Chuck deVarennesGlory, GloryGlory Glory. Hail the thick stream Of automobiles, heavy cream curdled along hot asphalt rivers, clotting towards home. Anxious eyes sneak to the heat gauge. Older cars have the air conditioning off. Sweating drivers pray the needle stays put. Glory to gold at the highest price! Live to work for nothing except car payments. Forget grand schemes eagerly shared child to child, the better world we vowed to build. Glory to shriveled afternoons as we escape to our escapes. Stale promises and battered dreams need some air. We slog forward, veins bursting necks, and we grow savage. A man swings his car in front of another, who fires thirty-eight caliber fury to scream his choking rage, the old west born again in chrome and steel squalor. Anger hides helplessness. Rage rage! Build bright illusions of action. We used to march for justice and sing for peace. Now we worship wealth and violence before television altars. Pray to false gods of acquisition, sham gods of cheap sensation. Drown in poison. Fight each other just to be first in and gulp deepest. Spin spin dizzy, Under sacks of fool's gold, all fools in the end. We play games for keeps, And beat each other with envy and empty curses. Half beings, bloated egos and starving souls. We buy more and work more, Faster and faster. Force equals mass times acceleration. We build ourselves into bombs! Our barest spirit pulse tells us that noise and light can't feed our marrow, that hollow bones won't hold us when the spinning stops. At our deep core we know our unbalance. Soul instinct filters through frantic movement, through constant stimulation, through the desperate din we make to drown the stillness. Blood in the Bone (for Tom Ellis) old friend called and fresh again old verities long out of mind. swirls of emotions people blend and divide rhythmic wave motion memories collide. his familiar voice awoke an ancient point of view plain work and play without clever pretense. lying sideways on that rustic floor (boards worn beyond smooth by generations of dirt) one inch steel tape measures extended in a balancing match, how long before it collapsed? full focus bowed wide to the ceiling widening arc end of effort inside that farmhouse kitchen which saved my too raw ended heart over and over when I could barely walk through a day. later tom and i painted the lasting picture of work back when i never grew tired and exulted in my resurrection. memory lays memories on memories on emotions on prayers on day dim dreams flickering and fanning. tom was on that dirty floor, he endured my friendship, one of the great mysterious blessings in a difficult and blessed life. he still calls. the old rapport still fresh true. my gratitude exceeds my comprehension. wonder in this gladness: the blood in the bone Chuck deVarennes was born in 1954 (the year Elvis released HOUND DOG) in Needham Massachusettes. Grew up in Atlanta suburbs, intending to become the next William Kunstler. Attended University of Ga on a debating scholarship, which he quickly abandoned (along with the rest of his academic work) to study brain chemistry through personal experimentation. Surviving, he has worked in commercial construction for many years, and is the happy father of one daughter. He has published poems locally, has performed spoken word on local radio, and can be found at coffee houses and other venues spewing verse. Congratulations to Chuck on being voted Best Spoken Word Artist in Atlanta for 1998! Home | Editor's Desk | Poetry | Prose | Guidelines | Email | Links |