Common Poet Nelson Gary

 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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