The Bone Loves Anesthesia!

The Bone has been absent recently! Sorry about that.

You know what The Bone loves? Doctors and nurses. I love me some hospital, that's for sure. When I was getting injections into my neck for a slipped disc, I got to know the folks so well they would shoot me up only halfway with the Propofol and let me zone out for a few minutes before giving me the rest. I sure enjoyed those three or four minutes of bliss.

So, I've always been interested in medical things, and I love the attention I get in the hospital. But there's a dark side as well. Once I caught my doctor (my regular, go-to doc) checking the internet for information about some symptoms I had. The internet! The same place you get your free Boning!

Also, due to an incident in my formative years, I'm a bit interested in getting dosed. The idea of ingesting something and going on an unplanned adventure is appealing, even though the genesis of my screwed up wants was terrible indeed. And just how much blood does a baby hold? 270ml, according to the internet. That's about 9 shots of tequila if the person pouring is a bit heavy. So, if you can handle 9.2 shots of tequila, you could technically vampire to death an innocent little baby. Congrats!

Anywho, here's a free poem. This will hurt me more than it will hurt you:

Oh, yeah! I just remembered this is an ekphrastic poem, from Vic Reynolds' "Becoming Light" artwork. His website is down, but he was an art teacher at Wayne State College and one of my favorite profs, even though I never took a class with him.

Becoming Light

Your doctor wants to do something

to you.

He wants to see just

         how

            much

    blood

your baby has inside her.

He has the most savage of ideas.

None more noble than

tinkering with your

synapses.

He wants to see if you can become

                     meat.

He’s keeping a chart on you beside your bed.

He claps his hands when you react

a certain way

         from

    the medicine

he gives you.

He has vials of it,

some smoking, all colored in bright steaming

rainbows.

He says they will

deliver you.

When the needle goes in and you are startled,

he scribbles in notebooks and binders.

He would like you to become what he

              interprets

              as stable.

He wants you to know that although you are nervous,

it was never

your

fault.  He can make it

go away

if you let him.  And you have to,

because

He’s a doctor.

And he’s becoming,

he’s becoming immortal –

he’s becoming giddy;

and he’s becoming light

as you are becoming

nothing

but  whispers

and

vapor.

Allan Ginsburg: Poet, Pedophile, Drug Advocate

Alan Ginsburg, celebrated NAMBLA member and author of some of the best poetry (or "one of the best poems"...might be easier to defend) America has produced. I knew Howl before I read Howl from The Simpsons and They Might be Giants. I can't say I liked the poem, but I did appreciate the, well...beat.

So, I tried to copy that beat, and was unsuccessful. I also tried to discuss the topic of basic human greed and all the garbage that topic encompasses. I'm 45 now. I'm getting to the age where, under normal circumstances, most people at least toy with the idea of voting conservatively, but the GOP whiffed that easy lob long ago. I used to be pretty idealistic, is what I'm saying, and for the most part, that is still true. So, this idealism...what's left of it in the age of pussy-grabber politics...is railing against what disgusts me. Homelessness, inhumanity, McDonald's, rape, despair. The five daemons we must slay to advance and survive as a species. 

Anywho, you've been Boned again. You should probably stop making a habit out of it, or you might wind up in diapers. Until that time, here's a free poem:

Never, Always Again

I’ve seen shackles wreaked wreaths

while we, drunk on the hatred

of foolish impotent struggle, full of

not-knowing impoverished over-ego,

blameless/brainless, slumped

meaningless eyeglasses in hands,

a fool’s embargo of common sense

ignored for thin drink, razor-like,

nonsense greasy as fried food, all too

willing to become marginalized,

beaten unwilling, unraped, synthetic due to clean

thoughts of self-genocide bleeding

as

clocks continue to strike unforgiven

plagiarism caught in the near-too four-square

wood-bottomed legs-crossed chest-heaved

neck-broke teeth shattered eyes gouged ears closed,

so they could (or could not) react to what they

don’t (or won’t) even attempt to know to be true.

And I, I amongst them, I, locked arms with them,

at no uncertain level, at no unknowing

embedded jeers hurled my way pockets, pistons

stoked fires and far away daydreams

before them at times, teeth bared

in the process of chanting what I thought was truth

at myself, at them, at chair wall chain structure

event horizon pulverizing a spine spent

crying, head down

tear-stained.

What I Remember About Circumcision!

I can remember quite a lot of my early childhood. Our family had many, many good times. But what I wanna talk about is circumcision. Ouch!

Now, I don't "think" I remember being circumcised. And, that's probably a good thing. But, I did dream about it (kinda). This would have been when I was quite young, because I remember my brother and I still shared a bedroom. Anyway...

In my dream, I was an infant, and I was being carried into some sort of tent. Like a tepee, I suppose. I remember feeling this place was very, very old. I want to say "ancient", but am not sure if I knew that word at the time.

So anywho, I'm carried into this tent, and it is night, and there are small fires all around. I can see the fires, but not the tents, but they had to be there. And I'm brought inside, naked, and there are women sitting around a fire. I got the sense that these women were generations of relatives, somehow "more important" than my mom and dad. I got the feeling that these women were important to everybody.

So I was handed to one of the women, I can't remember if she was black or white or whatever, as that would be fascinating, and she cradled me in her arms. Another woman took a knife (yes, the kind you are imagining, bone handle, the works), and placed it in the fire. There was no fear, by the way. When it was glowing hot, she brought it to the woman holding me and she circumcised me. I don't remember any blood or anything. So was this dream influenced by my body remembering? Wild!

So, I wrote a poem about it. It's free! It's... It's The Bone!

And They Carried It Through the Streets

My mother held me in a blanket.

Held me in a fever on grandmother’s bed.

I remember the heat – it was intense

and personal as any castration myth.

The fevered dream I had was of scissors,

hot stones and people who smoked herbs

in warm circles. A woman in colored hides and face paint

held a knife to the altar of my brown foreskin.

Another dream, in third grade – the teacher

diced my penis and threw it to me. I caught it,

but not before tiny cubes of flesh

fell through my fingers to the floor. I still wake

bloody sometimes. I cup my crotch

and sweating, spilling seed, wish

for a different interpretation

of Ouranos or the Holy Bible.

Roy DePape is a Child-murdering Pedophile

Hi Everyone!

The Bone here. Long before I knew what a persona poem was, I came up with a...presence...whose name was Grittnore the Bombay Pedophile. I shortened his name to Roy DePape, which is the same, or similar, to a character in Stephen King's 'The Dark Half'. So, that's how old DePape is, but Grittnore is much older.

I've always been fascinated by monsters. I've interacted with plenty of them. Bullies that want to hurt you. You know the type. King's monsters were a welcome distraction from the real thing, so I guess I named him DePape as homage.

Anyway, I was writing these poems, and I want(ed) them to be more of a character study than a recounting of the crimes. I mean, how does a child-murdering pedophile sleep at night? Or (make love? have sex? Bone?) get romantic with their partner? That's so weird.

On my drive of lost poems, I found several about Ol' Roy. Here's one I decided to omit from something. I can't remember if it was a manuscript or what, but I erased some notes about how this piece wasn't good or to my liking. So, I thought I'd give it to you for free, on my blog!

Don't say I never gave you anything.

(you) Love,

The Bone Inside

Pressure

He smells rotten meat

at night when the air’s on

and he traces his wife’s earlobe

with his left hand.  He wants

to be filled with something

other than this tonight.  He pushes

the denim quilt down

and slides out of bed. 

There are pills on the nightstand.

He dry-swallows two.  Head back

he sees, in shadows,

the slow rotation

of the ceiling fan.  Head forward

he can trace

the slats of the wooden floor

by the dim kitchen light.  It shines

for the sons who may want

something to drink in the night.

Under the bed

in a cardboard box

are brown hair locks.

He has handcuffs,

assorted license plates

and wood blocks

in the trunk

of his ’87 Buick Skylark.

I Miss Bill Kloefkorn

You know who I could use right about now? Nebraska's State Poet (and Grandpa) William (Bill) Kloefkorn. I was reading through the old interviews I did with Bill shortly before he passed, and was once again taken with his patient wisdom. I miss Bill!

I remember at one of his last readings, he read a poem which triggered the one below. I'll have to go through his books and see if I can't find it. But, you know, wanting Bill back would come with a price: one of the kindest men this world has ever seen would have had to live through this Trump thing we have going on, and that may have broken his heart.

For more on Bill Kloefkorn, poet, teacher, woodworker and Gentleman Husband, visit your local backyard with someone you love. Bring a cold tea. For a humble attempt at copying one of the greatest lyrical voices American Poetics has ever heard, read on.

It’s Quite Calm Under This Log

                        or

                 Mushrooms

 – for Bill K

Its gills are unassuming and do not

apologize for their fanlike advance. 

Whatever you have in your

head right now?  Not the mushroom’s fault.

The Portabella wasn’t there when it happened, it didn’t

see the result.  Maitake is not the chained dog’s

slobbering bite, or the yellowjacket’s

sharp sting.  It is not your father.  The mushroom

didn’t make you late for class,

or for your menses.  The Oyster didn’t

forget to turn on the dish washer, or throw

the clothes in the dryer.  Look at this one.

It looks like a discus, thrown by mighty Zeus

at the rotting crotch of an old oak.  It is not

your unwashed hubcap, it is not the DVD

sticking half out of your laptop computer’s “F” drive. 

In fact, it has no idea what a computer is, and could not

afford one if it did.  The morel can’t quote Aristotle

from its low vantage to the moon’s reflected sunlight.

Not even On Generation and Corruption,

the part no person knows

but, presumably, the part every mushroom should.

The Veiled Lady was not admitted to Brown.  No one took

its calls at Ball State.  It could not clear

the strict background check to gain admittance

to the FBI.  The puffball, while entertaining,

has never even seen Springer and has no chance

of winning the lottery.  It would have sat silent

during the age of Whites Only; it is Mushroom

non Grata.  It will, if poked, not presume it is

being picked on.  The puffball will not picket

the upcoming Presidential election.  The Enoki

is not a Red mushroom and it does not, strictly speaking,

care if it is in China at all.  It wasn’t present in Tienanmen

Square.  Mushrooms bore silent witness to Berlin’s

conjoining.  Mushrooms were nestled in the veins of the Cross,

and were in stasis when Washington crossed the Delaware.

They will mock our histories through consumption,

will not capitulate when we do, blinking under bright pink

atomic skies.

Black River

Black River. How cool is that? For a while, I was researching bodies of water with racially-charged (?) words in them--Slave River was another--and came upon Black River. No, not the one in Missouri. The one in Jamaica. And, this Black River isn't/wasn't a river at all, but a port town.

Legend has it, some slaves were being transported to Black River on the ocean. 130 of the slaves were tossed overboard into the water, because there was a lack of water on board. Then they pull into Black River. The ship's crew were sued for being a bunch of dumbasses and not using their astrolabes correctly or something, causing the trip to be longer. Abolitionists learned of this, and Britain abolished slavery about 50 years later. Bureaucracy!

So, since water is fun, and slavery is not, I wrote this poem.

Have you ever noticed once something cool comes along, everyone wants a piece? I have. When I was growing up, and still today, the best place to watch fireworks in West Point, Nebraska, is my folks' yard. Long story short, the city cut down some trees bordering the park where the show is, and now people can park/sit on the road 1/2 block from my folks' house. And, with that nonsense, comes folks parking around my folks' house. I remember watching fireworks alone there so many years, in the quiet darkness. It was awesome. Now the rubberneckers with their Pepsi bottles come.

Can you imagine if Americans made a Hajj? I can't. But, I assume there would be lots more garbage if we did. This poem is about slavery, water and hidden spirituality. Enjoy!

Black River

In the beginning was black,

and it spilled like this water—

blackwater, water only a mother

could love. Look at its face:

an odd breakage, running

down the legs, a sudden contraction

in summer. No one knows

true religion. Not even the mother

who assured you, you would burn

in Hell for your polished, practiced

reaction to her questions. This water

will never sustain anyone. Not even death

could drink at its sporadic bank. Not even

the smooth glide of coitus

could swallow so much as a cup. I heard

once that mothers would bathe their brown

children in Black River as a cleansing,

but be damned if you call it anything

close to a baptism. Black River doesn’t care

for gods, let alone yours, and will shrug off

blood for sin like dead flesh. Thank God Christ

didn’t command the washing of eyes

here. Thank God Hammurabi didn’t know

of the cycle of flex and relax. Thank God

kings and pharaohs never knew its name.

Thank God no one of worth

ever stooped to take a drink.

Cry the Gentle Hemisphere

You know what The Bone loves? Nature. I wrote this poem shortly after reading a nifty little novel called "Ishmael," by Daniel Quinn. Ishmael was one of those life-changing books, and I used it in my Comp classes at Wayne State College. My observer one semester told me a student told her it was the first book in college he actually read. It is a very depressing book--at least it was for me.

My cowboy friend and I were talking this afternoon about illness. We were wondering where it came from. I remember, when I was little, seeing my cousins on the ranch (near Johnstown, Nebraska) drink from streams and such. I asked the cowboy if he did that. He had. He's 71 or so. I asked him if he'd do it nowadays. He said there were one or two he'd drink from, but they were "...real remote."

If we were put on earth to be its stewards, it was decided, we are reaping what we sow. Anywho, here's a little poem, along with a recording. The music was composed and performed by Jason Kobinski (Kobinski), back in the mid-90s. It was recorded on a hand-held cassette recorder, so be gentle on the quality.

Oh, and if you go near water--pack out your garbage, yo.

Audio Link

Cry the Gentle Hemisphere

Mighty sun are your lessons done?

Puffy clouds are you done speaking?

Blades of grass is there no class

Where I can learn just what I’m feeling?

Mighty earth do you still speak,

Or are your words and echoes gone?

Solid tree is there no song

That you can sing in breeze to me?

Mighty sky are you alive?

Flowers have you lost your tongue?

Rain is there no gentle hymn,

Or are your quiet tunes all sung?

Lowly man are you so blind

And deaf and mute and so alone

That you can’t hear the earth cry out

Its final sad and solemn poem?