poems for people

poem for ron androla

first time i came across an androla poem
might have been blank gun silencer
which dan neilson published
when i was getting into the underground poetry scene
i’d started writing poetry after many years
writing primarily lyrics for songs
last time i heard from neilson
he told me he’d given up on poetry
& was playing tennis instead
he may or may not have been joking
not sure if i still have this particular issue
since i threw out a few boxes of the old zines
when i moved to this small apartment
i remember the poem took place in a factory
though it wasn’t about the factory
it was exploring one poet’s life
no holds barred streams of insight
it fucking knocked me out
in the same way kerouac & blake had years earlier
nothing was taboo in ron’s work
i thought he was the best out there
publishing in the paper underground
now he’s doing it online
same immediacy, same gift of language
though the medium has changed
& also the exposure
because when you put a poem on the internet
it’s out there for anyone to see
which i had trouble getting past at first
androla’s poems focused on blue collar mule work
trapped in a bad marriage, two children he loved
which mirrored my life at the time
we grew up about thirty-five miles apart
& are the same age
so our frame of reference is very similar
still, that was only a small part of what drew me
to his words—which can’t be lumped
into any “school” of poetry
ron said on a cassette letter
that sent me many years ago
he was going “poetry world” that saturday morning
i’ve written an essay on androla’s work
which anyone who owns the pressure press anthology
can read—so i’ll try not to repeat myself
he’s one of my closest friends now
it began with exchanging letters a few times a week
then one saturday night
after i’d finished working afternoon shift
he called & introduced himself
i remembering saying—ron androla the poet?
& he replied—sometimes
but that’s not accurate
because ron has always lived the poem
androla’s poetry inspires me to write
& i can’t think of a better reason to read him




poem for lonnie sherman

received an email from lonnie today
who was the last person i’d imagine going cyber-space
but he said he did it mainly for access to the music
lonnie has the same love of music that i do
the only person i know
who has a broader knowledge of music than i do
lonnie sends me cds on a regular basis
as i do for him also
much of the music he sends
i recognize the name
but have never actually heard the music
the cds he sends are always interesting
we have similar eclectic taste in music
lonnie’s a great poet
but seems to have no interest in publishing any more
two years a go i set up a chapbook deal for him
with my publisher at pudding house
he said thanks, but no—which i thought he might say
but i had to give it a shot
he often includes long letters with the cds he burns
his letters read like poetry
lonnie is a sensitive, beautiful man
with a truly poetic soul
not afraid to show this side of himself
when i send him something i’ve written
he always responds with heartfelt thanks
& comments on the work
on a planet populated by so many assholes & pricks
strung out tv zombies unable to think for themselves
& people, who for whatever reason, refuse
or perhaps can’t let their souls shine through
i’m very lucky to have such a friend
thankful there are men like lonnie in the world



poem for larry tomoyasu

five years ago i sent larry a cassette
explaining my recent absence
since we communicate on a regular basis
my life had psychologically swan-dived
into craving an end to the pain, seeking oblivion
larry said he may never have found out
that he would have continued sending books & music
which we’ve turned one another onto for fifteen years
all my closest friends are writers, musicians, painters
i have trouble communicating with others
maybe i don’t try hard enough, maybe i don’t really care
initially i remember being drawn to his drawings
which would show up in underground zines
though larry doesn’t draw anymore to my knowledge
that’s a shame because his art is amazing
i’ve used larry’s art for many of my chapbooks
but he continues to write, which he excels at also
though he doesn’t get the exposure he deserves
one reason is his choice not to put any of his work online
larry thinks artists should get something for their work
in the same way plumbers are paid for their work
how many plumbers would fix your toilet just for the exposure
this has more to do with the way society perceives the value of art
as opposed to any stance on his part
he isn’t even online at home
which is highly unusual in this day & age
though he emails me daily from his job
i believe the majority of great artists toil in relative obscurity
working for the sheer love of it
& the absolute necessity of laying one’s soul on the line
sometimes all we have is each other as an audience
i have encouraged him to get his work out into the world
by whatever means possible
however i respect his position
as i respect him as an artist
but most importantly as a kindred soul & friend




poem for david berman

initially i picked up berman’s book “actual air”
in the small poetry section at the library
nestled between robert frost, t.s. eliot
william butler yeats & maya angelou
i knew the name because a friend had told me
i should check out the silver jews—the band he fronts
but i’d never heard the music
when i took the book home
though i own all their records now
i borrowed it a half dozen times
until i finally bought it
though it was hard to find in this cultural wasteland
i sometimes call home, other times hell
berman’s a great songwriter
but an even better poet
i send all my books/chapbooks to david
he asked me if i wanted to publish in open city
which i wasn’t familiar with
but when i went to their site
i saw they’ve published many of my favorite writers
i rarely publish poems any more unless someone asks
a couple years ago i sent some out
to around two dozen publications
most university affiliated
because a friend sent me the addresses
& asked me to give it a try
but it was a waste of time
main street rag was the only acceptance
open city took three poems
which berman sent them
it’s a great book & cool to be apart of
but being recognized as a fellow poet
especially a poet i dig so much
is the best kick in the head




poem for jennifer bosveld

she’s my publisher at pudding house
& a fine poet also
being with them is great
but i could move on now
& she’d still be one of my best friends
when my youngest daughter erin
was getting married three year ago
down in selma, alabama
i was terrified of getting on a plane
because i’m seriously claustrophobic
though i did overcome this fear
with the help of a handful of xanax
& shutting my eyes the moment i was seated
until we landed
when i traveled to florida
for my other daughter’s wedding
i didn’t trust my car
also i have meniere’s disease
which can unexpectedly cause extreme vertigo
i was talking to jennifer on the phone one day
telling her about my predicament
with no intention of hinting i could use a ride
but she immediately volunteered
to drive down with me in her van
in addition, she paid for everything
aware that i had little money
because my disability case was still up in the air
how many people would do this
you can count them on one hand
if you count any at all
i’ll never be able to pay her back
or thank her enough for her concern & kindness
she once told me she believed every time
someone did a good deed they’d be rewarded
i’m not sure if i share this belief, though i’d like to
of course she doesn’t do it for this reason
which i think would be cheating
but i know she would never do that




poem for mikey welsh

the paint is slapped down hard
but never into submission
there are days i lose time, but the art remains
waiting for me to return, angels & demons
often somewhere in-between, defying description
call them whatever you fucking want
they won’t listen
they won’t do your bidding
no matter how much is laid on the table
the stage lights were preying eyes
pure improvisation became spectacle, an inhuman ritual
i had to escape, paradoxically i escaped
by being locked down, where i picked up the brush again
now i work alone
at least that’s what someone would say
if they saw me at work in my cluttered room
in paint-splattered clothes
but the demons, as well as the muse never far away
sometimes i swat at them with my free hand
other times i let them whisper in my ear
sometimes they tell me ugly stories i don’t want to hear
other times their poetry is so beautiful
that i have to paint through tear-filled eyes






poem for nicholas morgan

psychologically, emotionally, physically we’re all flawed
either we make the best of it or we beat ourselves up over it
sometimes i do try my best, though it never feels good enough
like i never met anyone’s expectations
other days i throw my hands in the air
surrendering to the inevitable crash
i’m convinced is trailing me
my friend nick understands this all too well
unfortunately this past year
three days left in 2007—thank god
has been a rough one for him
i won’t go into many specifics
it’s not my place to splash his private life on the page
however he lost his father a month ago
i was sitting in my doctor’s office
waiting for my appointment, & checked my voicemail
nick had left a message telling me about his dad’s death
he was crying, i’d never heard him cry
i lost my father this year—though he died last year
but i found out only a few months ago
our circumstances were very different
it obviously hit him much harder than me
having been raised by his father
mine being not much more than a name
a few photographs, a few hard facts
i tell nick all the time, & he probably gets sick of hearing it
that he’s being too hard on himself
though i’m exactly the same way
i can forgive others, but have great difficulty forgiving myself
for all the mistakes i’ve made
nick for all his mistakes
i hope one day he listens to my advice
(do as i say, not as i do)
because he’s good man, a sensitive individual
& a first-rate writer
perhaps some day he’ll see
all the good qualities in himself that i see
maybe one day he’ll realize i’m right





poem for cheryl townsend

recently cheryl (aka cat)
commented on a batch of poems
i’d written about family
& posted on androla’s pressure press board
where i post nearly everything i write
except some long fiction
& some poems so bad
i wouldn’t inflict them on anyone
cheryl said she wished she had a father or a brother
who loved as i love family
so i told her i was “adopting” her as a sister
& i meant it, we’re all blood anyway
which dna has proven
& should be a lesson to racists
flag-waving nationalists of every stripe
& cowardly terrorists
but i doubt it would teach them a thing
because these people can’t see past color
organized religion, or borders
where they happened to spring up by mere chance
hatred gives them an identity
since most have no true sense of self
when we had readings at cat’s bookstore in kent
she was always gracious & kind
& had a smile for everyone
she would even stock the small refrigerator upstairs
with rolling rock, since that was what most preferred
she shied away from front & center
though she was one who organized the gigs
she gave me a cd of her reading her poetry
reading as well as anyone i’ve heard
she’s not actually shy, though humble
& i could learn a lot from her
when i’m on a manic high
or high horse might be better description
or just fucking obnoxious
& since she’s my sister now
hopefully such good qualities which she possesses
will rub off on me