Common Poet Nelson Gary
Nelson Gary's works include XXX (Dance of the Iguana Press), Cinema (Sacred Beverage Press), A Wonderful Life in Our Lives: Sketches of a Honeymoon in Mexico (Low Profile Press), Twin Volumes (Ethelrod Press), and Pharmacy Psalms and Half-Life Hymns—for Nothing (Mystic Boxing Commission). He is an award-winning poet and essayist as well as a Pushcart Prize nominee (poetry). His work has been translated into Spanish and published internationally. His poems and prose have been published in numerous journals, magazines, anthologies, and newspapers, including The Outlaw Bible of American Poetry (Thunder's Mouth Press), Cooch Behar Anthology, Americans and Others: International Poetry Anthology, BlazeVOX, Los Angeles Times, and Desert Sun. Gary, a former professional tennis player and instructor, has been a ghostwriter and was the Sports Editor at the Santa Monica Mirror. He was an Associate Editor of Sparring with Beatnik Ghosts (Mystic Boxing Commission). Gary read at Lollapalooza in 1994, had a residency with Ivan Neville's All-Star Band at The Mint, and recorded his poetry with Elliott Smith ("Coast to Coast") on the latter's album From a Basement on the Hill. He is a Beyond Baroque Fellow and has facilitated two writing workshops there. At Heroin Times, his journalism helped thousands, if not millions, of people addicted to opioids find and sustain recovery. Through a period of many years, he has worked as a counselor and program director at drug rehabilitation programs. Gary has had three art shows, one group and two solo shows (Armory Center for the Arts, Zombie Joe's Underground, and Beyond Baroque). He has also taught Kundalini yoga. Nelson Gary has a Bachelor of Arts degree in English from California State University at Northridge and a Master of Arts degree in Forensic Psychology from The Chicago School of Professional Psychology. His poem below:
Copyright © 2023
The Holy Whodunit
I.
I, Gideon,
Herded my debris in dirge depths squalid.
Sad, stranger Bonesman done me a solid
Under tambourine lights
that melted in
vibrations
Cold on colder Mom—hitchhiker’s thumb?
The Second Coming within—smart or dumb?
Thanksgiving, ten little Indigenous
Persons;
then,
In the bin, there were none much touched
On Mother Nature’s Daughter Earth. Such
Sorrow shouldn/t encompass all the almanac
Of the dead, even my drop of Native American
Blood as dowry from. . .: black and white
Truths of Tao’s Old Master for women of means
To own
free and clear,
own
my vulnerability
stripped
transparent
free and clear
To share with men of high position
in the free world
As more than open, spine-flute elegy
sheets unfurled
As banners; soft, smooth mug
After unshaven for weeks—the age
Of 44. (I wish I could be Robin Hood
In one way, not that I’m ripping off the rich.
This job is expensive, and I can’t cut
the cost.
I believe it’s somehow worth it
to take
a loss.)
Nobody would make me,
Baby Face Nelson,
for
God's gun,
Other than Todo, Todd Moore, Dillinger.
The Holy Whodunit pulled the trigger
in the Gold Building,
Molecules culled. Living and dead cells
(suicides),
Spirit and Ghost washed the robe of mystical and near-death
Experiences, the psychosis on my bad breath
Now absent in this well-anticipated remembrance.
I, the mad, mad monk, with striped Paul
Smith skullcap, am over 6-feet tall.
Lately, poetry made
me
No more than a series of raves
I ranted
(Print of Pharmacy for a cover slanted
Watercolor work) because we'd been
to Boots,
Benefited from unscripted
pharmaceuticals.
A few days ago,
With all his bloody might, he squeezed
Tubes of paint from the Leger rough,
Oiled orgasms of him, lover and traveler—
Hermetic huff and puff—born hoofed?
I was a nude model, not a painter.
By jumping on my kinks, her performer
I became. I keep my wife pleased.
I do it by taking a stand; I do it by getting
on
my knees.
Gawd! It’s uh rhythm everybody should do.
This pharmakos disseminated his view
Without stewing operatic over fuse
Lit
By collection
Of not
Quitters
But souls
Surrendering to the inevitable, Big Brother Joy:
No omen of vision just risen
From
This prison
Of
Black and white
With
Predominantly
Blues
Vibes,
Prison
To get justice
For my mother
And incarcerate
Satan.
Soldier of dear Christ,
Soldier of fortune,
Who is the gigolodeon?
Is it Nelson or Gideon?
Dame, maybe it’s Armageddon.
You and the Holy Ghost Team
keep
carrying
me
Through the land of the dead.
Hey, I’ll be what you said,
Aja, “a leaf doctor,” who is
clear and free.
I’ve run with you for ages, Helen.
You’re a healer and an assasin.
II.
Quit
Quite quietly con-
versing I did
wit'
conspiracists
'bout duh wedder
Of predominantly
Blues
In souls’ bellies
When above would be
Mother
Love of paid dues
With homemade, fireproof
Black
Boots
Of
Heaven.
Jason
Expressed reds
Muted orange
Of pure watercolor—no charcoal
Or crayon
sketched
scrape.
My little, homemade, untasted miracle
of marmalade!
All the honors were Mother's on da-da
way
to the hungry
grave.
Lotta worm, including Jesus Christ,
Conqueror Worm
(Psalm 22:6).
This pulp planet, sought after
By blokes and gals' broken
dreams,
materialized
As works undisguised—without faith
dead on delivery
@ Heaven’s door knocked
hard
by the stuff and nonsense
Of some writers’ belief
they aren't ventriloquists.
Dummies of ancient time on bloody rewind,
Can you hear them hymns
in the wind
Of
One
More
Powerful
Than yourself,
Yeah omniscient,
Not brainless bell of sun’s heartbeat
With Surya and Saranyu in the street?
Can you hear the Word’s words,
Can you feel that Wild Wind, Aja,
The Holy Spirit? The witnesses
To my pranayama practice
Were Moses and Elijah.
In the words of Ronnie David Wood: “Breathe on me.”
Poets and writers close to perfect in their practices
Of Negative Capability can gain access
To nature, people, spirits, then become
just
utter
nothingness,
Creating texts that are for readers
ventriloquests
to
process.
Our sins and those of our ancestors
cleansed
By the blood of the Lamb,
reddened,
forgiven,
cleansed
As white as the हिमालय,
Himālaya
(“the Abode of Snow”).
I was a red fox with much ice to cross,
fire
Over water,
Smoking over
How the choir
Would advise me on how to grieve and mourn
Mother with my nonbeing unborn,
Aja.
Born again together,
Through Pharmacy Psalms, we could be
sahaja
(“co-emergent, spontaneously, naturally
born together”).
What would I tell Death about being
a gigolodeon, an Armageddon?
I guess that it’s global, cinematic,
and Shakespearean.
It is an experiment
with
the Holy Spirit’s
temple.
The love remains, but it’s more complex.
Grasping
this
is simple.
It’s okay to bleed
just
twilight blood
during
crucifixion,
For it’s showing
divine madness
truly
from top
to bottom:
Unseen genesis of a resurrection
In letters through G-d and Wisdom’s dictation.
Jesus Christ became many things, e’en Wisdom.
I’m mindful of my creative submission.
I have no vision, but I do have this look:
Death of a poet, birth of a painter?
I am a Tiresias with Hokhmah’s book.
For many, many years,
Lil has called
me
Maestro.
(She still admires
how my
creative process
flows!)
Like Isaac the Blind, Satan’s in my double bind.
Like Isaac the Blind, Satan’s in my double bind.
Didn't dress much like other poets and authors:
My beloved, loving wife worked with rock 'n' rollers.
I took breaks from Twin Volumes, a book
Funded by the Vatican, to take care
Of my mother and love her through
this one.
As my mother's conservator,
I decided to
cut
off
life support,
Euthanize the woman who brought me
into
this world, bathed in blood,
But here
And somewhere else,
It was
Really
God
Who
Pulled
The trigger.
Did I have
Any
Real
Decision
In the matter?
Continue
To let her suffer?!
Just let God answer.
Passive euthanasia.
Not active,
not active,
passive.
Understand?
Passive.
Passive euthanasia . . .
euthanasia, you-
fanaja. . . .
Donna’s deathbed scenes now show
in
slow
motion:
God’s Gun
in my crowded
gigolodeon,
My Gun
in his crowded
Armageddon.
After it’s over, civilization’s
Unmade bed
offers
an invitation.
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