a bad case of evening

dawn is many hours away
and some of us won’t be here when it arrives

that’s another definition of “evening”
some die to make room for the newly living
some are born to replenish the livestock

the surface of the earth spins mildly toward and mildly away from the sun
and every hour the sun is 65,000 miles closer to the midst of sagittarius
as the earth-moon duet makes its helical ellipsoid in gravitational thrall
but we are stuck with our surface-bred notions of “sunrise” and “sunset”

and each sunset seems to say a goodbye
each sunrise a “ready or not, here i come”

but not every sleeper wakes
and not every awakening is welcome

now the colors of the evening are going to grayscale
drivers of absurd automobiles force-activate artificial light
and some of us wish henry ford had stood in bed
and cracked his skull on the ceiling
and fallen safely back to
sleep
the notion
of mass production
nicely knocked out of him

weariness is a mule
unbudgingly souring thoughts
and the mulish weary body wants to stay put

“you’ll feel better in the morning”

“thanks for the sandpaper”

Some months ago I was at a thrift store and found Barack Obama’s DREAMS FROM MY FATHER for a dollar. I bought it but didn’t give it a serious look until this week. Now I’m at the point in the book where he is attending Occidental College in California. He has been through a lot, including life in Indonesia.

Some months ago I began a drawing. It was a good start, but demanded time-chunks I was reluctant to give to it. It lay fallow.

Some days ago I stumbled upon a website of the former Nina Rogers, classmate at Glendale High School and wedding guest at Joni’s and my wedding. She is now a wildly successful photographer and scenemaker in Vancouver. We have traded emails, and when I described a book of mine that is “finished” but just lying around waiting for me to prepare it for printing, she gave me the secret to her success in four short words:

“Finish what you start.”

So I have begun to take her advice. Here is the now-finished sketch, “some day,” flavored a bit with my recent reading of young Barack’s journey.

some day 091315

I have a lifelong friend (see “Foom-Bozzle-Wozzle,” parts 1 and 2) who has kept a watercolor sketch of mine, purchased by him for $2, above his commode for more than five years. It is in line-of-sight for any man facing the commode as he steps up to it to do his business. My friend says of the sketch, “It speaks to me.” Here is the sketch:

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Birds and spoons have been my copilots in creation for a long time. After midnight last night, I began to sketch yet another bird. “Not ANOTHER bird!” I moaned, and a new triple-acrostic was born:

not another bird 091315

Nested dreamers rub a dub
Nooks & crannies join the club
Ocelots take no such stair
Often we bequeathe an heir
Trinkets coveted & loom’d
Taking comfort they’re undoom’d

For good or ill, there will be birds (and spoons) in this journal’s future.

the lazy poet shops for words in the index of GEOLOGY FOR DUMMIES
and “subduction” really grabs
it sounds a lot like “seduction”
and there’s a poem or two in that alone

but “extinction” then grabs
and doesn’t want to let go
and he’s dragged kicking and screaming
into the fossil record and evolution and tectonic shenanigans

and the poet learns that “How old is the sea floor?” is a trick question
that new floor is being poured 24/7/52/4.3 bill
and old floor sometimes rises in the ring of fire and elsewhere
or scrunches
or becomes crestfallenly entrenched
or is seductively subducted by the shovel-shoving landmasses

and then there is a blinding flash of the not-quite-obvious
in that “geology” means “study of the earth”
means
“study of everything from the solid core
to the liquid overcore
to the only-a-little-bit-liquid mantle
to the mantle-crust interface
to the crust to the surfaces sea and land to the air to the air-space interface
to heaven whence come the doomsday-making comets”

and the poet feels like the kid in james joyce’s “araby”
a pretender/fake/chicanerist/wanter
and reading 306 of the 320-plus pages hasn’t helped

much

sun of mind (braking with tradition)

o sun of mind thou’st shone thy final ray
you coalesced in gravitation’s grip
you fused and fizzed your hydrogen away

the balance held the nova held at bay
till fuel was spent and forces strove to rip
o sun of mind thou’st shone thy final ray

there is no cure for entropy they say
nor is there any way to fix & flip
you fused and fizzed your hydrogen away

an incantation does not grant a stay
an execution’s lethal rope or drip
o sun of mind thou’st shone thy final ray

the end of local history the clay
of livingness dissolves by fissile whip
you fused and fizzed your hydrogen away

and blast makes peace and endness is okay
when life gets bilious the more we sip
o sun of mind thou’st shone thy final ray
you fused—hey, this is unacceptable. Forget it. Fight! FIGHT! fight!

black bolt and karaoke fanboy 090215

Some time before the Jack Kirby show organized by Russ “Karaoke Fanboy” Kazmierczak, I mentioned to Russ that my favorite Kirby-drawn superhero was Black Bolt, leader of the diasporadic Inhumans. Later I found out that Black Bolt’s full name according to Wikipedia is Blackagar Boltagon. Isn’t that awful?

On my birthday Russ presented me with a Black Bolt action figure. (Russ has a thing for action figures.) When you push in his tummy (Black Bolt’s, not Russ’s) his arms come up, making his membranous sidewings flight-ready. For Black Bolt can fly. He can also use that tuning fork on his head to harness electrons, combining them with a mysterious, unknown subatomic particle that emanates from the speech center of his brain. (Black Bolt dares not join the Karaoke Fanboy in song; his unleashed voice shatters mountains.)

Sure he’s preposterous. But so was that clumsy-spoken, tablet-wielding, bush-talking Moses, on whom Black Bolt, I contend, is at least loosely based.

As for the Fanboy, here’s a double acrostic I did of him at the Cholla branch of the Phoenix Public Library, finding, to my delight, that I may return to the same drawing-on-scrap proclivity that served me in such good stead when I was working for Sedona Winds.

kf 090215

Kirbyphile & He-Man buff
Artist, songster, other stuff
A rustlin’hustler gives a damn
And breaks down doors with splinter’d jamb
O Action Figure–go deploy
O key to living: ROCK that toy

The transcription does not preserve the acrostic, but it’s more coherent.

Russ has a new chapbook out. He honored me by asking me to write the Introduction. Here is an excerpt from my introduction, but be warned: it contains at least one cussword.

William Blake cried in print I want! I want! and then Erica Jong quoted him in Fear of Flying. Philip Jose Farmer wrote “The Lovers,” a landmarkedly explicit work of science fiction, and he also wrote Image of the Beast/Blown, even more explicit, which features two of the weirdest and most frightening women you’ll ever care to read of. Edna St. Vincent Millay wrote “What Lips My Lips Have Kissed,” which is heartbreakingly confessional and revelatory of the need and ache which drives us and drives us away. And Dorothy Parker wrote “Travel, trouble, music, art/A kiss, a frock, a rhyme;/I never said they steal my heart,/But still, they pass the time.” That Dorothy could do anything, including leading a horticulture. (“You can lead a horticulture, but you cannot make her think,” she answered instantly, after she was asked to use the word Horticulture in a sentence.) And she was rumored to have sent a message to her publisher who was nagging her about a deadline while she was on her honeymoon, “Too fucking busy, and vice versa.”

Into the midst of this pantheon of twisted romantics strides Russ Kazmierczak . . .

0830151759-02

Here is my Steady Girlfriend, Joy Riner Taylor, in the haloed darkness of a service-for-six karaoke room. Some days back she asked me what I wanted for my birthday, and what kind of cake I wanted. I asked for a Scrabble Night Party at her stepmom Genny’s house, and a lemon cake with lemon frosting. My dear Joy gave me EXACTLY what I asked for, Saturday night. The delicious sweet/tart cake had added lemon juice in the cake, and thinly sliced lemon circles on top of the frosting. Best cake I’ve had in forever. And I won the Scrabble game by one point, only because Genny’s Scrabblemaster daughter Marleah was keeping score, and fudged the numbers. (I think.)

Then there was today . . .

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Today Joy, my daughter Kate, the Karaoke Fanboy himself, Russ Kazmierczak, his lovely and nice girlfriend Randi, and I appropriated a karaoke room at the Geisha a Go Go out Scottsdale way. I put my meager vocal talents to work on “Homeward Bound,” “Blowin’ In the Wind,” “Piano Man,” “Forever and Ever Amen,” and “The Dance,” which I dedicated to the memory of my friend Karen Wilkinson. Joy joined me in another Garth Brooks song, “Friends In Low Places.” Russ KILLED on songs like Rod Stewart’s “Forever Young” and Jim Croce’s “Time In a Bottle.” Kate did the Blink 182 song “All the Small Things,” and Randi sang “Can’t Fight the Moonlight” as softly as, well, Moonlight.

The laden table above reminds me of another song, Bob Dylan’s “Restless Farewell,” a good way to close:

O all the money that ever I did spend
Be it gotten most right- or wrongfully,
I let it slip gladly to my friends
To tie up the time most forcefully.

But the bottles are gone
We’ve killed each one
And the table is full and overflowed,
And the corner sign
Says it’s closing time,
So I’ll bid Farewell and be down the road.

–But before I go, THANK YOU to those who shared my Birthday, and those who wished me well; and especial thanks to Joy, whom I love.

Today is my 61st birthday.

The title of this post is also the title of a picture Billy Crystal made about the 1961 major-league baseball season and Roger Maris’s 61 home runs, which broke the record set by Babe Ruth by exactly one. Maris hit it on the last day of a 162-game season, whereas Babe Ruth managed his 60 in 154 games. Similarly, here I am, still alive and well after 61 years, but with some shame and much loss.

Yesterday I got an early birthday present from my daughter, this framed 2003 photograph of me and my best friend, Bill:

bill n gary 2003

Life changes us. About six years after this picture was taken, Bill took ill with his final illness. Two years later my marriage ended. And this year I lost both a Sweetheart and the community we lived in when I moved back to Phoenix. But on the positive side, the double chin I sport in the above photograph has been greatly reduced. I also have real Joy in my life–my steady and sparkle-eyed girlfriend, Joy Riner Taylor.

And: two days ago my ex-wife offered me a glass of wine, which I gratefully accepted. And: more than five dozen people have Happy Birthdayed me on Facebook, and the day isn’t even half over. And: my former sweetheart texted me with the hope that my wishes come true.

And: five minutes ago I spoke to Tom Sing, best man at my wedding and one of my oldest friends. He and I have overlapping philosophies, and like minds, and hearing from him made my day.

This afternoon there will be a karaoke event on the occasion of my birthday, and it will no doubt provide fodder for my next blog post. Till then, Friends, may you enjoy your own Great Human Adventure.

Yesterday was Jack Kirby’s 98th birthday. Though he left us in 1994, his impact on the comic-book genre continues, and so last night a birthday celebration was held in his honor. It was conceived and executed by Russ “Karaoke Fanboy” Kazmierczak, with help from Cynthia Black, proprietress of C-MOD, our venue, with big help from Russ’s brother Kyle, who handled the sound and video. The guest of honor was Steve “The Rude Dude” Rude, the fantastically talented, multi-award-winning co-creator of the awesome and popular (Awesome and Popular do not always go together, folks) series NEXUS. Mr. Rude brought with him a wonderful assortment of Jack Kirby ORIGINAL COMIC PAGES, most inked by others but one in its untouched, all-pencil glory.

I had taken the day off from work, partly because there wasn’t much work and they asked for volunteers, and partly because it would give me extra time to prepare for the event. I’d already done all but the finishing touches of the artwork Russ asked for, which looks like this:

hbjk01 08282015

But now that I had more time on my hands, I thought Hey,, why not do a birthday card for Jack, done entirely on his birthday, I could acrosticize him while I was at it, too.

It took a couple of hours that felt like about 15 minutes–I’m sure I’d been cooking it up subconsciously since Russ asked me to participate in the event. The photo source of my portraiture is the Jack Kirby Museum, found here: http://kirbymuseum.org/

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When I gave my not-great, not-bad presentation at the microphone, I invited the audience to sign the card, speculating that I might offer it to the Kirby Museum in time for Jack’s 100th Birthday. Many of the audience took me up, in heart-warming beyond-all-expectations fashion. Here is the inside of the card:

kirby card inside 082815

Steve Rude did Jack Kirby proud in his presentation at the end. He talked about visits to the Kirby residence, the famous making of the Captain America Album Issue in three days, thanks to Jack’s lightning drawing speed, and necessary because “Jimmy Steranko was late on his deadline.” Earlier, before the official start of the event, I’d asked Mr. Rude if Kirby had met more deadlines than any other comics artist. He thought it over for a full minute, reviewing, I’m sure, extensive comics history in his head, and then replied, “Yes, I think so.”

The Rude Dude also talked about how Jack’s drawing approach was different from any other, and demonstrated as he talked. Most of us, he explained, go by the rule book of figure drawing: Draw the head with center guidelines, add a torso, add the limbs. (Meanwhile he was drawing Captain America, running toward the “camera,” shield on left arm, fisted right arm in foreshortening.) “For the drawing Jack made, he started with the belt buckle.” The audience, several of them comics artists themselves, gasped. Who does that?

But Steve Rude saved the best for last, speaking of how Jack’s best friend (name escaping Mr. Rude) was walking back to his car through the hospital parking lot after Jack was declared dead. The friend heard Jack’s warm laughter (in his head? out loud? Unknown.) and the friend said, “Jack, is that you?”

“Yes, it’s me.”

“Jack–where ARE you?! and where are you going?”

“I don’t know,” the voice of Jack Kirby replied to his best friend, “But I’m excited to find out.”

I sure hope Jack was there last night.

On Friday, August 28, I’ll be participating in a tribute to Jack Kirby conducted by Russ Kazmierczak, Jr. and featuring Steve Rude (!!!) So I’ve been doing some Kirby immersion, preparing for the event. One of Kirby’s creations was The Demon, who’d transform from the human with the incantation, “Leave, leave the form of man/Rise the Demon, Etrigan!” I always thought of him as a tortured soul. And in my novel attempt Auld Lang Synapse, I had an untortured soul who nonetheless was foredoomed from prebirth to be vastly different from his fellow human beings. His name was Noel the Fork.

Today, then, I did an odd mashup. I took the Excel grid upon which I constructed the sonnet encapsulation of Auld Lang Synapse, in acrostic form and strict as to characters/spaces per line, and did a line drawing of a creature that partakes both of Etrigan and Noel.

auld lang sonnet illo 082215