JOHN MAYALL R.I.P..

John Mayall became one of my favorite music makers the first time I heard his band The Bluesbreakers debut album in 1966. I thought he was the coolest, sexiest, most authentic of all the Brit blues rockers, including all the future stars who passed through his bands and whose talent he mentored and nurtured, like Clapton and Mick Taylor and three of the founding members of Fleetwood Mac.

I loved his later jazz blues fusions and was eternally grateful to be introduced to the awesome talent of violinist Gene "Sugarcane" Harris et al. And after I moved to LA was lucky enough to meet him, through his then wife Maggie (they were together for over 30 years before splitting I believe) who I adored, like everyone else did. 

They lived in one of those houses in the hills that from the street seem to be one story but when you get inside you realize it's hanging from a cliff and goes down two stories with a pool at the bottom and a beam sticking out over the pool a story or two up with a rope at the end of it you could drop into the pool from. Not me!

I remember sitting at a small bar top in the room overlooking the pool, with him behind it, and noticing a silvery sculpture hanging above his haad that seemed to have the tines of a fork sticking out of one spot. I asked him who the sculptor was, and he said a house fire in his Laurel Canyon home a few years before. It was melted silverware. How cool to turn at least one small part of that tragedy into art.

My deepest condolences to his family friends and fans. Rest In Peace John Mayall.

NEW FAVORITE MEME

 

YES

 

HIMSELF

 

My Irish immigrant grandfather "Iron Mike" Lally, at two different stages of his career as a policeman, allegedly the first one in my New Jersey hometown. The story was  that my grandmother got the police doctor to get him an early retirement before he got kicked off the force for hanging in saloons when he was supposed to be on duty. My older relatives in the clan, in the Irish tradition, always referred to him as "himself" as when telling me "Sure if you don't look like himself."

OLD FRIENDS

 
Me and Kale Browne celebrating his 75th birthday and our 41 years of friendship. [photo by Cristi Zea, my shoulder purse made by one of my housemate/caregivers (partner to my son Miles) Hannah Bracken]

GEOFFREY YOUNG'S POETRY

To see why Geoff Young is one of my favorite poets (and people), check out these Youngian sonnets:

https://www.relegationbooks.com/article/five-poems-young/ 

HAPPY INDEPENDENCE DAYS

My adult grandchild Deak celebrating at a PRIDE festival recently where they were face painting others and did this to their self: "channeling David Bowie" as they said. Proud of their independence, as I am all my kids and grandkids.

AND AGAIN

 
SAY IT AGAIN An Autobiography In Sonnets, my latest book, came out this year, 2024, and now the year is half over and as far ss I know there haven't been any reviews or even mentions in publications that pay any attention to poetry. But there have been (as pointed out by friends) some amazing reviews on Amazon, for which I am totally grateful.

This book is the result of decades of work and according to some readers is as easy to read as watching a movie. In this case a documentary about how the impact of music, poetry, art, culture, politics, and life experience changed a working-class ethnic wannabe tough guy into an anti-war, civil rights, feminist gay liberation activist.   

If you haven't read it yet, give it a shot. If you have and you enjoyed it, spread the word however you can. Not just for me, but for Beltway Editions, the small press that published it (and may then publish the sequels in the future). And for all the creative souls that pour their hearts and hard work into something hopefully meaningful.

DONALD SUTHERLAND R.I.P.

 
The photo is Donald Sutherland and Karen Allen in ANIMAL HOUSE. The only time I remember meeting him was in 1978 at the party after the premier of that movie where longtime close friend Karen introduced us and we partied for a while. I remember being struck by how tall he was and how much more handsome he was in person than onscreen. 

I already admired his acting, especially in DON'T LOOK NOW, a favorite movie back then. When ORDINARY PEOPLE came out a few years later, I thought his performance in it was one of the most impressive feats in screen acting history. His character transforms so gradually that you have to go back and watch it again to realize how minutely calibrated each of his scenes are to illustrate the changes (and how much more amazing that is for scenes shot out of sequence).

R.I.P. DONALD SUTHERLAND

BELATED

 SAY HEY JUNETEENTH!

FATHERS DAY

Years ago, poet and dear friend Don Yorty filmed me in my then Jersey apartment home reading my poem tribute to my long gone father, called SPORTS HEROES COPS AND LACE. I wanted to repost it here, but my infirmities makes figuring out how to do that and then doing it extremely challenging (I've had to correct my mostly one-finger typing while writing this again and again etc.). It's on Vimeo, if anybody would like to hear it.

MALACHY MCCOURT, JEROME ROTHENBERG, DAVID SHAPIRO,, TOM BOWER R.I.P.

We're halfway through the year, and I haven't marked the passing of some contemporaries (more or less). Partly because it's physically challenging these days (which is why I no longer post daily). First was Malachy McCourt, Frank's brother, who became famous first, as a raconteur bartender and popular guest on THE TONIGHT SHOW getting him backers for his own Manhattan bar, and later acting jobs in movies and on TV. 

Before Frank published his classic memoir ANGELA'S ASHES, I saw them both perform in the original version of that story, each playing multiple roles of the people in their Irish childhood, including women in kerchiefs and shawls, in a church basement to a small audience. Malachy later published his own memoir, A MONK SWIMMING, which came out around the same time as my poetry collection CANT BE WRONG, in the late '90s. We did a reading for the books in a San Francisco bar and restaurant. That's a photo of us with our friend the writer/scholar, and long gone Dan Cassidy (me with Dan on my left and Malachy my right).

Then two poet/scholars I knew passed, Jerome Rothenberg and David Shapiro. Jerome had a great impact on my generation of poets with his anthologies of world poetry focusing on the work of indigenous peoples. His own poetry impactful as well. When my SOUTH ORANGE SONNETS first came out in 1972, he sent me a postcard praising them (in my archives at NYU). He was a kind and gracious person.

David Shapiro had an impact on our generation as well.  We were both Jersey boys, but from such different backgrounds I was sometimes a bit chip--on-my-shoulder confrontational with him. He had the kind of articulate wit I didn't, and early success as a teen in the poetry world where he was admired as a "poet's poet" and in the academic world. But in the end we had much more in common than our home state and poetry (and music, him classical me jazz), including Parkinson's which he suffered from for many years with a kind of acceptance and even nobility which I can only aspire to.

And most recently Tom Bower, an actor I knew and greatly admired, and could fairly be called an "actor's actor" if he hasn't been already. You may not know his name but  you've most likely seen him in a movie or on TV. In my encounters with him, he was always so easy to get along with, both humble and grounded, never arrogant or self-centered as I could often be back in the day. I liked him and hoped he liked me.

May all of the above Rest In Prose, Poetry, Performance, and Peace.

"COLLECTIBLE"

The event on  Saturday went wonderfully. The set up was perfect. Familiar Trees, the venue, is a small one-story building in Great Barrington  with two rooms, one the bookstore and the other an art gallery. The gallery, where the musicians and me were set up, has a garage door which was open so the audience mostly sitting outside could see us.

There was a great sound system including a great mic for me with a monitor in front of me so I could hear myself clearly and see by the audience's reactions that they were understanding what I was saying. In the over six decades I've been reading my poetry to audiences my usual m.o. is to bring a ton of poems and decide what I'll read as I'm reading, depending on the audience reactions.

Butt I can't handle books or stacks of paper very well anymore plus my uncontrollable drooling makes a mess of a book's pages or smudges the ink on paper copies. So my son Miles helped me pick the poems and printed them out in big type and put the pages in transparent plastic sleeves, which it turned out were easier for me to turn in the looseleaf binder he put them in.

He (on electric bass) and Brian Kantor (drums) were set up behind me and Wes Buckley (on guitar) off to my left, so I had nothing to distract me between me and the listeners, which included my other two kids, Caitlin and Flynn, in the first row cheering me on. After I opened with a relatively recent poem ("I Meant To") the musicians joined in, fabulously improvising until the last line of the last poem.

 We got a standing o and everyone, old friends new friends and future friends, seemed to have enjoyed it. Turns out it was recorded and there's even some iPhone video, which I will post when it becomes available. Though I think you had to be there to get the full impact. There were several extravagant compliments thrown around, but the best one may have been: "Now that was a collectible".

FYI

Overwhelmed with gratitude for all your birthday wishes. Meanwhile, if you're in the Berkshires this Saturday (I'm guessing my last in person poetry reading cause it's just becoming tooo difficult):

DREAM HEADLINE

 Newspaper headline in a dream last night:

7 INCHES OF SNOW EXPECTED IN BURBANK

MORE MEMORIES

 
There're no photos of my mother (the class of the clan who I adored) and me without one or more of my siblings around. Here's a good example c. 1954. Me in Hawaiin shirt with my three brothers to my right, Franciscan friar Father Campion (Tommy) behind our mother, music teacher Buddy (James), his wife Catherine with their baby Cathy down in front, and cop Robert, leaning over his wife Sis (Marie).

In front of me is my Grandma Dempsey, my mother's mother who lived with us, and my sisters Irene and Joan (with pixie haircut), our dad sitting on the arm of our couch. I grew up in a crowd. 

JUNE 1ST EVENT

 i don’t do poetry readings in person any more

or even go to them or other public events,

there’s too many challenges, physical (weak voice

and tightening jaw, muddling pronunciation,

urgent unexpected needs, etc.) and mental

(anxiety, confusion etc.) from parkinson’s

and that 2009 brain operation for the tapeworm

that got into my brain and died and they had to

go in and cut out (which I never explicitly named

to not put that image in my youngest’s child’s

and grandchildren’s heads, or other loved ones,

but now, with the kennedy revelation it’s in

everyone’s heads, so i can name it)

but

i was asked to take part in an event with my oldest son Miles

so

I’ll be doing my best to read some poetry of mine

(and  to make it more of a challenge)

with improvised music by Sound For

(featuring Wes Buckley, Brian Kantor, and Miles Lally)

Saturday June 1st at 5pm

at

Familiar Trees 

80 Railroad St.

Great Barrington, MA

01230

if you’re in or around the berkshires then

i’d love to see you there

MEMORIES

 
The way members of my clan watched our new thirteen inch black-and-white TV when I was a kid. That's me in front, my sister Joan behind me, my next door cousin Marylynn in white with our down-the-street cousin Micki behind her, and our next town (Orange) cousin Rosemary behind Micki, and on the couch my mom and Aunt Rose, a widowed single parent to Rosemary (Rose had a day job so Rosemary spent most of her time with us), and my brother Robert. There's also my mother's mother who lived with us and more siblings and cousins out of frame.

PAUL AUSTER R.I.P.

 

We met in 1970s NYC, and discovered we grew up in the same town in Jersey but on different sides of it, and at slightly different times (he's five years younger). Despite my sometimes arrogant persona, he seemed always friendly and tolerant and a little amused by my relentless attempts to share the truth I thought only I could decipher.

I liked him, his writing, and like everyone else, his sexy smokey eyes. My favorite book is his INVENTION OF SOLITUDE, maybe because he writes about the town that made us homeboys of sorts, but with two distinctly different perspectives. Grateful to have known him. Condolences to his family, friends, and many fans.

BREATH CONTROL 12/80

So grateful that John Newt sent me this recording of me in my prime (1980, at 38) reading some of my poems and a story, demonstrating the breath control I learned from studying Frank Sinatra's and John Coltrane's techniques. 

<iframe src="https://archive.org/embed/mma222-01" width="500" height="60" frameborder="0" webkitallowfullscreen="true" mozallowfullscreen="true" allowfullscreen></iframe>

[archiveorg mma222-01 width=640 height=60 frameborder=0 webkitallowfullscreen=true mozallowfullscreen=true]

HERITAGE UPDATE

My maternal grandfather, Tom Dempsey, died when I was a little boy, but I remember him. I knew he was known as "the silver thrush" for his singing and that he had owned a tavern in Newark where he and my grandma Dempsey lived until she was widowed and moved in with us. 

But I never realized he was actually a vaudeville headliner back in the 1800s until my niece Lisa shared scrapbooks handed down to her mother, my sister Irene, and I saw these programs. What a delight to now picture my grandfather when watching classic movies with vaudeville scenes, like YANKEE DOODLE DANDY or GYPSY et al.

TIME TRIPPING

 
This photo, shared recently by poet friend Greg Masters, I think is from a display of Dennis Cooper's Little Caesar Press archives at NYU, back in the 2000s. NYU also houses my archives, but fortunately I found a copy of this Little Caesar magazine #11 from 1980, on my bookshelves.

The cover photo is by early SNL photographer and friend, Edie Baskin, and inside part of the contents are two interviews Tim Dlugos did with me, one extended daytime session and a shorter one in his car at night riding back to Manhattan from a poetry reading we'd done (with Kevin Killian) on Long Island. 

We were stoned  for the latter and I probably was for the daytime one too. I hadn't read it since the mag came out over forty years ago and felt like a visitor from a distant planet, trying to decipher meanings and tone and intentions and pretensions and self awareness and self indulgence.

Made me miss Tim more than ever. Those were the days. As are these.

ME AND MY SIBS

 
Another photo of me and my siblings during World War Two. Back row, left to right, Buddy, Tommy holding me, Robert; front row, Irene and Joan. They're all gone now, but what an impact they had on me as a boy.

JOHN SINCLAIR R.I.P.

I first encountered the poet John Sinclair in 1965 through the mail while I was still in the military stationed outside Spokane, Washington. I wrote in my latest book, SAY IT AGAIN (#76 in The Spokane Sonnets), "John Sinclair, editor of a Detroit little mag, rejects / some poems I submit but writes: Who are you? / I reply angrily I’m the writing you rejected."

I didn't know at the time he was my age, 23, but as we both became anti Vietnam war activists in the years that followed I admired his attempt to  bring the rock-n-roll world we grew up in into the anti-war movement. I organized some anti-war rock shows in DC, but he managed the MC5 and co-founded The White Panthers as allies to The Black Panthers, and fought for legalizing marijuana.

He got a ten year prison sentence for sharing two joints with an undercover cop in 1969, and the campaign to free him succeeded in '71. I finally met him in person shortly after when we did a poetry reading together and he was sweet and supportive. A 'sixties icon. Rest In Poetry brother.

 

EASTER 1944

 
My siblings and me (another one, between me and my closest sister, died as an infant thus the bigger step down to me) on Easter 1944 during WWII. Me soon to be two, and my two oldest brothers joining the military before the war ended. All gone now, except for me.

MARJORIE PERLOFF R.I.P.

 
Marjorie Perloff was an unparalleled scholar and interpreter of the avant-garde in the arts of the 20th century, especially poetry. I first encountered her in my DC days of the early 1970s. I take pride in her championing my early poetry book ROCKY DIES YELLOW and the poetry anthology I edited NONE OF THE ABOVE, praising my most notorious poem then, "My Life", in The Washington Post.

She was more critical of my later work and we had other differences of opinion, which I arrogantly gave her shit about when we both lived in L.A. in the '80s and "90s and I went to her home there. The thing I appreciated most about Marjorie was the twinkle in her eye when she gave me shit back.

She was an extraordinary person, someone to learn about for women's history month, which is every month for me, just like black history month and poetry month and pride month etc. 

[And if you're wondering, my blog obits are about my take on my personal connection to the subjects, the facts of their lives otherwise available online.]  

WORLD POETRY DAY

 

HAPPY SAINT PADDY'S

Here's my top five favorite Irish films in chronological order based on the era they're set in:

BLACK 47

THE WIND THAT SHAKES THE BARLEY

THE SECRET OF ROAN INISH

THE COMMITMENTS

ONCE

AMEN

 

A T'OUSAND T'ANKS

 
Don't know if you noticed, but at the end of Cillian Murphy's Best Actor Oscar acceptance speech, he spoke in the Irish language to say: A thousand thank you's ("Go raibh mile maith agat"). My dear friend Terence Winch pointed out that's probably the first time the Irish language was spoken at an Oscar awards show.

The Irish were one of the first peoples colonized and occupied (still, partially) and subjected to genocide (including the misnamed "famine") and penalized (for close to a thousand years) by the English for just being who they are, which included almost totally eliminating their language. So whatever your thoughts on nationalism are, I felt in that moment like what Murphy described himself as a little earlier in his speech: "A proud Irishman" (even if just from growing up with Irish immigrant grandparents).

2024 MOVIE AWARDS

I haven't seen all the movies up for awards this season, but here's my reactions to what I've seen so far.

AMERICAN FICTION. Most original and satisfying movie of, and my pick for best flick of, 2023. (I've read critics saying it doesn't live up to the book. I haven't read the book but found this stinging satire seriously clever and witty, in the best historic sense of those words.)

PAST LIVES. Another unexpectedly unique story, subtly compelling and impactful. My choice for best director and original screenplay, both by Celine Song. 

THE HOLDOVERS. A story we've seen variations of before maybe, but so well done on every level it shines like the gem it is. Including the acting, especially Da'Vine Joy Randolph, my choice for best supporting actor of 2023.

KILLERS OF THE FLOWER MOON. Epic filmmaking at it's best, and redemption for Scorcese with me after the catastrophe of THE IRISHMAN (so-called). Though I would have preferred spending all that time with the Osage characters (especially Lily Gladstonee who I hope gets the Oscar) and following the story completely from their perspective, rather than focusing so much time and energy on the perspective of the white men and their evil. But at least Scorcese was able to keep DiNiro mostly in character with only a few inappropriate DiNiroisms. 

OPPENHEIMER. Another epic film expertly done (by Christopher Nolan). My pick for best cinematography (Hoyte van Hoytema). And so many great performances (Robert Downey Jr. my pick for the still binary Oscar for presents-as-male best supporting actor). Cillian Murphy impressive as always.

BARBIE. Greta Gerwig should have been Oscar nominated for pulling this product promotion satire off at all, let alone so stylishly. And Margot Robbie is, as always, the main reason to watch any film she's in. Some laughs and poignancy. Best costumes and production design.

NYAD. In almost any other year this would win multiple Oscars. Especially for best actor and supporting actor for Annette Bening and Jody Foster. Watching them play off each other is a master (air quotes) class in film acting. Unexpectedly engaging despite it being a lot of watching someone swim.

MAESTRO. Bradley Cooper should win a special award for best multi-tasker (directing starring co-writing co-producing). I thought he did a pretty great job, considering all the possible (and real) pitfalls. Again in almost any other year this would win a bunch of Oscars.

POOR THING. Starts out unappealingly, for me, trying too hard at calling attention to its artistic credentials, but Emma Stone is so spectacular in her performance I stuck it out to experience a lot of satisfying scenes. There are so many amazing performances in the best "actress" category this year, they all should win.

RUSTIN. Bio-pics are always full of challenges (as part of the story, and of the film making), and this one doesn't surmount them all. But Coleman Domingo is so good as the title historic character, he transcends the genre liabilities. In the binary Oscar world he's my choice for "best actor". 

THE COLOR PURPLE. Some amazing scenes and performances, but didn't have the impact my friends who saw it on Broadway said that rendition did. Coleman Domingo displays his incredible range, as do many others, but for me the lyrics were sometimes too thin for the otherwise energetic production  numbers, and the movement of the story seemed off at times. Still an intense experience.  

INDIANA JONES AND THE DIAL OF DESTINY. Surprisingly not bad for this late in the game.  And worth watching to see my longtime friend Karen Allen, as Marion Ravenwood, elevate the climactic scene to a level that complements while even surpassing Marion's first appearance on screen in RAIDERS. A very satisfying full circle.

AMERICAN SYMPHONY. I haven't seen the nominated documentaries, but my fave doc of '23 that I have seen is this one. Highly recommend.

REUBEN JACKSON R.I.P.

I left DC in 1975, before I could get to know Reuben, but I knew of him in later years, and we've been Facebook friends for awhile. He was a beloved figure in the DC and wider poetry community, and will be sorely missed. To understand a little why, please read this terrific tribute to him. Rest In Poetry Reuben.

WASHINGTONCITYPAPER.COM

When the Music Stopped: Remembering Reuben Jackson

“He was jazz,” says author Kwame Alexander of poet and jazz scholar Reuben Jackson, who died on Feb. 16. He leaves behind a legacy.

HAPPY DAYS

My firstborn child, Caitlin, arrived on this date in 1968. Here I am with her days later, still astounded by the miracle. 
 

A FAVORITE MEME

 

HIT MAN COOL

 

I played a lot of bad guys on TV in the 1980s and '90s. Here's one, a mob hit man on the witness stand in an episode of LA LAW. [Thanx to Sue Brennan for the photos.]

FIFTY YEARS AGO TODAY

 VALENTINE

for Karen A. 

It was a gorgeous day to wander around Georgetown.

I didn’t. I got up early, “wrote” a “book,”

listened to some “classical” music like Liszt and Couperin,

Buchanan and Dylan, read about a marriage that 

by not being a real marriage at all turned out to be

a beautiful true marriage—what has “true”

got to do with “real” anyway—like today,

what has today got to do with me and you 

besides the way it makes me feel full

the way you can do, brings the good things

people say the country offers right here to the city

for a countryphobe like me, so I leave my music and words

and catch the street. Everyone’s out today!

Claudia! Ed! Terry! Henry! Ralph! I wish I was

as bright as the day, so after a while of being dazzled

I go home and take a shower with all the windows open

and I shave and jump around to the good sounds—

I remember to take the huge heart shaped box of candy,

I bought it for the kids, out of the bag and put it

somewhere where it won’t melt. I drink some milk

and eat some cheese, think about all the people

I should write a poem to for “Valentine’s Day,”

for “Washington’s Birthday,” for this wonderful weather

the world gives us despite our arrogance and

belligerence toward it, but I notice the time and

there is no time! Got to run, so I do, 

in some new shoes that hurt my toes, but the rest of

my clothes feel fine, and I know I am, on the street again

paying homage to the sun with my grin. I feel like

Ted Berrigan walking with my head held high, jaunty

like Hollywood English types, and a little mischievous too,

thinking about how I can do something fun and funny for you

like the sun is doing for me as I strut. There’s

my car! I haven’t seen it in almost 24 hours

so I throw it a kiss because I’m not a good owner

but I love it and that seems to keep something going.

I get in ready to cruise these canals to your veranda

or something Eddie Arnold and ’30s Hollywood like that,

only the corner of my eye catches the bank clock and

surprise! (Spencer Tracy in A Man’s Castle with

Loretta Young I think, swimming nude!) It’s 4:15 PM!

I can’t believe it! I go into Discount Books to look

for Terry to check. He’s not there but someone

I don’t know says “Hi Mike!” so I say “Hi. Do you know

what time it is?” and he looks at his watch and says

“Well, the government says it’s four twenty but

it’s really three twenty . . .” and some more words.

I don’t hear them thinking about you and ”true” and

“real” and wondering what he meant the “real” time

and what was “mine” . . . You should be there because

it’s almost 5:30 in my life, but in the bank’s and

the guy who knows my name it’s only 4:30 and somewhere

out in abstract city it’s “really” only 3:30. Maybe

that’s why it’s so warm. I back up, back home, back

to back Dylan charms me to the typewriter where

I write to you to kill the time and to say

“Wontchu be my valentine?” 

(C) 1974 Michael Lally

[written, under peak Frank O'Hara influence, to lifelong dearest friend Karen Allen (poet and novice actor I had fallen in love with in 1973) on Valentine's Day 1974 in Washington DC where you could then park overnight in our Dupont Circle neighborhood without fear of getting a ticket...] 

ALMOST 20

 
Me at 19, with my buddy Murph during basic training in Texas in March 1962, two months before turning 20. [this photo is in my new book, SAY IT AGAIN (Beltway Editions)]

SAY IT AGAIN

 
Now available, my latest book, SAY IT AGAIN: An Autobiography In Sonnets (Beltway Editions). Been working on this since 1960, one way or another. This contains all of my location sonnets covering my first thirty years ("Volume 1, The Road Goes Away") focusing mainly on the 1960s. Some published before, most not or revised, now chronologically correct and meant to be read like any autobiography or memoir, A personal cultural, social, and political history of my  times. 

[The book cover photo is me at 29 in early 1972, taken by Len Randolph.]

YEP

 

One of my favorite authors. I usually don't post quotes when the source publication is not cited, but this definitely sounds like her.

FINDING YOUR ROOTS

 
FINDING YOUR ROOTS is one of my favorite TV shows. I love  to watch people discover ancestors they didn't know they had which changes their perspective on who they themselves are. The other night watching the host, Henry Louis Gates, reveal the past to guests Sammy Hagar (fascinating revelations) and Ed O'Neil (more subtly fascinating reveals), one of the latter's not that distant ancestor's maiden name turned out to be Lally. She came from a different part of Ireland than my grandfather Lally, but no doubt this makes me and O'Neil some kind of distant cousins. Why am I not surprised?

[The photo is me and O'Neil on a set for the short-lived TV series THE BIG APPLE, where I played a priest and O'Neil a detective. I had had dinner with him once, so we knew each other a little.] 

SOME POEMS

 Four poems of mine just came online on the Relegation site. Check them out here.

PERSONAL HISTORY

MY MLK SONNET

When Martin Luther King is shot I feel the

sudden shift in the atmosphere, like trying to

breathe underwater. It's been three years since

Malcom X’s assassination and my new radical

friends and reading have opened my eyes to the

realities of class in the USA. Malcolm verbally

attacked white folks with impunity, but the

minute he decided it was not about race but

about the poor and the wealthy, BAM! King

spends years fighting racism and despite attempts

on his life and tons of threats seemed invulner-

able, but as soon as he organizes a poor people’s

campaign talking about the haves and have-nots,

BAM! I wonder if the Marxists have it right.

(C) 2023 from SAY IT AGAIN (Beltway Editions 2024)

XMAS '23

 

I raised my kids (as a single parent and shared-custody parent) to not stress over holidays and birthdays. If their in-laws or other parent or whoever wanted them to share the day with them we'd find another day to celebrate, which means our Xmases have often been celebrated in January. But this year it worked out to celebrate together the day before Xmas, so here we are in my living room, my three kids, Flynn (in tee shirt), Caitlin, and Miles, behind me, my grandkids Donovan and Deak (short sleeves) on the floor in front of me, and Monk looking over us from  the other room. 

2023 HIGHLIGHTS

 
Two singer/songwriter albums released in 2023 that I had some connection to: Peter Case's DOCTOR MOAN, and Billy Keane's OH, THESE DAYS. Peter, longtime dear friend, included an adaptation of a poem of mine ("Give Me Five Minutes More" the title from a very different popular song in my 1940s boyhood) on his lp. While Billy, friend of my oldest son and my housemate and caretaker Miles (with his partner Hannah Bracken) had Miles playing bass on every song on his record. Well worth checking out.