[Don Moss’s “Catoptrics” is featured prominently in our upcoming film on Don Moss and his poetry.]
CATOPTRICS
When she wrote the play I knew
Things would change
By the power of
The fictive word
A tale of what was
Mostly not to happen […]
Author: Don Moss
Don Moss is a poet and author born in rural Virginia. His legendary book-length poem, DOMINIONS, can be read by contacting him via email at tybeetypes@bellsouth.net.
Poetry On Film: Don Moss’s “Space Break”
She was serious about this, breaking loose,
Spending twenty bucks (five more than we’d been hooked),
Scoring three joints’ worth of dried cannabis blossom
That crumbled grittily as she rolled.
That’s a lot for someone living on
Her savings and her under-achieving husband’s
Pay, until her thesis is written,
Defended and set on a shelf to collect dust…
She hoped this substance would, she hoped,
Crack routines grown staid as bureaucracy. […]
CONTRASTS: Nation of Islam vs. Authentic Islam
In a letter published in the New York Times, February 15, 1965, Malcolm X wrote that when he returned from his experience of the Hajj and visiting several African countries he intended to expose Elijah Muhammad as a “religious faker.” He blamed himself for his own “evangelistic zeal.” He stated: “I totally reject Elijah Muhammad’s racist philosophy which he has labeled Islam only to fool and misuse gullible people….”
Though Malcolm says he left the NOI, he took on the name, Malik el-Shabbaz. The name Shabbaz comes from an alleged ancient black tribe, from 60 trillion years ago, as Elijah Muhammad (totally free with numbers) mythologized, when its leader, Shabbaz, moved the tribe to Africa to toughen them up, during which time, and in part, one assumes, of his quest to toughen them up, their hair became tightly curly, not straight as was claimed of all blacks up to that time. Malcolm chose the name Shabbaz to associate, even claim himself part of this royal ancient ancestry.
“[Malcolm] increasingly feels restricted by the narrow, rigid, conservative philosophy and practices of the Nation of Islam that do not allow him to engage and become a leader in the larger civil rights and human rights movement. … [And] he never endorses but rejects King’s absolute commitment to nonviolence and upholds a philosophy of “by any means necessary.” […]
Don Moss’s Breakfast Stories: “White Paper”
“Do you expect me to dine here again,
EVER!
when nothing on your menu’s without meat?”
Sarah recited to me (which I couldn’t help but lineate) tapping her nails on the menu, nails kept short, brightened slightly with a neutral satin polish that, according to hand position, announced strength, or, more, audacity as fashion. Her hair, too, was kept feminine short, its natural goldish brown calling for help before the scheduled salon visit died it blue or violet with complimentary highlights. The menu tapped was not that of the restaurant she scolded, but that of the friendly, accommodating breakfast/lunch place, Ever Egg’n, we frequented Saturday mornings to write or at least scrawl a few notes.
However, Sarah continued recounting her performance at the—well, leave it unnamed—restaurant, which was, after all, one of the better Twin Cities’ steak houses. The waiter, Shaun, an acquaintance of mine from my restaurant days, very skilled in handling obstinate customers, told me he’d replied: […]
POETRY: Don Moss’s “Greenroom” (1998)
The play was not in ordinary time,
He and classmate Mary memorizing,
Words, positions, several costume changes.
And his being coached to be persons other
Than what he was always told he was,
Feeling more marionette than actor,
Eager to cut strings from marshalled head and
Appendages, free a new inner force.
The boy thought himself less fixed on who
He was than most kids he knew, but acting
As the agent needed, not a distraction,
More a fitted piece in a story’s puzzle. […]
POETRY: Cards at the Center
Each second, no, third Tuesday they would play,
paired as they were by gravity and fate.
E(ast) pretends to rush a declaration
And W(est), no dummy, knows to look askance.
They signal in sweet brief practiced signs,
hands posted to the sides, yet intertwined
with…What was it they were to play
on their respective sides of middle C?
Stated emphatically, this ensemble holds
as well as the…ah, Mendelssohn Brilliant. […]
Breakfast Stories: OPEN Sign
Joel knew brief little fantasies about other women, of real, but mostly of imagined ones. This one was real, had sat across from him in the same office. Aalis, might as well say her name, was one of four nurses he had to assign patients at the university. These nurses were remarkably organized, well beyond his slovenly habits. Aalis carried herself a little more upright than the others, meant what she said, was the only nurse practitioner among them. He’d not worked with all women before and her manner appealed to him from the outset. He soon learned her manner was polished from her years as a commissioned Army reservist, a Major, no less.
Aalis mentioned she had two young daughters and a husband named Mark. There was something about how she spoke of him that hinted they weren’t doing so well. She didn’t disclose many details, other than Mark was too settled with his job, not pushing for advancement at the insurance company. He was a good father to the girls, and he and family would manage them during Aalis’s Army weekends and when she had longer deployments. Joel had told her his own marriage needed to begin, a curious way of putting it, she thought.
Four years she sat across from him, but for the past two years she’d moved to another campus office, and he wished he saw her more often than an occasional lunch. […]
Breakfast Stories: In a Box
“We will show them Our signs in the universe and within themselves…” — 41:53, Quran
Having no street legal car or bike to race, Rob and I were to race each other—not what we’d expected at this once noticed-in-the-mags, Ramona drag strip, aka, San Diego Raceway. We both knew Rob would likely win, his having the newer bike, better tires, but racing each other at least met the first rule of adventure: wasting time in a manner that could kill you.
And kill it might have had Rob not noticed that my front tire was nearly flat and a danger at speed, even in a straight line. No alarm, though, a pump was available and I was near certain the air would hold for the run. […]