Journal, Day 15

The Poetry Farm in Orfordville, WI; Chicago, IL; en route to Milwaukee, WI / Cathy Wagner

We spent Friday, Saturday, and Sunday morning at the Poetry Farm in Orfordville, Wisconsin. I am not sure whether the Poetry Bus is planning to stop at more Poetry Places after this. Possibly as communities begin to realize the Poetry Bus is on its way, they will decide to become Poetry Places with Poetry Elks Clubs and Poetry Wal-Marts. New Jersey has a Poetry Rest Stop already in the form of the Joyce Kilmer Rest Area (“I think that I shall never see / A poetry bus lovely as a tree”) but the other states will need to step it up; the bus is on its way. The Poetry Farm has 11 acres of apple orchards, grapevines, cherry trees, strawberries; Lisa Fishman, Richard Meier, and Henry (I’m sorry don’t know last name) live there with son James, who’s two and possibly the happiest, friendliest young man in the Midwest: he had a hello for everyone. “Ha-hi, Joshoo-wa! Ha-hi, Anselm!” He can say “Anselm” much better than I can, and his dragon noises are terrifying.

Friday night we were treated to the most delicious tacos I’ve ever eaten, made by an anarchist catering collective. Anarchist catering collectives do not do dishes, but Rick Meier does, and the poetry bus people sat around and drank and stuffed themselves and let the anarchy take care of us. The stage for the reading was an old wooden flatbed cart in a field under the stars. The highlight was Joshua Beckman’s and Tyler’s collaborative musical about Erasmus Darwin.

Crap, I’ve got to go catch a plane, and since I left my bag and computer on the bus, which has departed for Lorine Niedecker’s house on Blackhawk Island and is heading on to Milwaukee after that, I can’t blog on and on, dammit. Green Mill in Chicago last night was a fascinating clash of aesthetics; the Poetry Bus barely “won” the slam and luckily the prize, five large cans of sardines, was stolen by some caring audience member. I love sardines but the bus windows don’t open very well.

Adios to poetry bus and thanks Suzanne Buffam and Chicu Reddy, who put me up last night and provided me with contact solution, toothpaste, pj’s etc.

See you—Cathy

Day 15 / Ft. Atkinson, WI / Anthony McCann

What to do with all these feelings? This morning I feel as maudlin as Frank O’Hara in the morning. All these feelings flow from me towards you, my new and dear and now departed from the bus, friends. But they, these feelings, find no exit and they flow and splash along my insides—the underface of my surface. I warned you I was feeling maudlin. Light flashes along my borders and now a small child passes. She is saying something. What is she saying? She is saying, “That’s a creepy bus.”

Soon after I am approached by an angry old dude who wants to know, “what are you guys doing here?” Maybe I should explain where we are first. A Jellystone Park RV campsite between Milwaukee and Chicago. A raucous reading last night at the Green Mill in Chicago but we find no place to park the bus and leave around midnight. So now this angry old dude, the groundskeeper, wants me to explain us. I play deaf and dumb and let Joshua explain. Later, I see the same guy spray insecticide on a garbage bag for five minutes. Then he starts sucking sewage out of the RV waste dumps with a terrible device. I say about him, “Let’s just thank god the dude is not our dad.”

Travis answers. “The terrible thing is that he actually is.”

Everyone up and we decide to play mini-golf. All around us—creepy statuary. Yogi Bear in a heil Hitler pose. And Cindy (I’d forgotten Cindy), in that obscene mini skirt that marks her as a lady but mostly succeeds in making her look more nude. Every minute someone says “pickanick baskets.”

Now back in Milwaukee first time in 11 years. My body is adjusting to the weight of my heart. A few more hours and we start up again. Time enough, I hope to find a Laundromat.