Gene McCormick- Art

                                               "You're Late"

                        "Merry-Go-Round, Rue de Clichy, Paris"

                                              "Paris Gamin"

Gene McCormick, regular Dead Snakes contributor of poems and art, has established a custom line of women’s clothing in partnership with VIDA Voices. The unique and colorful clothing is based on McCormick’s art and is a reflection of his writings. View the complete line at www.shopvida.com/collections/voices/gene-mccormick. 

 

 

Gene McCormick- Art

"Odell Mitchell TKOs Irish Kid McCormick, Golden Gloves" I, II, III.


Gene McCormick is a writer who paints without preference for either discipline.  His art is in private and commercial collections and he has illustrated a number of books.  He is the illustrator for Misfitmagazine.net.

Gene McCormick- Three Poems

Barnes & Noble

Serene, doing nothing to attract attention
as she sits reading in the bookstore,
right leg crossed over the left,
slowly flipping through a women’s
fashion magazine with a similar  publication
across her lap. There is no hurry today.
Unobtrusive mid-length strawberry blonde hair
is parted on the left and is long enough to drape
across her lightly freckled face.
With a complexion so fair and with
such a hair color, freckles would be expected
(actually, her hair is more of a deep auburn—
no, completely red—than strawberry blonde).
A thin gold necklace with small glass insets
defines her slim neck and her clothes
are stone perfect for a warm day:
short, pale green summer weight jacket over a
blue-gray tank top and denim mini skirt.
As her leg involuntarily bounces,
dark leather sandals can be seen.
They look new.
Putting the fingers of her left hand
to her mouth to pinch her lips
or absently rub her nose or touch her cheek,
a wedding ring is evident although
a woman of her age—mid-twenties
and so pristine—
seems young to be committed to marriage.

She wears no finger or toe polish.

Overhearing nearby conversations,
her eyes unfocus but stay on the magazine page
as she smiles with just the corners of her mouth,
laying her free hand against a large,
black plastic weave purse.
The conversations continue;
she is a silent partner.



110 Film

110 film? Decades-ago black and white rolls
in yellow boxes painstakingly hooked
to sprockets inside a sturdy box camera.
A dime-sized circular window on the
camera back shows the photo number
through a transparent red plastic cover,
the film hand-cranked to the correct position
to produce remembrances of vacations,
special events and family members
immortalized by the click of a button.
Neanderthal mechanics by digital standards,
the results weren’t half bad,
nowadays turning up at flea markets
and swap meets, encased in
maroon cardboard-covered scrapbooks
or trays of curling, yellowing memories.



Wood Chips In The Grass

Wanted it to be a cherry tree, but no;
it was a mature oak cut flat to the ground,
sawed, pounded and glued into a set of
four chairs setting around a kitchen table .

In a seldom-used upstairs bedroom facing north,
a cherry wood chest-of-drawers backs up
to floral wallpaper on the far wall,
filled with sheets, blankets, linens and clothes
out of season and long out of size.
A faded red, yellow, orange oblong swatch
of an Indian-design blanket drapes across
the chest top, protection from scratches
and other casual harms, except dust.

At the elbow where driveway intersects
with road by the edge of the front yard
there is a noticeable dip, or hollow
—far too slight to be considered a gully—
where the oak stood. Many seasons passed
before the ripped shreds of small limbs fed to
the chipper were finally absorbed into the soil.

The kitchen is seldom used, abandoned
for a flat screen TV on the family room wall,
the leather L-shaped sectional, coffee table,
bookcase and French doors with sun
thrusting through to the hardwood.
Nobody eats in the kitchen.


Brief Bio: Paparazzi have reported that Gene McCormick gets poetic inspiration from tossing back tequila shooters with Lindsey Lohan, worm included. No truth to that at all; McCormick doesn’t drink worms, Lohan is on the wagon.

Gene McCormick- Two Poems

Gone With The Flow

Halfway around the walking path of the
municipal park, Mount St. Mary’s,  a bench
facing the river offers respite from heat,
humidity, mosquitoes, skateboarders.
Birds play, flitting into a challenging breeze,
swooping to the river and then skyward,
beaks empty. Fish occasionally jump
and slap water as the Fox River flows southeast.
The bank on the other side is desolate—
no children, families or cars; only
a lone fisherman standing waist deep
in green rubber hip-waders, a plaid shirt
and once-red baseball cap, casting overhand
and sidearm for whatever might bite.

Distracted, a return look across the bank
finds the fisherman is nowhere to be seen.
No outcries, no thrashing about.
He has vanished, along with his gear.
Nothing telltale afloat.
The news the next day, the day after that and
the day after that as well, informs nothing
of a missing fisherman with green hip-waders,
a plaid shirt and once-red baseball hat.
It may have ended well, but if the river
got him he could be floating
through Indiana or Kentucky by now,
human flotsam mistaken
for a waterlogged tree trunk.
The thing about a river is that it
never transports to the beginning,
only to the end, where one-way
cargo is purged.


Saturday

1.
She puts the flat of her hand against his back,
gently rubs contours familiar
even through the shirt fabric.
She also feels his shoulders
hunch up and tense.
Don’t, he says, shrugging, that bothers me.
Her hand drops to her lap;
she stares at her fingers.
I’m going out for a while, he says,
and she says
Take your time.

2.
Whoever would say she walks with a limp
would be mistaken.
Looking through the car’s windshield,
she is observed
walking across the strip mall parking lot
leading with her entire leg, barely bending it
as opposed to typical knee and ankle action.
Waves of heat waffle up from the asphalt
as she propels herself with an uneven gait,
not a limp, more of a jerky lope
reflecting a free-spirit attitude.
Where is she going, or coming from,
dressed as she is?—
and if a person were really making study
of such a walk they would note that it’s
best demonstrated in flat-soled shoes.
It is a good way to walk,
deflecting attention from the expression
on her face.


Brief Bio: Whoever started the spurious rumor that Gene McCormick was going to marry into the Kardashian family should be horsewhipped, though McCormick only says “No comment.”

Gene McCormick- Three Poems

Deceit: Hook, Line & Sinker

Still early in the season, the fisherman wears
warm gear: a gray knotted and hooded
sweatshirt, baggy sweat pants, dark blue parka,
thick-soled waterproof shoes.
Short and reed thin, the predator’s gender
—concealed identity no consequence to the prey—
is acknowledged only by the unlined,
youthful feminine face partially exposed to
wind off the lake, and by slender hands
of some delicacy ungloved for a
better feel of the whippish fly rod.

A dry fly, a cork popper, cleaves gusty air
above a pond of prey, gliding with stealth for
thirty feet before settling with a quiet ripple.
Floating on the lake’s silvery surface,
from underneath the lure gives the enticing
appearance of a small frog or insect.

As the cork popper is being reeled in,
a mid-size bass snatches at sustenance:
the fish is hooked; the deceit is complete.
Squirm and resist though it does,
the life struggle is lost as the
young woman holds up the catch
to a companion for judgment.
Tonight the fish will be eaten.



Pizza—Subs—BBQ
In Saugatuck, Michigan

Far end of the tourist town there are three
short order restaurants in a row:
a greasy spoon, a pulled pork spot, a pizzeria.
First thing when entering the pizza joint
is the order counter—most of their business
is carryout—then four tables to the right
offering a voyeur’s view of street traffic,
a plate glass window panorama.
Behind the Employees Only door
there is one cook, occasionally kept company
by a server and the counter cashier.
Table setups are simple:
translucent red plastic glasses,
yellowing-once-white unbreakable dishes,
a knife and a fork. Tables and chairs are vintage
but undamaged, and everything is clean in the
family restaurant: Father is the cook, son
is the server, daughter is the cashier, mom’s dead.
The blonde kid waiter is about twenty,
dropping out of community college
to help keep the restaurant going.
(His father lost his big city job ten years ago,
moved to Saugatuck to open a pizza shop.)
We do a good carryout and delivery business,
he says, discounting the empty eat-in tables.
Used to live in Chicago, he says, where downtown
on Michigan Avenue there is a store that sells
shoes for $2,000 a pair. Can you believe that?
Two-thousand a pair. I’ll get back there some day.

Or maybe not. Likely his past, present and future
involves setting up plastic glasses on oilcloth-covered
tables, selling pizza by the slice or by the pie to
strangers in a tourist town doing a viable business
five months a year.



For Your Listening And
Dining Pleasure…

They have been a musical combo
for a long time. Used to play standards
from the 40s and 50s, now it’s the 80s, 90s.
She sings throatier, he plays strings
and they have performed in every
supper club in a five state radius.
When they first started professionally
they self-produced a few CDs,
selling them in the restaurants,
giving most to friends and regulars,
guested on the local PBS station
before everything turned stale.
They have played together so long
it is assumed they are married
—with different last names—
but they never bothered.
Back then, after the last set they’d hang out,
pound some whisky, do a joint
if the place was cool,
count tips, collect their money, and go
to their hotel room or apartment
and laugh at who got hit on the most.
They don’t drink so much anymore
(and smoking in restaurants is illegal),
seldom hang around after a gig
and while still sharing the same
hotel room or apartment
out of habit and financial necessity,
they drive home separately,
and don’t arrive at the same time.



Brief Bio: Whoever started the spurious rumor that Gene McCormick was going to marry into the Kardashian family should be horsewhipped, though McCormick only says “No comment.”

Gene McCormick- A Poem

The Caption: A Christmas Carole

 

Quiet lays over the chapel as the stout man sits at the piano, pulls the bench an inch closer to the keyboard and waits for the even-stouter star soloist who dramatically hesitates for thirty seconds before heavily walking to her music stand as hot lights gleam on the pianists bald head highlighting a pattern baldness which he used to hide with a comb-over but now has shaved the remaining semi-circle of hair which emphasizes the nakedness but not the gray stubble which is of no matter because the fifty people in the audience are there to hear Christmas season songs of a nature not usually heard (“See Amid The Snow,” “O Come, O Come, Emmanuel”) and the singer doesn’t have to clear her throat, launching immediately into a festive, tinkling tune.

 

The pianist is intense, fingers precise, their movements reflected in the backboard as his head bobs down toward the keys, then sideways in actions belying his reverent appearance of a dark blue blazer and dark grey slacks, playing with a competence that draws attention from his shiny head while the singer, her performance costume being an above-the-knee maroon dress that looks like a Hefty-bag smock and is partly covered by a tied-at-the-front black cardigan…all while standing in black Soviet charwoman shoes, a look which a necklace of dull gold-plate and indeterminate cabochon fails to revive, and is not enhanced by a deep v-neckline but she does have long, mouse-brown hair that lays straight on her head and past her ears until it comes to rest on her unample bosom, where a few curls have been imposed and drift slightly when she moves her head for angelic emphasis or nods to let the pianist know that she is ready to begin the next song and he looks at her wishing not that he could sing like a neutered harem slave but instead have her long hair and the mousey color be damned.

 

 

Brief Bio: Gene McCormick is reputed to have once dated 18 female members of the Morman Tabernacle Choir at the same time. There is likely little truth to the repute.

 

Gene McCormick- Paris Art

Gene McCormick is a writer who paints without preference for either discipline.  His art is in private and commercial collections and he has illustrated a number of books.  He is the illustrator for Misfitmagazine.net.

Painting #1     Metra Serenade, Gare St.-Lazare, Paris
Painting #2     Hydrant I
Painting #3     Main Street 

Gene McCormick- Poem & Art

Blood Orange

The blood orange shade of a decorative

table lamp, a foot tall, if that, wraps around

a low wattage bulb, shedding dim light in its

desolate far corner of the restaurant table

set for two. The stem is a gilt metal pineapple,

standing on end, the base a solid square,

as the lamp illumes a basket of bread, butter,

silverware and two glasses of wine

on a white tablecloth.

The restaurant is not far from the house.

Her face is in shadows, away from the lamp.

We don’t connect anymore, she says.

Brief Bio: Gene McCormick frequently does table-top dancing wearing a blood orange lampshade. 

Gene McCormick- Two Poems

Widow Jones

Wad a wet dishrag into a tight ball,
set it in the sun and after it dries,
spread it out. The skin on the back
of her hands didn’t always look
like that but that was long ago,
when her hair was long, blonde and…

She put her hands in her pockets,
sat down hard with a grunt on the
porch steps and tugged at faded
red rubber knee-high boots.
A dusty pink ball cap, yellow gloves
and blue cloth zipper jacket were piled
beside her and damn, the thing she
missed most after riding the mower
around the yard in hot circles for hours
was a husband to help pull off snug boots.
Get ‘em off and he could have all the
Jack Daniels he wanted and play euchre
all night long she said aloud to herself,
pushing back sweaty wisps of white hair.
At 76 it helped to have a man around,
at least once a week for yard work.
(The other stuff don’t count for much).
She sighed.
Didn’t really want help with the boots;
needed a man to mow the five acres
so she wouldn’t have to wear red boots
in the first place.
Just common sense.


 
Death Of A Flower

She cheated on her ten-year marriage
so her husband divorced her which made
beautiful, beautiful Maggie sad, withdrawing
into fetishes and otherworldlinesses
while her ex quickly married a co-worker,
causing Maggie intense melancholy,
enough to begin online dating and soon
to marry a rich, rich older man
who lived in an ignominious state
a thousand miles away, positively uncivilized,
but whose checks always cleared.
It was an efficient, small ceremony at which
the witness was a stranger from the street.
An impromptu reception was held
at nearby Cranky Jack’s Bar & Grill,
with about thirty acquaintances showing up
to congratulate the newlyweds and send them
on their way to that godforsaken state
about a thousand miles away.
But here’s the strange thing: amidst the bonhomie
and of course open bar free drinks,
there was not one physically attractive person.
They were all homely, ugly, or, on a good day,
nondescript.
What are the odds of that?

Soon all there was to sense,
all there was to remember,
all that remained was
the scent of the flower.



Brief Bio: Perhaps (or perhaps not) Gene McCormick is the secret illegitimate son of a former U.S. President and his box office movie queen lady inamorata. Tipoff Clue: He votes regularly and frequently goes to the movies. He also lives in Wayne, Illinois, birthplace of seventeen U.S. presidents.

Gene McCormick- Paris Art

Gene McCormick is a writer who paints without preference for either discipline.  His art is in private and commercial collections and he has illustrated a number of books.  He is the illustrator for Misfitmagazine.net.

Painting #1     Raining Outside The Louvre
Painting #2     Hydrant II
Painting #3     Eiffel

Gene McCormick- Art

                                                     Josephine Baker

                                                          Ragtime

                                                           Django


Gene McCormick is a writer who paints without preference for either discipline.  His art is in private and commercial collections and he has illustrated a number of books.  He is the illustrator for Misfitmagazine.net.

Gene McCormick- Poem & Art

Orange Crush:

May To September Summer Romance

1.

Used to be, summers past, mid-day refreshment

meant leveraging a stamped-on metal cap

off a slim-bodied clear-glass bottle of

Orange Crush, improvising with

whatever passed for an opener,

and draining it in one gulp.

2.

Compared to a bottle of caramel-colored

Diet Pepsi or Diet Coke, non-diet, no-caffeine

Orange Crush is a succulent assault

almost too tasty to swallow.

Complementing the flavor, the twenty fluid ounce

plastic bottle is south-of-the-border festive

compared with dark-cloud-grey designed

containers marketed by goliath competitors.

Give Crush props for its see-through plastic body,

modestly if only partially concealing content

with an upper body peel-off wrapper

illustrated by an orange slice squirting

refreshing droplets like rays from the sun.

Bright orange bubbly translucent ounces

show through, unlike opaque bottles of juices,

for Orange Crush contains zero natural juice,

its ingredients including:

high fructose corn syrup, citric acid,

sodium benzoate, acacia and estel gum,

yellow 6, salt and additional makings

sounding unpalatable yet blending

into lively swallows of lip-and-tongue

staining orange coloring (along with

270 calories per bottle).

The ensemble is topped with a

jaunty green plastic screw cap which seems

easier to twist off than Pepsi or Coke.

Maybe not.

Tipping the bottle back—it has a concave

lower body for a sure grip—

to drain the last drops of orange,

thirst is quenched

and the hell with 270 calories. 


Gene McCormick is a writer who paints without preference for either discipline.  His art is in private and commercial collections and he has illustrated a number of books.  He is the illustrator for Misfitmagazine.net.
 

Gene McCormick- A Poem

The Caption: The Manhattan Project

 

The man in the gray flannel suit and power tie is striding along Madison Avenue in midtown Manhattan on his way to facilitate a merger of Fortune 500 companies (a meeting which will include two senators, a congressman and a disgraced lobbyist), having left his endangered species leather briefcase in the back seat of the taxi after dropping off his female companion at Saks with two thousand dollars –-twenty crisp one-hundred dollar bills— to buy herself something pretty and, yes, he wears contacts not glasses which improves his peripheral vision, making evident the sun glinting off the tops of row after row of muskmelons at the weekly farmer’s market, the reflection setting a spark in his left brain signaling he has forgotten his briefcase and doesn’t remember the name of the taxi company or his lady friend since he paid them both with cash and has no immediate further use for either, nor for muskmelons.

 

 

Brief Bio: Gene McCormick has a few red power ties lying around from his big business days, but prefers watermelon to muskmelon, and wonders who the hell doesn't.

 

Gene McCormick- Paris Art

Gene McCormick is a writer who paints without preference for either discipline.  His art is in private and commercial collections and he has illustrated a number of books.  He is the illustrator for Misfitmagazine.net.

Painting #1     Notre-Dame de Paris
Painting #2     Hydrant III
Painting #3     Brass Ring
 

Gene McCormick- A Poem & Painting

An Edward Hopper Summer House, Gloucester

It has a bit of give to it, the second step leading to the front porch, but wood in the ocean-air climate often—sooner than later—will acquire a bend and render a creak while still allowing access (be careful not to trip over the coil of heavy rope laying about the porch for whatever reason but which offers a nice color complement: tawny rope against the green-painted flooring) to the wrap-around front porch veranda gritty with wind-blown beach sand all about including the swing hung by two chains from heavy-duty hooks screwed into the porch ceiling on which you could sit and watch heavy nor’easter weather rolling in and not get wet though it was usually prudent to move around the veranda to face southwest, the swing creaking as beams grunted an oomph of several generations chronology, and at night when the swing was in use and only the  diffused yellow light of the globe from the porch light illumed, the rope coil was barely visible and the sand, seen or not, was tolerable but everything came into a sharper focus when the front door opened and light from the foyer spread across the welcome mat and extended to the top of the steps, so quietly that there was no creak.

Gene McCormick is a writer who paints without preference for either discipline.  His art is in private and commercial collections and he has illustrated a number of books.  He is the illustrator for Misfitmagazine.net.

Gene McCormick- A Poem & Art

Baseball. Opening Day.

He sits shakily on the sofa,

his body sinking two inches into

the cushion and back pillow.

He nods off, thoughts of baseball,

women, an old dog or two

and he will not be disturbed.

The television is in front of him,

remote control nearby.

His wife is dead.

All his wives are now dead.

His lady friend is the one who

set him down on the sofa

and she has gone elsewhere.

He is neither hungry nor thirsty.

Baseball.

Brief Bio: Gene McCormick holds the single season home run record in the American league.

Gene McCormick- A Poem & Art

Mandy

Mandy, here’s the deal:

if you don’t get downstairs

and do some work

we’re not going to do

your laundry any more.

But Mandy is in bed,

curled tight on her side

in a ball,

arms clutched about her.

Her eyes are open.

Mandy comes downstairs,

doesn’t speak, goes directly

outside, splashes soapy water

on the family car and briskly

rubs the same spot for five minutes

in a small circular motion.

Mandy tosses the washrag down,

walks into the street,

the middle,

and stands there,

straddling the center line.

Mandy gets hit by a car.

She’s dead.

Brief Bio: If there is one thing that annoys Gene McCormick, a/k/a/ “Mr. Road Kill,” it’s young women who stand in the middle of the street and get in the way of his front bumper. Actually, other things annoy him as well.

Gene McCormick- Art

                                                            Combo

                                                                    

                                                    Man With A Horn I

                                                    Man With A Horn II


Gene McCormick is a writer who paints without preference for either discipline.  His art is in private and commercial collections and he has illustrated a number of books.  He is the illustrator for Misfitmagazine.net.

Gene McCormick- Two Poems

Macy’s Cosmetic Counter

It’s silliness, beauty counter sales clerks
applying lipstick and other make-ups
to consenting adult shoppers then seriously
checking their handiwork from all angles,
putting a mirror in front of the
makeover patron who always smiles.

The department manager is unsmiling,
shuffling paperwork, opening, shutting drawers,
brushing makeup dust off the counter,
retrieving soiled tissues dropped to the floor
as sales associates joke with
one another while applying colors
to anyone willing.
Have a great day the manager says to customers
leaving with purchases and red lips.

The manager is the only one whose face
is not decorated like a geisha,
and is the only one wearing a wedding ring.
A passing shopper asks for the time
and as she squints at her wristwatch
two clerks pull out smart phones
and flash the time.



Up In Smoke

First thing he did after the service
was deadhead home to the refrigerator,
not bothering to put the car in the garage,
squirting the remnants of a can of Reddi Whip
down his throat until it runs
out the corners of his mouth,
up his nose and down his chin.
Swiping the excess with the back of his hand,
it smears across his smile like Barbasol.
He licks it with his tongue in a circular motion,
wiping his hand on polyester suit pants.

Lighting up a double corona cigar,
Ed looks around: the house sounds hollow
against his racing thoughts.
She hated smoking which was why
he didn’t have the body cremated:
she would have bitched like a banshee
knowing she was going to end up as a
pile of ashes even though it would have
saved him a shitload of money, and the
handful of visitors would have been spared
a final look at the chemically bloated face.

Taps a half-inch ash from the corona,
questioning why people still use the term
coffin nails. Haven’t nailed shut wood-slat
type coffins for the better part of a century
and most of ‘em are now metal or plastic.
Just use latches, he supposes, but at any rate
she can’t get at him now.


Brief Bio: Gene McCormick has never dated Meryl Streep, has no intention of doing so, and has never even met the lady. Same applies to Julia Roberts.

Gene McCormick- A Poem & Art

Overtime At The Fast Food Restaurant

A hundred extra pounds doesn’t slow down her job performance as an inside order taker working the restaurant’s fast food counter, nor does the fact that English is her second—a distant second—language but a simple smile can’t cover for her chronic inattentiveness to customer’s orders and the consequent need for the order to be repeated as stubby fingers punch wrong register keys, thwarting her desire to well-earn a marginally above minimum wage and to keep an impatient line from blocking the aisle and there is always the hungry young impatient customer who lacks understanding of the stresses put on a seventh grade scholar by having to learn a complicated, obtuse key punch system long ago eliminating the need or use of an old-fashioned order pad and manually scribbled orders on which “Cheeseburger loaded hold onions, small fries, coffee with five creams” was somehow deciphered by the cooks (food baggers) and making excusable the fact her mind now throbs with anticipation of meeting the assistant night manager out back in his 4x4 once their shifts are over and after she wipes perspiration from her forehead and from the darkish down across her upper lip.

Brief Bio: Gene McCormick holds the Illinois state record for eating 94 McDonald's double cheeseburgers in one hour.