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Tag Archives: poetry

 

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the seeing things

the bulbs on the stalks that lead to our brains
are seeing things.

since they are things for seeing, why shouldn’t they?

they are light-admitting information gatherers, but
they are also display items and scanners.
blinkers? no,
the surrounding flesh does that.
perceivers? no,
the brain they feed does that.
cryers? no,

you do that.
so do i.
it is our souls’ instructions
that the lachrymal glands obey,
though there is often a tug-of-war, a struggle
between natures “better” and “base.”

some sights we have recorded
of heart-stoppingly striking moments
get replayed so many times
some glossive editing takes place.

the eyes
in thrall to the brain
never have it.

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I’ve just read Al Kooper’s jaw-dropping memoir BACKSTAGE PASSES AND BACKSTABBING BASTARDS. The man who crashed a Bob Dylan recording session and ended up with the organ lead in “Like a Rolling Stone;” the man who not only played for, but named, Blood, Sweat & Tears; the man who produced Lynyrd Skynyrd–all that just turns out to be the tip of the iceberg. Read this amazing book and you’ll learn why Norman Rockwell hugged Al, then painted a portrait of him and Mike Bloomfield of the Paul Butterfield Blues Band.

The words:

A & R spread like an oak

And bad finger defunct a loco

A gig a friend a deal a zoo

Lo! Super Session–quite a coup

Lynyrd Skynyrd paid the fare

Let a legend climb the stair

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Today was a day off from work, and a belated Christmas for the fact that I worked on Christmas and the two days after. I’m still living on a shoestring, so the gifts I had for my daughter, my ex-wife, my mother and my younger brother came mostly from the Family Dollar. I felt bad about, so I did something I almost never do: I gave, not printed copies, but original journal pages, as gifts. The pages I chose for them, all from early 2009, had a particular connection to each of them.

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This one was for Brian. He and I had marathon sessions playing Risk, a game of global conquest. Whenever I rolled the dice as the attacker, he’d exclaim, “LOSE one!”

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This was for Joni. It was done when our beloved dog Bill was still alive and well, and the poem concerns the healing power of human-animal companionship.

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This one was for Kate. One of Kate’s favorite songs is Cyndi Lauper’s “Girls Just Wanna Have Fun.”

Three fewer journal pages for me turns out to be a gain, not a loss. The pages are more valuable as connective tissue than as artifacts.

 

we say “that does it” in disgust
and stomp away or punch a wall
from failed attempts or thwarted lust
or contents of one’s wallet: dust!
frustration makes us brawl.
 
but what that does is mess us up
and off our plumb and way and course.
it bollixes addresses up
puts wormwood nectar in our cup
and walks us through the gorse.
 
“that does it” needs to fade away
if we’d hope to be civilized.
“that doesn’t do it” might hold sway
and move us on to make a day
less bleak; more highly prized.

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Friends, it is three years to the day since I began this picaresque blog. I have published somewhere north of 800 posts. Anyone caring to start at December 3, 2012 and go post by consecutive post to the present day would have a good idea of who I am, what I like to do, and what triumphs and tragedies have occurred in my recent life. But who has the time and inclination to do so? Here’s a quick way to go down your own private memory lane with these: Look at the posts that were written on your birthday. There will be at least one, but four at the very most. If your itch still isn’t scratched, go for other important anniversary dates in your life. If you get to a dozen posts without losing interest, please declare victory for both of us.

I have some loyal followers. I’m especially grateful to “The crazy bag lady” and Marlyn Exconde, who both live halfway round the world and are extraordinarily talented. But I am also quite grateful to the thousands of other readers, international and domestic, who’ve given irreplaceable time from their lives to view my blog. Many thanks!!

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O it may say DO NOT DISTURB
Or warn of kicking to the curb

Perhaps you’ll get a Just Say No
Portending Death — but on you go

Enduring tides & time & tax
Expose the Daemon — then relax

The name of the post is “opened box.” The eponymous acrostic looks like “OPE NED BOX” but the multi-acrostic conventions employed on this blog allow for word-spread across columns. If it makes you feel better, we’ll name the box-opener Ned.

Curiosity has gotten humanity into and out of trouble since before we the human race can remember.

Finally, an analogy intended to pique curiosity: “Pandora’s Box” is to this page what Ray Bradbury’s “Fever Dream” is to Greg Bear’s “Blood Music.”

I’ve owned a banjo for many years. I have never learned to play it, which is a shame I hope to remedy during my retirement; but, meanwhile, it is just plain lovely to look at:

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Faithful followers of my blog know what a thing for Spoons I have. That may be why the banjo I drew below has a spoonlike quality to it:

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Shoutout to my friend and classmate Clint Diffie, owner of Boogie Music, for keeping my banjo in recent repair.

“pick n grin” words:

pirouette n pyrotech n background for to sing
indolent idolatry n squeezns in a wringer
corn a-shuckin true n blue a pair of virtuosi
kettle jug n moonshine n the picker plays to win

“banjo” words:

best served with wine or gumbo
adds zest to home or zoo
n. friday, d. mutombo
jurassic classic too

NOTE: n, is for Nancy, d. is for Dikembe. Like the banjo, they made their splash in another time, as did the Jurassic era, but wear well on review.

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If/Then/Else is a phrase familiar to logicians and code warriors. Actions have consequences. There’s a song imagining that Marilyn Monroe got with HENRY Miller instead of ARTHUR Miller. Similarly, I imagine Faisal interacting, not with T. E. Lawrence, but D. H. Lawrence. Who’ll prove us wrong?

fixative

there’s this stuff
most art supply stores have it in aerosol but some have it in liquid
(for that you need a mouth atomizer)
(sounds science fictiony!)

the stuff is called fixative
its purpose is to preserve and smudge-proof artwork while still permitting additional progress
thus “fix” in this sense is to fix in place
and not to repair nor to (chiefly Brit.) set an appointment time

nanotechnology and pattern-recognition software may some day permit a more magical fixative
that would, in a manner analogous to auto-tune,

alter a drawing to eliminate mistakes of proportion or perspective

i certainly could use some of that now!
my latest drawings suffer from the lackadaisicality that comes with being knocked off-plumb lifewise
(and so this text is unaccompanied by an illustration)

better yet, give me some life-fixative
i shall spray it on my soul and be nobler, kinder and more interesting

or give me nothing and tell me to stop whining
like the irredeemably white-privilege fix-wanter that i am,
and that i ought to ACT AS IF my soul had been thus sprayed;
in short, to man up

hey, thanks for listening!
i feel more fixed already.

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”