I love it when Joe R. Lansdale gets a little weird, or a little kinky. In The Ape Man’s Brother we get both. And we get some excellent writing in a first person narrative almost devoid of dialog.
First, it’s a novella, only 103 pages in a pretty large font and a few full page line drawing images to boot! This ain’t no epic yarn. Second, the link to the Amazon offering (by which I might make a few pennies if you buy) offers the deluxe hardcover for something like $28.00 despite the fact the inside cover says it’s $20.00. That’s probably Joe Biden’s fault. And I found at least three glaring typos inside. Harrumph to their “special edition.” (BTW, I just re-red this paragraph and found a typo.)
I give nothing away when I say the narrator purports to be the real life inspiration for Cheetah of Tarzan-and-Cheetah. It’s a wonderful trope to talk about nature/civilization and savagery/acculturation. That Lansdale is a clever fellow.
The narrator, whose name is given in the book but is unpronounceable, is a remarkable twist on the premise of the Pygmalion/My Fair Lady story on one hand and a connoisseur of Hedonism on the other.
The last thing I’ll give away is the narrator possesses the legendary senses that living in nature gives to all wild creatures. It plays into the plot nicely. Especially the sense of smell. But enjoy this list of sensory language until you get your own copy: “(He)…grabbed Red’s arm. There was a cracking sound, like the weight of heavy ice breaking a rotten limb,…” or this weird visual image of blood, “…like a geyser full of red plum juice had erupted.” or, back to the ears, “You could hear flesh ripping like someone tearing old bed sheets.” or, again, “I could hear helium leaking from the zeppelin like a slow fart from a grandma.”
Do yourself a favor—don’t read the jacket cover until after you read the book. You’ll like it better. Oh, and do yourself one more—Re-read chapter One immediately after you finish reading it. You’ll thank me.
No More Right Now
Some days
depression is a determined dog
and
I am a rag doll.
Can’t blame the dog/Can’t blame the doll.
They Speak to the Poet
Of Walnuts, Conflicts and Cologne
Not since high school
has cologne been of value to me.
And since I lost my sense of smell,
Heaven smells the same as the tomb.
War has a different nature.
Even if a war is so small
it could be fought inside a walnut,
it would still percolate the chemistry of rotting horseflesh.
Throwing cologne at a war
does not change its stinking complexion,
nor change the way it bends itself,
ever downward, to the lowest terrain.
Would that the friction of conflict
could be soothed with cologne,
hurled by French girls from the parfumerie,
but perfume is a poor lubricant for real enmity.
Better it is confined to the halls of schools,
Great and small. Public, private. Saved for Saturday.
Splashed liberally among those with young noses
some of whom will believe and enlist.
Bumping Heads
A fight broke out between
the hemispheres of my brain.
Like two bickering brothers,
they baited each other over weak spots
known to each since the spark of creation.
“Too old,” goaded the Right.
“Too slow,” said the Left
releasing the inhibiting agent.
“…too…mean,”
said Righty
a bit after
the battle
was lost.
Bottom of the 5th
The housewife rises to her full five-four and
helicopters her rally towel.
“Make my life have meaning,” she screams at the home team.
“Bring joy to the void.”
Her husband secures his BigBeer in its cup holder and He brings himself to his feet as well
but with less urgency.
He puts both hands to his face,
cupped into a megaphone.
“Nepenthe,” he bellows
like the name of the relief pitcher.
And again.
“Nepenthe!”
long and hollow.
I Said “Thank You” to a Spider
Today, in the hot house,
I said “Thank you” to a spider.
She folded two legs across her chest
and tapped the toes of two others.
I said “Thank you” to a spider
and I specified her work
in the hot house,
though I did not mean it
as a loophole, specifically.
I said “Thank you” to a spider
and the fingernail-clicking
of her voice chittered,
“‘Bout damn time.”
Haiku for a global pandemic
I recently joined a FaceBook group called “Haiku for a global pandemic.” Once or twice a day I drop a haiku in that group. I’m going to keep a little collection of them here as well. I’m sure mostly they will be my own, but I’ll put up ones I like with author’s permission. This will be a growing collection through this period of isolation.
4/13/20
Cold Michigan wind
the morning after Easter,
trails strands of somber.
–Steve D. Marsh
4/10/20
My highest highlight:
The most yellow daffodils
Telling Death to wait.
–Steve D. Marsh
My Corona
See, the thing is, Weird Al said not to do this and I’m not even the first. But here’s my version…and a link to the original. But feel free to sing along with my lyrics below. Very 13 year old boy brain stuff.
UPDATE: Friend, Ken Cormier, honored me with this: Please listen.
Oh my little bitty one, bitty bug.
Are you gonna live in some grime, Corona?
Ooh, you make my sneezer run, my sneezer run.
Blow a Kleenex full of slime, Corona
Never gonna stop, give it up.
Such a dirty hand. Always get it up for the touch
of the viral kind. My my my i yi woo.
M M M My Corona
Come a little closer, huh, ah will ya, huh.
Close enough to sneeze in my eyes, Corona.
Keeping you so far away gets to me
Licking down the length my fries, Corona.
Never gonna stop, give it up. Such a dirty hand.
Always get it up for the touch
of the virus guys. My my my i yi woo.
M M M My Corona
M M M My Corona
When you gonna give it to me, give it to me?
It is just a matter of time, Corona
?
Is it just destiny, destiny?
Or is it just a game in my mind, Corona?
Never gonna stop, give it up.
Such a dirty hand. Always get it up for the touch
of the viral kind. My my my i yi woo.
My my my i yi woo.
M M M My Corona
M M M My Corona
M M M My Corona
M M M My Corona
(Apologies to The Knack)
The Parable of the Otter
The otter floats, playfully aware,
on the currents and the tides.
She dives to examine
an interesting stone.
She turns it every way
in the sunshine,
floating on her back.
She flips it away
and finds another.
It, too, is interesting,
turned in the air,
maybe for the first time in a thousand years
or, perhaps, since last week.
It smells of the water.
It slips away.
She does not keep the interesting stones.
They would weigh her down.
She would drown in her sleep.
She darts to the bottom.
She pries a fish from a crevice
and returns to the surface current,
always floating on her back,
enjoying her lunch.
Sometimes she spies a clam.
She also finds the right anvil stone and,
again floating on her back in the currents,
beats the clam on the stone
she balances on her stomach.
It is primal and
it is dinner.
She releases the clam shell and the stone.
One plunges to the bottom.
The other rocks back and forth in descent.
Tomorrow:
different stones,
different clams.