Do Artists Realize?

I thought I would get out of it.

I heard it was supposed to thunderstorm, but the skies remained dry and clear throughout the morning.

My wife wanted to go to NorthEast Mpls.

She wanted to go to Art-O-Whirl.

Art-O-Whirl, if you have never heard of it, is a hipster part of town where all the middle class Bohemian wannabes live.

Each year they cover a huge territory where basically every business turns itself into an art gallery.

Funeral Parlors, Dentists, Liquor Stores...you name it, all of these places convert these spaces into art galleries.

In theory.....it is kinda cool, however....in practical application, I just saw literally thousands of people sitting on uncomfortable stools hoping just one of the sweaty event attendants would stop and purchase one of their masterpieces.

So Sue McGleno pretty much stops at every jewelry stand right?

And our romantic stroll lessened in romance.

The air was heavy -

The humidity was off the charts -

But being that it was an official date.....

I had to act as if I actually was enjoying myself.

So Lo and Behold, by hook or by crook..........

I noticed that my wife and I were standing on the threshold of the Grain Belt building.

I hadn't been there in over a year and a half.

I hadn't stepped foot in this place since Finley and I preformed the Bavarian Oratorio.

As guys with head bands and man purses passed me in the hallway, I chuckled as I stood outside the room where Mike and I preformed our masterpiece.

I think we drank over 400 beers during script writing sessions.  

It was supposed to be a big deal, something epic that would change the world.......

We played angels that were flawed but loveable, and together....we'd set humanity on fire with beauty and wisdom that typically you can only get in the celestial kingdom.

The only problem was..............

Only 3 people came, none of which came with intent.

These people were holiday shoppers that simply wanted to rest their feet, and when Finley and I went into character....LOL, their sinful nature must have convicted them because they just got weird looks on their face and got the hell out.

So now, today in this same room sat a man.

He was in the back of the room.

He was seated with an older man.

The guys spoke English, but if my ears were accurate, I'm guessing they had Italian accents.

The younger guy, the artist was lamenting how he gave up his futball career to work with marble.

While he was explaining this, I saw a piece I liked.

I even flirted with thinking about buying it.

So I walked into the presence of their conversation.

"Blah-Blah-Blah-Blah-Blah-Blah."

The guy, even though I am right in front of him continues feeling sorry for himself......

"I gave it all up, all of it. That's how much I love this medium, that's how much I want to make this work, but I need to find a way to turn my passion into sales."

Tap=Tap-Tap

Goes the sound of patient Danny Klecko's foot.

I mean seriously......I am practically giving the guy a lap dance.

My head continues to swivel between the piece I wanted to maybe buy, and the artist.

Back-Forth and Back Forth....I was so Linda Blair by this time.

The artist continued.......

"If people just understood that marble is so much more than sculptures, or reliefs for that matter. Marble can transcend these camps and create paintings like................."

I laughed out loud.

The old man looked up at me in wonder, but the artist......he just continued do his best to figure out a way he could get people interested in his passion.

Sigh

The 2 Worlds of Richard Broderick

I dunno............

Maybe its because it was Friday.

Maybe its because I had been up since 3 a.m.

It could be that the weather was determined not to break, and for the first time in my life, I felt as if Spring might be bypassed in its entirety.

I had just gotten off work, and it's around 4 p.m., and I'm sitting in the bread truck parked in the lot at Korte's Grocery talking on the phone.

The conversation was with a guy named Richard Broderick, and if my life depended on it.....I couldn't tell you why.....oh....lol, yeah I can, he wanted to know if I was going over to Poet Fergie's Pizza bake.

What are we, in the second week of April, right?

And small flakes of snow are floating down and melting on the parking lots asphalt.

I was deeply discouraged by the lack of sunshine. 

Richard Broderick is an interesting person to talk to for many reasons, one of which is that intellectually he's one of the sharpest people I...or you for that matter, will ever meet.

His mind is methodical and amazing.

Many times I revel in his opinions.

Other times I couldn't disagree more.

And sometimes it occurs to me that conversation wise.....I'm swimming in the deep end of the pool when I'm in his presence.

Sometimes he'll be in the middle of whatever it is he's discussing, and sometimes that portion of his topic might be 3 or 4 blocks beyond my comprehension.....but most of the times he'll see my wonder shrinking in the rear view mirror, and at that point he slams on the breaks, shifts into reverse and promptly backs up to my comprehension level.

It's good to have friends that challenges your mind.

It's good to have friends with bars set a view rungs higher than your own.

It's even better when that person also has the ability to make you laugh in the process.

The snow flakes are getting bigger now and small droplets of rain start to fall.

Then in a split second, it wasn't quite like a crucified Jesus sky, but almost....the sky grew very dark - really fast.

I had to chuckle because at this point  I half expected John Wayne to prance out in a centurion costume and announce.............

"Surely this must be the son of God."

Now I think the topic turned to Broderick's most recent obsession which is Dichos.

I don't want to come across like I am proficient on the topic, but from my understanding.....in Central or South America, often times people will paint ideals or slogans on their cars, maybe in the same way people in my country use bumper stickers.

So while Richard is explaining this and that about that and this...... the grocery store employees aren't necessarily giving me the evil eye, but they are kinda giving me the WTF are you doing sitting in a bread truck in our parking lot for 40 minutes....."don't you have anything better to do" look. 

Truth be told....my dogs need to be let out to pee.

My stomach is grumbling, but I'm really locked into this insight and I'm nervous that once this conversation is terminated, I'll go back to life per usual where my focus will be stolen away by red head heads and box scores.

OK....so now you've heard the build up to my epiphany.....and when Broderick said the following, I don't really remember the context, but I do remember that even though this idea he blurted out may have just been another thread in his Techno Color Coat of ideas....it was kinda an anthem for me.....................


I will give to you my inspiration in poem form -
  

THE BRODERICK VISION


There are two worlds


The first world is the real world
In which most poets exist
Yet nothing there is real


The second world is reality

--- the end ---

Mr Broderick.......if you care to elaborate further......feel free, but you had me at "Yet nothing there is real."

Observations From A Know It All

Now that we are around the 1/2 way point of March.....

I have had a little while to do a February postmortem.

February typically is a popular month for poetry readings.

For some reason literary people seem to think that February and Love Poems pair well.

I guess in theory this might be true.....but on the gritty streets of "Poets Are Lame Avenue", I gotta tell ya, I'm seeing just the oppisite.

During the "Love Month", I attended several readings and the observations I made this year were the same ones I've witnessed in the past.

Poets can be cowards.

And just as Johnny Cash once said.......

" I am the greatest sinner of all!"

Of all the Love Fests I've been scoping out, the presenters seemed more intent to get across the fact that they were edgy. The work they chose to present at these venues more often than not dealt with sex.

Love wasn't even mentioned.

As I have discussed this observation with my acquaintances from the bar stool....all the way to the church pew, I am starting to realize something with clarity.

Many people, most people are afraid, or uncomfortable at best to express what emotion lives in their heart.

Communicating love is a lost art form.....or did it ever even exist?

I don't know if people feel that pin pointing their emotion(s) is a sign of weakness, but it isn't.

Others have mentioned that expressing love is kinda like cooking with cilantro, it tastes great for a bite or two, but if the valve gets stuck, the flavor goes from splendid to unpalatable in the shake of a tail.

I am sure that every person -

Every venue......all have different perimeters.

But as poets, if we have just one responsibility in this guild, and to this world, shouldn't it be to celebrate love, and do our best to live within the actions we best feel define love?

Life is interesting friends, and nobody wants to be made a fool.

Some of us have suffered from the sting of Cupids arrow, but c'mon.......

People do have a good side -

People are capable of putting others needs in front of their own -

People were created to live within joy, not the opposite.

In closing, yeah-yeah....I get it.

Sex is wonderful, and nobody likes a bottle of Scotch or a fresh prescription of pain med's from Marcus Welby as much as me.......

But those aren't topics that merit launching fleets,folly and dreams.......

Love is our go to, and if a poet doesn't understand love......there's a bowling league close to you that would be happy to have your services..........

Alright, it's late so I'll step off my soap box, but before I do......

I love most of you guys!

Finley Plays Central Park

If you go to YouTube, and type in Paul Simon / Central Park.........

You will get to witness a moment in time that is nothing short of astonishing.

The concert was legendary, and I'm sure many of you recall it, but do you remember the scale of the concert grounds?

Do you really have a mental image of its magnitude?

The opening shot shows a stage from an aerial view.

The stage is set way back in the park, and the camera pans back to reveal that their is an ocean of people, I mean numbers so large, it would be impossible to even speculate the attendance.

About a football field in front of the stage is a jumbo-tron so the people 2 football fields away can get a glimpse of Paul and the band......

And a football field in front of that is yet another jumbo-tron for the people 3 football fields back.

All this technology -

All this attention -

Aimed in the direction on an unassuming little guy wrapped in a charcoal colored sports coat that he might of picked up at the Salvation Army.

Paul strums, sings....and you can feel the pressure mount.

At the 3 minute mark of this video, the camera zooms in as he delivers the line......

"There's a girl from New York City, she calls herself the human trampoline."

When the words "New York" pass his lips, the crowd are already anticipating this.... they pretty much go bat shit crazy.

If you watch real close, Paul smirks quick, and from this point, his countenance changes, a rough edge has worn off.

I think part of this is for no other reason than.......

At this exact moment, Paul Simon found his element.

He found it.....realized it, and then I'm guessing he savored it for a bit.

It is a wonderful image, and I have carried it in my thoughts for years.

Last Sunday afternoon, I witnessed something that was eerily similar.   

Sure, it might not have been on a stage the same size, in fact, the stage I'm talking about was barely big enough to hold 2 people.

What I'm referring to was the book launch of "OUT FOR A LARK", the newest project released by Finley and me.

We threw a party/reading at the SubText Bookstore in Saint Paul, and I gotta tell ya, the intimate space was packed wall to wall.

The counter was lined with graham crackers and boxed wine, it was a class event.

I've been on stages before where the crowds were bigger, but I gotta tell you.......

I've never read-cooked or preformed in front of a group that threw off a more loving vibe.

So many people came out to support us.

I don't say this often, but it is almost hard for me to find words to describe the moment because so much of it was surreal.

To me, the special part of this accomplishment was that I got to do this gig with Finley.

 And much like Paul Simon, there was a moment, maybe for a second or 2 when I saw the same look in Finley's eyes.

He had found his element too......

I hope he finds a way to put that fleeting memory in a bottle......

God that was a good day.

Possibly Finley's Finest Moment..................

University Club Svengali

The Poet Finley stood irreverent

Bypassing the podium

Insensitive to protocol

Replacing verse

With an account of loss

The stage became a confessional

Of which he took full advantage

By starting off the evening

Announcing he’d fired God

He didn't qualify as agnostic

He didn't convert to atheism

He fully believed in a supreme being

And terminated this companion

In ceremony and silence

Half the audience became unnerved

Pointing out, that heresy starts off

When manners become unleashed

But the rest of us fell into a trance

Knowing what our dear friend had lost

Finley Drops the "F" Bomb...in Guideposts?

I think it was 100 below zero last night, and pretty much the entire state of Minnesota is in hibernation.

I knew that my calling was to go to the gym, but that little cartoon devil that lives over my left shoulder whispered in my ear.......

"Call Finley, he'll be home, and who knows...he might distract your intentions and you might not have to go back into the cold."

The conversation started with....

"Hello, Mike Finley here."

But in no time flat, we were discussing the unthinkable.

I think it started with a joke about a religious book of poems. A parody where Christ and his friends would be featured in a roast like fashion.

Perhaps the project would start off with the Jews getting hyped up before the big Psalm Sunday / Passover Parade, you know....the one where Jesus enters into the city on a donkey while everybody tosses leaves into the street..

The Jews (from my recollection) weren't that excited about heaven as much as they wanted to see Rome pushed off the rails......

Anyways, Finley suggested that a good title might be.......

"Christ Without An Ass."

And in our featured story, we would talk about the pain even a Messiah can encounter when they suffer the equivalent to us losing their car keys on the moment of a big event.

I guess you had to be there, but none the less.....we were entertained, and I would like to think a host of angels smiled as well.

Then we starting talking about Billy Graham, and both of us voiced our concern as to his current state.

It's been awhile since his upstart kid took over the ministry, but for whatever reason....the Billy Graham Foundation seems to be pulling the old buck out for photo ops, and truth be told......

The pics that the shooter is getting of are not all that enticing.

These images appear like cardboard cut outs of a confused and bumbling man.

It's hard for me to hold them in contrast with..................

The man who led crusades across the planet -

The man who served as spiritual advisor to American Presidents -

The man who saw beauty in Nixon -

The man who answered the little girl who asked "Do puppies go to heaven?" to which he replied "If you want them to, I'll bet they do." -

So now Finley shifts the topic once again........

"Remember his publication Guide Posts? I wonder if they even publish that anymore, anyways...I actually had one of more stories published in Guide Posts."

So now I just sit there in the hum of silence, because in person Finley can lead you down the trail of well intended deception, but over the phone......

I remarked how much I enjoyed reading about Martin Sheen's conversion. It was appealing to me since Guide Posts seldom pointed towards Catholics, they were more "Born Again" in ideology. So when they reported on How Sheen (a.k.a. Captain Willard) had a real life heart attack, mental breakdown and survived a typhoon, all on the set of Apocalypse Now...I really dug this.

Finley listened to my entire take, but when I was finished, he returned to his own..................

"In the submission I sent to Guide Posts....I had the word (FUCK) in my story. As you can guess, they edited it out, but the process was awkward. They knew I was a professional writer, and they knew that the (FUCK) word made sense to the story, but Guide Posts is Guide Posts which meant they had to take a moment to contact me and act unaffected by the editing."

I can't tell you how hard I laughed, in fact...now I felt justified for skipping my workout.

"Only you would F-Bomb Guide Post." I said, but Finley returned a logical explanation....

"It's not like I wrote the story specifically for them, so when I sent it out, I never stopped to think they would be getting a story with the word fuck in it."

Over the course of the next hour, we talked about other world changing topics, but I think you've heard enough for now.

The following is the story that inspired the F-Bomb story....however, the obscenities have been removed for your comfort....enjoy.


Sometimes the future and the past switch places in our lives. What went before foretells what is to come. And the future smiles back, and explains the past. My family experienced a tragedy when I was 11 -- my sister Kathy, who was born with a leaky heart valve, passed away. Her life had been tough in many ways. She could never exercise, her baby teeth never fell out, and her skin was grayish from poor circulation -- she was called a "bluebaby," and kids made fun of her for that. It's a condition that medicine found a simple cure for, to be administered at birth -- a few months after she was born. Kathy was a girl of great gentleness and sweetness. She was a painter and drawer, and a lover of horses. All my childhood, my job, and my brother Pat's, was to run and fetch things for her, because she did not have the strength. She was a sophomore in high school when she went into a coma and died. Her death made for a stormy adolescence for me. I stopped going to church, I got into trouble with the law, I became a bit of a hard case. Now fast-forward into the future, to my 15th high school reunion, in 1982. I returned to my small town with a bad attitude, determined to show people how far I had come -- not financially (I was broke) but in daring and worldliness. I drank with old girlfriends, I kissed my old prom date on the lips. I pissed off their husbands, on purpose. I had too much to drink, and I saw, at the bar, a big kid I remembered from grade school, Jack Mussina. He was the class psycho, built like an adult even as a kid, with a brutal jawline and a dead look in his eyes. In sixth, seventh, and eight grades, Mussina made my life miserable, chasing me on the playground, throwing me up against walls, and slapping and pummeling me. He hated me for some reason I didn't understand, and saw me as an appropriate victim. That's what bothered me the most -- I did not want to be a victim of anything. Taking courage from the liquor, I challenged him. "Mussina, what made you hate me so much in grade school? I wasn't a bad kid. What did I ever do to you?" Mussina winced. "Hey, man, I'm sorry. I was so crazy in those days. I had all kinds of problems." But I wouldn't let him off so easy. "OK, but why me? Why did you choose me to pick on?" He looked at me levelly, and I could tell something still bothered him. "Because you laughed at your sister's funeral." I flashed backward. I was excruciatingly self-conscious the day of the funeral. I was upset about Kathy, and I didn't want people peering in on our problems. But the funeral was a big event in the town. My whole school, St. Joseph's, was taking time off to attend. I remember glancing about during the service, looking for reassurance from my classmates that they wouldn't always know me by this moment. That this wouldn't mark me forever. I'm sure I tried to smile. It was a terrible day. Back to 1982. "Jack," I told him. "I wasn't laughing. I loved my sister, but it was no one's business but mine. I must have smirked, but you have to know I was dying inside. " "I know, Mike. I loved her, too." So that's what it was. When all the other kids called Kathy bluebaby, or warned her about the purple people eater, Mussina was her avenger. He beat up a dozen kids, and some of them must have said something. He showed his devotion the only way he could -- with his fists. When she died, he transferred his enmity to me. Out of love. Mussina went to Vietnam and was a behavior problem there, spending time in the brig. Now he was better, and counseled other vets with emotional disorders. And me, after what seemed like a lifetime of being alone, I met and married my best friend Rachel. Rachel, too, went through the mill, losing her father at 16. It's been an interesting marriage, because we are so gentle with one another, so aware of the old pain. Sometimes it seems like we are brother and sister. Now fast-forward to the present. My daughter Daniele, whose face so resembles my sister, is now her age, when she died. When I think of my sister's terror at that age, I can't help crying. I have a good one about once a month. And as I try to prepare Daniele for the long future ahead of her, I am so grateful for her health. You can not believe how rosy her complexion is, on a crisp December day like today. Or how embarrassed her brilliant color sometimes makes her. Or how beautiful it looks to me.

-   the end   -

Diane Arbus

"A photograph is a secret about a secret. The more it tells you the less you know."

Diane Arbus (1923-1971), U.S. photographer. Quoted in Patricia Bosworth, Diane Arbus: A Biography, Preface (1985).


Hello Friends,

Recently I have been working on a poem that Diane Arbus makes a cameo in. This inspired me to spend some time looking at her art work and reading a little more about what she was about.

My question of the day is................

do you agree with her statement, and if so, would this apply to your poetry as well?