Surrounded by Fool

SHIP OF FOOL IN PORT

Hey gang, The Bone here. Say, when I was doing my work for my MFA degree in poetry writing, I was honored and privileged to have as my mentor one William Trowbridge. He's a very accomplished poet and teacher, and will always be dear to my family's heart. About a year or so back, Bill came up to our neck of the woods to read some of his poetry. The most well-received poems he read to the youngsters at Wayne State College were those dealing with his "character" Fool, a quasi-demon angel kicked out of heaven for harboring differences of opinion with the rest of the folks up there.

Anywho, Fool has been very, very good to Bill. His poetry anyway. I remember that most all the students and faculty would come to Bill's readings at residency hoping for one more glimpse into Fool's world, and we got it every time. Kate Gale, Managing Editor of Red Hen Press, came to be guest faculty about a year ago, and long story short, she was so impressed by the reception Fool received, Fool now has his own book (if you want to stop reading and just buy the thing, go here) available from the good folks at Red Hen, and it's totally worth a read. They are very humorous (although sometimes in the "black" category) and I believe all lovers of poetry would find many poems to enjoy in the book.

There's an old adage in poetry and most art that goes something like this: "Do something unexpected." I remember an interview with that Rodriguez guy who did the film "Machete." He said you have to do three things that are totally unexpected to keep fans interested (one of his three was the scene where Machete bungee jumps using an enemy's entrails as the rope). So, for this installment, I'd like to name my top three surprises in 'Ship of Fool':

1) A list poem. Now, I haven't read all of Trowbridge's work by any means, but I did Bone up on him before I chose him as my mentor, and I have never seen what I would call a List Poem from him. But, and maybe this is an inside or not-so-inside joke, 'Ship of Fool' starts off with an amazing list poem. Kind of a gunning of the engine if you will. I think it was in LeeAnn Roripaugh's excellent "Year of the Snake" that I first fell in love with the list poem, and 'Fool's Family Album' continues the love affair. Man, I thought I knew list poems, but this one is different. The list is a whimsical one, but the ending is superb, and I'm totally going to spoil it for you. After the amazing list of photographs of our hero Fool, Trowbridge leaves us with an image that I'd like to steal, fry in bacon grease and sop up with one of my gramma's biscuits. Actually, I won't spoil it for you. I really, really, want to though, because it is the single most important image, for me, in this book. It takes Fool out of the foolish and puts him in another world--quite possibly the one Fool came from.

2)A sense of real longing. Yeah, I'm a poet, and I totally get what I just said. Longing. You know, when one is a foil for so long, beaten down, up and quite possibly other prepositions, you might think it a tad impossible for that person to rip your heart out. But, Trowbridge seems to redeem his foil, and possibly himself, in the poem 'Pity the Fool.' If you know anything about Fool, what you probably love is the humor. I have to admit that is what I love, and so I was totally unprepared for the touching images in this poem. Maybe the reader is ready for such a lovely poem by the time 'Pity' comes around. I wasn't, and the opening few lines really broke my heart.

3) Two words: "light elixir" (from 'Dancin' Fool). I have a theory about poetry, one I came up with while reading "Neon Vernacular." It goes like this: "If you can string together words that sound as if you are speaking them through a mouth full of pomegranate fruits, you are a god of poetry and a hero of mine." Here's the whole line, the first one of the poem:

"Danse Fantistique, he calls it, a light elixir"

Go ahead. Say it to yourself out loud. Do you feel it? The good fruit? The way the sounds 's,' 't' and 'k' set up the vowels in the latter half of the line, punctuated with the 'x' is fantastic. It was one of those lines where I actually had to put the book down for a bit to get my ear around it. Nice!

I'm going to share some other observations about this excellent book in the following days, but I recommend a purchase of "Ship of Fool" now. You don't need to wait for this fool to uncover the mysteries of that Fool. Just buy the book. I'd say something about a fool and his money at this point, but I can't as getting hold of these fine poems is a very wise decision.

Oh my word...an app that works!

Hi. Umm...how do I put this? I'm actually a little freaked out right now, due to an amazing application I downloaded for free from the Apple App Store (or whatever it's called). First, a little background.

If any of you know me, you know I'm a little stressed out. The move, the job, naughty folks all up in my grill--you get the picture. And, with some light insomnia and a very sore back, it all gets...well...a little much. So, when I would search for things to pollute my iPod with, I always use search terms like "stress" and "insomnia." Well, I did that search again a week or so ago, and downloaded a relaxation app from the folks at Silva (www.silvamethod.com is the website). Now, some other info about loony folks:

I just visited their website, and it's full of language like "fulfil your life's purpose" and "imams and gurus use our method" and "it's the secret behind The Secret". That last one really raised my eyebrow. What the heck did I just participate in? A new techno cult? Maybe...you see:

I listened (or "used") the app last night before going to bed. Now, I usually stay up pretty late, because I have found if I sleep too much (say 5 hours) I wake up in quite a bit of pain, unable to even perform tasks such as putting on clothes without muscle spasms. And, I've found if I'm exhausted, I can actually pass out (a little different than falling asleep). However, after listening to the "deep relaxation" mp3 (I made it to about the part where the nice lady tells the listener to "relax the spine" (whatever that means). Oh, and before I reveal, you should also know I have sleep apnea and wear one of those stupid mask things. Anywho, after listening to that mp3, I slept 4 hours straight--something unheard of--and woke up...with less pain. I'd say about 80% less pain. I was able to go back to sleep for another 2 hours. When I woke up, I was still at about 20% pain level. But as I lay there, not wanting to get out of bed, I started stressing about the move, the job, the cats, the fam...and my back started aching.

To be honest, if I didn't have to make calls to set up housing in Oregon, I would be in bed listening to the Silva tape (I can't help but call it a "tape" which, I suppose, severely dates me). I have a best friend, and his name starts with "M". He's not what you would call a "flyer." But, I bet if he listened to this before and on the plane, there would be zero problem. In fact, I'm starting to wonder if generalized anxiety could be suppressed or even cured with this thing.

Now, I'm not a space-case (or at least I don't think I am). I don't have too many crystals in the house. I'm a skeptic (really!). But, this worked for my wife and I, and I plan on forcing it onto my parents and children. It's crazy, and I highly recommend it.

Now, that's not to say Silva's website and their other products are legit. I've surfed their site for about 10 minutes, and I don't see prices for anything, which raises a red flag in my book. Their site may be crap, and everything else they may do could be a scam. But, the app I downloaded FOR FREE seems to be the real deal. *****, a must-have!

thebone loves his wife!

Cindy’s Rap

My wonderful wife Cindy comes up to me a few weeks ago while I was listening to some rap and said, “Don’t forget you’re roots, baby.” Now, I think she was talking about musical roots, but my real roots were put down when I married Cindy and they reached to pristine waters when I adopted our two boys. These are the real roots. Music doesn’t matter without my loving wife and my two genius kids. I always say the real relationship that matters in our home is between me and my wife. The kids’ll leave, the cats’ll die. The plant we got for our reception will either die or live on to rule some sort of strange chlorophyllic underworld somewhere. But as long as we’re strong, there is really no problem—everything else (even the plant) will fall into line.

I think only Cindy will get the soup metaphor, but that’s OK. Everyone else can read into it what they want, because, let’s face it and let’s get real: Everyone else doesn’t matter when it comes to my marriage to my wife. Sure, there are friends and family I’d die for. But I wouldn’t have found the courage to die if Cindy didn’t save my life.

So, to that end, here is the poem I wrote for my wife on our 4th year together. It may take the form of a rap…but you’re my roots, baby.


This soup is thick, baby. And I know you know
the soup I’m talkin about, baby. And I don’t want
to use the word “baby” too much baby, but baby,
even through the soup—split pea, tomater, whatever—
it’s all you baby. You’re the mashed peas, baby.
You’re the blended tomato, warm milk, the slow simmer,
baby. I may be the bone, but you’re the tender chick, baby.
And if you ever died, I swear to you I got the two cans, baby.

There ain’t no pill that can ever take that away, baby.
And if I ever had a qualm about the life that God gave me,
well, I’d drown that shit in soup, drown my bitch
and get back on track, baby. You’re the shit, you’re the stew
the tapenade, the ham and gravey. If I was anorexic
you’re the only thing I’d ever eat, Cindy. If I were bulimic,
you’re the only thing I’d not throw up, lady.

You’re my garage, the warm place I park my car, baby.
If I could play like Page you’d be my Fender Strat, baby.
You’re my caramel milk and I’m your Polar Bear, baby.
And baby, you’re the one that made me Daddy, baby,
gave me babies, what I always wanted from my life, baby.
I talk of soup, well you ain’t Campbells, you’re the real, baby.
And no matter what haters say these next four years’ll
still be the best ever, baby. Cause I’m the man, and you’re my baby.

A Major US Poet Really Bummed Me Out, Yo!

Hi. The Bone here. Last night I went to a poetry reading in Nebraska. A very accomplished poet was reading, and he was very, very good. One thing he mentioned, however, really tightens my jaw. He said, "No one can walk into a room and invent poetry anymore." What? I mean...WHAT?

Last summer I witnessed about 50 people walking into rooms and inventing poetry. How could someone who sells millions upon millions of books stand in front of 200 people and say that? Was he bored? Too comfortable? Out of touch? I think he is a teacher as well. Does he spread this flulike virus to his students every day?

Man, if you can't walk into a room and invent poetry - at will - than I have about 500 poems that need to be destroyed. Because that's what I was trying to do. And are you telling me Kearney doesn't invent poetry? Kloefkorn? Any of my students? And when was the word "can't" associated with poetry? Did I miss a GD meeting? I have my poetic license in my wallet...I should be invited to meetings where the word "can't" is used in reference to poetry. I call bulls*** on that gentleman and his flippant derision.

But, on to the review. Although I'm not going to use his name.

It was very good poetry, by a very good poet. It was surface swimming though, and I suppose if you are a US Poet Lauriet you have to be riskless. I mean, I can't think of a single USPL in my lifetime that was an envelope pusher, a risk taker and rabble-rouser. So I get it. I really do. And although this poet writes some of the best poetry (whatever that means) being written today, he is solidly in the kiddie pool. This is coming from a guy who, even after the reading, was very eager to get an autograph. And I spoke to the man. Bought him Patron Silver and chatted about Hendrix and Haight. Told jokes and stories. The man gets published. He's good. But every one of his poems bets every space on the roulette felt in you know what I mean. Safe bets in other words.

I guess I'm conflicted because here is a new poetical form:

There were twoowt erew ereht
of me in the sameemas eht ni em of
bodyydob

There. Poetry 1: USPL 0. Congrats, poetry!

-theboneinside

JD Green Rocks the FunkyJazz, Yo!

Last month, I was freaking out. Pretty hard, yo. You see, as a recent discoverer of my own race, I needed suggestions for some good, greasy FunkyJazz. Now, what is FunkyJazz you ask? Well, I'm not sure. But, I know The Brooklyn Jazz Essentials are FunkyJazz. They were reccomended by a, er...fellow Cave Canem Fellow. And, they were supremely Funky and Jazzy. But I was still on the lookout. Then Thelonious Monk was suggested, and that scene rocked my world as well. And then...

On Facebook I found out a CC Fellow JD Green (http://jdgreensoul.com/) had just released her new FunkyJazz album, "diurnal movements". I skipped to Amazon and downloaded it, and, um...wow. Although not greasy at all (in fact, it kinda sounds like Vegitarian Jazz -- light on the grease, heavy on the healthy on the heart) it sounded so good I added "diurnal movements" to my playlist, which includes BJE and Thelonious among other classics.

The first thing I noticed about this album is how clean it sounds. It's like JD is singing right into my ear herself. It's very uncluttered music, which I really appreciate.

The second thing I noticed was the song Funky Soul. Now, what I was looking for was FunkyJazz, but hey. Beggars can't be choosers, and when music is this good (and it's just the "interlude") it's like not even having to make a choice. I used to listen exclusively to Tool, A Perfect Circle and the like. Now, instead of dark Cerberus-style music, my home is filled with love and light. My sons are happier, and the wife is glad I'm listening to music that can both be meditated upon and the background of our, umm...lives. You know, cleaning, cooking and the like.

The best thing about this album is the lyrical quality of the lyrics, especially in the song Commute, which you, dear readers (all five of you) have GOT to listen to. Now, first off, it is a poem committed to music. But it's a really, really good poem, with some really, really fantastic music. I feel guilty listening to this song, because I'm a married man, and the hottness of voice makes me blush, especially when JD hits the nail on the head with the song's reference to old-fashioned candy. That brand of lyric really hits my God Module. Here's some lyrics (I hope the artist doesn't mind):

first kiss

From what I remember

it took some doing

we had to practice

I needed steps, directions

and your willingness

eased my smile.

Was it over the course of days?

Uh, unh, a week.

Each day, after school

your Auntie in the Probe ("Probe" may not be the right word, if not, my bad)

we in the kitchen

smiling but serious.

Ready for the lesson.

Yes. Ahem. Very sensual, very smooth, very I Want to Take Lessons Like These. JD makes old-fashioned candy the perfect metaphor for new love. This song (checking in at over 8 minutes) is reason enough to check out this awesome, awesome album. Do it for America, people. And thanks, JD, for working so hard that folks like me with no musical talent can enjoy some very, very fine FunkyJazz.

-- thebone

This is Embarrassing, but I Think I'm too Sick to Write

But that can't be, can it?/head the size of a disemboweled planet/and a nose full of the
cottagest of cheeses./Jesus was a sick man in his last moments./I dare you to deny this./And still
he sweated on, with an ideal/in his nailed left palm./And here I sit/Sunday tomorrow/complaining of the world's headcold./It's embarrassing, really./So I take my son's fork/forged in the tarpits of Disneyland and blue dinosaurs/and hammer my left fingers and thumb/to what? This keyboard?/This infinite blue malaise?/A cheeseburger everyone knows is total sham/with a new toy inside?/Naw, my sinus is too cluttered for anything/metaphoric./I'm a meteorite./I'm supposed to be on fire, but/all I am is a frozen head/mouth full of feathers and sweat/brokenbacked/sailing through lightyears/my lungs sucked clean/by NyQuil/and latesummer regret.

This Coffee is Strong, Yo!

...and thanks to Aaron Stuvie for getting me started on this with his whole ",Yo!" blog inclusion. Anywho, this coffee is strong, yo! And I can't even believe what has already happened today. I rebooted my iPod but that's not all! I wrote a poem about the flooding in Pakistan. It's below.

NPR said money isn't getting to the children fast enough. Yeah, it's children. They say that it may be, in part, because the flooding happened over several days and wasn't a sudden inundation. They said if it was sudden, like a car wreck, people would identify and send more aid. Since it's slow, like cancer, they said many people were all like, "meh!" Can you believe it? Oh, and they have nukes. Just FYI n all.

I got a poem forthcoming in Breadcrumb Scab! It's my piece about sex slavery in America, "Escape from North Korea." I'd publish that one, but I can't really have it online. This coffee is pretty strong. It's Folgers Black Silk. We have coffee coming in the mail from Oregon where we went for my BFF's wedding. It's Fair Trade and Organic and All Natural, and Pakistani children are dying. Wonder what the Taliban is up to 'round those parts. Am I having a panic attack? I hope not, although the doctor IS in Wakefield this morning (we get doctors 2 days a week!). I sure can't wait for that Oregon coffee. Everyone drinks coffee up that way, and a lot of it! Do I need sugar? I do!

Three Million Pakistanis

When the flood becomes more intimate,

becomes a slow moving cancer

instead of immediate inundation,

a tree falling in a faraway forest

do we find it easier to ignore the thoracic burble?

Do we sleep in, greedy for relative peace

and the quiet of drier pillows? We had French toast

for our breakfast. The kids were tired

and we gave them hugs on their way

to the first day of school. The young one

had a sugary shirt, the old one no time to shower.

The wife and I made love last night. Enjoyed

the bodies moisture and mingled sweat. I remember

the blackberry scratches on my arm hurt a little.

I remember a mosquito’s desperate hum in my ear.

I poured a bucket of water onto dry, cracked ground

where grass had died in our back yard last

4^th of July. Watched the dirt sop it up too quickly

to become mud. I heard water and food

were coming slowly because the water came slowly,

remember how I heard since it wasn’t quick like Katrina

the suffering quickly became blasé. Easier to ignore.

This coffee is strong, and it is priming my bowels to move.

I’ll most likely read a magazine

before flushing that part of me down.