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gargoyle nails

i have old-man toes with gargoyle nails

that resist cutting by conventional means

toughened by fungus, rumor has it

the left big toe is discolored

and could probably stop a bullet

and i have to use a pliers-like device

that is like a small pair of bolt cutters

and only try for the first eighth-inch across

squeezing with all my mortal strength

till i get a SNAP!!

and then i can wedge the sharp edges in

and finish the job

.

upon reflection, it would make far better sense

if i soaked my toes in bathwater

and achieved hydrated softness–

they’d be a lot easier to cut, right?

.

why have i stupidly not-soaked my toes

for so long??

.

because i wander through my life in a daze

if not a semi-coma

but when i write poetry I am more mindful

.

bath time

long live poetry

first crush was first grade

breakup-crushed seventy-nine

grape crush crushes thirst

.

some need arose/though bills were paid/though troubles doze/though hay is made

some fences are/in disrepair/and souls still spar/and life’s unfair

and envy grinds/regrets yet gnaw/and one sick mind’s/above the law

the filtered past/yet nags and haunts/too near the ghast/too rife with taunts

let worries wane/let buzz-bees wax/let sweet peace reign/let’s all r e l a x

if the earth does not suit you/you can adjust it

stand and your eyes are less tidally pulled/by the center of gravity near the core

and the earth will not notice but your eyes will be higher

jump and you push the earth away/land and your feet do a smackdown

change your lifestyle and you marginally add to or subtract from the ecological despoilage/and now we are getting somewhere

do you want to adjust the earth toward health? good!/get some garbage bags and fill them with your trash/but meticulously record item by item what you have in the bags

your camera can hold near-unlimited images so snap away for a week/and weigh the week’s worth of trash and then toss it away

multiply by 50 and you have a good idea/of how much of a garbage beast you are

now adjust your future

and you will adjust the earth

she will warm up to you

The house where my mother lived out most of her latter life is being prepared for sale, and that means a lot of throwing away and some salvage. Over the years I gave Mom quite a bit of artwork in the form of drawings, prints and functional and non-functional ceramics. Now she has no more use for them, and they wouldn’t fetch much if anything at an estate sale, so back to me they come.

This drawing in particular has me shaking my head in frustration:

2021 0218 still life with glass decanter

It has a lot going for it, and a lot going against it. At first it made me want to invent a time machine and harangue the early-80s twentysomething who was saying, “Done!” and signing it without dating it. “DONE??! What the Hell? It needs another hour. In an hour you could turn an Isn’t-That-Nice into a showpiece. Not a museum piece, you dummy, because you used cheap sketchbook paper and you DREW PAST THE WIRE BINDING HOLES. Don’t you CARE? Don’t you have any respect for what little talent you possess?!”

Alas, the smart-aleck kid from 1983 or so now looks me in the mind’s eye and says, “What about YOU, Gramps? You are STILL dashing things off, on cheap paper, eager as Hell to send them out into the world, STILL making Isn’t That Nices instead of Showpieces, much less Museum Pieces. The Sins of the Younger are visited on the Elder. Hypocrite.”

I try to muster a convincing argument. I am running out of time. My heart leaps unbidden around in my chest every so often, once sending me to the ER, where they sent me to a cardiologist, who wanted to do a test the insurance wouldn’t pay for, and did another test instead, which boiled done to “normal” with a nice ECG. But Dad went at 49, Grandmother Caroline at 44, Uncle Jim at 53, Grandmother Marguerite at 67. ALL cardiac cases. And I have too many things to do in whatever time I have left.

But the Kid knows I’m full of it. “Your Time Management sucks, Pops. You can and really need to CARVE OUT the time from your vast, incessant Frittering. So do it. Do it for the Kid here. He’s still here, ya know. Just wearing older flesh.”

Can’t argue with that. We shake hands, I the left, he the Wright. 🙂

How this blog post came to be may be summed up, though it is one LONG summation, by this Facebook post I wrote on the 28th of June, between the sets of asterisks:

****

Spooky coincidences…I just found out via a post by my friend Anthony Ortega, son of my fellow GHS grad and good friend Joy Riner Taylor, that Harlan Ellison has died. Tony said that it was ironic because he’s just been going over Ellison’s work.

Oddly enough, I’d been thinking about Harlan Ellison too. About a week or two ago I looked him up on Wikipedia to see if he were still alive (he was born in 1934).

Spookier still is the last 24 hours. I was thinking with sadness about the suicides of two good friends of mine, one in 1986 and one just this year. And there had been something in the news about suicide being a trending thing. And then the thought popped into my head: “We have got to watch ourselves.” Then the acrostic poet in me realized that the words WATCHING and YOURSELF both have eight letters in it, and I could do a double-acrostic poem about self-preservation using those words. And probably should: it could be much more meaningful than the hooey I usually crank out. (Just kidding, Folks.) (With a little grain of truth.)

Why is this SUCH a spooky coincidence? Well, Harlan Ellison was for the most part the opposite of a suicide–he once demanded open-heart surgery pronto, feeling time was of the essence. The phrase “DO ME” was in his demand to the doc, according to his own account. And they Did Him, and he lasted another 20 years. And in his career he wrote dozens of books. Two, during the Nixon era, were about television. They were THE GLASS TEAT and THE OTHER GLASS TEAT. And there were sequelae of those, of sorts, with a column in The Magazine of Fantasy and Science Fiction, later put into book form, and later yet extended with a series of YouTube videos. And here the spookiness hits home. My acrostic poem, conceived before I learned of Harlan’s death, will be WATCHING YOURSELF. Harlan’s series was called HARLAN ELLISON’S WATCHING.

****

Since the post I’ve attempted the acrostic three times. Here’s the first try:

We do not tend to put our dirty laundry on display

And when our feelings darken, they may travel incognito

The hope is that the mood will lift if it is left in situ

Concealment is unwise but it so hurts to peel a layer

How desperately vulnerable modern times have made us

In fact the woe and pain make ending it almost attractive

New hope arises when we offer gentle love for all

Gained wisdom comes when mindfulness puts guardrail by the cliff

That was a brainbuster. I almost went with it but felt it missed the mark. On to Try #2:

When purpose yields duality

And makes for an imbroglio

Then Life sneers, Yeah? The Same To You

Canasta, craps, chemin de fer

Hold Doom just like a blunderbuss

If action is evocative

Now we may wax Neandertal

Glyphs mark our bets, no call, no bluff

That try suffered from loss of comprehensibility, straitjacketed as it was by the acrostic. Good try though it was, it was necessary to try, try again.

That led to this final version:

20180703_130324.jpg

Here are those final-draft words:

Well, I fear we’re going Ka-Blooey

And if you can argue, please do

This school is called Letspreserve U

Commitment & Shame make a pair

How fell is Depression, whose heirs

Inflict themselves Harm, unaware

Now, please–one more round for us all

Good mindfulness works–let’s be off

One last little spookiness. I went to Goodreads to look at the book jacket for HARLAN ELLISON’S WATCHING. The intro paragraph is Ellison’s style. If he didn’t write it, some damn good pasticher did. Whichever, the last two sentences address friendlessness (first sentence) and self-preservation, which is the theme of this page. Word for word, here they are: “As an essayist, he has no equal; as a film critic he has no friends. Take care.”