A heartful, heartful Happy Valentine’s Day to you, Friends and Lovers. ❤

A heartful, heartful Happy Valentine’s Day to you, Friends and Lovers. ❤


My friend from midstate California, Bob Kabchef, grows things like pomegranates and walnuts and tomatoes, and every so often he shares his harvests with some of his friends. Yesterday a heavy box packed and shipped by him landed in the “parcel locker” of my apartment complex. I have since divested two pomegranates of their seeds, putting some of them in my morning oatmeal. Here’s a photo of the remaining seeds, with a little pom atop them for contrast and scale:

My late, much-missed friend Karen Wilkinson often hosted musical evenings for our living-foom band The Snot Dogs. Usually the evening included pizza from locally heroic Spanato’s, plus a salad of Karen’s own making which included pomegranate seeds–the ingredient that made the salad extra-special. So this morning I called fellow band member Martin Klass (about whom more in my blog posts “Foom-Bozzle-Wozzle” et sequelae) and told him I’d gotten some pomegranates; would he like one?
“I would love one,” he said. “You know, because of Miss Karen.”
I knew. So tomorrow I’ll deliver him one. And I’ll also ask our piano player Katie Wood, who loved Karen as well.
Friendship and Love are transmitted many ways, Friends.

inventor y
climb. drop. Look. Be a rat in a maze. Fly yourself a kite. Send some Love out. Meditate on a Mountaintop. heart. heart. heartheart. Heart. heart. heart. heart. HEART. Heart. hear
This is not so much Gun Control advocative as it is Maniacal Behavior Control advocative, with a tip of the hat to Love, Sweet Love.

It’s been a long time since I posted, and I have many things that I’m working on, but nothing current suitable to publish. But going over REALLY OLD files, back in 2007 when I was doing Journal Pages faithfully every day, with not much regard for calligraphy but some for inked color, and I ran across this fable about a meet-cute with a short guitar-playing guy and a really tall girl…

I remember that I was using the finest-point pen I could find–might have been a Rollerball or a Razor–and a set of Faber-Castell ink markers for the color. I also had a thing about presenting the date a different way every day, sort of like Will Eisner did with his SPIRIT logos.
And I remember yearning.
Operations
Of music, sacred smiles, and nagging doubt:
Pitch-perfect was the Evening. And the Girl:
Enchanting, very tall, she was about
Revealing hidden Power. Glide, and Whirl,
Allay the fear a young heart has, of Breaking,
Tend to her own as well. She Bends. They Kiss.
In no time her in height he’s overtaking,
Obverted through the Atmosphere, he’ll miss
Near-Parity. He slides back down to Smaller,
Since their sould need no Height to make them Taller.

cathartiku
i do not now weep
but i Draw me doing so
because LOSS. age. Woe.
When I was a boy a boy who cried was a Crybaby. There was a huge stigma attached to it. I have not quite shed that skin, but my rational mind tells me that catharsis is good for the soul.
Today I was thinking about sadnesses great and small. Two lovely houses I once called Home are now Home to others, and I am not even Unwelcome to the current residents: I am Unknown. I am superstitious enough to wonder if the houses still remember me.
The World seems in sad shape, despite good news here and there. It is truly fine to hear truly young people try to talk sense into rapacious oldsters at the United Nations, but a long record of lip service lends skepticism to speculation about possible change.
Here in the US, an impeachment inquiry is under way, which is just and a long time coming. But a headline says “Market predicts impeachment but not removal,” and, propaganda or not, it’s bad news.
And I’m 65 years old, and my teeth are going bad, and last year I lost my younger brother, and I look at my creations, including the one above freshly completed, and despair at my simple-mindedness and slipshod execution, and feel that I’m nowhere near where I need to be as an artist or a poet.
But my eyes are dry. But a good cathartic cry would probably help. So I did the next best thing, which was a drawing of myself crying, with the background one of my timeslips, which well represents a lifetime of grinding away day after week after month after year, and I do feel a little better.
I also feel like toddling down to the neighborhood dive bar to have a drink or few, and that too is cathartic.
The Power of Suggestion might help someone out there who needs a cry but cannot cry. If you stare at my drawing with the big goobery tears coming down, that may be the little boost you need. If it works for you, no thanks are necessary, but a Virtual Hug awaits you if you want one here. ❤

At long last “magnetic resonance imaging” is at that stage of completion where any further work on it would be as likely to do harm as good.
I am proud to have seen this tricky, demanding image/poem to its appropriate destination, but not so proud as to ignore its defects. It doesn’t have the visual impact that it could, if I’d done it in a larger scale than 7 inches by 10. (Would the two weeks or so be worth the finer polish I could put to it if I redid it at 20 inches by 30? Undoubtedly. Would I be willing to do it? Not for its own sake. I could make at least 10 new images in the same amount of time, and use the Idea part of my brain and not the Reporter part of my brain. I vastly prefer using the latter. But if I had a guaranteed sale at $2 per square inch, which is what my friend Vivian Andersen was charging when we were gallery-space partners, that would be $1200 US gross, and good practice to boot. So, yes, if I were incentivized by a sure sale, I would get right to it, and it would be a bargain for the buyer at twice the price, because this is one of the more important image/ideas within my capability. (Friends, I am high now, not on drugs nor alcohol, but on having finished this ungainly thing, so forgive, please, my delusion of grandeur.)
Defective or not, delusion of grandeur or not, this acrostic image is a success. I fit an array of meaningful words into the straitjacket I’d built in its early stage, and it is definitely about both the Brain and the Soul, and for a bonus, its parsing and slicing is superbly analogous to Magnetic Resonance Imaging.
Please see my previous work-in-progress post for notes on the first four lines. As for the last four, three elements might need clarification, but I will point rather than blather on and on. “Dendritic” refers to Dendrites, and there is an excellent discussion of their form and function in Wikipedia. “Electrochemic nets” capture our thoughts and memories, per our current understanding of brainwork. And “bands for Gideon” refers (metaphorically) to Gideon’s Band, loyal stalwarts that may be found in the Bible. Many hotel rooms have had Bibles placed in them by a group of proselytizers known as…the Gideons.
Finally, the last three panels at lower right were done without looking at the MRI photo sources, but rather relying on my memory of them. When I reviewed the images, I saw that with a little exaggeration, a top-down view of the centermost cross-section of the brain could be made to resemble the stylized heart shape we use to symbolize Love. I also remembered that one of the “with contrast” images had flared contrast-wings remindful of a butterfly. Brain, Butterfly, Heart: that is the best of us.
magnetic resonance imaging
mazes, spark plugs, forests, thruways make us cognoscenti
an arabesque or two or four comprise an idiom
gendarmic membranes won’t enshroud nor would they be placenta
nor would they glad participate in telepathic gleaning
eloquences wax dendritic make a foe effendi
then electrochemic nets bind bands for gideon
it’s all subject to indecency like stroke-lost meaning
confectionary at its best, though–to Divine we’re leaning

Bête Fete
Bent the Dreams that Stuff’s made of
Être Catherine Deneuve
Topicality made treat
Enter Prizes tout de suite
Mercies/Heavens
Morrie hadda get a trach
Eleanor a Bellyache
Roger took a cuppa Tea
Clementine eschewed TV
Ivan doesn’t want to see
Evangelicals unseen
Send us all beyond our means
And Jacques Prevert in the poem “Chanson” (“Song”) said both “We love and we live” and “And we do not know what is life/And we do not know what is love.” Actually he said both <<Nous nous aimons et nous vivons>> and <<Et nous ne savons pas ce que c’est que la vie/Et nous ne savons pas ce que c’est que l’amour.>> The English version of his quotation is my memory of how I translated it back in 1974 in a second-year French class conducted by Gene Eastin at Glendale Community College. I was a different person then, but my fondness for Prevert’s “Chanson,” which I have just reread, remains.

Isn’t it frustrating to get part of a message, and have the rest of the message be forever beyond your reach? But that is, truly, Life, for all but the omniscient. Our simian heritage gives us a busybody’s curiosity; biological and physical constraints give us opaque horizons, signal noise, the need for sleep and other homeostatic housekeeping, and the tragicomedy of a finite lifespan.
This page is at least as frustrating for me as it is for you, O Viewer. So much is beyond my talent-reach, and I seem always to be short on time. But if it helps, I only wrote the last line of “Mixing Signal,” which is “Got Me? O well,” and other than telling you that it is a persona poem with a Yahwehesque God as the persona, you are free to either write the rest yourself, synopsis it without regard to meter or rhyme, or treat it as merely a visual element.
Similar goes for “Bul[] Shi[]” though much more of the poem is visible. It is told from the point of view of a naysayer, and is an answer to “love echo” in the form of a sort of antiecho.
Bul[] Shi[]
Bombastitude has made a mess
Upyoursism oppresses flesh
Lamed intellect reverbs ennui
[.][…..] [……..] formed [..] Model [.]
Mystery fans, you now have all the clues you need to make some sense out of the last line. I don’t think anyone on Earth would be able to discern what the last line is, exactly, but the facts that Model is capitalized, and the rhyme-meter scheme revealed by the first two lines dictate that the last line be at minimum a near-rhyme of “ennui,” get you more than halfway there.
love echo
let those with baffled vision see
oppression plain as ABC
victorious are those who ooh
enlightenment’s a Bill & Coo
[Originally published in the Facebook group Poets All Call, earlier today.]
five such things
there are five such things as desire
want
ambition
lust
appetite
dissatisfaction
and there are five such things as death
cessation
mortality
zero
discontinuity
oblivion
but there is only one such thing
as you where you are
receiving this message from me
wherever i may be
telling you that you are loved
and that you deserve
good tears and lusty laughter
and the overhauling
of pain
with riotous joy
there are eleven thousand
nine hundred and thirty-two
such
things
as
❤