Good Fortune - Manny Blacksher

You may remember Manny Blacksher from the ALSO THAT Poetry Contest I held last year. You may also remember him from the ebook of his poetry I published here on the site. I'm proud to share his beautiful words with everyone today. 

Manny Blacksher is an editor, freelance copy writer, and researcher living in Birmingham, Alabama. His poems have appeared in Measure, Unsplendid, Works & Days, Digital Americana, and The Guardian's Online Poetry Workshop. He had the exceeding good fortune for Mick Theebs to design his mini-chapbook, earthly Sharpness, in 2015. He is now revising a full-length manuscript.

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Check out this video of Manny reading his poem 'The Procession'.

Editing for Heartache

In Chapter 3, you mastered the “Old-New Contract”
and combined it with strong characters and actions
to give a gas utility shut-off notice
clarity and grace. Think of how a typical
“Dear-John” letter obscures purpose and fixed resolve
with abstractions and meaningless modal phrases:

4.1.A
    Hey, I know things haven’t been good lately. I mean, 
    we tried what Dr. Floss advised. I think we both
    know it’s just not working out. God, I’m sorry, but
    I’ve got to go away. I need some time alone.
        
I’ll bet you’re shaking your head. The lover has missed
a chance to tell the dumpee they will never fix
concrete problems, and the dumper cannot be swayed
to go on with their irreparably damaged
coupling. The letter needs help from a confident
prose editor. Let’s sink our teeth into this draft
and make the story both lucid and dramatic.

4.1.B
    Dear Aubrey,

            I have been thinking of us. A lot.

    We agreed with Dr. Floss to give ourselves six
    weeks to make the important changes we discussed.

You still don’t clean the tub. I found more pubic hairs.
You forgot to pay the electric bill. Again!
Last week, I went down on someone from Marketing.

    Clearly, neither of us wants this relationship
    to change. I hold it annulled by common consent.
    Appeals will be considered for forty-eight hours.
    Please contact me with any questions. 

                        Yours truly,

 

Precision Finish by Cimex

Good that you and I should like surprise.
Repaved, familiar speedways feel new
to old drivers. We gauge each other through
quick looks, customary jokes, apprise
the field: road-worn but going odds are under-            
valued. We’ve bright eyes, firm smiles. We’ll
take Manhattans, and, later, should we feel
the itch, a room to run that circuit. Blunders
of drifting hard through curves have taught us all
the risks incurred by transport on strange beds— 
but what bed’s not strange if one doesn’t park
alone to cool beneath clean sheets? Infested
mattresses race with other bodies, remark
jumping thighs, fast times never bested.

The Procession

When they had rested, Jesus left that place,
But Ethel came behind him saying, Lord,
You’ve left your coat, and he replied, I’ll get
Another coat in Pergamum to last
For all the ages. Blessed be the fleece
Of Pergamum. All praise the tailors there,
The skillful needles. Narrow eyes can see            
How best to sew a button. Dust rose up

Before their watchful feet and kissed the sky.
When they had reached the hill where is a well,
They saw a multitude of Pharisees
All spitting beans at ghosts and crying out,
Leave us, Accursed! The Chosen One beheld
These fearful scribes and laughed aloud. He said,
You must not vex the dead, but come away
With me. They went with him but brought their beans.

Upon the road, a stone rolled hard against
The thigh of one whom Jesus loved. Hold up,
I’ve hurt my leg, said the Disciple. Wait,
My thigh is very sore, he told the Lord.
Let’s see how bad it is. The Son of Man
Put forth his hand and touched inside the wound.
I fear I may not walk. But Christ said, Thou
Will soon feel better. Don’t be a baby.
        
Later, they approached a market where
Was every kind of good thing on display,
All very keenly priced. The Lord said,
How difficult it is for wealthy men
To enter heaven, but I really like
This coat. What does it cost? The merchant said,  
Lord, if thou command, how can I not,
But I must sell this wondrous coat to you

For only thirteen silver pieces. Hear
Oh Sons of Judah, Jesus cried, how great
The faith of one who sells a decent coat
To me for six. Forgive your servant’s sin!
The vendor pleaded, Ten is this coat’s price.
Be healed, said Christ, and go in peace with nine.
He bought the coat and both were satisfied.
Ethel said, That coat looks good on you.

When they were on the road, the sun drew down.
The sun was broad and shone upon the fields.
Its light was gold on trees and stones, and wind
Bestirred the grass to din like distant cymbals.
The one whom Jesus loved was muttering,
It’s grown too hot, but Ethel looked about
And said, It feels like keeping promises.
And Jesus said, I know just what you mean. 
                                
Later, when they had reached another hill
Where is another well, a crowd of men
Possessed by ducks accosted them and waved
Their arms in fury. Rabbi, have you come
To foul our nests? The hour is at hand,
The Lord replied, when nests will be subsumed
In cypress boughs, and rivers cover all
The bank, and catfish eat your eggs. Fly south.

The sun was low. Christ said, Those ducks were nuts
—What a world. The Disciple who loved
Him said, You are the meaning in my life,
And Ethel said, You’re my inspiration.
Christ replied, Give thanks to God, it’s been
A perfect day, but I could eat a goat.
Let’s get inside. They shook the dust from off
Their coats and entered into Pergamum.    

A Vehicle to Experiment- Mike Campbell

I have known Mike Campbell for several years and have finally badgered him into sharing some work here.

I’m Mike Campbell, and I’m, well, a poet. I was lucky enough to begin my writing career with your own Mick Theebs at the opening meetings of the Northeastern Writing Club; since then, I’ve used poetry as a vehicle to experiment with language and to explore my ideas about myself and the world I live in. The most profound writing, I think, is introspective and not necessarily meant for popular consumption, until it finds itself being brought there by its merits. And while I can't vouch for the merits of any of my writing you'll find here, I can certainly endorse it as introspective.

The two poems you will find here are special for different reasons. The first is my first finished product, a poem investigating questions about the malleability of personal identity that I had at the time. The second is a criticism of consumer culture, and product of a cultural spoken word unit that I taught in my first year teaching English to high school seniors. Enjoy.

 

Crowd of One

Hungry Eyes, all mine,

addressed in introspection:

They exert their will,

I cerebrally spectate,

and am perplexed in retrospection.

They play their taxing game

Of conflict and submission;

The victors lead without shame,

Left to question their decision.

My family of wandering eyes,

Acutely aware in cerebral exploration:

Existing in relation, self-gratifying

Through incestual fornication.

They survive their contests,

Subsisting on daily rations.

They ebb and flow, shrink and grow,

Survival of the loudest.

Each has their time to be heard;

Each alternately swallows their pride.

Yet over time, all combine

To join this one—

To be mine.

 

 

 

“I Am”

I am…. a mosaic

I am an amalgam

of artificial sweeteners supplementing

a cup of please mask my hangover lingering

from last night’s escape from

corporeal punishment by

consuming the refuse of

producers attempting to

drain my main vein that sustains

“quality of life.”

 

Whatever that is.

 

I am…pixelated.

I have been painted by a

bombardment of advertising stimuli exemplified by

the rapid stream of vapid scenes emitted in

sickening :30 second spans that

I have no remote control of.

I am a regurgitation of

Crest-white smiles

painting over inadequacy,

heartfelt encouragement to

indulge my worst vices,

console commands controlling

my immersion into that which is not my own.,

and that dude

on that reality show

that distorts my own reality.

I am a walking billboard dominated by the

P-L-A-C-E-M-E-N-T

of

P-R-O-D-U-C-T.

I am the product.

 

I am… a question mark.

I am lost, wandering

in half circles that

I cannot

complete

until I am forced downward,

straight downward;

A downward spiral might imply some

uncertainty,

but there is nothing uncertain

about this question mark.

I suddenly STOP.

And I lose myself for a

period.

The newfound freedom is overwhelming.

I eventually come to a point.

But what point does that period plot?

Where do I find myself?

 

That

is the question.

 

  

Grokking the Fullness

There's nothing quite like re-reading a book. Sometimes, it's a disappointing experience as the story just wasn't as exciting as you remember. Sometimes, you pick up on nuances that you skimmed over last time. Sometimes, it's just as good as the first time.

I recently re-read Robert Heinlein's Stranger in a Strange Land. This is possibly the greatest science fiction novel that you've never heard of, which is strange because its 1961 release played a huge part in shaping the hippy-dippy free love spirit of the late 60's.

Its origins are rooted in urban legend. There is a story that Stranger in a Strange Land  was the result of a bet between Robert Heinlein and L. Ron Hubbard to see who could create a more convincing religion. Beat. I think we all know who won.

Stranger in a Strange Land is the story of Valentine Michael Smith, a human who was raised by Martians, who has never been to Earth or seen another human. The first half of the book is Mike's journey to learn about his species. The second half is about his attempts to teach humanity about the ways of the Martian race.

Coming in at 220,000 words, this book is a behemoth. But there isn't anything excessive about it. That's simply the amount of space that Heinlein needs to properly explain the fascinating Martian philosophy that he's invented. 

It all comes down to the word grok. What does grok mean? Well, lots of things, apparently. To know. To drink. To fuck. Mike explains at one point that to grok means to understand something so fundamentally that the observer and the observed become one thing.

Heinlein borrows from Eastern Religions as he fleshes out his Martian philosophy, as he introduces this concept that Mike communicates as "Thou Art God". Basically, all is one and one is all- we are all matter and we are all connected and we are all God.

One way to celebrate our oneness is to grok and grow-closer. Now, this is what I was getting at with the free love business: growing closer is having sex and there is a lot of sex in this book. But, it's not tasteless 50 Shades of Smut. Heinlein isn't trying to titillate the reader. He's trying to show that love, physical human love, isn't dirty or shameful. It's a physical grokking and a celebration of the oneness of the universe.

Of course, there is much, much more I could write about here. But why read my post about it when you can just go ahead and read the damn thing yourself? Definitely check this one out. I guarantee it will change the way you think about humankind. 

Don't Listen to the Bleeding Hearts

Here's a poem I wrote recently.

Don't listen to the bleeding hearts
and romantics and university students.
Art is as commonplace as a phone call to an old friend.

Artists are self-important.
It's a necessary trait
Otherwise people would see
them for what they are:
Bottom feeders.
Scum.
Liars.
Charlatans.
Sophists.

We make the effort to spin
shit into gold.
But it's still shit.
No matter how much time you spend on it.
No matter how much work and thought goes into it.
It's still shit.
But sometimes,
Sometimes the light catches it
Just right...

They're a rotten bunch.
"Tortured"
"Feeling"
"Misunderstood"
More like maladjusted.
Who isn't tortured and feeling?
Who doesn't feel misunderstood?
It's just the opposite:
They're completely understood-
Smearing colors around and 
Covering pages with lines.
Useless crybabies.
Unable to cope with the
Everyday wretchedness of humanity
And are thus forced to ram their head into the wall repeatedly
In an attempt to make it
More beautiful with their blood.

...And for one shimmering second, it's gold.

The World as a Whole -Shay

I have known Shay for several years now and can say with confidence that he is one of the best human beings I've had the pleasure to know, outside of my mother, my grandmother, and my other grandmother. 

In all seriousness, Shay is a great guy and a damn good poet, so I thought it'd be nice to bring him in to share some of his work. So, here it is.

“Hey! I’m Shay. I’m guest posting today for the marvelous Mr. Theebs. Today instead of a close examination of the inside of Mr. Theebs’ head through an essay, you’ll be examining mine—through my poetry. (You gotta be a certain type of asshole to say that.) My poems are written when I contemplate my experience and feel that I have words that approach how I feel about them, and how they speak to what goes on in the world as a whole. (Being an artist is a very pompous thing.)

So. Below are two poems of mine and a link to an acapella remix-ish of Fall Out Boy’s song “Alone Together”. Just…click. Thanks for reading and listening.”

A Mistress

I cut
And I don’t see the skin tear
I’m too focused on the color of the dress my blood wears.
A deep red that’s enticing, that draws the eye consistently,
baring all, yet seemingly with so much more to see.
She crawls away quickly, inviting me to chase her
with a trail the same color as her dress. Pace herself?
Never. She’s going as fast as she can for as long as she can.
So I push harder to see more, but she’s no more on hands
and knees. She’s leaping and bounding, distracting my thought process
with her beauty. But her beauty will drain us both.
She’ll be gone, and I’ll have no way to cope.
How will I live? But I don’t care at the moment.
She’s dancing now, and I’m entranced, shot by the baby bowman.
I can’t chase anymore. I’m too tired anyway. She seems to be slowing
down herself. Don’t stop...but I have no strength to call out.
So tired...my eyes are closing...limbs won’t move. Y’all out?
That’s fine. I see the fading image of my blood-red sunshine.

Cry

Oh bitterness that breaks my heart and makes me grind my teeth.
Deceitful heart that blinds and binds me, leads me to believe
she’s perfect. That much was clear to me that night.
I thought I’d gotten over her, got them feelings on a tight
leash. I didn’t know that they had merely submerged,
Alligators, crocodiles, waiting to see me and converge
on me. And now I’m pretty much back to square one,
the way life was before I claimed my sonship.
Wrote about how she was no longer the gamebreaker,
Come to find out, she’s still Poseidon, my earthshaker.
I’m worried. What fellowship has light with darkness?
But I would throw my life away for her, regardless.
I’m putty in her hands. Just smiles and I’m gone.
I didn’t know I felt the same way as I did so long
ago, and I feel ambushed. Like I didn’t see this coming.
I thought my usual wishful thinking. Thought nothing would amount to nothing.
Oops. Now here I am again, up a creek,
and nobody knows. I seek
guidance, but I know no one’ll go
the distance. And so I’m left here alone,
hoping, wishing, praying someone sees how I’m no longer strong.

Annnnd here's the song:

A New Era

Welcome to ALSO THAT.

ALSO THAT is a place for art. 

This is where I, Mick Theebs share art of my own creation. 

It is also a place where I share art created by others.

If you have an interest in books, poetry, painting, film, photography, or music this is the place for you.

ALSO THAT is regularly updated on Mondays and Wednesdays, with the occasional guest post on Thursdays or Fridays. 

In order to maximize your experience, you should subscribe and confirm your email in order to get updates sent straight to your inbox. 

Finally, to welcome you properly, here's a poem:

The Greeks never refused a guest

For fear of gods in disguise,

So I welcome you potential deities with open arms.

I don't have much to offer-

No wine or bread or meat.

Only arrangements of color

Framed by pretty lies.

I'm glad to have you;

There's no place I'd rather you be.

I'm touched you came by

To spend some time with me.