June 23, 2011-- In honor of Bill Clair, a good friend who died June 16, I start this series of tales from my old parish, St. Thomas More on the Southwest Side of Chicago, and ask for contributors to e-mail me their own tales to convert to story here in the future:

Bill Clair, Ed Nowak and myself shared a Falco's pizza one night long ago in Bill's garage where he prepared his big red Chevy convertible for a trip to Lake Geneva over Fourth of July weekend.

We were planning to take a formidable supply of pink lemonade mixed with vodka to drink in the car on the trip, and actually started drinking some that night. We wanted a pizza and Bill would have none but a Falco's pie, which I argued was too greasy, having once watched a Falco's cook pour grease (or oil) from a pitcher onto a raw pie before he popped it into the oven. But Palermo's wasn't good enough for Bill.

So we ate and drank our fill well into the night before rising for the trip.

We took off in mid-morning and by about 11 a.m. came to a stop light on U.S. 12 north of Chicago next to a tall pickup truck with three other guys riding high and looking down at the jug of pink lemonade we were sharing.

"Where you guys going?" said the driver of the truck, enjoying the sight of three youngs guys already pretty wasted and driving under a hot, summer sun in an open convertible.

"Geneva," I said to him from the shotgun seat. "We thought we'd watch a little National Guard action and take in the bikinis," I added, which cracked up both the guys in the truck and Nowak and Clair beside me. A year earlier, Wisconsin's governor had called out his National Guard and police dogs to quell rowdy youths who were celebrating the holiday too raucously. We three had been there then, too.

"Why don't you guys follow us and come along," I cracked. "We got plenty to share!"

Now Bill Clair was always known for his smile and easy laughter, and Ed Nowak, otherwise called "Dude," remembers him for the contagiousness of that laughter, especially when Billy kind of howled when things really got funny.

Dude started to choke as he laughed, and then cough -- and then wretch, as everybody else, including the guys in the truck, laughed harder and harder and the choking got worse. Until Ed puked, which was no laughing matter inside Billy's sparkling clean red convertible.

Besides that, Dude's vomit was pretty much marked by tiny bits of green peppers cut in perfect squares, lumps of Italian sausage and other liquid that Bill was very unhappy about seeing spread over the rubber mats of his clean car.

"I told you that pizza's too greasy," I said. But Bill wasn't laughing anymore; he roared away from the green light, cut in front of the truck and looked for a pullout from the highway so he could quickly get the car cleaned up. And Dude, too.

That's my story and I'm sticking to it. E-mail me with your tale from Tommy More at rschwab@robertschwabpoet.com.

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My pledge

Sitting at my window, over my screen

I watch clouds fill its frame, and want to scream

against another dose of winter cold

not unlike Midas, who was so bold

to scream against the waves of sea and sky

-- to no avail, of  course. But I,

can be a warrior against the death that haunts

my screen and sky. Set me to launch

a new career among the choices rife,

or an old choice, the poet’s life.

A choice to use my words and rail

Against the night, against the pale.

Against a death still premature,

I pulled this poem from my spring 2009 journal; it's about what I decided to do with the rest of my life then.

Deadly joke

“All for art!”

Joyce joked

once,

before he died.

And yet,

my life,

as he foretold,

is locked upon

a four-line poem

– or five.

Poetry is

demon

and dictator,

it eats

you up

before you die.

Started in 2004, I finished this poem just this week, the fourth week in January, 2010. Poems are a process that doesn't end until you die.

Tattered Man 1 Poem An aged, tattered man, stands in his mind before the bookstore in San Francisco, the old anxiety hangs on the threads and patches of his frayed coat... Price: $ 0.89

Blades & Evolution 2 Poems Oh! The sharp sparks we strike: they glitter as they flash off each other … or would we rather lose our edge … Price: $ 0.89

Because she was lovely &  Love ‘ya 2 Poems Because she was lovely, Lovely and sweet, a soul who cared about me for a time... Price: $ 0.89

“Painted Veil,” Poetrybiz & Nugget 3 Poems The tarp my daughter Catherine paints to shroud a high-school-age worldly disaster, that needs addressing. Her talent wasted in blobs of bright light, illuminating shadows... Price: $ 0.89

The Gun & Your Art! 2 Poems The gun lies wrapped in a shoe-shine rag in a box in a closet, with a bunch of  bullets... Price: $ 0.89