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?

The first alcohol I had was when I was about 15. Kinda a late bloomer for what was to come. I remember my best friend showed me a couple beers he had acquired, and asked if I wanted to try it. I did. I think I drank about half of the can (I believe it was Schlitz, or some sort of swill); it was amazing. I was plastered! I don't know if it was my proclivities to such a thing or the passage of time, but I recall very little of the day other than that beer.

The first time I drank alcoholically was when I was 17. A thing had just happened, and I couldn't sleep. I was selling pints of hard alcohol to my classmates by then, and thought, "Well, I have a liquor store in my closet...a little nip will help me sleep." It did! Wonder of Wonders! Thus began my real affair with alcohol. I knew it was problem drinking, but ignored this fact and kept at it. Even in high-school, I was obsessed. I would painfully wait for the weekend.

Many baffling stories later, I present this poem to you, about my affair. It's titled "A Affair," because, well, AA. Anywho, stick this in, break it off, and let The Bone stay inside you:

A Affair

I’m in love with Alcohol.

She’s my hottie, my main squeeze.

I can have a different lover every night.

A Manhattan when I want a

city sophisticate,

a White Russian for my identity crisis,

Sex on the Beach for the exhibitionist in me.

And Coors sweating cold for the Cowboys,

Bloody Marys when I wanna ride that Red Tide.

a Hurricane for a quick fuck    up

and a Black Cow for those lonely Nebraska evenings…

Alabama Slammer for those southern sheriff nights,

fuzzy navels for my fixation

and a stiff    Tom           Collins              when

I want to reverse the roles and get fucked      up     

my     ass and a Shirley Temple when I want

to take a life but have no balls so I fuck     one     up.

She’s perfect for parties.

Champagne for a formal,

cans of Bud for the big game,

Vodka and Red Bull

for all-night raves.

And this lady, like Jesus, saves.

All the affairs I’ve had with

gin, tequila, scotch on the rocks

are forgiven on Sunday with a little bit of wine

three hail Mary’s

and Hennessy    for after the sermon

because I ain’t yet filled with the spirit.

And even 80-year-old Brandy can go all night,

can fuck me till I sleep, and when I wake she’s always there –

She never leaves me lonely.

My Thoughts On All the Corn: A Bone Late Edition!

In Nebraska, there's a crapton of corn. I mean, there's corn in Iowa, and, I suppose, North Dakota somewhere if the rumors are true, but Nebraska and corn go together like, well...Nebraska and corn. When I would leave the state, and sometimes even now in Oregon, people will remark on the abundance of corn back east. I smile, and apologize for us having so much corn, and everyone nods sadly, if not understandingly.

So, I wrote this poem long ago. It's all about corn. It was a fun, sad poem to write. One of my first loves is mentioned--she visited my grandpa's ranch to see her friends, my cousins (or whoever they were--second cousins once removed? They were family, and that was all that mattered). A cute little blond girl. I remember we had fun playing on top of the corn in the corn bins (still on the husk--my gramp wasn't a monster!) pretending we were helping push it down so it could go into a truck, get hulled (shelled? de-kerneled?) and get turned into sweet, sweet silage. I should've worked silage into this poem. Maybe I will someday.

So, this is a poem, and the events within are all true. There was a guy near West Point who committed suicide in a corn field, and I know of one or two more who have taken their lives in a field of Nebraska corn. It is symbolic of something, but I don't know what. Oh, and I don't know how to turn comments on. I'm working on it! Oh, and at the time of me actually being in the field and getting triggered to write this poem, I didn't have a car that used E85. That...that was a lie. Anywho....

...oh! Attentive readers will notice I didn't force 100 mentions of corn into this. I mean, I could have, but that would've been gauche.

Corn Syrup 

     An Ode to Corn

All alone at night

I stop on a county road,

flanked by two fields of corn.

I’m a Nebraskan.

I feel I should

know about corn,

know the corn.

I get out of my car

and hear the rustle of corn.

On my right, a field of corn

A field of corn

made up of rows of corn

rows of corn

made up of stalks of corn

each stalk of corn has an ear of corn

and an ear of corn

has about 389 kernels of corn

wedged into a corn

cob nestled in corn

silk swathed in a shuck of corn.

I wander into the corn,

this maize of corn.

The tassels poke out like fireworks,

proclaiming the Coming of Corn.

 I feel like John the Baptist,

dunking myself in row upon row of corn

in a sea of corn. 

I wonder if Jesus would walk upon the corn. 

Would He take my hand

so I wouldn’t drown

in this field of corn? 

So that sailors could

row through the corn, take my hand

and pluck me from corn?

As I come to another

in the infinite rows of corn,

I remember this guy

two towns over

who died in a field of corn.

His lover left him, so he took

his .38 and shredded his head

like cheese in a grinder of corn—

in an unhappy, unholy high-fructose suicide.

The corn farmer who found him

in his field of corn, said

the blood spotted green

like Christmas, a Christmas

where Jesus was killed

and His blood was wasted on corn

in a field of corn in the middle of sinners and corn.

But death is not corn.

       or, rather,

    death is corn.

I remember, in this corn, all the sermons

I heard about corn:

A corn of corn must fall into the earth

and die. Or it will be alone. But if it die?

It brings forth a field of corn.

 

And it’s true. 

The seeds of corn are cast

to the moist, Nebraska field and die,

only to sprout more corn:

A high-fructose resurrection of corn.

And as corn is born again—

(it takes about three days,

says a respectable corn farmer) 

it sprouts to the sun

and shows itself first

to maidens who herald

the rebirth of corn.

I kneel before the corn.

The corn has exposed roots,

making the tassels golden,

the silk golden,

the kernel golden,

the cob golden from a golden

sun that feeds it

and allows my nephew to use it

as gold, a stock-market of corn

in his world where the lights

to sandcastles are corn.

I step in between two rows of corn,

and see some volunteer corn.

This corn is shorter than the rest,

practically a weed of corn

from a seed of corn wasted,

forgotten, except for the

farmer with an eye for corn.

I smell the corn. 

I don’t think its sweet corn

or Indian corn, but field corn.

Maybe it’s a by-god

emmy-corn hybrid.

I think of cornbread—Golden

like corn, we put it in our mouths

and chew, the corn

comes apart and is swallowed

where it finds its way past

our cornholes and is expelled:

      Used up corn.

I feel the corn. 

Stalks like sugar leaves

rough and cutting,

tassels dripping pollen,

silk as soft and as blond

as my cousin’s friend’s hair

I brushed once, brushing out

detritus from a day

in the corn bin, pushing out corn. 

I remember her hair smelled

as sweet as this corn,

and we held hands and ran,

laughing in memories of corn.

I taste the corn.  Not sweet

like sweet corn, but corn, nonetheless.

A niblet of corn gets caught in my teeth—

A wonderful, painful

cavity of corn.

Hell, I even used to smoke corn.

My friend and I used to steal

into the corn and rip

silk from the corn, and roll it

up into joints of corn. 

I’m lost in my thoughts

in a field of corn.

The moon is yellow,

the yellow of corn,

a single kernel of corn

like a lonely tooth stuck

in an endless cob of corn. 

And yes, the stars, tonight, are corn.

I walk back through the field of corn,

back to my corn-fueled car

(ethanol, my friends)

and can hear the voice of corn

rustling me to sleep,

to stay in this crater of corn.

I walk from the heart of the corn

to the edge of corn

where the corn’s world

whispers good-bye

in the soft voice of corn. 

I get in my car, and know

after the fair, maybe a frost,

I’ll drive down this road

into the gaping, brown-toothed maw

of a graveyard of corn.

The End of Corn 

Watermelon, Guns, KFC, Oh my!!

I’m a Nigger

My skin is darker than most,

and because of this fact

I cut my melon eating in public

in half.  Although I enjoy collard

greens, I don’t grow them: I

buy them at the store.  Finding

condoms large enough is a

hassle for me.  I thank the

store clerk who is kind enough

to carry my electronics purchase

to the door for me, even though

he doesn’t hold it open when I leave.

And in my closet at night I chase

KFC with 40’s of Mickey’s and Colt .45’s.

Although I’ve never owned a gun,

old ladies assume I have one tucked under

my baggy stonewashed jeans.  I don’t wear

baggy stonewashed jeans, but I have been

known to wear a joint behind my left ear.  I’ve had

an Afro, braids and relaxed funky hair just

like the song.  And although that isn’t wrong,

I cut it off so I could be hired at a Web-

for-hire business.  I work with two Hispanics,

two whites, a nigger like me

And a New Yorker.

Being "black" is exhausting. Literally, it takes years off a persons' life. Do the research!

This poem is, in part, a reflection of that statement. Can you possibly understand how unsettling it can be to eat certain foods in public? Like my son, Jake, said in a poem once, "Fried chicken is the shit!" and it is. But sometimes I feel like a caricature eating it. So, I start this poem that way, along with having some fun poking at the perceived economics of poor black folk. Then...the penis.

My penis has been fetishized in the past. It started in 2nd or 3rd grade, with an unnecessary "examination", endured through a situation where a couple friends and I peed on the school and everyone wanted to see it (we weren't taking showers yet at school), and culminated with an unfortunate date I went on through OK Cupid (don't judge!). When I was in grade school, everyone thought I could dunk a basketball. It was a rumor I nurtured until it was proven I couldn't (I didn't know karate, either, and wasn't a ninja). If I knew then what I know today, I would've used that fetishization to get a few more dates.

One day, while shopping at Best Buy in Omaha, Nebraska, I bought a stereo. I was escorted from the register to the door, and the guy didn't hold it for me (this was back in the day when BB didn't have auto doors in Omaha). I had to wonder...

Then I poke fun at guns and malt liquor. I have seriously had folks roll up their car window when I pulled up beside them. This would've been around 1993-4, but I hear things haven't changed much.

About hair. Throughout the years, I've done fun things with my hair. Why? Well, you can't really say much about a black person's hair--it's verboten. So, I've had fun with it (and pot)!

And after graduation, I moved to San Antonio, TX. I found great employment at BusinessWire, a company that did (does?) rapid-release earnings statements over the internet (this was newish at the time). I found it very odd this young black kid was working in a downtown skyscraper. I enjoyed the diversity there, but not so much the person from New York. She was...different, unsettling. So, I poked fun at her (you may notice a shout out to Pace Picante Sauce in this).

So, that's the bone for today--and now it's inside you. Where it can do the most good, where you can feel its smooth exterior and wonder at the marrow inside. Maybe a dog can find it.

watermelon/gun pic courtesy of https://gunstreamer.com/watch/45-auto-vs-357-magnum-in-full-sized-handguns-episode-11-watermelon-test_SkZYTHhDOmku2VN.html

The Bone Is Back!

Hi there!

The Bone is Back!

I recently recovered a portion of over 2000 poems (seriously...but most of them suck worse than the ones you will read here) from an old hard disk from the early-mid-90s. It's a rather long story, involving alcohol, resentments and divorce. While I don't have the later poetry back, and am making a sort of peace with that, I do have what I have, and it's an amazing snapshot of my early drinking career.

So, I thought, as part of my continuing recovery, I would post one of these earlier poems every day or so, and write a bit about them. Since this blog thing is called "The Bone Inside," I thought I would start with the titular poem. Here it is, in all its unedited...glory...or something:

The Bone Inside                                                             Commentary

Spirits and psychics can be savagely torn                    *I have no clue about this part, but I enjoy 

unrelenting, it’s like having to cover your                    the image of having to hold back vomit 

mouth and shudder just to stop from puking.               from the society we’ve created.   

A headful of group therapy

and Rosie O’Donnell choosing for me                          Commentary 1

for those first few weeks.

There is a place I go                                                       The place I went was total inebriation. When

far away from the seasick gang-rape.                             I woke the next morning, after being drugged,

It’s more horrible, though,                                              I felt seasick. It was the worst "hangover" I've

because when I wake up it                                              ever had. Alcohol and drugs protected me

keeps me safe.                                                                 my waking hours.

I’m a dream, a spirit with no God,                                 An addict, if they are truly hopeless, cannot

bleach-bone smooth, a shadow in the rain                     usually have any connection to a spiritual life.

unaffected by renewing drops                                        The meat has rotted off our soul--in the purest

from the gods I wished and washed                               sense, we are bleached bone. Dead, but pretty.

and willed away.

I hover above me,                                                           This is an expression of the out-of-body

shivering in my bed vomiting up                                    I had when being assaulted. I don't think I

the cultures we killed off while                                       puked, at least there wasn't evidence the next

we raped them in turn or alphabetical—                        morning. Race, for those who can know,

                                                                                         played a significant part of the assault. Here,

 - it doesn’t matter -                                                        I tried to make the hurt universal.

and as I hover, feeling just a                                           Ah, pain felt through the haze of being dosed.

pin-prick of the pain, pause                                             This is about how I so badly wanted to be 

and wish to death I had the strength                               able to deal with the trauma.

to digest this bone inside.

Commentary 1:           When early in recovery, I was in no place to make any sort of decisions. I can’t really remember the first months of my first try at living a normal (read: sober) life. And, well, Rosie O’Donnell. Kinda summed up my feelings at the time, I guess.

Well. That was easy! I hope you enjoyed the short poetry lesson. I hope to provide more insight into poetics, as well as other issues through this blog. Tomorrow, I will discuss The Line and maybe Line breaks.