My publisher Amy is a very powerful woman.
She has very powerful, wealthy connections.
She raises money on Kickstarters like she was playing at a church bingo parlour every other Friday night.
Amy is publishing my book IS SHE AVAILABLE? on July 23rd.
That’s when the electronic version comes out that will be available FREE for download from Amazon, iTunes, Borders, Chameleon and SUBVERSIONfactory websites.
That’s right, absolutely FREE for download. All my poems, all of Gilad’s music, all the over a dozen paintings, illustrations and even a sculpture that some of the ost talented artists in the world have produced to interpret my words. This has been an awesome adventure; a high speed motocycle race at times; a cross country IT’S A MAD, MAD, MAD, MAD, MAD, MAD WORLD remake but for real!
A bad then good acid trip.
A series of happy and unhappy coincidences all leading to one eruption of creation: my books
Wait for it, it’s free.
So back to Amy my publisher who I call the Janis Joplin of genre publishing (that’s SF, Fantasy, Horror and Comics, do you), because she’s a smart talking, hard driving, hard drinking woman who’s seen enough to know what’s right and what’s wrong. But amy is very powerful and she intimidates me. It’s Amy who wants to coin me THE NAKED POET and warned me that I had to stay single for my image: that f a broken hearted poet who still believes in Love. Thst’s me alright but what scares me is that that Amy would order me to stay singler but that she could coordinate with every other woman on this sweet Earth to guarantee I remain single.
How the hell does she pull that off????
This one’s for Amy and her NAKED POET
THE NAKED POET
I’m just a man
Chiselled with flaws
Cracked with imperfections
Who likes drinking and fucking
And riding fast
On my bike
Down a steep hill
When you are in transition, you find out who your real friends, your real family is.
People like to use the word ‘love’ allot, they like to say ‘I love you’, because it makes them feel good to.
They feel that the word accomplishes the deed.
These same people tend to be duckers, avoiders, they say that they are kind and simple people, whilst all the while hiding in the shadows from anything real, anything that confronts their delicate sensibilites. These people don’t love anyone except themselves.
They use the word Love to pass themselves amongst us undetecting their crippled empathy.
Love isn’t just a word, it’s a deed. And I know the love of others from the deeds that they do; not just for me, but for the people around them, the people they are connected to. I am so fortunate that they choose to feel connected to me and connected to my destiny. They’ve been helping me, helping me cope with this radical change, this transculture shock, this adapting to a world ruled by dollar and motorised vehicle. It’s taking me time. I’m sometimes lost and confused and I don’t really know the people here at all. Do they ever keep their word in California or are integrity and Truth old world conventions? I honestly wonder that.
Anyway, here is a poem I wrote this morning for the deceased daugher of a mother who barely knows me, having only met me twice before and yet when she heard I was in need, she knew I had been a friend to both her daughters, she opened her home to me. She’s lonely and lacks the company so now I ma beignning to understand how life fulfills needs, sometimes effortlessly, by side stepping our intentions and connecting us to where we belong.
When Daisy offered to put me up for a couple of nights, she hadn’t heard what had recently happened to me; getting mugged in NYC, having my ex step mother pull the rug out from under my accommodation, closing my bank account without my knowledge. Then the ever uncertain apartment in La Jolla. Never sure as to the availability or the date of access. An apartment I haven’t even been permitted to see but must be paradise just because it is in La Jolla. “Do you know how much it costs to rent an apartment in La Jolla?!” Is the monotoneous refrain I’m greeted with whenver I question the eccentricity of the complex. I guess I’m supposed to shut up and be impressed.
When Daisy heard about what was happening to me, how my friends were treating me upon my return from nearly 40 years away, (berating me for not driving!), she opened her heart and offered me her dead daughter’s, my high school friend’s room for as long as I needed it.
That, my friends, is Love.
Daisy doesn’t have to say anything, she doesn’t have to use the word.
She just does it.
So this one’s for Daisy, who knows what the word ‘Love’ means and for Meryl, who died too young.
Meryl, we called you Zelda
after Zelda Fitzgerald.
Who you were like,
and now like her,
You are dead.
No more lion’s mane
flipped in perpetual disdain.
No more dietary restrictions
Or hypochondriac fits.
You are beyond that now.
You are beyond all of us.
No more smoking cigarettes
propped on the curb of our high school years.
You were plump then and kind
When you fancied me you held my hand
Softly on that curb.
But then you were thin
and I never had enough money for you.
Meryl, you were a bitch
the way you treated some people
like your sister, like your mother,
All who loved you.
Who wouldn’t not love you?
A single, scarlet California poppy
standing like a nun in a field.
Who couldn’t love Zelda Fitzgerald?
None of us never could.