On Wednesday night I was the feature poet at the Art Bar reading series and I performed with my guitar and accompaniment on the recorder by Brian Haddon. I sang my poem “Portrait of My Quicksilver Headdress". Features are asked to provide copies of one of their poems so that everybody could read it while they are performing so I copied the whole poem out by hand on a continuous accordion stack of old style continuous feed printer paper. I asked Dennis, who was sitting at the table next to mine to pass the top end of the paper to the next person once we started playing and so during the poem the text was snaking around the room like a paper dragon. In the end, features are supposed to answer questions from the audience. Brian stood there in dark sunglasses and a leather jacket and fielded the first question. We exchanged a whisper and then he told the audience in a mobster accent that, “Mistah Christian refuses to ansah that question on the grounds that it might incriminate him!” Someone asked my poetic influences and I said, “The Monkees and Dr. Strange comics”. I also did an impersonation of Mick Jagger at one point. I think people enjoyed themselves.

Portrait of My Quicksilver Headdress
So here I'm again with my writing
That illusive nomadic Muse
that comes charging from the unconscious frontier
like a ravaging horde of Mongols
to lay waste the card-house empire
of my conceptual Mind
is back now to dance on the damage with me
well at least for one more clumsy time
But nowadays I have to venture
deep into its sweet resting place
drag it kicking & screaming from out of its bed
& then slap it till its wide awake
just to nail down its dancing convulsions
like Christ on my high forehead's cross
Oh, but make no mistake from the shape of this mask
Know my Muse it is always the boss
Each one of my comatose projects
that had lain there so dumb on their backs
half-formed, like thalidomide babies so long
are now spread like a thousand card hand
of poker dealt out by the dealer
who is my sweet imprisoned Muse
But I'm beguiled by all the wild jokers I find
in this deck that I've so much abused
All the brutalized, ink-blackened pages
that had crunched themselves into soft balls
in the killer womb inside my frustrated fist
& to warm smoky freedom had rolled
away on the underground railroad
conducted by garbage truck crews
well they're back now to fight through my Memory's court
for their forty pages & a Muse
Yes I'm back once again with my Baby
that had swum for so long in the womb
& the ultrasound films of that boring process
are continuous echo-reruns
on the nightmarish Walt Disney channel
that plays in my Subconscious Mind
providing the vaguest reflection of me
that my ego could Hope to design
It’s my fantasy's one-sided quarrel
I won't have to avert my eyes
& there's no counter-wit here I must circumvent
There's nobody to tell me I lie
So I'll lie in here all by my lonesome
just soaking up in my own brew
that’s so warm & so deep I just might go to sleep
in this alphabetic-stupor-stew
I use this typewriter to hammer
a hole for myself in the wall
of the towering mountain of purposefulness
& my voice as a beckoning call
to call you all out of your caverns
so I can then investigate
& comparatively determine the size
of my own spread of surrealestate
If you've all been knocked on your asses
in as many good & bad ways
then you're fattened by Memory like I have become
& writing is one way to lose weight
Cause experiencing & teaching
are two halves of one breathing process
& those of us holding a lungful of Life
can now pass on that Eventful breath
But our tiny Minds can't seem to handle
Sensation's chaotic crossfire
that charges the electrical circuitry
of each Moment that challenges time
So that’s why we cause them to mutate
& bleed into Future & Past
diluting them into a thin "Lady's Drink"
who's tall volume might cushion their blast
Then we sip with the greatest of leisure
Hope & Memory's candy cane straws
reweld them back into a plastic Moment
merely flawed by some surgical scars
that run like a railroad track border
between these two Nations at war
whose dividing line is as hard to define
as the one between ocean & shore
Yes we tend to keep our lives separate
from Reality's smashing sea
with dams made of bones from our clinking closets
& amnesia: the sealant between
Then we prick that dyke-wall with pinholes
to let just a little bit through
But its high where the wall's thin enough to be pricked
& the footholds are so very few
& most of us are far too lazy
to climb up to where its that thin
& less of us have the digestive system
that will hold that effulgent-juice in
long enough so that when we do spit it
deep into some young thirsty Mind
it won't be so rich as to make the kid sick
or go down as more grape-juice than wine
But in my Life the gray knotted tapeworm
that is my excuse for a Soul
keeps me stealing that blood that’s been barely tasted
from that foaming-toothed vampire’s hole
that serves as the garbage disposal of prayer
& of blessing of curse & of sigh
from who's lips we read the equations of Time
& who's nickname is simply "The Sky"
Sometimes it takes years of rewriting
to translate one Moment in Time
& though the translation is never complete
it might unveil a piece of my Mind
& almost just might count for something
in writing as in hand grenades
which though they fall short of the targeted mass
they still manage to blow it away
But I write cause I don't have the courage
to sit or to stand or to walk
in peace so I mirror these black fireworks
inside me with a crude voodoo-doll
that shields me from most of my Demons
but is also a fisherman’s net
to catch them to serve as the ingredients
in my diet of Dark-Angel flesh
Its a parachute serving to soften
my descent through solitude's space
that bottomless Mind-shaft of boredom & fear
that I tumble through from day to day
& I fall through these out of Time Moments
with or without pen in place
wrapped up in a mirror-lined crystal cocoon
that will give me illusions of space
But what sails me away from one island
of boredom becomes one in kind
So even though I get a sense of focus
lining up with a Moment in Time
its too bad it isn't the Moment
my body is feeding upon
but a Moment that hangs in the perilous air
no momentum to carry it on
I can't seem to hold my attention
when ideas fly in large flocks
but the counterbalance of this difficulty
is my flexible method of thought
& a talent for seeing the order
that lies in Perception's "Outback"
which renders me so much more beautiful
than the rest of you cloven-brained hacks
My acrobatical circus-boy Mind
keeps on seeping through all of the cracks
in conception & emerges triumphantly
as a glistening penis-head buck
Yes I'm raking the sky with my antlers
& their explosion frozen in Time
a quicksilver ejaculation that sprouts
from a well at the core of my Mind
My thoughts are slowed down by my writing
just long enough to be shocked
by their image reflected inside of the page
& for one fleeting Moment be caught
like deer staring into car headlights
just long enough to be pulled
back inside myself to become the soundtrack
of my dance for the Calendar Girl
They go back in myself orchestrate the striptease
of my Internal Calendar-Girl











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