the INLAID EAR

by Joakim Drescher Paul used to say—like if I suggested going up to the G sharp and ending the song there—never returning to D— he’d crash the cymbal and cry, “Bad thinking— let’s try it!” One advantage of our band aligning itself with Dadaism was how experiments tended to stick around, fermenting into pearlescent, ginger liquor that could thrill or sicken audiences. My squeezebox case is closed these days, and my creative output picked into friendly, nit-free execution. It’s been years since I grabbed a trout and whacked it against piano keys in passions of Art. The cleaning staff hasn’t minded, it seems, the less explosive expression of my most dissonant, fishy notions.

Ill Woke up a few inches above the sheets. My bones were poking out of every pore. The blankets hovered on my sharpest points. I warned my waking wife, “Don’t roll over. I’m pokey again.” “What? Ow. Okay. It’s going to be all right.” She rose fast to pour lotion into my hands. This I patted on, leaving globs suspended from the hair- thin needles covering me. She chattered to make it all seem normal. “I think that’s a good reason to call in sick,” she said. “Would you do it?” I asked. “Okay. You go to the garden. I’ll call Guy.” The sky bled pinks and golds as I stopped and let my toes’ tender skin greet the cold, bare soil. My core felt warm though frost stood in the garden rows, and I was naked as a winter rose. I'm totally honored to include work by the renowned sculptor Cybele Rowe. Check out her art at cybelerowe.com .

O: A black hole in a ruddy glow. The moon went incognito. The earth followed suit. We reeled below like drunken twentysomething werewolves in snow. Two men gone bloody under the penumbra. When clans of carnivores meet their brethren, we howl concertos— hunt and howl long Os in transcendent, blood-bound harmonies. Sleek-furred, open-nostrilled, taut-muscled, Josho and I twined our vulpine, astronomical supplications for connective joy—for mirrors, partners, orbits— we caterwauled our throats raw for women. When the frozen white light returned, we panted our prayers, so blessed by earth-moon union. by Chamisa Kellogg . Yeah, Chamisa! This is a great example of an illustration that changes the poem. For me, it wasn't a poem about werewolves, though the memory I wrote about certainly had that flavor and worked with the imagery of lycanthropy. At the same time, other poems in the book refer to vampires, Frankenstein's monster, The Pale Man from Pa...

Imagine The Three Stooges’ Larry Fine, the curly haired one, as a loveable gentleman with enthusiastic eyes. Even when I was a kid and babbling, he’d look at me like the shiniest dime. I can see the mensch now, unshakeable in the fertile bedrock of family line— and his seven kids, equally stable, so that when I talked, they paid attention; and when I grew I recognized the signs of traditional Jewish compassion, the transplant’s sensed duty to share the bread. Pre-nuclear family American head of a larger household, wherein heads put together put meals on the table— food for the city, haven for the child. Whatever I said, Uncle Mickey smiled. Veronica De Jesus does amazing portraits. If you're in SF, check out Dog Eared Books on Valencia at 20th St.