songanddancegirl

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Archive for the category “AAC”

DREAM

MY DREAMS THEY RUN AWAY LIKE WILD HORSES OVER THE HILLS

Yesterday a good friend said: be careful what you ask for  

re: my dream career in advertising   They’ll give you toilet

paper ads   It won’t all be work with über cool fashionistas

That’s just fine with me   For who really knows what will

become of my poems  + the paper on which they are written

 

All flung daily into the re-cycle bin   Toilet paper  filled with

ghosts of poems   Hours  Days  Months  +Years    Dredging

Digging in the dirt  Reaching higher than the holy clouds over

Jerusalem   (Orange ape inciting race hate as i write)  

 

This conundrum is not unlike that of Tom Petty’s   Now pushing

up daisies  Still largely unmourned   Tom sightings on Ventura

highway  daily   Once when a horrified Thomas  gazed out onto a

boooo-ing crowd  he was told:  Don’t worry man!   They’re not 

boooo-ing you  They’re cheering for Bruuuuce Sprinsteen!

Same thing!   Tom intoned  in his characteristic nasal groan

 

Well this is exactly my feeling about writing copy for toilet paper

versus exploding vowels  +receiving shitty rejection letters   Or

fielding the soul marauding question: What exactly did you mean

when you wrote  —- ?    So  bring me your privies   Your porcelain

buses   And I will wipe away tears   +turn on multitudes!

__________

*(now how is that for a literary toilet paper ad?)

 

 

 

Winter  2017  ..missing   tom  david  leonard  lou   et al.

CHOSEN

THERE WERE CHILDREN CRYING AND COLOURS

FLYING ALL AROUND THE CHOSEN ONES

Neil Young  gorgeous hunk?  Or ape-ian?  Soundtrack to start of

hippiegirl era   14    After the Goldrush   Too cool for Beatles crazed

brother  in his striped stovepipes

 

He +Jew-fro’d friend  now a neurosurgeon  busy with Beatle business in

next bedroom   As I lay splayed   Window cracked  cig wafting   Poodle mellow

Soon to chew a hole in bed  searching for cool-girrrl’s stash

 

46 yrs. come+gone   Neil on computer screen Saturday eve   Lights out

Laptop +tequila balanced on good knee  Reefer no more  New pot sent poet

into ecstatic confessions  Giant spiders still leap onto body nightly  +snakes

in mind’s eye slither up vericosed legs

 

But what I will say is: None of this extraneous bullshit matters  to one’s spirit

To one’s life force   Even seeing Neil Young  hulking+broken  on the computer

screen   Slovenly+doddering    Blasphemy!

 

Execs who paid him BIG corporate bucks  knew he needed mega$$$ for alimony

after jilting the loyal Pegi (for the ho Darryl Hannah  after 34 yrs. of marriage)

Neil you bastard   You deserve to look like you do   Unwashed  Unloved  Unfucked

Though tattered souls still soar to your high-pitched groan:  4 dead in O-hi-O  

4 dead in O-hi-O    

 

Unlive the years!  Re-inhabit splayed girl  on mauve bedspread   Canned Heat poster

on the wall   Room where you slept for 15yrs.   Unaware of the fact that: once you left

(at 19 with young husband in tow)  the wind would kick up   The house razed by

bourgeois buyers  +your brothers flung into men’s bodies   Your parents: 1 dead +1

creeping

 

But you were there   The tributaries indelible  Right up until the day that: a heavyset

man in a brown coat   +a winsome whore with yellow flowers in her golden hair  walk

beside you  up through mountain passes   Until you end up back at that front door!

Bald grandfather Joseph is waiting   Black poodle howling at the harvest moon

 

Put the needle on the record

__

 

 

FALL  2017   For Rocco Rella  long may you run..

DAZZLED

RUINED   REMADE   & DAZZLED

 

Though on the surface it seemed every person was different,

this was not true.  At the core of each lay suffering; our eventual

end, the many losses we must experience on the way to that end.

(Lincoln in The Bardo  George Saunders  Booker Man Prize 2017)

 

Last night’s show  East Texas troubadour  Steve  married 8 or 9 times

Numbers 5+6 the same woman  Began seeing him some 25 yrs. ago  Heroin

chic hair to his waist   Prison would soon take the sheen   Bikers no longer

fill the seats  Or could these greyish old folks be old bikers?  Hard to know

 

Where do old Hell’s Angels go?  Does the road end at the Danforth Music Hall?

Some with canes  vacant eyed   Bird tattoo between scavenger shoulder blades

on one babe  Bouncers pat you on the shoulder ie.,  It’ll be ok dear   DO NOT  pat

you down  though I begged to be    He was burly  thick fingered  a bit dirty

 

Earlier in the day a very old man lay  on the floor  as nurses walked slowly toward

him  so as not to alarm the lunch crowd  Restaurants we frequent now full of the

aging population   But don’t let the bastards get you down  It is also true that while

we are all the same in our creaturestowarddeathness   We are all burled battered  +

dazzled in entirely unique ways

 

3 billion gaze at the stars nightly  +only 1 sees flashlights   Ditto old bikers with

sagging tattoos  Their greyish womenfolk looking out of hollow eyes  Some large

breasted amazons who in the midst of cellular degeneration  crack wizened smiles

that say: Underneath this Steve Earle t-shirt is strapped the gold of the alchemists

with which  you can barter for immortality  on your way across the Styx

 

The thick fingered bouncer  too thick to be slipped the answer  He sees only

innocence +ruin  on old chapped lips   Only 1 sees epiphany:  Those who know

the difference between being DEAD  +being ALIVE  shall enter the kingdom of

heaven    All others will be sent back to earth to practice  being alive

__

 

 

Fall 2017

 

 

BLUEBIRD

Pfieffer Beach  Big Sur  California

 

IF YOU MEET THE BLUEBIRD OF HAPPINESS

ON THE ROAD  DON’T KILL HER

Contemplating a tattoo under or near her mastectomied

breast   Maybe a bird with a heart on its chest   2 birds with

1 stone  His quadruple bypass not far from her scar  Set us 3  free

Birds can travel between the realms it is said

 

In the days before his death a colony of wrens gathered to

whisk him away   They returned daily thereafter  raising a

cacophony  on the balcony where he sat   Ticker time-bomb ticking

like the croc who swallowed the clock in Peter Pan

 

At night the little bluebird  tatt will fly off of my chest  not a prisoner

of the rib cage  unlike my heart   No escape  without a cardiovascular

surgeon  an Egyptian high priest for weighing against a feather    A

taxidermist  or undertaker

 

Blue will flitter above me  +rise up through the skylight   And like the Reaper

in A Christmas Carol  walk me through the life that might have been:  You

may still be here tomorrow  but your dreams may not    (Cat Stevens)   

So many things I’d wanted to be:  rodeo queen  missionary in Africa  rock star

rebel   jezebel    And there still may be time

 

But wait!  Bluebird  veering west  +flying via the prairie provinces to the land of

grapes+honey  (+the Beats)   It was 30 yrs. ago today  young self  condoms in

zippered pouch  boarded a plane to the sounds of Count Basie  with Ella crooning:

April in Paris   Raggedy parents waved goodbye   Ticker time-bomb  675 more days

alive          tic toc tic toc  tic  ti  t 

 

Flew to San Fransisco   Big Sur wanderings   Medical LSD  psychiatrist boyfriend

mailed regularly   Broke up with him abruptly during a Marcel Marceau show  They

had pay phones back then:  It’s not you   It’s me    

 

Each morning  the bluebird of happiness  will return to my chest  scented with the

African savannah  +California coast  all salty+redwoodsey   One night many of its

brethren will gather + this time deposit me at Pfieffer Beach   Permanently

 

Back in my bed a warm indent where I used to be   Ribcage+caged heart breathe

a sigh of relief on way to the beach    What a wondrous thing!  And all for $89.99

The tattoo special at: Pearl Harbour Gift Shop  Kensington Market   Xmas 2017

__

 

History will make this poem prophetic  and its awful silliness a spiritual music

I have the moan of doves  and the feather of ecstasy  (Allen Ginsberg  1961  Kaddish)

 

 

Fall 2017   for M.bird + D.bird   +Rachel Tyler Atkins

WILD

THE WILD & THE INNOCENT  & THE AGED

She said: I wish they could give you a needle to wake you up

I don’t think they have one   I know  She’s 93   Sounded like

one of those dreams where you keep trying to awaken  but

cannot    Once in a while you do  but then fall back into the

SAME DREAM

 

Waking up in the same body  same psyche   same identity   age

family  city  house  bed    Even if you vigorously protest   The you

inside of you  the Self  + it’s casing   does not budge    The Gnostics

believed that we spend this life awakening to a Self put to sleep at birth

The Sufis did too

 

Self-remembering is big with Sufis   So too is watching a flower move

toward the sun   Many at 93 are looking to go to sleep   But not she

Her life force is of the roaring 20’s   Born in 24   Part child   part nymph

part Queen   Maybe wake up as Nefertiti  mixing of Semites + Egyptians

not uncommon

 

The ancient Egyptians said: Follow your heart as long as you shall live

At death it is weighed against a feather  to determine a blameless life  There

is no concept of head/heart conflict  as we in the West torment ourselves

with   Living by the heart is like living by the sword   Much blood +ruin  It is

decidedly not for the faint

 

I imagine she will wake up  as an Egyptian Queen any day now  +live by the

heart in her palace on the Nile  Near where Miriam placed the infant Moses

And she too  like his people  will be free   This place she has been  is no place

for an innocent   No place for a child-woman    No place for a Queen

__

 

 

Fall 2017

CARE?

CARE?  WHAT THE HELL DOES THAT MEAN  CARE?

*(Charles Manson on the fate of Sharon Tate + her dead baby)

 

Mould on sandwiches at school   Urine scented sweats  reek of feces

too   A small ball of bowel debris rolls out of pant leg onto floor  Therapist

scoops it up  says no more   Later as boy examines pregnant Barbie  leaves bite

marks on removable belly   Baby stomped flat   How to explain this to the

state  who pays green eyed boy’s keep   Is he a sadist now  at 8?    What will

he be by 13?

 

Let us look at Charlie   Born: No Name Maddox  1934    Died yesterday:

Charlie Miles Manson  82    At 13 he held a razor to a boy’s throat  raped him

His mother a 16 yr. old prostitute  Kathleen Maddox  Heavy drinker  Lived on

the margins  Never knew his father   Spent most of his life in prison  Car thief

Pimp   Serial killer   Mesmerizing brown eyes  +cheshire smile  lit up the unholy

darkness

 

Mother of boy with green eyes  lived with a man  now in prison for his de-

humanization   She promised an X-box  promised+promised   What troubles

him most Therapist?    This   +the locked bedroom door:  I couldn’t get to the

bathroom so I used the floor  Is that bad?   Barbie’s legs now akimbo  about to

give birth to the rough beast on slow thighs  slouching toward Los Angeles   1969

___

 

 

 

FALL 2017

FOREVER

FOREVER YOUNG

 

 

Joan Didion  modern day femme Montaigne   Gorgeous  +insolent

Willowy  infused with cigarette smoke+dyed in the wool chic   Bought

Susan Kasabian her embroidered dress for the trial of the century  Up close

+ personal with Charlie Manson   Jim Morrison   Warren Beatty apparently

ga ga

 

See Joan standing in front of phalliccorvette   Stiff suffragettist daughter  At 82

veins gnarly +purple   Garish  misshapen  tendrils   Arms more like the legs of a

Blue Heron  than a woman’s   Not majestic anymore  But not to be confused with

diapered moustachioed crones I’ve known

 

Joan is whippetquick   Brainteaser of the cocky breezy octogenarian school   Such

women are few   Many compatriots sit  hands unbusy   waiting   My own plan is to

drop down on all 4’s  +scurry into a brambled ditch one day   Let’s say  at 76  when

it will be time to walk into the wilderness   As Neolithic crones did  their bones  +

totems all over Old Europe

 

My ossuary will contain: 1 hot pink skull by Betsy Johnson  degenerated discs C4

through 6    Arthritic knee debris  +a well made brainstem   used to unlock the

mysteries of Jung  + Jim Morrison   Bad boys in shallow graves  up the road

__

 

We are imperfect mortal beings. Aware of that mortality. So wired, that when we

mourn our losses we also mourn, for better or for worse, ourselves. As we were.

As we are no longer. As we will one day not be  at all.   Joan Didion  2005 

 

 

 

FALL 2017

SFUMATO

SFUMATO OR THE SLIGHT SOFTENING OF THE EDGES

Sfumato me  (+while you’re at it unfuckthisworld)   On 2nd thought perhaps I

best not be sfumato-ed   With too soft edges  you will no longer be able to count

on me  to bring you the unabridged dirt  as I endeavour to morph into Joan Didion

Of whom it is said: stunning candour  piercing details  electric honesty  I cannot

imagine dying without reading The Year Of Magical Thinking  (New York Times) 

 

In this book Joan writes about losing her husband of 40+ yrs  +her 20 something

daughter within 9 mths   Abruptly  Unexpectedly   She is likely still in shock well

into her 80’s    Joan admonishes us not to speak of: recovery  but instead to dwell on

magical  occurrences within the the first year  after  

 

Today I will walk you through the first 6 months  after  losing a father   Some of you

may want to hit  unfollow   NOW

 

early mornings  coming to consciousness  +within seconds of gluey eyes opening 

remembering  he is dead  all over again  +reliving in those seconds the long scar from

ankle to breastbone  from breastbone to ankle  his courage  the rocky balboa of the

quadruple bypass  his breathlessness for years before   the fucking doctor saying: you

could live 10 years more!   he was 63 +still unsqualid   i’ll take it he cried

 

He died in 5  +there was little quality   Doctor forgot to mention  blunt force brain

trauma  from heart/lung machine  during 13 hour surgery

 

Then one day at the 4 month mark  I saw him in his wheelchair at the Landsdowne

subway stop   Dishevelled  with sores  but smiling  Had I been braver +not bolted  we

might have gone for coffee  and those early morning awakenings might have ceased

gluey eyes open  grey light  walls of books  hulking boyfriend   in comes the reaper +

his people  and it starts all over again

 

Good news though!   28 yrs. later  awakenings are fairly regular   Hulking husband

looms   walls lined with books   Now edges sfumato-ed with scar tissue  + 60 yrs. of

ego-deaths   But there in the corner of mind’s eye  I play a game with said Reaper:

Come on  present him again  In any form  Anywhere  Anytime   You wily bastard

Today will be the day I set him free   Rocky Balboa of my dreams

__

 

You will stay on, restive, serene   The soul is captive  treated humanely 

kept in suspension  unable to advance much farther than your look   longing

to be free    (John Ashbery  1975   Pulitzer Prize for Poetry)

 

 

 

 

*(Some who have suffered a loss report actual sightings, what Freud described as:

clinging to the object through the medium of hallucinatory wishful psychosis.)

 

 

FALL  2017

SNAKE

HE THAT HAS BEEN BITTEN BY A SNAKE  IS AFRAID OF A ROPE

*(Edward Albee)

And I said to my friend Gregory: Who among us doesn’t

have a bleeding goat in his living room?  He looked at me

quizzically   We’d just seen Edward Albee: The Goat Or 

Who Is Sylvia?   Then waxing poetic about Las Vegas  +

yesterday’s church shooting in Texas  27 dead from 17 mths

to 82    He ran for the loo   But who is not familiar with this

blood-dimmed tide?

 

I wasn’t being hypothetical   the original meaning of  tragedy

is  goat-song   The play is about all the desires we cannot control

or even admit we have   The dad  Martin  falls in full blown love

with a goat  after 20 yrs. of marriage   He comes to know  Sylvia  in

the biblical sense  by the fence  at a farm where she lives  nearby

 

And with Clytemnestra’s cry  the scorned wife disembowels little

Sylvia  +brings her home  for dinner?  A twisted tale of bestiality  +

ritual sacrifice  Now let us look at matricide  Orestes slays his mother

Clytemnestra  +the furies torment him for eternity     Unsuffer me

YES (!) hypothetically  there is a bloodied goat on my coffee table   It

resembles my mother

 

Both Electra  + Oedipal urges are normal aspects of human development

As long as one does not act upon them   Ditto the murder instinct for adultery

Last night  Ms. Raquel Duffy  acted on our behalf   She played the wife  Stevie

in all of her liberal democratic civility   Smashing a vase or 3   throwing books

to the floor   Later making a beeline for the door   + going Greek

 

Stevie  using the families cerated honey-cake knife  slit the little she goat’s throat

Then dragged her husband’s lover home  dripping goatblood all over beige shag rugs

Now tell me  which scorned woman out there will have Ms. Duffy act on her behalf

tonight?     The line forms here

__

 

 

Fall  2017   (Salvation operates in the abyss.  Adelia Prado  1988) 

 

 

SHALOM

NO SHALAM  NO SHALOM

Sunlight so pristine  turning tops of trees into burnished

gold in late autumn breeze   Leaves scattered on shitty

sidewalks  (guess you thought poet going soft-filter  maudlin

well guess again)  Come back long suffering reader  Dive into

this bardo  where words slice you open  +words glue you back

together  Where hope is a relative term   And no  I did not buy

the mug that said: Fuck Death!   ($15  @ Red Pegasus)

 

So many distractions for the living:  sugar  sex  methamphetamine

tequila  For those of you over that bad trip  back in 76  when you guzzled

the cheapstuff  +in an agaved frenzy  slept with 10 engineers consensually

3 of them women   2 satyrs    +5 run of the mill guys:

can I see you again?  No

can I get yer number?  No

can I stay over?  No

can I get a reach-around?  No

can I get a raincheck?  Sure

 

But I digress   George Saunders  Lincoln in The Bardo  writes of the dead

with such uncanny knowing  he must be  or is soon to be   He tells of near

ghosts waiting by their sick-boxes   Apparently there is a period  or bardo-

state  when one might return home  Willie Lincoln 10yrs. old waits for his

father  who comes nightly (historically true)  +lifts the boy out of his box!

 

The nearby dead are filled with shock  +envy so deep they begin to gather

+self-flagellate in wormy shame  For not one has been touched after that day

(Oh they’d touch you alright.  They’d wrangle you into your sick-box. Dress

you how they wanted you. Stitch and paint you as necessary. But never touch

you again.   Lincoln in The Bardo  George Saunders)

 

Why is this so rare an act?  Biological imperative?  Bacteria?  Disease?  Or some

other reason  In Judaism they want you in the land of the living  prohibited to

even visit the new grave for 30 days  By then you’re back at the mill  But certainly

if death by quadruple by-pass  no germs remain?  Heartworms?  Angina droplets

inhaled?   Root word of Angina is: RAGE   Yes  RAGE  at the separation

 

Why not ignore the exhortation?  Return that night +lift your father out   Talk +

laugh until early birds catch the fucking worms   RETURN!  RETURN!    Re-write

the arcane rituals  +the concept of eternity will be ripped open by bored hellhounds

And you +your dearly departed  will alchemically worm your way back into each

other’s psyches     Only Believe

__

 

Uneraseable  because already erased

Everything finally of course is metaphysical

Frank Bidart  Metaphysical Dog Poems 2013

 

 

 

Fall 2017

 

 

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