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.

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.

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