For the likes of David Pecker

 

Yesterday's national news was all National Enquirer--who lies and who pays and who gets the cover of the magazine that sits on just about every grocery store counter in North America--maybe I'm wrong about that; maybe there are some who draw the line.

Anyway, a man unfortunately named David Pecker put me in mind of an odd little book of poetry by an old friend named John Leax, who got into the vile habit reading tabloid headlines. (He's not alone in that particular sin, I can confessionally  say.) 

But John Leax wasn't satisfied with that smack of the sensational because, those titles recorded, he determined to write his own stories with his own angles and his own--you might say--worldview, using those pirated titles. Leax's slim little volume of David Pecker-like poetry is titled Tabloid News. I grabbed my copy off the shelf just now (it's actually dedicated to me) and read a few in light of all the fiction-talk at yesterday's Trump Trial. This morning I think Leax's work is even more a scream.

So here's the origin. Like everyone else on the continent, Leax lingers in the grocery line, scans the tabloid headlines, scribbles some ribald things down while his milk and cookies or whatever are waiting to be checked out.

He gets the Pow! headline, then creates a story to answer to the title's promise. Remember, as Pecker said, it's all about headlines. Nobody bothers much with the copy--they buy on headline.

Here's just one of the John Leax poems from Tabloid News (WordFarm, 2005). (Laughing is not only permitted, it's encouraged, maybe especially in the wake of all of yesterday's news.)

Duck Hunters Shoot Angel

The thing was coming straight at me,
head high across the open water,
and it was big. I pulled up and let
loose with both barrels, dropping it
ten yards out. I turned to the dog
but it wouldn't retrieve,
just hung back in the blind whimpering.
It was twice her size anyway. 

Harold, my partner, nearly blind himself

with keeping off the cold all morning,
just stared, muttering, "Holy shit, holly shit."
So I slogged out--breaking the ice,
sinking up to the waist, freezing
you know what--and dragged her back.

Big as she was, she weighed nothing.

I dumped her on Harold's feet.

He stood there, slack-jawed and dumb,

then he said, "Ya think it's in season?"

I lifted a wing, and damn, there underneath

it was an arm muscled like Hulk Hogan.

"I thought she was a big bird," I said,

mostly to myself, and dropped the wing,

But Harold had seen. "Sonabitch," 

he pointed, "You killed yourself

a male angel." "Shut up," I answered.

"Angels ain't neither male nor female.

Any fool knows that. What's more, ain't

no one can kill an angel, they're immortals."

"This one weren't," Harold said,

and he was right. It was dead.

"Then the dog come alongside and begun

sniffing and then licking about it. 

I pulled it away. It didn't seem right

even though the dog seemed somehow

to be affectionate-like and worshipful.

Harold realized the thing was flopped

on his feet, and he give it a little push,

getting aside from it, and it rolled over part

way coming to rest on those rough wings.

That's when I saw the face. It was

human-like and not very pretty, without

a beard, but awful to see. It scared me,

looking up like I was the one dead, like it

could see me and I wasn't making it happy.

_________________

No, no, no--it ain't over. The rest of "Duck Hunters Shoot Angel" will appear tomorrow. I promise.