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Showing posts from April, 2014

Rhymes in sand 4/26

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Bad ideas, with art by Joakim Drescher

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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, illus. by the incredible Cybele Rowe

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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.




Eclipse during Saturn return, illustration by Chamisa Kellogg

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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.






"Mickey, who was a social worker," with art by Veronica De Jesus

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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.