THE WAY


Animals
Volcanoes
Rivers
Rain
Wind
We no longer fear
Media
Money
Fashion
Entertainment
Politics
for we are intelligent.

I like and welcome all kinds of feedback on my work, so I thought I'd post the latest. It comes in response when I was looking for a referral for a computer tech...

"I just checked out www.crissum.com web site, not too thrilled to see that site. It leads off with "Spiritual Leader" which does not set very well. I do not like You Tub or visit sites like that, so may not be of any help."

SPIRITUAL LEADER


Sea shell comb in her hair
organic peasant blouse
recycled jeans
and at the end of her arm
a braided hemp leash
attached to a pug puppy

She said, "I saw him and thought
he was so peaceful
and content
I had to get him.
I named him
after a great spiritual leader."

Around the world
in the early hours
while multitudes bow
to the East
chanting
and others
sing in pious praise
and earnest prayer

I awaken
to the shriek,
the muttering,
the stomping,
the muffled thwap,
and the yelp
of Buddha.

JEANNETTE'S (JX) MUSIC BOX

This is a music box I carved for Jeannette. It plays 6 different songs:

Somewhere my Love
Singing in the Rain
Dance Ballerina
You are My Sunshine
The Anniversary Waltz
Over the Rainbow.

I designed a "stop" pull switch for each one. It even came with a little music book I carved! When the pig kissed the penguin the back of the piano opened up, revealing a place for a ring. It had secret compartments and even secret compartments in secret compartments. I used about 5 different kinds of wood and each key on the piano was also cut.

DARNELL


...then I was going out with this dude named Darnell. He was a speed freak who liked to cut with acid. One night I came home and all the lights were off in the kitchen, an empty blender was going and the electric hand beater thing was flipping around in the sink. It was the only thing I could see in the moonlight. I flicked on the light and went down the hall to the bedroom calling, "Darnell!, Darnell! You home?" I go into the bedroom and ther's Darnell, candles lit all over the place, sitting bolt upright against the wall, cross-legged on the futon, chewing on razor blades.

Slow foot traffic night on the Ave tonight. Saw my homeless friend from last week (not the crazy one). I was playing a waltz and I heard someone clapping after I played it. He was at the corner and he clapped. I spoke to him last week, he was a victim of a traumatic brain injury. Walks with a limp. Wears white high tops. Nice guy, but gets confused easily. Thought I was from Scotland. You can tell he wants to talk, but, as he is easily confused, gets frustrated because he gets confused easily and doesn't remember all that well. I enjoy his company when he comes over to talk. So innocent. Just wants to relate, to have that contact, and who doesn't?

Had a woman come up and asked if I the song I was playing was "Country Gardens", an old English dance tune. She was correct. She was so happy. She came back later and the name of the song I was playing. I told her it was an original. She seemed so disappointed, like I just denied her the chance to play the next round of Jepardy or something. "And Jerry, what do we have for our fine members of our studio audience today?" Yeah, thank you for playing. lol.

Spoke to another guy whose mother used to play. I explained to him how the bass buttons worked. He was also a musician. He hung around a while.

Another couple of kids came by that were really a pain in the ass. "Excuse me, excuse me, excuse me..." while I'm playing. "Can you play Smoke on the Water"? Actually the riff of that song does sound good on the accordion, especially with effects, but it was just the fact that they were drunk and I thought he was going to fall on me, and was bugging me in the middle of the song that kind of pissed me off.

Otherwise it was a really quiet night as far as foot traffic goes, and I didn't have much energy and played only for about 2 hours. Haven't had time to work on any new stuff this week.

Stuck to waltzes; lowered the brim on my hat and watched the pavement, emersing myself in the study of women shoe fashions, the behavior of toddlers, little children and dogs. Some would make the claim that this is all there is to life.

CHAINS



The black pond of January, waiting for a bus,
to take me home
propped up against the road sign, like some
urban scarecrow
with the heart of a tin man, pumping smoke
a black man passed behind me, clutching a box
in his desperate hold
chains hanging off of it, chaffing their gold
asking me how I'm doin', not breaking stride,
moving
Can't complain
How are you?
Awful man
Awful
Gotta sell these necklaces and chains
Gotta sell 'em man

Turned his back to face the wind and walked
away
I kept on leaning, waiting for the bus that
never came

THE QUEST

The troops were advancing
and it was inevitable
we were to fall
when an old woman from the village
approached me
took my arm
and led me to the forest
where I met a man
not of my tongue
who motioned that I must follow him
and that I have been
summoned to her.

The woman made provisions
and we left the forest
through the desert
over mountains
Occasionally messengers would come
with news of her
and what was ahead
and speak to the guide
of the adversaries
we would encounter
of other customs.

Years passed
the guide and I never spoke
but communicated through the seasons
and the elements
never knowing if the next forest
the next moon
would be the last one
that I would see
without her.

The evening came and he led me to her
and my greatest challenge still lay ahead
For this journey and the traveling was all I knew
now I had to abandon the traveling
and not look back
or it would continue
for eternity
never to be satisfied by any destination.

From my mentor's scabbard
I drew his sword
and my arm
guided by my lone heart
laid his purpose
and the quest
to rest.

Busking 1/10/10

I performed Kahlil Gibran's poem "On Friendship" with the accordion tonight. Improvized, but it went okay. I like the piece, so I hope to get it stronger.

Tonight an older gentleman from Romania - an accordion player, stopped by with his wife and he struck up a conversation about his accordions. He asked to try mine and I obliged. he played and sang some boisterous song that had more verses than any Dylan song that I know. I think it was the history of Romania. I don't know. It wasn't in English.

When he finished the third act he let me have my accordion back and asked me to play something spirited, lively. I played the only polka I know and then he started dancing wildly on the street. Now that was really entertaining. Thought he was going to hurt himself. Nice guy. His wife was pretty embarrassed though.

This week I started using a microphone and an amp and doing poetry along with the music. It was really taking a big step. No longer hiding behind the accordion, playing Christmas carols and other recognizable songs. I had music already sketched out for Frost's "Road less Traveled" and Dylan Thomas' "Do not go Gentle into that Good night", but decided to improvise instead and "That has made all the difference."

This is a really unique experience and you never really are sure what will happen. A homeless person gave me a really nice new sweatshirt someone had left at the train station. A group of college kids sat behind me and listened for an hour, lighting incense. A couple of college students seriously waltzed in front of me for a couple of songs. A blonde Betty slowed her stride and blew me a kiss as she walked past. I get notes in my box from other musicians offering to to come down and jam with me. I love the notes, the interaction.

DREAM OF THIEVES

The January cold just held the ghost
of motorcycles tearing streets apart,
when every avenue and boulevard
would rip this town with sound-
right on that seam.

In May the devils' wind cuts east and sharp
and streets resound with the brapping, grinding wails
awakening desires to slough the tarp
beneath which hides the chrome and iron dream
to steal and ride again with asphalt thieves.

YOU DON'T LIKE IT THAT WAY

There's a killer in your house
you cry for the shepherd
but he doesn't hear
and the rest of the flock
has long since disappeared
You try to reason
but his mind is only the fang
of an insatiable soul
and you were never accustomed
to getting down on all fours
on the floor
like an animal.
Pity.

I will be starting a new project soon as a street poet down by ASU on Mill Avenue. I will be reading my own work, as well as the work that my friends have written and poems made popular by Frost, Dylan Thomas, Shakespeare, etc. I will improvize and accompany myself on accordion, as well as enjoying the unique opportunity of having some really fine musicians also sit in with me, who have already enthusiastically stated they want to be a part of this.

I will be posting the stories and interactions, etc on this blog as they transpire.

ACCORDION CHRISTMAS CAROL

On the last Sunday night before the holiday, I was playing Christmas carols on accordion down on Mill Ave. I played for about 4 hours, and about 2 hours into playing I noticed a homeless man about my size standing off to my side, leaning against the post office building, just looking out at the busy street. As I was re-arranging my music to stand up to the December wind, he said that he really liked my playing. I thanked him for staying and listening. At that time he had been there for over an hour. At the end of the night, another hour later, as I was packing up, again the man spoke. I was surprised that he was still there. He had ducked further in the alcove to take refuge against the wind, which had even become more bitter. He asked me what size sweatshirt did I wear. I didn't think twice about my answer and told him large. From his pack he produced a very expensive sport sweatshirt, one that a sports enthusiast with money would not be without. He looked inside the collar and, with eyes with a sadness averting mine, extended the garment to me. "Here" he said. "Someone left it behind at the train station. I...well...I liked your playing and...well... I don't have any money..."

I told him that it was real nice, but I couldn't accept it. This was the nicest thing from what I could see that he owned, although I couldn't tell him that. He knew the value of it both in money and, more importantly, possibly survival in these winter nights. "Besides," he said, "It wouldn't fit me."

I could have easily argued the point, but his demeanor, that of almost embarrassment but with also with such humility, choked the words in my throat. "Thank you" I said, extending my hand to accept the gift. It was then, and only then, did his eyes meet mine and he sighed and smiled.

This was the quick charcoal I did to get an idea of values. Not too much detail, just light and darks...

This is the finished pencil sketch

D'FORCE


A bottle tips over
and rolls
smashes when it falls.

You're long gone
and I'm smashed
but it isn't that easy
with kids involved.

When bottles fall, they don't usually smash.
They bounce around a bit
then roll
and end up settling
settling against the wall.

They only smash
when they are thrown.

THE DRUNKEN RAINS OF DECEMBER

My baby and I went to the fights one night so she could bet the sure thing
The reigning great white hope whose golden robe read "Security"
But I took her change and the bet I placed was on the contender
Brooklyn trained, by those drunken rains of December

I spent my time down at the bars at night while my jellyroll stayed home alone
I stayed out a little late one night and when I got home I found her note.
She left me then for reasons that most men seldom remember.
No one to blame, but those drunken rains of December.

Well that was too long ago to harbor regrets
she always did what was right
I always did what was left.

When Gerty wrote Ernie*, her old writing pal, for a token to remember him by
he thought, "Why Ms. Stein do you need a token? Parisian memories should suffice."
So he started to think that the next best thing that he, as a writer could send her
was a letter
stained by those drunken rains of December.

As close to religion as I ever come, is playing Thelonius Monk
but I know of Jesus' soft spot for lost puppies, old pickups and drunks
So when death comes to call I know my next high ball
will flow from heaven's blender
and bongo's will play
like those drunken rains of December.

*Gertrude Stein and Ernest Hemmingway

Copyright 1996 Crissum Publishing Iswingswide@yahoo.com

WILD ASIAN ORCHID
(for you)


I'd like to put it on my table.
Where it is closer
but soon
it will die there.

It is much better
to spend the time
and the effort
and slight inconvenience
to travel

in whatever way
to see it alive
blooming
where it is happy
where it is healthy
where it will last

where it belongs.

THE FILE


She says that she has a file on me
-unlike the one I used to get free
from her, her's had teeth
that can still make me bleed

Sometimes
Sometimes
when I been out drinking
on a bar crawl
or walking
slower than reality
-or so it seems

Or some windy night
long past midnight
going home
I'll hear a newspaper roll
down the street
and I'll start to think

maybe it's a page
that was able to escape
from that mysterious file on me
A file that I've never even seen

It clouds my heart and sometimes I feel
that no matter what I do, she'll
have a hold on me
cause she's
got a file on me