Yesterday, I confessed how, in a fantasy, I wished I could go back in time and do whatever was necessary to join Dr. Hook and The Medicine Show. This is my audition tape, based on that famous line of theirs.
You make my pants want to get up and dance, You make my socks rock and roll. You make my shirt want to stand up and blurt How much I love your voice and soul. You make my belt feel all it felt You make my hair fall down You make my face, beam into space And all my other parts run around.
I’ve been feeling down, since you’re not around. No happy smiles are on my lips. I wander through town, wearing a frown. There ain’t no swing in my hips. When you come back home and I’m not alone My heart just beats like a band. I’m not the same when I whisper your name. Honey child, I’m your biggest fan.
You make my pants want to get up and dance, You make my socks rock and roll. You make my shirt want to stand up and blurt How much I love your voice and soul. You make my belt feel all it felt You make my hair fall down You make my face, beam into space And all my other parts run around.
When you wake It is sitting on the edge of your bed, Waiting to be put on Like a new suit of clothes. It is too small. It chafes at your neck And pinches at your waist. It shrink wraps itself To your joints, Stiffening your gate, Chaining your hands and feet, Wrists and ankles Knees and elbows. It has enough electrical charge To freeze an appendage And force the involuntary utterances: Oh, Ow, God damn, for example. It is small like electrons Racing up neural pathways to the brain, Always leaving damage in the synovial joints. It is as wide as the sky Filled with tumbling lightning, Rolling and rolling through tangles of nerves.
It travels with you To the bathroom. Will your knees get you there in time? Will your arms reach yourself In the bath? Will fingers hold out long enough To rinse your hair? To trim your beard? To hold your toothbrush? The warm water helps.
Eventually you must negotiate The cold. You towel off where you can reach, Contort into real world clothes. Begin your day.
But one day you cannot sustain the defenses. You let it pierce you And you cry and stamp your feet Like a six year old Who keeps wetting the bed And who wants his mama To make it stop, Only Mama is dead And the pain doesn’t care. It throbs with your pulse In bones And joints And synovial tissues. It pierces Then overfloods. It seeps out of your bones And it flies in your hair And sets your scalp on fire. Your knees ache But your shoulder pain is sharp. Your elbow locks When raw bones clash Like broken gears in a broken clock. Your hip grates, Grinding something down That bleeds and erodes. And you gnash teeth, Gird loins and you ignore it And ignore it And ignore it.
But eventually you understand: It is not your pain. You do not own it; It owns you. You are its reason for being. It is your possessive lover And it hurts you where no other may touch. It is intimate When it electrifies your nerve gardens. Its fingers pry and dig. It seeps salty vinegar into open wounds.
So you and your lover Face your day with new understandings. It is a jealous lover And you dread meeting new people With firm handshakes. You give up any intimacy with tools. Hammers may as well be cattle prods. Rakes and shovels become abstracts Hanging on your garage wall. Even books are too heavy for your wrists. Instead you begin a new study of drugs. Your days get measured out in pills: The morning pills, not coffee. The afternoon pills, not lunch, Maybe some weed. The evening pills. And you offer more changes for your lover: You drink less Or you drink more, Some drink a lot more. Each day is measured in organ capacity. Will too many pills kill your kidneys? Some days you root for liver failure. You begin to understand the Oxy crisis.
Finally, it is bedtime. Your lover crawls in with you Wrapping you up in Child-sized flannel pajamas On flannel sheets. They grip in your crotch, Pinch in your groin, Squeeze your chest And armpits. Lying still hurts. Turning over hurts. No pillow fits your neck. No quilt lies easy. You curl, feeling close to Heaven, Still outside the gates. You lie there a long time. Eventually gray light seeps through the window. You see the figure on the side of the bed.
The original idea was to carve a relief block to make a print. I had this image of cave art in my head but couldn’t find a way to realize it. I adapted some images into a design for a block for printing. The original plan was to overlay two blocks as though an early cave painter had made one image and the space was subsequently commandeered by another artist. Such things happened in the “way back” times. But no matter what I did the images generated by this block were horrible as prints. The images were too stark. There was little context. I set the project aside until I could figure a different way to do what I was trying to do.
The block sat on my workbench for days…then weeks. But it didn’t go away. And then suddenly, I realized, this was already the project. It is now a painting-slash-sculpture-slash-bas relief. I like it even better than the original idea. I will mount it on a piece of cherry plywood and frame it. Lemons and lemonade. (Carved and painted plywood, 8″x10″)
Before a thing exists, we don’t know it’s a thing. Before radio, we didn’t know what radio was. Before TV, Before atomic bombs, Before rockets, Before me.
After a thing exists we know it’s a thing. We know what made the thing and we can name it: a ram jet makes sonic booms, CO2 makes global warming, my mom + dad makes me (it is an uneven task).
It’s when we keep going backwards, that things get awkward.
What made mom + dad? What made a ram jet? What made CO2? Eventually we must ask: Is there a time before everything? Before steel? Before carbon? Before atoms? Before matter and energy?
Abrahamic religions tell us that nomadic desert dwellers from thousands of years ago had already asked that question. Their answer was: God, YAHWEH. They found a thing called God And they named it: YAHWEH. More precisely, the voice of YAHWEH. The Word. God spoke and it all became.
Before that, Babylonians recorded a tale wherein the great god, Marduk battled the goddess, Tiamat and that struggle created the Earth and its people. Or, specifically, the body of the defeated goddess is used to make the sky and the earth, her tears form the great rivers and her son, (who is also her spouse?) contributes his blood to make people. Of course, the story doesn’t tell us how the warriors and her son, and all the other gods who were watching came to be except they were divided out of other Gods Before them.
It’s always the same: Someone or something has a thought. He or she, but usually He, speaks or fights or commands the Earth, or the land and sky, or the earth and the heavens to come into existence and all that follows is called “after.”
Science tells this story too: In the beginning, The Universe (a far larger story, they say) does not exist. It is “before.” It is before time or space or things. And then something unknown/unknowable happened. It is named The Big Bang. We do not know what caused it, Or what “it” was, Or where “it” was. Or when “it” was: Some scientists say, “13.787±0.020 billion years as interpreted with the Lamda-CDM concordance mode,” and a few others say “A little less according to the background microwave radiation measurements of Plank.”
Howsomever, All these calculations took place “after.” And now there are things, and now there is space, and now there is time. All of that happened in a twinkling of an eye. The story continues today. This is “now” and we don’t know what is “after after.” And we won’t know until…after. Some say BOOM; Some say freezing in the dark, but both leave space and time And matter lingering. …unless the clock can tick backward or runs in circular time. If that is the case we are looking for the beginning of a circle.
Modern atheists (and nihilists), or even ancient ones, as far as I know, made their own sounds against that small voice. “But what of before?” And “What of after?” That voice with that question does not create anything, Or at least it hasn’t yet.
Apparently only mythological gods die; the Earth abides… until it doesn’t.
This spate of haikus comes from a prompt offered from the FaceBook page of friend and bard, Terry Wooten. That’s him in the photo performing at his unique venue, Stone Circle. He wrote:
I shared his poem on my FaceBook page with the following comment: “It is a nearly perfect example of the the American Haiku: 5-7-5, presents something funny and/or surprising, it contains nature and makes a comment on humanness. It goes above and beyond by banging two things together that don’t belong together (twice!!) for a little “contrapposto.” I took it as a challenge to write my own April poem. I thought I could take inspiration and match his genius. Not today! I’ll keep trying.”
The rest of the day I continued to put out haiku and some are better than others. I’m not certain any rose to Terry’s level above.
Oh no! I just drank six gay beers and I liked it. Please don’t tell my wife. [68]
Heart doctor gave me (prostate the size of a peach) Mass diuretics. [69]
What makes a haiku? In America, mostly Humor and surprise. [70]
Ski masks make baseball Look like bank robbing– Another stolen base. [71]
It’s hard to see things If you don’t do anything. Bad haiku! Bad ‘ku! [72]
When the sun peeks through on a snowy April day, don’t believe the lie. [73]
A Fox News headline Is a lie that might happen In Bizarroland. [74]
Matter/energy Cannot be made or destroyed. Where’d the ice cream go? [75]
Why save those old canvases? I guess I thought I might paint over them one day. The brain that made those images Was stiff. No training. Little forethought. I called them “studies.” They were more like meditations Without thought or intent. The new, older brain becomes more plastic. I see more potential. In 35 years I haven’t ended my relationships With them.
Today I tore them down And resurfaced them with 400 grit. I used the zazan frog block And reprinted him in pthalo green On 35 year old purple stripes. He seems to like it there. Travel well Zazen. Go visit my grandchildren.
They are starting to go now, Like the rockstars; A bunch checked out early, Not exactly a poets’ 27 Club But a spike on the graph, for sure. And now, we are starting to drop. Turds from an elephant’s ass Is the only metaphor that comes to me.
This week, another one. Last week too. It doesn’t seem to matter, The fire and the ice both end. Wind has forgotten how to blow In Chicago and everywhere. I wonder at next. I look at the actuaries’ lists. I know I’m on there somewhere. Probably pretty soon.
I love who is still in this tent With me. Let me say that deliberately. But the sense of this era for me seems to be a growing choice Between mourning Or being mourned.
If you are reading this And you are a poet, Let it serve as a cautionary tale.
If you are reading this And you are not a poet, I take this moment to bid you a conscious adieu. Maybe read this poem again in a few years.
This little (5″x5″) piece of art has a linear story. My friend Chris Cavanagh is Facebook friends with another friend of mine, Stefan Sencerz. Among other things, Chris and Stefan share a long-time interest in Buddhism and all manifestations of Zen. In following a Zen moment between them back to Stefan’s Facebook page, I encountered the image of Sengai Gibon’s (1751-1837) “a frog doing zazen.” It was, and is, brilliant. I asked Stefan if he thought the old master would mind my borrowing his image for a woodcut. We decided he would be pleased. Stefan offered the text of his haiku, so I have transcribed it here and on the back of the print.
just sitting motionless … a fly on frog’s nose Stefan Sencerz
I present “zazen,” an issue of 5 printed in black on hand painted canvas paper. 2023
I already know there will be a slightly larger issue in green on a variety of art papers and perhaps a third issue on origami paper.
If you are compelled to have a copy, contact me.
I’m sorry these five are gone. I will producing an different edition in green and assorted art papers shortly.
