-The Perfect High-

There once was a boy named Gimmesome Roy.

He was nothing like me or you.

’Cause laying back and getting high was all he cared to do.

As a kid, he sat in the cellar, sniffing airplane glue.

And then he smoked bananas –– which was then the thing to do.

He tried aspirin in Coca–Cola, breathed helium on the sly, and his life was just one endless search to find that perfect high.

But grass just made him want to lay back and eat chocolate–chip pizza all night, and the great things he wrote while he was stoned looked like shit in the morning light.

And speed just made him rap all day, reds just laid him back, and Cocaine Rose was sweet to his nose, but the price nearly broke his back.

He tried PCP and THC, but they didn’t quite do the trick, and poppers nearly blew his heart and mushrooms made him sick.

Acid made him see the light, but he couldn’t remember it long.

And hashish was just a little too weak, and smack was a lot too strong, and Quaaludes made him stumble, and booze just made him cry, till he heard of a cat named Baba Fats who knew of the perfect high.

Now, Baba Fats was a hermit cat who lived up in Nepal, high on a craggy mountaintop, up a sheer and icy wall.

"But hell," says Roy, "I’m a healthy boy, and I’ll crawl or climb or fly, but I’ll find that guru who’ll give me the clue as to what’s the perfect high."

So out and off goes Gimmesome Roy to the land that knows no time, up a trail no man could conquer to a cliff no man could climb.

For fourteen years he tries that cliff, then back down again he slides

Then sits –– and cries –– and climbs again, pursuing the perfect high.

He’s grinding his teeth, he’s coughing blood, he’s aching and shaking and weak, as starving and sore and bleeding and tore, he reaches the mountain peak.

And his eyes blink red like a snow–blind wolf, and he snarls the snarl of a rat, as there in perfect repose and wearing no clothes –– sits the godlike Baba Fats.

"What’s happening, Fats?" says Roy with joy, "I’ve come to state my biz.

I hear you’re hip to the perfect trip. Please tell me what it is.

For you can see," says Roy to he, "that I’m about to die, so for my last ride, Fats, how can I achieve the perfect high?"

"Well, dog my cats!" says Baba Fats. "here’s one more burnt–out soul, who’s looking for some alchemist to turn his trip to gold.

But you won’t find it in no dealer’s stash, or on no druggist’s shelf.

Son, if you would seek the perfect high –– find it in yourself."

"Why, you jive motherfucker!" screamed Gimmesome Roy, "I’ve climbed through rain and sleet, I've lost three fingers off my hands and four toes off my feet!

I’ve braved the lair of the polar bear and tasted the maggot’s kiss.

Now, you tell me the high is in myself. What kind of shit is this?

My ears ’fore they froze off," says Roy, "had heard all kind of crap, but I didn’t climb for fourteen years to listen to that sophomore rap.

And I didn’t crawl up here to hear that the high is on the natch, so you tell me where the real stuff is or I’ll kill your guru ass!"

"Ok, OK," says Baba Fats, "you’re forcing it out of me.

There is a land beyond the sun that’s known as Zaboli.

A wretched land of stone and sand where snakes and buzzards scream, and in this devil’s garden blooms the mystic Tzu–Tzu tree.

And every ten years it blooms one flower as white as the Key West sky, and he who eats of the Tzu–Tzu flower will know the perfect high.

For the rush comes on like a tidal wave and it hits like the blazing sun.

And the high, it lasts a lifetime and the down don’t ever come.

But the Zaboli land is ruled by a giant who stands twelve cubits high.

With eyes of red in his hundred heads, he waits for the passers–by.

And you must slay the red–eyed giant, and swim the River of Slime, where the mucous beasts, they wait to feast on those who journey by.

And if you survive the giant and the beasts and swim that slimy sea, there’s a blood–drinking witch who sharpens her teeth as she guards that Tzu–Tzu tree."

"To hell with your witches and giants," laughs Roy.

"To hell with the beasts of the sea. As long as the Tzu–Tzu flower blooms, some hope still blooms for me."

And with tears of joy in his snow–blind eye, Roy hands the guru a five, then back down the icy mountain he crawls, pursuing that perfect high.

"Well, that is that," says Baba Fats, sitting back down on his stone, facing another thousand years of talking to God alone.

"It seems, Lord", says Fats, "it’s always the same, old men or bright–eyed youth, it’s always easier to sell them some shit than it is to give them the truth."

🫂

The sight of my lover's face made me faint At night, 'Miir', a moon beam took me away

John Brown went off to war to fight on a foreign shore
His mama sure was proud of him!
He stood straight and tall in his uniform and all
His mama’s face broke out all in a grin

“Oh son, you look so fine, I’m glad you’re a son of mine
You make me proud to know you hold a gun
Do what the captain says, lots of medals you will get
And we’ll put them on the wall when you come home”

As that old train pulled out, John’s ma began to shout
Tellin’ ev’ryone in the neighborhood:
“That’s my son that’s about to go, he’s a soldier now, you know”
She made well sure her neighbors understood

She got a letter once in a while and her face broke into a smile
As she showed them to the people from next door
And she bragged about her son with his uniform and gun
And these things you called a good old-fashioned war

Oh! Good old-fashioned war!

Then the letters ceased to come, for a long time they did not come
They ceased to come for about ten months or more
Then a letter finally came saying, “Go down and meet the train
Your son’s a-coming home from the war”

She smiled and went right down, she looked everywhere around
But she could not see her soldier son in sight
But as all the people passed, she saw her son at last
When she did she could hardly believe her eyes

Oh his face was all shot up and his hand was all blown off
And he wore a metal brace around his waist
He whispered kind of slow, in a voice she did not know
While she couldn’t even recognize his face!

Oh! Lord! Not even recognize his face

“Oh tell me, my darling son, pray tell me what they done
How is it you come to be this way?”
He tried his best to talk but his mouth could hardly move
And the mother had to turn her face away

“Don’t you remember, Ma, when I went off to war
You thought it was the best thing I could do?
I was on the battleground, you were home . . . acting proud
You wasn’t there standing in my shoes”

“Oh, and I thought when I was there, God, what am I doing here?
I’m a-tryin’ to kill somebody or die tryin’
But the thing that scared me most was when my enemy came close
And I saw that his face looked just like mine”

Oh! Lord! Just like mine!

“And I couldn’t help but think, through the thunder rolling and stink
That I was just a puppet in a play
And through the roar and smoke, this string is finally broke
And a cannonball blew my eyes away”

As he turned away to walk, his Ma was still in shock
At seein’ the metal brace that helped him stand
But as he turned to go, he called his mother close
And he dropped his medals down into her hand

Valentine for Ernest Mann
By Naomi Shihah Nye

You can’t order a poem like you order a taco.
Walk up to the counter, say, “I’ll take 2” and expect it 
To be handed back to you on a shiny plate.
Still, I like your spirit.
Anyone who says, “Here’s my address, write me a
Poem,” deserves something in reply.
So, I’ll tell you a secret instead:

Poems hide. In the bottoms of our shoes, they are
Sleeping. They are the shadows drifting across our
Ceilings the moment before we wake up. What we have
To do is live in a way that lets us find them.

Once I knew a man who gave his wife two skunks for
A valentine.
He couldn’t understand why she was crying.
“I thought they had such beautiful eyes” 
And he was serious. He was a serious man who
Lived in a  serious way. Nothing was ugly just because
The world said so. He really liked those skunks.
So, he reinvented them as valentines and they became
Beautiful.
At least to him. And the poems that had been hiding in
The eyes of skunks for centuries crawled out and curled
Up at his feet.

Maybe if we reinvent whatever our lives give us we find
Poems. Check your garage, the odd sock in drawer, the 
Person you almost like but not quite.
And let me know.

In case you don't want to pick through the article to find them, they are:

Jorie Graham, Killing Spree (Carcanet Press)

Keith Jarrett, Hide Me Under the Blood and I Shall Be Satisfied (Bad Betty Press)

Imani Mason Jordan, PIVOT (HELA Press)

Sylvia Legris, Sleep Gate (Fitzcarraldo Editions)

Shara McCallum, Behold (Peepal Tree Press)

Kim Moore, The House of Broken Things (Corsair Poetry)

Andrew Motion, Gravity Archives (Faber & Faber)

Holly Pester, Cafés (Fitzcarraldo Editions)

Jana Prikryl, The Channel (Faber & Faber)

Billy Ramsell, Render (Banshee Press)

Anyone read any of these or have any thoughts about the selected poets? I know Motion and Graham but all the rest are new to me.

Personal favorite. This is my first post so I hope I did it right.

Pretty much what the title says. I’m writing something and want to use the word Atramentous and turn it into Atrafraction or Atrafract (like Refraction or Refract) to refer to the light. As in, instead of the light being bent, the light is blackened (Super edgy, I know lol)

I looked around for words that fit and still rhymed and came up empty handed. I could probably get away with moving stuff around and using a different word but the fake word is kinda’ growing on me.

I wanted thoughts on whether a made up word was a bad idea or not in a poem. I figure it’ll make what I’m writing a little more difficult to understand though.