Larry Brody’s Poetry: ‘God Ain’t No Siegal & Schuster Character, Not Even Kirby & Lee’

NOTE FROM LB

The final poem here on TVWriter™, for awhile anyway. Not because I’m giving up but because I think it’s time to really bear down and write some more!


Larry Brody’s Poetry: ‘God Ain’t No Siegal & Schuster Character, Not Even Kirby & Lee’
by Larry Brody

I always thought of Christ as a superhero.

Messiah Man!

Son of God!

Able to walk on water without a threat,

Heal the sick,

Feed the multitudes,

Raise the dead!

Hey, we’re talking real Marvel and D.C. stuff here.

He sees all, knows all, fulfills the plan of the Divine,

And, wow! wotta Dad! Not bad with the babes either,

Sure got on with Mary Magdeline, if you know what

I mean. One day, though, my love was crying,

And I held her tightly while she told why. “I try to

Be good,” she said. “I do things for other people.

My daughter, my husband, my family and friends—

I take care of you all. But my sisters and my mother

Seem to hate me. They hurt me whenever we talk.

My friends don’t know who I really am, and from

That comes great pain. And no matter how much

I give you and Amber, always you two need more.

I’m in danger,” she said, “always in danger, and it

Isn’t in spite of doing the right thing, it’s because.”

Now I’m no Bible scholar. It’s all comic book

Colors to me. But I started reading about Super Jesus

Again, just to see. And whaddaya know? Invulnerability

Ain’t one of the powers. Cut him, and he sure as hell

Bleeds. In fact, the Son of God suffers. He’s tempted,

He’s scorned, he’s betrayed and tortured. His

Mind and his body are wrenched every which way.

He just plain feels terrible all the time. Shit, the guy dies

One of the most painful deaths man can decree.

So something’s going on here,

Something we forget. To do right,

To be right, is agony. There’s no

Saving ourselves. Dr. Doom is always

Around the corner, with Lex Luthor

Right by his side. To be a superhero is

To keep fighting, even though you know

Krypton has to explode.

###

ANOTHER NOTE FROM LB

If you enjoyed this poem, you probably would like my book of poetry, Kid Hollywood and the Navajo Dog, available at Amazon.Com for an unlimited time for exactly $0.00. Yes, you read that correctly. Free. More than a Christmas present, this is my life present to you all.

Go straight to Amazon and avail yourself of all the delicious goodness simply by clicking HERE. (And if you like it, it would be great if you wrote a review. No pressure, but eventually someone’s got to, right?)

Many thanks.


Larry Brody is the head dood at TVWriter™. He is posting at least one poem a week here at TVWriter™ because, as the Navajo Dog herself once pointed out, “Art has to be free. If you create it for money, you lose your vision, and yourself.” She said it shorter, though, with just a snort.

Larry Brody’s Poetry: ‘Basic Training (Courtesy Of The Navajo Dog)’

NOTE FROM LB

A public service message from The Navajo Dog. Listen up, kids, cuz unlike us humans she always knows what she’s talking about, even if we can’t figure it out.


Basic Training (Courtesy Of The Navajo Dog)
by Larry Brody

The Navajo dog is a schemer,

A sage who teaches with tricks, threats, and lies.

She makes things real as they are needed,

Pushing and prodding to set souls into the places

She deems proper so her lessons will spring to life.

No cost is too high for the Navajo dog to pay,

Nor too much for her to ask of such as we.

She demands all, and in return gives everything she has.

When I asked her one day (oh so long, it seems,

So long, long ago!) why she did things this way,

Why she didn’t lead Socratically with the truth,

The Navajo dog barked a short laugh,

And pawed at the dry earth. As she dug deeper,

The dirt grew more moist,

Darkening into a wholeness that no longer could be

Chipped or fragmented away.

“This is truth, ignorant boy,” she said.

“This is the true Mother Earth. The deeper we

Get the more is she alive. All of her is one,

A wholeness that dries into scattered bits

When brought up to the sun. Your mother

Does not throw herself at you, and expose

Her innards. She hides, and makes you find her,

Plants clues—lies!—to tempt you and tease you

And lead you ever on. You must dig and dig and dig

Past the desert’s dead surface,

To find the truth of this world,

Just as you must dig and dig and dig

Past the desert dog’s lies.”

“And what you tell me now,” I asked,

“Is this the truth? Or is there something deeper

For which I must search?”

The Navajo dog stuck her muzzle into the

Hole she had made, clamped her teeth

On a shard of bone. “If I scratched my way

Down to the center of the earth,” she said,

“Would there still be someplace deeper to go?”

I heard the bone crack between her jaws,

Watched her swallow the fragments.

“Always,” I said. “Always something deeper.”

The Navajo dog yipped and pranced off.

“What do you say we go hunting?” she called back to me,

“And find ourselves something a little more alive?”

###

ANOTHER NOTE FROM LB

If you enjoyed this poem, you probably would like my book of poetry, Kid Hollywood and the Navajo Dog, available at Amazon.Com for an unlimited time for exactly $0.00. Yes, you read that correctly. Free. More than a Christmas present, this is my life present to you all.

Go straight to Amazon and avail yourself of all the delicious goodness simply by clicking HERE. (And if you like it, it would be great if you wrote a review. No pressure, but eventually someone’s got to, right?)

Many thanks.


Larry Brody is the head dood at TVWriter™. He is posting at least one poem a week here at TVWriter™ because, as the Navajo Dog herself once pointed out, “Art has to be free. If you create it for money, you lose your vision, and yourself.” She said it shorter, though, with just a snort.

Larry Brody’s Poetry: ‘Washo’

NOTE FROM LB

In the late ’90s I wrote a few episodes for a TV series called Walker, Texas Ranger. The star, Chuck Norris was very good friends with a friend of mine, and Chuck was a friendly, personable guy back in those days – plus I didn’t have much else to do – so I figured what the hell, why not dive into the money pit again. The following touches on an element of that experience that most television writers never encounter.


Washo
by Larry Brody

The last time I saw My Friend The Wild Indian

(I can still hear the bells!)

Was on the Lakota rez at Pine Ridge.

He was pointing at me and saying,

“Washo,”

And his friends were laughing and nodding

And pointing as well.

“Washo,” they said, whooping and whirling,

“Washo.”

So I was Washo and didn’t know what it meant,

I’d been there a month this time,

Trying to learn about life and death and the ever-blessed way.

I’d sweated and prayed and danced.

(Listen, oh, listen, can’t you too hear the bells?)

And worked and waked out on the range, and,

Visions or no, miracles or not,

“Washo” had become my real name.

It was the pointing and the laughter that got to me,

From people I thought were friends.

I was being mocked, ridiculed,

And, finally, I’d had enough, and I left.

No more Washo, not for them, not for me.

No more Friend The Wild Indian

(but forever the bells!),

The silvery, pretty-voiced hawk.

No more.

Washo retreated, a bad memory covered by false hopes

That reshaped the past.

But then, a couple of months ago, I heard it again.

“Washo…Washo…”

But not for me.

I was sitting in the office of a television producer,

And he leaned forward and said,

“We’ve got to find out what ‘Washo’ means.”

One of the members of the cast of his show was a Sioux,

He explained, who had begun using the word onscreen.

The actor was a Lakota medicine man and singer,

And I’d met him around Pine Ridge once or twice,

But he’d never said, “Washo” to me. Now he was calling the

Star of the show Washo and grinning and carrying on.

The lawyers, the producer told me, were getting nervous.

What was the guy saying?

I had never asked about Washo when I was on the Rez,

Because I was afraid. I feared its meaning would be even worse

Than I already suspected, and that I would be hurt even more.

Now I had a chance to learn the

Truth for someone else. In a way, this was a test of my own courage.

A test I’d already failed once.

I went home and drank a lot of coffee, very dark, very thick,

Like I used to drink in Pine Ridge,

Then called the Indian School nearby.

I asked the woman who answered what Washo meant,

And at first she was silent. Then, like everyone else,

She started to laugh. “It’s guy talk,” she said,

“Although I use it too. I call my husband ‘Washo.’

In Lakota, it means—well, it means ‘well-hung.”

Now the silence was at my end of the line.

Finally, I thanked her, and I

Called the producer and said, “It’s okay.”

Then I picked up the phone again,

Ready to call My Friend The Wild Indian

(and praying I’d hear the bells!).

I wanted to apologize. I wanted to rush back to him.

I wanted to be close.

But I hung up without dialing, and haven’t made that call yet.

So long have I lived with my ignorance

That I’m still afraid.

###

ANOTHER NOTE FROM LB

If you enjoyed this poem, you probably would like my book of poetry, Kid Hollywood and the Navajo Dog, available at Amazon.Com for an unlimited time for exactly $0.00. Yes, you read that correctly. Unlimited time. Free. More than a Christmas present, this is my life present to you all.

Go straight to Amazon and avail yourself of all the delicious goodness simply by clicking HERE. (And if you like it, it would be great if you wrote a review. No pressure, but eventually someone’s got to, right?)

Many thanks.


Larry Brody is the head dood at TVWriter™. He is posting at least one poem a week here at TVWriter™ because, as the Navajo Dog herself once pointed out, “Art has to be free. If you create it for money, you lose your vision, and yourself.” She said it shorter, though, with just a snort.

Larry Brody’s Poetry: ‘The Sun Dance’

NOTE FROM LB

I’m pretty sure I wrote the following about the Sioux Sun Dance ceremony, but as I re-read it now, I think I may be wrong. In my head, I hear not my own voice but that of the Navajo Dog, teaching me another lesson about endurance and joy.


The Sun Dance
by Larry Brody

I wanted to dance the sun dance.

The Sioux hold it every summer, on the Rosebud rez.

It’s their most sacred ceremony,

So of course I wanted to horn in.

To the Sioux, the sun dance is the closest

Any man can get to God. The dancers have

Visions in which they leave their bodies,

And fly up from Mother Earth to Father Sun.

They become initiated into his mysteries,

Which means they learn the truth of all things.

The sun dance is a painful dance,

Three days with only water,

Skewers piercing the dancers’ chests.

They hang from a pole by those skewers,

And they bleed, do these dancers—

How they bleed!

When the dance is over, and the vision gone,

The knowledge remains, as well as the scars.

To show another Sioux your sun dance scars

Is to be trusted instantly,

Without reservation or qualm.

I wanted to go to Rosebud and dance the sun dance,

I wanted the wisdom and acceptance it brings,

But the closest I got was two hundred long miles

And four far months away.

Never will I dance the Sioux sun dance,

But I dance my own every day.

###

ANOTHER NOTE FROM LB

If you enjoyed this poem, you probably would like my book of poetry, Kid Hollywood and the Navajo Dog, available at Amazon.Com for an unlimited time for exactly $0.00. Yes, you read that correctly. Unlimited time. Free. More than a Christmas present, this is my life present to you all.

Go straight to Amazon and avail yourself of all the delicious goodness simply by clicking HERE. (And if you like it, it would be great if you wrote a review. No pressure, but eventually someone’s got to, right?)

Many thanks.


Larry Brody is the head dood at TVWriter™. He is posting at least one poem a week here at TVWriter™ because, as the Navajo Dog herself once pointed out, “Art has to be free. If you create it for money, you lose your vision, and yourself.” She said it shorter, though, with just a snort.

Larry Brody’s Poetry: ‘Meeting With the New Kid Hollywood’

NOTE FROM LB

I met Steve McQueen back in the late 1960s. OK, I didn’t exactly meet him, but we interacted. I was stuck in an unmoving lane on the Hollywood Freeway, and with nothing else to do I glanced over at the car to my left and saw an equally unmoving Steve McQueen, tapping on his windshield.

He looked over at me, and our eyes met. I nodded and gave him my best Steve McQueen half-smile. He nodded back and gave me a thumbs up.

Yeah, I was thrilled, you bet. But I became even more impatient for the traffic to start moving. Because I’d already given him my best shot and had nothing else left to demonstrate my cool if he glanced at me again.

And that’s how I learned about true showbiz pressure.


Meeting With the New Kid Hollywood
by Larry Brody

“It’s a good idea,” the executive said,

“But the audience’ll never get it.

“They aren’t like us,” he said.

“They aren’t as intense. Pain, desire,

Being true to yourself don’t mean as much to

Real people as to those in the Biz.”

We were in an office at Fox,

And I was talking about a movie I wanted to write.

The executive’s smile, his conspiratorial way,

Reminded me of when I too had been a Hollywood Kid.

Ah, in those days I was so proud!

I drove my big Jag through streets of filth and

Despair, straight to Paramount’s high-crowned main gate

(the one named after Cecil B. DeMille!)

And I looked on that gate, and on myself and thought:

This is good!

This is great!

And why not? Wasn’t I in the best,

Most meaningful business that ever there was?

Wasn’t I working with the best,

Most meaningful people that ever there was?

Wasn’t I spreading the best,

Most meaningful entertainment that ever there was?

“We’re not curing cancer here,” the Big Bosses would say,

During a meeting when the famed “creative differences” flared.

“This isn’t brain surgery,” they’d point out when

The talent (that’s me! Me! I’m talent, yessirree!)

Disagreed with some fiat or mislabeled decree.

(“Input,” they would call it. “A note.” A “suggestion.”

You know, to strengthen the product’s—

Make that project’s—appeal.)

But what we did was more important than

Healing the sick, we all knew that,

For we were diverting the well.

I was so proud. I could feel my heart swell

Every time I drove past the bank.

So proud.

So proud.

Hey, I even stopped the big L.A. earthquake.

You know, the one in ‘91.

There was the ground, shaking and roaring,

And there was Kid Hollywood, sitting up in his bed.

“I can’t die now!” I cried out. “I haven’t done my best work!”

And, lo, the earth subsided.

Abided.

The danger fled.

So proud.

So proud.

‘Til the morning when, if I’d had a gun,

I would have put it straight to my head.

(But with pride! The best and the most in suicide!)

It was then, at my most intense,

Wracked with pain, and desire,

And the knowledge that I no longer had a self

To be true to,

That I became

Real.

A real person,

Unlike any the executive at Fox has ever, would ever,

Will ever know.

I am, I believe, I real person still

(Although, come to think of it,

I fooled that executive, eh?),

But guess what? I still have my pride.

I look at my wife, and my children, and my friends,

And work to give them all they need,

And I think,

This is good!

This is great!

The most and the best,

And why not?

###


Larry Brody is the head dood at TVWriter™. He is posting at least one poem a week here at TVWriter™ because, as the Navajo Dog herself once pointed out, “Art has to be free. If you create it for money, you lose your vision, and yourself.” She said it shorter, though, with just a snort.