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.

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.

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