kilograms were the norm; like all livestock, they were were only raised for show. The quality of substitute meat products, processed directly from high-protein crops, far exceeded that of the animal flesh, and were inexpensive. Animal husbandry had grown into a popular hobby, though, which was evident in the display of 50 kilogram chickens, ducks and turkeys, feathered in a variety of tailored colors. This was possible only through advanced genetic experimentation, which seemed to know no bounds. Hairless chartreuse buffalabbits, tiny purple pumpkins and meter-long ears of corn took their place in the award ceremonies next to peppercumbers and strawberry melons. Tomatoes were still red, though, weighing in at over 20 kg each.
As fascinating as the agricultural products were, I decided to walk to the Midway and take in a few rides. The anti-gravity simulator was my favorite. Even though deep space travel was commonplace, there was always something unique about floating 200 meters above the ground, dancing in the air, watching the crowd below. There were many other types of gravitational tortures available for the adventurous, but I usually ended up at the NDE, the Near-Death Experience. To be safely brought to within a millimeter of non-existence was always invigorating, although it wasn't the most popular attraction by any means. As always, I enjoyed the quiet voices, the dimly glowing lights, and the oddly recognizable faces of distant ancestors. The fifteen minute duration was usually enough. I had my fun, and felt it was time to leave. I fingered the controls on my belt, and watch the Midway, the crowd, the entire fairground dissolve.
I stretched my arms, stood up, and keyed in another control sequence. The RecChair shut down with a dying hum. I would be billed extra for the State Fair, but where else could one find so much in one download? One hundred years ago, one would have had to struggle with parking and body odor (although these were available options.) Instead, the RecChair generated a field that, when modulated by the downloaded code, came as close to the real thing as most of us desired. Somewhere, there were animals and machinery to view in person, if one wanted to brave the elements, but the bodies were not there, just crowds of fair-goers sharing each other's company in the comfort of their living rooms.
There are some, a small minority, who seek a return towards physical, real-life events. They gather in small groups, seeking something they feel has been lost. Like most people, though, I don't feel the need to spend hours or days traveling long distances, sweating in the brutal sun, taking my chances with the lottery of cuisine prepared by hand. It would be expensive, and not at all pleasant. So why bother?
Tomorrow night, I think I'll go to Ireland.
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She runs fingers through honey hair,
tracing a path of freckles, down her arm past its sleeve
as the line for the ferris wheel slowly creeps.
Truth came today, she hadn't known it could be
so wide, so thick, so pressing upon a girl's frame,
heavier than the posture she keeps
she didn't choose the moment, she didn't say
"I'm here Truth, come and make a woman out of me!"
She escaped to the Fair in late summer heat,
watching the masses lick ice cream,
link lives, breathe--
she shakes, unknowing this entrance
she makes, wearing its every shade:
the pain of a woman--
others' mistakes.
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There was an old yellow streetcar.
There were so many chances before us.
There were three steps and a window seat.
There were waves of heat in the August air.
Chance was wide open.
The streetcar stopped at the gates.
Waves of heat rolled over us.
It was kids for free day at the fair.
We got off at Como and Snelling; the gates waited.
Coins in our pockets, a feast of booths before us.
We were full and forever and it was free this day.
Dreams were simple, a necklace strung bead by bead.
We walked the streets of the fair, our coins heavy.
Parents worried abut polio, iron lungs, money, bombs.
Our dreams were beads fingered one by one.
The life we didn’t know was the one we wanted.
Parents worried their fingers, polio and bombs.
What would we give now for the fair of innocence.
The life we didn’t know was what we wanted.
Now what would we give for the smells of sweat in dust.
There were three iron steps and a window seat.
The life we didn’t know was the one we wanted.
What wouldn’t we give to see the yellow streetcar
Coming toward us through waves of August heat. |
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Standing here, at the West end of the lake
basking in the perfect cliché of a summer day, smiling;
last night we dropped a lifetime of shooting stars in the world.
Sitting now, I read about this man, a bridge worker
who kissed his wife and left home; in the water
the belly of a fish, glittering pink and bright red
punctured by a sharp beak; a beautiful soaring eagle just above.
In pain, we forget the not so obvious beauty and risks of life,
notwithstanding the failure of governments, the unfair routes
of nature, the frequent lack of precision of time, or not;
In the presence of absence, in the midst of unwashed clothing
hanging in the entryway closet, some will find solace in reasons,
others will take the fastest ride on the Fair, and cry
entire futures all at once. In the winter,
the wind is still cold, even here, where
the memory of warmth somehow seems to last, forever.
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lights flash
spend that cash
come on little piggy
or
you’ll
be
last
in line
amongst the heat,
shuffle of feet
try your best to
find
that
beat
red banner runner,
long string strummer
busker, huckster
corn jive shuckster
call your friends
by snort and bleat
run your kernel
along the tine,
her cob
sweet
and
salty
rind
tossed over shoulder
we watch it waste
a heaping pile
no beast can face
sweeping maw
of children at feast
slobber all over
those rusty teats. |
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Bertha sat glued to the TV screen
as the Midway emptied out
sending the debris of 3.2 drunks
slurring up to the window
to gawk at the fat lady and spit in her face,
then laugh in disgust.
Bertha grabbed the can of Glade
Air Freshener and sprayed it in their
faces as they swore to get her back
and she swore to sit on them
and I swore to watch her back
and we became best friends
for those 10 days, Big Bertha and me.
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I remember my first place in Minnesota, an agricultural sorority house on the edge of the Minnesota State Fair grounds. It was home for the summer to eight of us, me, six sorority girls and one recently-released ex-con (shoplifting she said).
I don’t remember whether I was on the top or bottom bunk.
#
I remember sneaking out of the house one late-June Saturday morning, a hot pink triangle on my t-shirt, and going to my first gay and lesbian pride festival (they hadn’t added all those letters yet for bi, trans, queer, gender queer, intersex, ally).
I don’t remember sneaking back into the house that night, sunburned and grinning.
#
I remember one conversation with the sorority girls about the state fair.
I don’t remember their names but I call them Shannon I, Shannon II and Shannon III. Olson, Neilson and Torveg. Or pick another Scandanavian sounding last name. They all had long, straight blond Laura from 1980’s General Hospital hair and perfectly straight bleached white teeth.
“You gotta go,” one of the Shannons said, the “o” in go rising and falling, almost like a song.
“There’s the all-you-can-drink milk stand,” another said.
“And the crop art.”
“Bet you’ve never seen a goat be born.”
“Or milked a cow.”
“You had cheese curds?”
I hadn’t but I couldn’t say so because each kept adding her favorite state fair location and food.
“Ohhhh, and you have to see Princess Kay,” Shannon III said.
“Princess what?” I asked.
“Princess Kay of the Milky Way,” Shannon II said. As she explained the pageants and traveling around the state to represent the dairy industry, I noticed how cute she looked in her mud- and dung-stained overalls, her hips straining buttons on the side.
I don’t remember whether I could see her underwear through the gaps or not. (I imagine they were covered with little pink flowers.)
“…and everyone in the sorority has been a Princess or on the court. They carve her likeness and each of the court girls’ likeness in butter at the fair,” Shannon III finished.
“In August? How do they do that?”
“In a freezer,” Shannon II said.
“Yah. My mom still has my head in her freezer,” Shannon I said.
I don’t remember what was said after that. (And after sixteen years, I still haven’t seen anyone be carved in butter).
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the asphalt is my friend
holding me up
to see me through
to the end of the day
even though progress is nothing
more than tramping
down road after road
in this disease ridden festival
where gorging faces replace
talking
I was only twelve
the used charcoal
of a burned out fire
the prior decade of fairs
had taught me to not complain
when we had to watch
others eat
and the one bright spot
was climbing up the giant slide
the yellow and green
tongue of desperation
trying to convince me that
youth was well spent
here in America
you could not convince this
tiny lick of fire
left in my heart
that fairs were anything more
than the start to growing gray
they were years spent
in a day of raucous biting
pulling tugging on the sleeves
knees dragging on the stones
grim periwinkle tones and smells
and me without a wallet
but Papa could redeem us all
after the long day walking--
the endless tromping towards our car
at home with a story
the one thing we could afford
as our famished, exhausted bodies
finally fell asleep |
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My soul sinks to the pit of my tummy,
the air stolen from my lungs
Haze of colors meld as one,
crafting unified splashes across my vision
Screams in every fraction of my ear
bounce around, are processed, expelled
Revolving faster up than down,
further backward than forward
Ground so close, heavens even closer,
spinning further away from everything
Gears and cables rhythmic chiming slow
as I begin my whirling decent back to Earth
White knuckles give way to circulation,
air is reclaimed by my lungs
The ground is much softer than I remember,
my rubbery knees fool my brain
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A mile or two of crow’s flight
from Grandstand’s center stage
our homes sat tucked
in hard-edged shadow
cast by the glass and steel
hi-rise from across the road
While falling softly
into late-August arms of sleep
a barrage of reverberating explosions
would rocket us back to wakefulness
eleven nights running
The “great Minnesota get-together”
celebrated for its excesses
routinely rattled windows
and crashed against bedroom walls
twenty minutes at a time
Its late-night shows of colored sky light
set our distant hearts to racing
(no presence,
Tilt-a-World,
or Gravitron
required).
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I have never seen a magician
as relentless as the carnie
who ensures the illusive game
is rigged
when the ball bounces
off the bottom of the basket
I lose another dollar
drop
my pride down a step
and dig in my pocket for more
only proving that I can lose
consecutively |
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She thought she must be lost but she didn’t care. Every spin of the merry-go-round took her up and away. The only ride she really liked was the merry-go-round after the novelty of “It’s a small world” wore off. At 13, she was a little old for Disneyland anyway. She could see the mechanisms and knew when to expect the jolt of fantasy surprise. She hated waiting in the lines, the hot sun made the remnant of her poison oak itch. She only came along because it was a family outing. She wanted to show off her cool wire-rimmed sunglasses and peace sign dangling around her neck. Like wearing it in Disneyland was making a political statement. She had decided to buy one of the extra-long Mickey Mouse t-shirts, in pink. She would wear it to the next rock concert with her hair frizzed out like Janis.
Something about being on a merry-go-round felt old-fashioned and elegant, but maybe it was that scene in Mary Poppins, the way she dressed in white with those button-down boots. Funny for a girl with a craving to travel to enjoy going nowhere at all.
She thought she might be lost because she no longer saw any of her family in sight. Being lost wasn’t so bad. She let her body ride in triumphant gentle swells and day-dreamed about kissing Bob. She got the poison oak when they had rolled off the beach blanket into the edge of the wood line, kissing and groping. She liked the kissing but she wasn’t so sure about Bob. He had started to act weird---
Little kids get lost, she told herself, not TEEN-AGERS. How she relished that word. She would be all of 14 in a few days. She had passed her first year of being a teen-ager in flying colors.
Her family would come back, she reasoned, or she would find that idiot pretending to be Goofy the dwarf or Sleeping Beauty with the blue make-up glopped on her eye-lids and they would take her to a place where an announcement could be made. Or maybe she would just stay and get a job as a princess.
Either way, life was good. She had ten dollars in her pocket and enough tickets to ride two more times. Disneyland might be about fake entertainment, but her adventure was just about to begin. Little did she know.
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Stomped On My Worm
To me, it was the best ride of all—
the snake-trolley at the State Fair.
Everything I want to see is farthest
from the gate. Every place my crumbling
feet won’t take me any more.
And it’s gone. They’ve gone and shot
the snake-ride, for oldsters and little kids
who can’t go far, and always have to pee
before they get there.
To look legit, I now must get a wheelchair,
do “Joe Egg,” and take along
an older friend to push me. Hell I will.
It crawled at a snail’s pace through crowds.
Wasted batteries, broke down
at regular intervals; seldom bit
a living soul, and got us to the Art Show,
Heritage Hill, back to the Animal Barns,
all in the same afternoon.
I’d hop on at Turkey-Burgers, squeeze in
at the rear, breathe the scent of deep-fry,
and say, “aahhh.” Now I take a trekking pole,
(to everything, a stick) wait ten minutes
for a break in the crowd, ease my ankles
to the wildlife station, decide if I want to hang
by an old snake of ski-lift cable creaking
toward the northwest passage. I don’t even know
if there’s a get-off at that end.
The State Fair is its same-old, year to year.
Clockwork. Except for the worm-train.
They’ve deep-sixed it. Aerating Machinery Hill.
I’ve a notion to sit on a tractor with a petition
in favor of painting a lane and worming it back
on the grounds. Losing a tradition
seems like carelessness. Miss my train, I do—
and the Fair, from this year on, I guess.
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Other than mustard stains on sweaty T-shirt
pale corndog blood rivers running to elbow
summer breezes lost somewhere beyond Fargo
angry stroller trapped babies screaming
dark asphalt plains absorbing solar power
cars paid to park in neighborhood yards
long winding lines people patiently waiting
for deep-fried coagulated mammal squeezins
manured cinder-block barn flies biting bulls
ancient petrified pies displayed behind glass
flat beer spilled sticky table garbage barrel
occasionally cleaned public toilet bouquet
oblivious revelers blocking those primarily intent
on leaving, the thing I love the best about
the Minnesota State Fair is the universal
sense of community between our fine citizens. |
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State Fair
Mr. Ramberg’s black-and-whites
Pull our eyes
Into 1959. 1960. We turn, watch rides.
What’s the time? Not yet.
Kennedy sends us quietly in.
A Hmong (1961) in the lower left
Strolls the grounds.
Johnson shows his scars. Look! Lightning
Plunges into the Whirlwind. Same old same old.
Voices summon us. Dad! Mom! Our children
In their cages twist and scream.
A man in a black cap bending
To pick something up someone has lost
Shoots her down. We turn our backs and watch
The blur of iron arms. Into a pool of darkness
She descends. Resign. Is it time?
Not now, but soon.
Behind them an immortal machine
Throws bodies into the afternoon. |
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State Fair
My father got me the job,
selling 99-cent wind-up toys in the Grandstand building,
twelve-hour shifts, ten days.
Fifteen-years old.
Weary children watched
As I turned the key, ratcheting
the gears until the mechanical chipmunk sprang,
down the platform, paws pumping the acorn
up and down
until the wheels wound
down
and the acorn froze.
Mid-air.
I took up smoking in the bathroom.
I did not know you could break
the law so easily,
a few coins in the machine, a low rumble,
and out popped the Pall Malls.
After the cigarette, a snow cone from Carl
who knew how to catch every drop
of strawberry syrup. I told him
I was eighteen; he said
he was starting medical school,
both of us awkward, but interested.
Not the smooth movement of machines.
Everyday, we spoke and smiled. I felt good
breaking the law of smoking
and the commandment of lying and all
the time I was doing my job, making children
who didn’t get a prize in the ring toss,
happy. Something
to take home
On the afternoon of Labor Day, booths were coming down,
The barns were emptying of banty hens and prize pigs.
The cows with their miraculous bones were lumbering out.
Everything coming apart.
Darkness came early. For an hour or two
the strings of colored lights hid the stars, but one
by one went out. That first boy and I
kissed each other good-bye,
a long,
slow
kiss.
The next day I put on my school uniform
and resumed my old life,
but inside I suffered the sweetest
sorrow I had ever
known.
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