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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:

birds 090615

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 . . .

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/

kirby card outside 082815

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

in the dream, the sad-eyed cyclops welcomed the dreamer/tourist.
the room was spacious, but the dreamer found it abutted a long corridor

that bent at slight angles at every door,
and the only way out of the ground floor
was through the dreamer’s room.

as if in apology, the cyclops handed the dreamer
a huge fistful of coins of his realm,
and the dreamer struggled

to look into the gentleman’s eye
with neither pity nor fascination.

the cyclops left and the dreamer was alone,
but he knew he had better wake up soon

or the dream would ossify
into the real.

dissatisfaction engenders achievement
achievement makes a person a different version of [her]self

a student may speak of “when i get my master’s”
meaning that there’s a master’s degree afloat in the future
that was always hers

but it was not
she needed  to become someone else to get it

“baby remember my name” sang the songbird irene cara
on her way to becoming someone else who bore the same name

and in the movie FAME in which she starred she was a victim
a sleazy wannabe movie director “auditioned” her
directing/commanding her to remove her top
and because her character burned so to become someone else
she did remove her top
and she cried with shame while doing so

and my humble opinion is her modesty so fueled her acting
that it was not acting
and i cried with and  for her

“and in time we will all be stars” is also in that revealing film

believe it friend

it makes it more true

(First appearance: Facebook, Poets All Call group, 26 July 2015. Poet Joseph Arechavala had posted a challenge to “wrote about any subject in Shakespearean English.” I have lost count of the number of sonnets I have written, but I know it was well into the three-hundreds in 2010, so i’m confident that i’ve gone beyond “ccclxxiii” and may shoehorn this into the canon.)

sonnet ccclxxiv

when we are by possessions too possess’d
and risk a heart for diamonds and the like
that heart is sour’d. acquisitive unrest
gives satisfaction chase, but fails to strike.

yet when we are by love most full unraptur’d
and risk our life and fortune for such love
possessions immaterial are captur’d
and we are dyed with rainbows from above.

the risk of loss is real and in its season
that dreaded loss will come, if soon or late,
and though with wrenchéd heart we plead for reason
some life is reasonless; such is our fate.

with time we may enjoy what had been felt
and then into eternity we melt . . .

001

Sunday was a marvelous Birthday Pot Luck at the home of the Birthday Girl herself, Julie Elefante, and her Hun, Robert Lee. There was a literal Poet’s Corner where I sat next to the Funniest Man on Earth, Bill Campana, and across from the weirdnormal, staggeringly incisive Patrick Hare.

About five years ago I self-published LIVES of the Eminent Poets of Greater Phoenix, Arizona, Volume I. Eighteen local poets were portraitized and acrosticized by me. (Julie was one of them.) Not long after that I asked Patrick if he’d be willing for me to do a Patrick Hare page. He either graciously or grudgingly agreed–hard to tell sometimes. (I kid.) Then years passed, and I kind of fell off the Volume II rails, though I’d done more portraits than I had in Volume I. (Layout and finishing are lethal stressors, said the Drama Queen.) But when I saw Patrick at Julie’s, I asked him again, and he was kind enough not only to assent, but also to send me a link to his incongruous/hilarious nature videos, overvoiced by him reciting his poetry. (The link is http://www.Youtube.com/incognitocorp and I recommend the “Checkout Charity” vid for those new to Patrick’s performance poetry.)

The card of him above is what is known in the biz as a “concept rough,” containing the idea of an image without much care to the execution thereof. The card not of him is a poem I wrote this morning after I took the bus. It is also rough, but I needed something to perform at Jake Friedman’s UPTOWN P.E.N. event.

Got more to say but it’s late. This whole POST is a Concept Rough . . .