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 .