From a Recent OxfordSEO Literary Representation Press Release: 09/23/2022.
A lot of people don’t like our resident unarmed poet Igor Goldkind. Although hard pressed to detail exactly what the source of their antipathy is, when asked most people who’ve met or know him agree on one thing:
Igor is a pain in the ass.
Some would go as far as to say a Royal Pain in the Ass; although any association with the recent demise of Queen Elizabeth or the Royal family in general, is merely conjecture.
When asked about his reaction to this near universal judgement, Igor Goldkind tends to shrug his shoulders and agree:
“Sure, I’m a pain in the ass, especially to anyone wedded to static protocols, conformist mediocrity and any rule that should be followed blindly because ‘that’s the way we’ve always done it'”.
Let’s look at a recent example of his ass-painery. Due to enormous stress and harrassment inflicted by certain individuals (to remain nameless until the court dates), Igor was recently diagnosed with a minor heart failure. After initial panic and a visit to the ER, the initial diagnosis, although precluding an imminent heart attack did necessitate a referral to both cardiology and vascular specialists to eliminate possible causes.
Both were seen and a routine series of tests were scheduled for this week including a Stress Echo Heart test, a heart monitor and a spectogram. Igor called his daughter and without freaking her out, brought her up to date and then gladly picked up the dice to his destiny and gave them a roll.
3 tests were scheduled for this past Monday, Tuesday and then tomorrow. A hectic week to put one’s heart through the paces.
On his way to his first appointment for the monitor last Monday, Igor was surprised to receive a text cancelling the appointment 45 minutes before hand. This was followed by two more text messages cancelling all of his heart monitoring tests without explanation apart from the fact that his insurance provider Molina Healthcare had denied them. Pulling his Thunderbird to the side of the road in Mission Bay, Igor proceeded to telephone his consultant and then his insurance provider to determine the cause of the cancellations.
As light transpired the insurance company’s independent arbitrator had determined that the tests were unnecessary as Igor had never had a pacemaker or open heart surgery. An insurance company administrator who had never even met Igor Goldkind, much less examined him, could overrule the expertise of his health provider and two consultants he was referred to who had examined him.
Hours of being placed on hold, waiting for supervisors, lodging complaints, grievances and appeals, Igor was able to get a call back from a Molina administrator who apologized for the last minute cancellations and reinstated the tests, albeit now delayed by two weeks.
However, our resident pain-in-the-ass wasn’t satisfied with his own private victory. Now that he has a member of the insurance company’s management on the phone, he demanded to know why Molina could adopt this absurd and potentially life threatening policy of over ruling of health specialists by a bureaucrat intent only on saving money?
A grievance was filed on his behalf and this morning he received a telephone call from an executive VP of Molina, once again apologizing for his treatment and then assuring him that based on his complaint, Molina had reviewed its approval policy and would from now on no longer deny a test recommendation without first consulting with the specialist who had recommended the test in the first place….across the board for all members!
This is the benefit of being a pain-in-the-ass, when you’re acting not solely out of personal interest but out of precedent and principle.
So like him or not, Igor Goldkind leads his life based on George Bernard Shaw’s Maxim:
“A reasonable man expects to adapt to the world. An unreasonable man expects the world to adapt to him. Therefore, all human progress is made by unreasonable men”.
And yes, we do do Igor’s PR!
A Throw of the Dice [excerpt]
Stéphane Mallarmé – 1842-1898
NOTHING of the memorable crisis or might the event have been accomplished in view of all results null human WILL HAVE TAKEN PLACE an ordinary elevation pours out absence BUT THE PLACE some splashing below of water as if to disperse the empty act abruptly which otherwise by its falsehood would have founded perdition in these latitudes of indeterminate waves in which all reality dissolves EXCEPT on high PERHAPS as far as place can fuse with the beyond aside from the interest marked out to it in general by a certain obliquity through a certain declivity of fires toward what must be the Septentrion as well as North A CONSTELLATION cold from forgetfulness and desuetude not so much that it doesn't number on some vacant and superior surface the successive shock in the way of stars of a total account in the making keeping vigil doubting rolling shining and meditating before coming to a halt at some terminus that sanctifies it All Thought emits a Throw of the Dice.
From Collected Poems (University of California Press, 1994) by Stéphane Mallarmé. Reprinted by permission of the publisher.
Doggy-dog people get on my nerves with the things they make their dogs do
Doggy-dog people love their dogs more than they love you.
Doggy dog people think that four feet are better than two.
Can’t go out without a leash in their hand
They just can’t interact with their fellow man.
Without a doggy dog.
Doggy-dog people do pick up their doggy’s dog poo in little plastic bags
But sure don’t like being called out for what their woof-woofs do do.
Doggy dog people
Doggy dog people
Doggy dog people don’t have a clue.
That they’re accountable for the things their doggy dogs do.
Like beg food from your bowel when what you need is some peace in your soul.
Doggy people won’t leave you alone.
They need you to ask them what kind of a cute doggy dog they own.
Doggy-dog people get on my nerves with the things they make their dogs do.
Doggy dog people don’t have a clue
That they’re accountable for all the things their dogs do.
Doggy-dog people have no sense of esteem that doesn’t come with a leash wrapped round its throat and spleen.
Doggy dog people have no sense of their own
So they sniff each others butts as its safer than being on their own.
Doggy dog people got nothing to say
They just walk their dogs all over my day
And look for other doggy dog people to cross their way.
Doggy dog people won’t answer for the things their dogs do
Because they’re Doggy-dog people and haven’t got a clue.
Doggy People got no love for mankind
They can’t stand themselves or the friends that they have
So they put their ids on a leash, follow their slave surrogate friends and Hope that petting a dog will somehow make amends.
Doggy-dog people get on my nerves with the things they make their dogs do.
Doggy-dog people don’t have a clue
Doggy dog people never answer for the things their dogs do
Doggy-dog people can’t talk to boys or girls on their own
They need a doggy-dog to break out of being alone
So If you see a doggy person walking down the street just throw them a bone.
And hope that they take their doggy dog home.and leave the unleashed people alone.
Doggy dog people.
Doggy dog people,
Please leave me alone!
© Igor Goldkind 2022
In La Jolla, California there is a holy cove
Hiding beneath the palm-tree hotel lawns
That match the pacific blue hues with emerald park greens,
In La Jolla there’s a holy cove where my childhood still lies sheltering,
Down the stairs below.
Beneath the seagull soiled sand stone, the slapping sounds of flip-flop-feet, the pelican congregations and the belching, barking mad seals who think that they are lions.
La holy cove is a tiny sand-globe of cave and rock and
Frolicking white puppy waves.
A shelter for children learning how to swim
Within reach of their parents’ gaze
La holy cove stretches her arms out yearning for La Jolla Shores
Across the underwater canyon, beyond the curvature of her embrace.
I jump in to swim through the open canyon, towards adventure, towards the churning waves beyond me.
No longer confined by her protection,
I am a wild, happy seal with a snorkel to breath and fins to fly.
Swimming free, through the miniature underwater circus of la holy cove
Past the orange Garibaldi clowns, the spotted leopard sharks, the casually waving anemones.
Overhead, trapeze-less gulls are calling out, reminding me to come up for air.
Now I am beyond the cove
Beyond the underwater canyon, beyond the shoreline caves
Beyond the reach of Sunny Jim and the White Lady’s grin.
Beyond the Tombstone markers
Where there are no bodies, just the memories of long gone Bottom Scratchers,
Ancient Greek fishermen, fallen on their spears.
I swim deep inside the Clam’s open cave
Where I first saw the world’s sunlight bouncing off an ocean mirror,
To dance on the walls of my darkness.
Where the real and unreal collude
To make memory a sanctuary,
Where childhood warmly welcomes our return.
When I emerge and meet my mother’s scared eyes
I lie down and breath in waterlogged undulations,
Of sand made liquid by my body’s memory of the oceans sway
The warm sand is a rocking cradle
My mother puts a towel around my shoulders and asks
“Why do you always go out so far?
It scares me”.