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.

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?