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Monthly Archives: September 2014

001

Thanks to Bram Stoker and Anne Rice, Christopher Lee and Frank Langella and Gary Oldman, Bob Kane and Christopher Nolan, and who knows how many others, the public perception of Bats is of a fearsome, bloodsucking creature of evil. Consider, then, Myotis lucifugus, the Little Brown Bat, who swoops away swarms of REAL bloodsuckers, the Mosquito, and keeps us from being eaten alive.

All the words to “dusk bats” were written while sitting on a lawn chair in a public park in Clarkdale, Arizona, waiting with my Sweetheart for a bluegrass band to set up and perform in the park’s gazebo. It all unfolded as written, the bats doing their stochastic swooping, maintaining a respectful distance above us in a sort of punk ballet. The air cooled, and peace and harmoniousness filled the park.

Here are the words:

dusk bats

the pink leaves the overhead cloud

but there is still lavender up there

and some commuting bugs are getting

c a u g h t

in bat-mouths working for bats
whose funeral-umbrella wings
dart and dip them around

in constantly-broken trajectories that

m a i n t a i n

an above-head distance of thirty
to
twenty
feet

they are not spooky
nor ugly

just u n f i l f u l l e d

The Critique of Humanity, Phase Two: Now Look What You Made Me Do

All human beings so far begin their lives as babies. That may seem so obvious as to be absurd, but some day it may no longer be true, as will later be discussed.

Early things babies learn are: Bright lights can be nasty–it feels good to eat when hungry–it feels good to warm up when cold, but if it starts getting hot it doesn’t feel good any more–noises can be nasty–it feels good to relieve inside pressure, but doing so sometimes leads to loud noises or bright lights or both–it is fun to fall until there is a hard landing, and then it is scary to fall.

Babies graduate from babyhood when they start making sense of noises, including their own. There is a reason that there are simple, easy-to-say versions of the words for Mother and Father in every language. Interactions begin with Who’s Who and continue with Here’s What I Want, though of course Here’s What I Want is there at some level from the first cry of hunger on.

The first perception of Us and Them grows in complexity quickly. First They are the big ones that make things like food and warm happen. Then They may also be same-sizers or near-sizers who distract the bigger Thems from the provision of food and warm. By toddling time They include playmates, wrinkled dote-creatures, walking furballs, and Not-Us-At-Alls.

Reward and Punishment become more confusing. Rules are imposed. Violation of Rules is not cut and dried. Extenuating circumstances may be argued, and often are, if only as a delaying tactic.

In the fourth grade in the Southwestern United States it is not unheard of for a teacher to observe a child striking another child and, when the teacher begins to take appropriate action, two contradictory assertions made: “No, I didn’t. He hit me first.” Some form of those seven words, false-to-fact basis and all, is present in spirit throughout the history of human confrontational interaction.

The United States of America used to be honest enough to include a Department of War in its government, just as the insurance industry used to be honest enough to offer Death Insurance.

Now we congratulate ourselves on the containment of collateral damage, which is another way of saying we only killed a hundred thousand human beings with whom we had no quarrel instead of the who-knows-how-many-more it could have been. We apologize to the dead by shaking our finger in the face of those we DO have a quarrel with, and say in effect, “You shouldn’t have made us do this.”

Here is a quotation I just learned this week, and have come to embrace: “We must not be frightened nor cajoled into accepting evil as deliverance from evil. We must go on struggling to be human, though monsters of abstractions police and threaten us.” Poet Robert Hayden wrote that decades ago.

Now let us imagine a human being of the future. She has been born and raised to early adulthood with her mind in a virtual world and her body on automatic pilot via basic-functions software. The virtual world teaches her language and history and coping skills without the baggage of conflict. It is all nurture. She is never alone, any more than a person is alone who is making blog posts and receiving comments in real time. All her needs are met because the need for acquisition, for conquest, for superiority, never existed for her. She will never be able to say, “Now look what you made me do,” because she will not be made to do anything. She will make the choices that suit her and the world the best.

Now let us ask: could this happen? Should this happen? If it should not happen, how else may we remain human and build an improving world?

001

This is an example of composition as balancing act. About forty years ago Professor Scott of the University of Arizona had us strip works of David (pronounced Dah-Veed) and Poussin (pronounced Poo-Saaan, sort of)  to the essentials of gestural lines. Presumably, if the sum of the angles relative to the bottom edge of a given painting add up to zero, or close, it’s a Good Composition.

I suppose it was an enlightening exercise, but it had all the excitement of diagramming sentences, and about as much practical use.  Then as now I’ll look at a drawing in progress and do my best to intuit how best to engage the viewer with the next enhancement (or, as with some erasure, disenhancement). I’d rather taste the soup of a drawing than diagram its sentence any day.

The acrostics remain without poetry. If the drawing is good enough to remake on non-scratch paper, I’ll do a remake and work out the words. If you’d like to collaborate with an obscure artist/poet, feel free to fill in some poetry. If you do, show and tell via comment, and you’ll make my day!

The Verde Valley is one of the most beautiful places I have ever been. In a way, though, it is one of the most depressing. What makes it so is the variety of dead creatures on the various roadways. Rabbits and skunks are quite common but javelina, coyote and fox I have also seen; and I in my truck have had near-misses with all five of them, and with deer as well.

Yet I keep driving, and so do my fellow Verde Valley residents, and so has all of the automotivated populace for more than a hundred years. We ourselves are the most numerous of the roadkill. “That’s a real shame,” we think as we pass another squished-in-the-middle carcass. But we do not indict ourselves for all of this carnage. We see it as too bad but inevitable; and that to me is proof that we and I have a long ways to go, ethically.

001

One reason there are lots of instruments in the cockpit of an airplane is that sometimes pilots cannot rely on their senses. Their semicircular canals tell them one thing, the view out the window another, and the instruments contradict both. To stay alive, a pilot often has to literally fly in the face of what the body says.

In life, a sense of well-being may just mean that the brain chemistry is literally on the high side of the manic-depressive cycle. Ingesting alcohol or other drugs often imbues the user with undeserved confidence. If you don’t have instruments, like a penlight for the Nystagmus test or a Breathalizer for the measurement of blood alcohol, when in doubt, don’t, no matter what wonderful sense it seems to make, whether it be calling that lost love at three in the morning or shaving/tattooing  your head or entering the wonderful world of amateur day trading. (Sorry to be so parental.)

Here are the words:

Fate denied me being pharaoh
And you say, it’s best that, Gair-O
Lap up your courvoisier
Lapdogs may include Sharpei
Salvage peace/shalom/La Paz
Serenity is no palazzo
Eternity by daw-do-zen
Ernest earnestly got bent
Rovers flying o’er alfalfa
Race past baffleds on El Al

001

Anyone heard of Trail Mix? Sure you have!

Anyone heard of Tom Mix? No? Well, he was a movie cowboy. He pre-dated, and paved the way for, John Wayne. There’s a book called TOM MIX DIED FOR YOUR SINS. When Robert Bloch, author of PSYCHO, was asked by Philip Jose Farmer if he’d read the book, he replied, “No, and I haven’t read JESUS CHRIST AT THE 101 RANCH either.” This not only made Phil laugh, it inspired some writing of his, including some in his world-famous RIVERWORLD series.

Anyone following my blog knows that I have a spoon fetish. Sorry!

Anyone heard of the MX Missile? No! We haven’t! Or we don’t want to! “MX whistles” are OK, though.

Here are the words to this double-double-quadruple super-duper Acrostic:

Tried a contrail’s atmospherics
Rode a comet’s utmost deep
Asteroids are poised to go
Is SPACE full of foistings? NO
Launching MX whistles–fun

nine the month eleven the day thirteen the years

hot fuel trickled down a building’s spine

twice

crushed lives and complacency

a five-sided base of operations got slammed

a lovely meadow got scarred

ray charles sang in arizona

out of verse sequence

in his eloquence:

“o beautiful

for heroes proved

in liberating strife

who more than selves

their country loved

and mercy more than life…”

george w. bush threw a perfect strike to kick off the d-backs vs. yanks game

it may have been his finest hour

how his back must have itched

then we went to war

dealt a deck of cards with bad guys on them

got quite a few of them

stuck them on the edge of cuba

one group gets taken out

another materializes–isis?

wasn’t she a saturday-morning superheroine?

or is it isil?

they will be airstricken

and they will pay

and others no doubt

will come out of the thin air of the desert and the mountains

but we must do something

we must look at thirteen years of what we have done

and ask: what works?

what heals?

we must become a different creature

we must become a different world

wisdom is elusive

but mercy is in all of us

let us reward the merciful

yes let us defend ourselves

but may we be clever enough to do so

without attacking others

let it be our way

to never give up on mercy

001

Carol Hogan is a cutter of sand two ways. First, she’s the editor of SANDCUTTERS, the quarterly publication of the Arizona State Poetry Society. It was she who raised the publication from a black&white chapbook to a color-covered nicepaper showcase with a real spine.

Second, she’s always drawing lines in the sand. She is a female Don Quixote, tilting against the Koch Brothers and other creatures of corporate greed. I’d cast her as Galdalf in a gender-bending version of LORD OF THE RINGS, standing on the Bridge of Khazad-dûm and telling the Balrog “You cannot pass!!” in her quivery voice. (Carol says she lost her voice some time ago, but I did not get details.)

Last Saturday Carol came to my mother’s house to photograph various of my ceramic works. She intends to feature me in SANDCUTTERS as the next in her series of poets who are also artists. She and Mom hit it off well, and there is talk of future visits.

Here are the words to Carol’s double acrostic:

Clasp a tempest–Oh! Oh! Oh
And the beaches stir her so
Rioting with verse & blog
OUT the blahs and ON the gaga
Living on a swift toboggan