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- Count to five and tell the truth
by Michael Layne Heath
Feudal Gesture Press (2006)
(mlayne@hotmail.com)
2275 Sutter Street #7
San Francisco CA 94115
- put it this way
by Michael Layne Heath
Feudal Gesture Press (2006)
(mlayne@hotmail.com)
2275 Sutter Street #7
San Francisco CA 94115
There was a time when the only soundtrack for
underground poetry was hard, edgy jazz, the deep
internal flights of Coltrane, Mingus and Monk. But
from the moment the legendary D.A. Levy wrote his
first poem and Jim Morrison uttered the first spoken
word rumblings over electric distortions, poetry and
rock and roll have been spiraling toward each other in
a reluctant, if inevitable orbit. It hasn’t been easy
(remember King Missile?) but here in the 21st Century,
there is no question that poetry and rock are both
here to stay, and that they have come to reckon with
each other.
Michael Layne Heath is a no doubt about it first
generation punker; among the first rock journalists to
cover the nascent, pre-Dischord, pre-Bad Brains D.C
hardcore scene. His journey into poetry makes one
wonder what might kind of poet Greil Marcus might have
become had he not become an intellectual or Lester
Bangs had he survived. Heath’s two releases through
his own imprint Feudal Gesture Press in the past year
give us a peak into what might have been, and in the
big picture this is to his credit.
Count to five and tell the truth is an uneven
collection of poems and quick reflections. It almost
seems as if Heath is too aware of his unique vantage
point and goes a little too far down the polemic road:
My greatest fear is a beer and no cigarettes
My greatest fear is getting called
on this being not poetry but therapy
Hey it worked for Poe, Plath and the Marqui de
Sade
- My Greatest Fear (pt. 47)
Other poems here like E to D and U.N. Plaza, May 19th
give are almost inaccessible to the reader despite the
familiar street hustler images and interior
alienation. It is obvious these pieces are very
personal for Heath but the reader will have a hard
time getting in.
Count to five… does have some very fine moments:
Last night down the Eagle
The devil called me out
Shortly after closing time, his
leathers
Steaming underworld humidity
Under streetlight, none too happy
With my burning him on last week’s
allnight
Hennessey and crack binge, bellowing
“what is that you want from me”
in the deepest obscene phone call
boogieman croak conceivable
By way of reply
I stubbed my GPC cig out on his
forehead
(making it redder than already and
previous)
then pulled out what Mom gave me
beneath my waist
taking care of business on his Doc
Martened hooves
finally walking Spanish and triumphant
up Harrison Street, muttering
‘hey…that was my line’
I figured it was the best I could do
To keep him from
Walking alongside
At least for now
- Me and the Devil, not walking
The hard hitting bravado of this particular poem made
it stand out within the Count to five… collection and
seemed as if it would be much more at home in his
shorter form chap put it this way which shows Heath
off at his best, writing more comfortably to the
people who will understand his unique cultural
references like in the fairly brilliant january 4th:
Bambi Lake is missing!
Sounds like this British movie from the Sixties
I finally saw one closing time back to mine
night
Just after hitting Fog Town:
Me and other seriously spun fair-weather
creatures
Waiting for the feature
Like we’d wait for Nico’s bit in Dolce Vita
Sitting thru this Grade Z thriller
And soon rewarded by the cameo of
A favorite band whose sound was
Breathy longing for missing lovers
The brief candlelit cobblestone
of midnight Soho alleyways of the heart
How to account for why Count to five… seems to lack
the punches of put it this way? It’s as if in Count
to five… Heath is almost apologizing for growing old
while in put it this way he’s simply not worrying
about it and ripping out rock and roll riffs ala the
old school SF Babarians whose wonderful ghostly
spirits do seem to haunt Heaths works (speaking of
great moments between rock and poetry) and here’s
hoping that as Heath continues to grapple with the
impending doom staring us all down, he leaves us with
gems like this one:
I am certain that everyone within the
sound of my voice
would certainly concur
(oh yes you do now, don’t deny it)
that there comes a time in one’s life
when we want to be Andreas Baader
Or Elvis
Or perhaps, the guy who handed Elvis
his onstage towels between songs.
Or Anthony Perkins at the climax of
Psycho.
or a character in a Tex Avery cartoon
orgy, or
one of Brian Eno’s 1972 silver sequined
jackets, or
a King Tubby dub production
or Lou Reed’s guitar part on
the VU LIVE 1969 version of “What Goes
On…
…or a wine bottle touched by the lips
of Charles Bukowski,
or tobacco snot, or Serge Gainsbourg’s
last breath
stained by Gitanes…
…or the cake at the party at the end of
the world
or cubic zirconium, or a plague that only
strikes
telemarketers
or the pinkest Cadillac in
Straightstupidwhitemaleville
or a burrito at San Francisco’s own
Taqueria Cancun
or the single red rose in a field of
vernal, venal thorns.
Am I right?
Then get to it my little gimcracks, and don’t
blow
off any fingers.
- excerpted from “How To Build A Thermonuclear
Device”
-Paul Corman-Roberts
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