NEW BOOK OF POETRY METACARPALISM NOW AVAILABLE.

Poetry. Published by Unsolicited Press (February 2022). 98 pages. Design by Kathryn Gerhardt. Edited by Alexandra Lindenmuth. Available online at Unsolicited Press website, Amazon, Barnes & Noble, and Books-A-Million. Available in Washington, D.C. at Bridge Street Books and Politics & Prose (Connecticut Avenue).

In a nutshell:

Per the memo recently circulated in triplicate, Metacarpalism establishes new standards for humor, elegy, and form(lessness). [n.b. Future works that don’t measure up will be returned to the factory.] These very lovely strophes memorialize after-sex ambiguities, Beef Pineapple Robots, (C)harm Cities, Peoples Who Don’t Listen to Music, anybodies (sic) named Danish Kroner, and sonnets, although what is a sonnet, everything is, nothing is, whazzzzapppp! You will laugh. You will weep. Simultaneously. Or separately. Kind of like a front flip and a backflip all at once. Or separately. Purchasing a copy will support a great small press. Thank you for your time and consideration. Well all right then. Two sample poems:

I’ve Got That on My Radar

—I’ve got that on my radar.
—Me, too.
—Do other people have it on their radars?
—Everyone has this on his or her radar.

 
—Remember the days of no radar?
—What was there if there was no radar?
—Carburetors?
—Faithfulness?

 
—Heh heh heh.
—Heh heh heh.
—When my girlfriend moved in, she kept her radar.
—More women are keeping their radars these days.

—Do you see blips?
—Only when I stand up too quickly.
—Sometimes when I’m alone, I hear applause.
—Maybe you’ve got The Clap.

 
—Okay, I’ve got that on my radar.
—Do you have it on your sonar?
—Should I have it on my sonar?
—The sea ice, after all, is melting. . .

—Do you have that on your deep space probe?
—I’m not sure I care for that phrase.
—(…)
—(…)

 
—Does man drum in the woods?
—Do you drum in the woods?
—I have no drum. There are no woods.
—Then you must throw percussion to the wind!

The Emporium of Youth

Seen from another angle as when an area—
station, square—contemplated on a Sunday.
The expression may calcify into a demonstration
of thistle-thorn dismay. By “imagine your face”
I mean “shadow,” your expression itself a shadow.
These colors: sky, stone, graffiti: these colors now.
The emporium of youth versus the emporium
of adulthood. If Person A will ail at Point X,
then Person B will ail at Point Y. (Loneliness
aggrandizes the symmetrical nature of most pain.)
Whereas a big galosh of dirty cloud busts open
a caucus of old doves. Brighten the ticking synapses
versus what warms the solid-state capacity for violence.
These colors: stone, wood, tower: these colors now.
The difference between idling (unit of riverbank)
and waiting (unit of high-rise). Rust, rusty coloring,
what gnaws into our porticos of awareness.
By “imagine your face,” I mean the uncorrected
ritual of love. Or the sliding scale of sunlight,
or the balloting of voices in airshafts and alleys.

UNKNOWN CITY.

 

Hopefully, 2022 will be a transcendent year for Joy on Fire. The group intends to release its full-length album, States of America, which features lyrics and vocals throughout. It’ll be the first such album in the band’s history and I’m proud to be the bloke at the microphone. In the buildup to States, however, I collaborated with the group on a couple songs that appear on another album, Unknown Cities. I wrote lyrics for the title song (above) in French, actually, before situating them in English. While I can’t fully vouch for my Francophone accuracy, I do think that the overall voyage between French and English helped the word formation to be more adventurous. The lyrics in both languages appear below. On the one hand, the song is about a split between two people, with the singer seeking a rapprochement, and on the other hand, it is about loss, about writing the names of the lost in an unfamiliar locale. (For the sake of anonymity perhaps or to be astray within the sorrow?) We are living in an era of loss, even as the song attempts to be timeless. I can only hope that the lyrics match the virtuosity of the music, which is beautiful, and operates in time signatures more moderate than some of our grinding and jumping punk songs. I hope you enjoy the listen.

Unknown City

Did you sleep that night?
In the morning
a wooden bird sang
in a language
that had forgotten its weapons.
You know nothing but
my name in your voice,
the gray light of the rain
behind the door,
clouds in the false river,
the river
where your grief met
the sound of my footsteps.

I write your name
in an unknown city,
write your name
in an unknown city.

Well yes so what
god is a factory.
At the end of a sentence
I put a period.
That’s the dead hand,
that’s my madness.
The despair so beautiful,
a bouquet of stars
on the rooftops.
Leave the door
open.
Leave the door
open.

I write your name
in an unknown city,
write your name
in an unknown city.

Your name
your name.


Ville Inconnu

Dormiez-vous cette nuit?
Au matin,
un oiseau de bois a chanté
dans une langue qui a perdu ses armes.
Tu ne sais rien que
mon nom dans ta voix,
la lumière grise de la pluie
derrière la porte,
des nuages dans la fleuve faux,
la fleuve
où ta doleur rencontra
le bruit de mes pas.

J’ecris ton nom
dans une ville inconnu,
ecris ton nom
dans une ville inconnu.

Eh bien oui et alors
dieu est une usine.
A la fin d’une phrase
je mets un point.
C’est la main morte,
c’est ma folie.
Le desespoir si beau,
un bouquet d’étoiles
sur les toits.
Laisser la porte
ouverte.
Laisser la porte
ouverte.

J’ecris ton nom
dans une ville inconnu,
ecris ton nom
dans une ville inconnu.

Ton nom,
ton nom.


Personnel: Anna Meadors, John Paul Carillo, Chris Olsen, Dan Gutstein. Visit the Joy on Fire website for more information.

SHE’S A MOONSHINE GAL AND I LOVE HER STILL: THE JAMES COLE STRING BAND SWINGS “I GOT A GAL” TIL THE WALLS FALL DOWN.

 

Whereas some superstars date many ladies, most of the mortal gal-seeking universe knows that, once you’ve got yourself a gal, you ought to assemble the ensemble and set everybody to dancing. The James Cole String Band thought so, ‘round about 1928. Behold the keen roof-raising principles of “I Got A Gal,” which emphasize the piercing fiddle and capering rhythm.

The James Cole String Band was likely an African American group. Its musicians may have hailed from Indianapolis. Cole, the bandleader and fiddler, may have recorded additional records in the 1930s, yet there could have been a different James Cole by that point. Not much can be said with certainty about the ensemble, except that “I Got A Gal” rattles the windows.

Our Musicology Department has been working overtime on the particulars, and we’re proud to present lyrics, below, followed by discographic information.

We love the pun “She’s a moonshine gal and I love her still.” Lines like that — as well as “I turned out and told turn in” — could represent square dance banter or, you know, some early century inn-you-end-dough. The gal is either “mighty thin” or “big and fat” but either way she lives on the hill in her bathing suit. Of course, and thankfully, silliness prevails. (That, or a touch of the corn liquor.)

Do we think you should play this song on high volume, grab your sweetie pie, and jump around? Why, yes, we do!

 
I Got A Gal
James Cole String Band

[1]

I got a gal she’s mighty thin,
I turned out and told ‘turn in.’
I got a gal she’s mighty cute,
I saw her in a bathing suit.

[2]

I got a gal she lives on the hill,
She’s a moonshine gal and I love her still.
I got a gal she lives in town,
Going to see if I can run her down.

[3]

I got a gal she wastes her time,
I ain’t seen her for a long, long time.
I got a gal she’s big and fat,
But I can’t tell just where she’s at.
 

likely personnel / recording data
James Cole, fiddle; Tommie Bradley, guitar; Eddie Dimmitt, mandolin; unknown, string bass; unknown, vocal. Vocalion 5226 b/w “Bill Cheatem.” Recorded on June 22 or June 25, 1928, in Indianapolis, Indiana. 

sources of information
DAHR (discography) page for “I Got A Gal”
DAHR (discography) page for James Cole String Band
Document Records page for James Cole / Tommie Bradley compilation
Allen Lowe. Turn Me Loose White Man. Constant Sorrow Press, 2020
Diane Pecknold. Hidden in the Mix: The African American Presence in Country Music. Duke University Press, 2013

A POET MARKED HIMSELF SAFE.

 
Some of the partygoers had slurped down the Jell-O Shots. Some, the dishwasher pods. Amid the ensuing knee and elbow chaos, the projectile hiccoughs, and the bicycle bros slapping low fives, a Facebook Crisis Page appeared. “Mark yourself safe,” it suggested. Thus, the poet took action. He marked himself safe during the Accidental Jell-O Shots & Cascade Platinum Mix-Up.

Just a few minutes earlier, the cute hostess girl had passed-by, bearing a silver tray of the squishy delights — and, apparently, detergent — so he’d taken one. He’d swallowed something. Hmph. Pretty soon, the likes began piling up. Thirty-three … forty-one … forty-five. Comments, too. “Wait, what?” and “Jell-OMG” and “Pot-scrubbahs!” they read.

Too many nauseous hipsters had queued for the ground-level wash closet, so the poet traipsed upstairs, where he tried a burnished brass doorknob. The light from the hallway slashed into a humid bedroom where two slinky figures scrambled to cover their bodies with bedclothes. One of them, probably the cute hostess, lunged toward the door. Behind her, the “minnie haha” menace of what? Some kind of townie gangster? With bad teeth?

The poet apologized his way into the actual bathroom, at the end of the hall. There, he refreshed Facebook, but the likes had plateaued at fifty-six. He’d gotten many more reactions when he posted pictures of the impressive human poop someone had left behind in his cat’s litterbox. Hmph. He splashed water on his face, and in doing so, scotched his rumpled, holey sweater.

An acquaintance of his (the one w/ dreadful book on University Press — she) had swallowed a Cascade Platinum. She had not marked herself safe. “Oh, I am HORRID,” she posted. “I feel like a MAYTAG.” And the wows, cares, and hearts had exceeded one hundred ninety … A minute later, the poet trudged home, beneath the shivery chandelier of the gibbous, gibbous moon.

Should I mark myself safe, he wondered, from the local criminal element? From my own corporeal pinchings? Chilly winds chapped his ears, as if the Crisis Page immunization had already worn off. Let meter triumph, he declared, over metrics! He shook his fist merrily, yes, merrily, at nobody in particular. That would leave only God — or Facebook — as the recipient. Yet neither heard his prayers. God’s aloofness and Facebook’s aloofness had become the one, the only temperature. 

THE FOX WHO LOVES ME + OTHER DEVELOPMENTS IN THE FAUNAL AND FLORAL KINGDOMS: A PHOTO ESSAY.

Key to the photographs: 

1. Deep, deep in the shrubberies: behold the beaver. Being human and smart-alecky, one ponders the paddle. We’re told that the paddle is for dam building, but that can’t be all. The beaver, for example, knows love. What doeth the paddle during the love-making of the beaver? People paddle each other, although the paddle is not — organically — attached to them. You might think “furry, cute little critter” but I think not. I see a varmint that can chew through a tree. Knowing not what might aggravate the beaver, I keep moving along.

2. This massive heron floats down to earth. It is equal parts dinosaur, goose, and 747. A comedian. Slender and plump. Where are the myths about this fine specimen? How come no Leda and the Great Blue? It is a stoic. Perhaps it thinks me a stoic, as well. The two of us, trudging along in the miserable murk that defines our lives. Me ‘n’ the heron, we complaineth not.

3. Thank you for inquiring about the Early Girl tomato plant. Given the absence of bees on the balcony, Dear Reader, I hand-pollinated every single flower. Lo, the plant begat many dozen tomatoes! We had a terrific affair. As for the fruits themselves, well, they were quite tasty, as it works out. This bit of gardening provided me with an essential activity as my skeleton reeled from an injury.

4. During my convalescence from said injury (which continues at present) I watched some reruns of Law & Order. I would like to say that Claire Kincaid, played by Jill Hennessey, is my favorite character. Dunno how the show continued on without her.

5. I got bitten! Not only that, but the venom (of whatever bit me) tried to slay me. But I endured.

6. Given the seriousness of the injury, I hadn’t seen my BFF from the faunal kingdom in several months. But one day, as part of my rehabilitation walk, I thought I saw the little ears sticking up, out of the sand trap. So I says, “Hey mate,” in my silly Australian accent. “Hey mate, you’re a good-looking fox.” This is how all the animals in my orbit know it’s me. The silly accent. She sits bolt upright, curling the big brush of the tail behind her. I think she even whined a little bit. That really broke me up!

7. The fox, stirring.

8. The fox, running. She looks hale and hearty. She’s a good-looking fox, mate.

 

HAND POLLINATION OF EARLY GIRL TOMATO PLANT.

 

We’re taking a break from our standard musicology fare, in order to bring you breaking developments from the world of enclosed balcony gardening. The Early Girl Tomato Plant takes the spotlight today. Having placed one such specimen on the third-floor balcony at the abode of my parents in late June, I quickly realized that I couldn’t depend upon honeybees for the pollination of the little yellow flowers. A raid to capture a honeybee was considered, in that we’d grab one outside, release it into the balcony area for a period of a few weeks, befriend it, and provide it with all the creature comforts it might desire, including cantaloupes, deep tissue massage, and career counseling.

In the end, it became necessary to pollinate the Early Girl Tomato Plant by hand. A strict training regimen was adopted with the goal of strengthening the acute vibrational muscles & associated giblets. Boxes were rifled-through until a suite of fine art paintbrushes was prized. Then followed a period of speculative vibration, which included (initially, my friends) great periods of isolation and despair. However, there did appear, one fortuitous day, a little green tomato, lo, a cluster of fledgling Early Girls. Mind you, it’s basically mid-August, so the Early Girls are kinda late, eh? I immediately engaged in Early Girl research. I pored over best practices as established in peer-reviewed literature. I wanted to raise me some p-h-a-t tomatoes.

Serious tomato action!

In the end, the Early Girl responds to the basics: sunlight, grow lamps, water, and the singing of “Liza Jane” songs. And, of course, channeling my inner honeybee. I cannot say with any certainty that this strategy of intense vibration would benefit other flowers, and other situations, but I can say this: the Early Girl Tomato Plant is mighty happy to see me.


Song excerpts:
“Goodbye Liza Jane” (traditional)
“Little Liza Jane” (Sam Chatmon)

THE KESSINGER BROTHERS SWING THAT POOR GAL, LIZA JANE.

If you’re courting Liza Jane, and you want to have any chance at winning her hand, you’ve got to swing her madly. Clark Kessinger and his nephew Luches did just that in 1929, on the eve of the Great Depression. This instrumental dance number appeared toward the conclusion of a formidable recording spree: nearly three years and thirty singles, much of it for the Brunswick label. “Liza Jane” peaks and flourishes well beyond the traditional structure that the two men inherited; it frolics and dips; and when it dips into that classic “Liza Jane” country melody, you can sing “Riding on that train” or “Goodbye Liza Jane” because those lines—and every song in the “Liza Jane” family—are related.

The virtuoso fiddler Clark Kessinger was already playing West Virginia saloons and dances when he was summoned for service in World War I. While overseas, he may have whistled a different tune, “Li’l Liza Jane,” which had become freshly popular in that era, and had been transported by the rank and file to the theatre of war. Upon returning, he teamed with his nephew to form the fiddle-guitar duo that could both ignite blazes and extinguish them in the space of a three-minute, ten-inch, vinyl cut. No, they’re not brothers after all in the nuclear family sense, but they are related, and they are certainly brothers-in-skill. During the Great Depression, the Kessingers gradually faded from the music scene. Luches even passed away in 1944. Eventually, Clark Kessinger was rediscovered in the 1960s, as part of the folk music revival, and from what I can tell, he didn’t disappoint. Other fiddlers were reluctant to compete with him, even at an advanced age. The elder Kessinger passed away in 1975.

“Liza Jane” was bundled with a somewhat melancholy pop tune, “Whistling Rufus,” that nevertheless jumps in the hands of the duo. It’s not clear which of the two songs was the A-side but the record was released as Brunswick 521 in June 1929. By then, the “Liza Jane” family of songs had been circulating for many decades, in various idioms. Clark and Luches weren’t playing a “white mountain song” but a tune that had traded hands between black and white musicians—and would continue to do so in the decades to follow. For example, a sedate and divine Mississippi John Hurt plays a mellow version of this song (with words) on his 1963 album Folk Songs and Blues.

According to scholar Charles Wolfe, Clark Kessinger ripped into a fiddle tune the way a hungry fellow would rip into a plate of fried chicken. As we’ve noted, that’s how vigorous you need to be, when courting Liza Jane. You love her, you tell her so, you swing her ma-a-a-adly, but she remains aloof. She’s one obstinate poor gal. And in all likelihood, she’ll go down the new-cut road and you’ll go down the lane, and if I get there before you do, well, goodbye Liza Jane.  

coda: liza jane

I happen to have developed a specialty in “Liza Jane” songs (just a little bit) owing to a collaboration with my colleague Emily Cohen for a forthcoming documentary film that is being happily and gloriously rejuvenated and reimagined at present, after the pandemic sidelined us unexpectedly. Check out our website and my previous posts (cultural history of the song + behind the scenes at our trailer shoot) for information that will help you understand my historical claims, although we’re saving the vast majority of our best details for the film. I can confidently say that there are good days ahead for this beloved family of folk tunes.

sources of information

All Music Guide listing for the Kessinger Brothers
Discography of American Historical Recordings entry for Brunswick 521 record
Discography of American Historical Recordings entry for “Liza Jane”
Hill Billy Music entry for the Kessinger Brothers
Mountains of Music: West Virginia Traditional Music from Goldenseal. Ed. John Lilly (University of Illinois Press, 1999)
West Virginia Music Hall of Fame entry for Clark Kessinger
Wikipedia entry for Clark Kessinger