Clarence John Laughlin

He was called the first surreal photographer in America. Most of the collages are staged and then photographed. It makes for some very interesting work.

Anita O’Day

This singer is one of the most alluring figures I have ever seen on stage. Her life was tragic. But listen to that voice. A poem about her appears in my ebook, Saints of Jazz

Anita O’Day (October 18, 1919 – November 23, 2006)

The doctors leaned over. Slit open Anita’s throat. Like they were parting the Red Sea. Like they were opening a zipper. White Studebakers rolled slowly down the lane. Her eyes opened with surprise. A gurgle that sounded like laughter.

On the road. Cheek against the glass. Too many buses. Too many stops. In empty rooms. Too many handsome men with dark sunglasses. And wicked laughs. Garters slid so slowly down a calf. And you sometimes had to wait hours. For the sun to reappear. Empty hearts. And wallets. Promises were made. So sweet. The morning light. Stockings over chairs.

Raped in a gas station washroom. 31 storms crossed 6 states. Killing 340. The worst smog in London. Four to 8,000 died. But who’s counting. The floor was wet. And the mirror was out of focus. A radio was crying. A Studebaker pulled up for gas.

Too many hangers dripping. With dreams. Too many office buildings after hours. Elevators out of service. Too much talk about nothing. A heart sling. Gin, lemon juice, sugar, and soda. And His name in vain. Thrown at the shadows from the chair over there. Too many cloudy mirrors. Too many cheap diners. Too many miles going nowhere. Too many walls for company.

The Saints of Jazz

They began their careers in small clubs. And cat houses. In choirs. And minstrel shows. They were applauded. Made famous. At times they were loved. They made a lot of money and spent it. On booze. On drugs. On men. And became famous. Some died in small rooms without family. Some in the arms of their children. They were all different. They were the Saints of Jazz. And they loved to sing.

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Anita O’Day

Anita O’Day (October 18, 1919 – November 23, 2006)

Oh, that sacred heart. Waving like a flag. While the flat heads dragged their chins along the asphalt. Preaching redemption. Never telling you how you survive. The bread lines. Marching to the beat of time. Blouses used as rags. When spring sets in. And the windows need to be cleaned. And the bums are lining up outside. For Lent. To save themselves from noon. With promises to help Him down from the tree.

Tonsilitis.

Short notes. Diaries and lockets. And a rhythmic drive. The doctors leaned over. Slit open Anita’s throat. Like they were parting the Red Sea. Like they were opening a zipper. And she begged. Don’t put anything else in my mouth.

White Studebakers rolled slowly down the lane. And men in long white overcoats. Danced a jig. Pretending they were press agents for love. Her eyes opened with surprise. A gurgle that sounded like laughter. The rain through the gutter. Smelled like clover.

On the road. Cheek against the glass. Too many buses. Too many stops. In empty rooms. Too many handsome men with dark sunglasses. Garters slid so slowly down a calf.

There was a shawl wrapped around her shoulders. Deep freeze techniques were first used in heart surgery. In 1952. Birdseye sold the first frozen peas. And you sometimes had to wait hours. For the sun to reappear.

Empty hearts. And wallets. And between your thighs, promises were made. Promises about things you can no longer recall. But they were sweet. Stockings over chairs. And the morning light.

Too many hangers dripping. With dreams. Too many office buildings after hours. Elevators out of service. Too much talk about nothing. A heart sling. Gin, lemon juice, sugar, and soda. And His name in vain. Thrown at the shadow from the chair over there. Too many cloudy mirrors. Too many cheap diners. Too many miles going nowhere. Too many walls for company.

Raped in a gas station washroom. 31 storms crossed 6 states. Killing 340. The worst smog in London. Four to 8,000 died. But who’s counting. The floor was wet. And the mirror was out of focus. A radio was crying. A Studebaker pulled up for gas. Pope Pius XII had just published the encyclical Orientales Ecclesias.

In the early 1970s, she was living. In a $3-a-night hotel. In Los Angeles. Bums used to beat her for her life insurance. Anita died of alcohol dementia. Her autobiography was dedicated to her dog.

Anita O’Day

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xuzWegDm2HY

Anita O’ Day Biography

continue to have problems with the spacing in the words so I’ve tried using periods in the lines to space them out. Pretend you don’t see the periods.

THE LIVES OF DEAD JAZZ SINGERS:

Anita O’Day

born on the road……………………………. too many buses

…………………………………………………… too many stops

…………………………………………………… too many handsome men

…………………………………………………… with dark sunglasses

emptied heart……………………….. sling gin, lemon juice, sugar, and soda

……………… over a chair…………. too many cloudy mirrors

…………………………………………… too many dairy queens

…………………………………………… too many walls for company

silk stockings………….holes……………………………….in the knees

lovely ………………sentiments…………………………… hallmarks

raped……………….. in a gas station ……………………..washroom

………………………………………..too many office buildings after hours

……………………………………………. too much talk about nothing

…………………………………………………. too many miles going nowhere

3 dollar hotel rooms

……………….. too much booze

……………………… too much dope

……………………………. not enough time.

…..

Anita Belle Colton b. Chicago 1919. Dropped out of high school. It was the Depression. You couldn’t live on words. Learned how to be tough. No body pushed Anita around. Entered a walkathon. Changed name to O’Day. Pig latin for dough. Slang for money. And just as she was getting used to eating. Tonsillitis. Cut out half of her throat. Developed a more percussive style. Short notes and rhythmic drive. Short for jazz. Became a singer in a band. Too many buses. Too many stops. Too many men with dark glasses. Empty hearts. Stockings over chairs. Staring aimlessly into a mirror. Breakdown. You got to keep it moving. The girl who couldn’t say no. Raped in a gas station washroom. Or was it a police station? Or was it a church? 14 years of H. Jail time. She didn’t mind that so much. A nice reprieve from the road. She wasn’t no canary. Just one for the boys. In the band. In 1966, she nearly died of a heroin overdose in a bathroom in a Los Angeles office building. She’d gone there to buy life insurance. The experience rattled her. Kicked heroin. But things didn’t pick up. In the early 1970s, she was living in a $3-a-night hotel in Los Angeles. Bums used to beat her for a song. Died of alcohol dementia. Her autobiography was dedicated to her dog.