July fried dried and laid to the side

July 2016 “Life’s contentment is like an abstract edifice with a domed ceiling of insanity”  ― Munia Khan



(Title-unknown detail canvas Vincent Quatroche Sr. Circa 1950)

July Abstraction


Muted phone ringing from the shower nozzle

announcing her flat tire in the Doctor’s Office

for a routine visit parking lot ordeal.

I was all wet and

failed to hear the distress beacon.

Meanwhile her Daughter struggled

with an important message and remember

her mother’s name.

I was never informed.

I was only taking orders.

Releasing the proper identification code

Triple A was dispatched and was in route.

When I arrived at work

Mental health was waiting

with a videographer who wanted me

to talk off the top of my head about

involvement in the arts being a bridge

between sanity and the local homeless

populations struggle for employment,

rural reality with an urban contextual equilibrium

and intellectual/spiritual community based identity

supported in a half-way house residential setting.

After the camera stopped rolling

he pulled me aside

reassuring me that the independent film

project was still a go, my role in it assured

and no it wasn’t my fault the

leading man had gone insane last Fall.


The balance of the rest of the work day

operated within normal parameters.

The general population of the incarcerated

wanted no part of my services. Multiple refusals.

Only Mr. Clutter elected to be escorted by the guard

from Pod B to my basement facility to continue work

pursuing his goal of obtaining GED and compose poetry.


Driving back home in the late July

sunshine I experienced a rather unsettling

vague sixty mile an hour accelerated confinement

and isolation from everything Summer was

except through the concurrent

concrete ribbon sentence appearing

in my windshield like asphalt cell bars.


Mid afternoon I went to the bank

withdrew a large sum of money.

Seven new crisp one hundred dollar bills,

with enhanced security threads

and holograms to discourage forgery and a loan

dirty, limp, crinkled, worn, tired gray lettuce

tinted fifty with Ulysses S Grant scowling.

I immediately turned over this amount

representing half of the nearly bankrupt nation’s

economic stimulus stipend to all citizens

to my daughter’s mother in hopes the disappointment

of the mornings amnesia would be forgotten.


She took the money out of my hand.

Remarked she needed new tires for her car.


The phone was ranging again.

This time it was dry.

I hear it distinctly

I was at the sink practicing

my best Prufrock imitation

carefully counting spoonfuls

while making coffee.


It was him.

The son of a great brilliant Jazz musician

presently composing infinity.


I had listened to his old man’s music my entire adult life.


His son wanted to talk.

I was glad to hear from him.

It had been a long time.


However he was in an extremely agitated mood

His voice exploded in the phone.


Didn’t I know about the fuel cells that were methane based, people building cars with toilet bowls in the driver’s seat, Hydrogen on demand, the mutant killer seaweed of doom that was choking the oceans, the hand sake between Prescott Bush and Hitler and J. Edgar Hoover’s head mounted on a turtle’s shell draped with a pink lace pinafore ?

The government’s new Active Denial System Ray Gun,(Actually I did know about that one, the only problem was you had to catch your enemies in tin foil hats), what about his abacus beaded with skulls ?



Had I seen Raw Man around anywhere lately ?


What about Columbus signing off on a deal with Spain to buy all the souls in the new world before we even got here, that all our hearts need to beat with a hedgehog’s intensity to increase the amount of compassion in the world, we had the memory span of goldfish, we better start learning to float in our imaginations like porcupines, stop breaking all the octopuses’ hearts while remembering that ants don’t sleep. Armadillos can house broken. It just takes time and patience. As the icebergs are melting, they are making a fizzing sound. Betsy Ross was born with a full set of teeth.


I was lost. Grappling with the meaning of it all. It was no use. And then he said….


And of course….What about all the Blue-eyed Macaroni !?!


And last. I understood and calmly replied….O….now your talking the Four Horseman of the Semolina.   


Finally we had found common ground. The conversation ended on a positive and friendly note with his request I contribute an essay to a new project of his addressing a post-modern socio-political perspective comparing the Chicago based artist Dwight Kalb who had created a statue on Madonna out of 180 pounds of ham and the Greek Painter Zeuxis from the 5th century who it is alleged literally laughed himself to death.


It was approaching supper time.

Ill relevant to me as I was fasting that day.

Went to the Supper Market in observance.

Had my favorite Cashier de jour scan my bag of ice

while discussing people who peeled their bananas

to eat stark naked discarding nature’s perfectly designed napkin.

She referred to me as dear, handed me my change.


Before I went back to work

I stopped in at the house

to find her car parked in the driveway

with three new tires and one worn defective

thread bare one that had been left on for

sentimental reasons…..


I went up to the University

to finally work with an electronic device

that could keep up with me.

I reproduced hundreds of copies

of lessons needed to start the semester

the following month.

The place was deserted.


I was the only one working this time of year

at this time of night.

Completing my task

I discarded everything in the recycle bin.

After all I had done all this before

and if I was lucky

would be able to again.

What better way to insure the possibility?


Now the sun was really setting on this July Abstraction

in great sideway shafts of yellow light.

I found myself with great thirst.

Drove straight down to the Dive.

Discussed baseball with the bartender.

We agreed in principle that 3.25 million

dollars was reasonable for a middle aged

middle infielder batting somewhere in the mid 250s.


I produced my notebook.

Two young tough looking barflies

started complaining about their warm beer to the bartender.

I took note of this.

One of the guys glanced over in my direction

And sneered, “ And just what in hell are you writing ?….”


I glared back at him over my sunglasses and with a bright menacing grin retorted…


“My Doctor thinks it’s a good Idea if I write…”


They tipped and left.


Just then a trio of young Harlots saunter in the bar expressly ignoring me as I wrote

as the old man I had become which might have been true enough

but I sat there ablaze in the sunset glare from the windows resplendent in

the glow of a July abstraction diminishing me however, but now I could clearly hear

the orange and red disappearing ball of molten flame ringing in my name.

-08/08  – The Terrible Now


July is sneaky fast- Traditional post for the half way point for the boys of Summer.



The All Star Game


(audio version- )

                                                                                            (for Ted Williams)

Shea_Night_panoSummer’s clock is all time great passing.

July sneaky fast

will not be in the line-up tonight.

The disabled list

of the terrible now.

Besides that view

from the dugout is fine

and as close as

you can get to it from here.

June is out.

Been out.

Won’t be back this season.

August is on deck.

Looks hungry.

Rubs dirt on his hands.

Take a few practice swings.


They all dream of October.

But wonder who will be left

around to see her.


They know this game.

Once your out…



Time has no extra innings here in the ballpark earth.

The Umpires name is…


So there is the sound of the faceless throng

roaring twilight shrouds of dusk and down the power alleys.

You make the call on the curves of youth’s shoulders.

All her tight brown curls laid out infield triangle like.


Do you remember the summer you polished that diamond?


All-star game tonight.

Summer’s clock is all time great passing.

-Attitude House 2001


heat tracks 1July Fragments


Just so much Space


You can move only so far

I’m told in a very small space

Most human skulls are about

Just under 2 feet by a ft & a half

Yet they contain everything single

Perception one can fathom

In a life time about the universe.


So that world between your ears

Can be as wide or narrow as

You make it.


Shrink or expand

Exclude or include.


But I would advise you

To take care with the dimensions

You will ultimately design in there.


Because that is all

You are going to take with you.


il_570xN.360682032_oucbHis Yellow Tonka Truck

(Attributed to Matt H)

Outside of the bar that evening

After discussing guns and booze

He said….

And I just didn’t have the heart to tell him

Playing so contently in his sand box

With his yellow Tonka truck

That someday he was going to

Have to deal with women.


 Remembering Herman

Herman Munster was an artist. hqdefault

He loved the strange sounds of words

And how meaning could jump the tracks

From children’s books to surrealistic art.

So the TV monster based upon Shelly’s nightmare

Found notoriety and fame as being the

GD nicest fiend on the block

Who like to phrase his delivery

In the cadence of his mom.


Question ArtFighting back with Art


Wishes always it seems

Have to take a back seat in some cab

While nightmares ride first class

Like a holiday heart attack

That happens in front of the kids

On the Thru-way

Headed out to see the fireworks

And the numbness will continue

Till the awareness shows up.




Duck  Dvorak Duck !

July early evening

After a stunning warm

Summer day with a brilliant blue

Sky without a memory of a cloud

In the world.


In reflection while the radio plays

Dvorak thinking over all the swings

And misses that fate has taken at you

Over the years.


Best take care before you

Grin and smirk…

Missed me….



You can trust me on this one.



Is  always just now

Winding up

And headed straight at you.


So it perhaps might be

A bit premature to request

Fate at the piano to play


I’m just a lucky so and so.

-Sometimes Grief 2012


Codependence Day

July 4 2

 July 4 1July 4th afternoon

The grill is on

And it’s been beer after beer after beer after beer.


Old dogs and their cheese burger bitches

Barbecue those oldies on the radio

While they lurch looking at the

Bottom of a bottle holiday


They regale some illusion of

Freedom, youth or lucidity


Your pick there


But the blue veins in stubby cut offs

Resound in male pattern baldness

Beer guts and semi-congenial




IMG_9938While in the kitchen

Fat broads blather gossip

And shoot dirty looks

In the direction toward the only

one of them there

who still has her figure

and a history.

They all secretly envy.

-Got Abstract ?  2014



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