Art From Your Elbow

Please don't misunderstand any of what I'm about to say. I love the theatre, actors, stage crafters and playwrights. But if I ever again (unless there is a really big pay check involved) play another fucking character, build another piece of Godforsaken scenery, waddle through another final dress tech rehearsal until 4AM, suffer through another center stage pissy fit tirade by a fellow actor, director or stage techie all in the name of art and ego, please, I beg you please, shoot my stupid ass in the fucking head with the biggest rifle from the nearest Walmart you can lay your merciful hands upon and put me out of my protracted senseless misery. I have been through it, over it and around it and have the T shirts and war wounds ad nauseam as proof.

For about 16 years, live theatre was my life. Onstage, backstage, actor, carpenter, electrician, director, producer, ticket taker, trash hauler and stage mopper. I've been in Shakespearean plays that have received standing ovations. That much was very gratifying considering the fact I grew up with a very pronounced speech impediment, so screw you junior high school bullies.

I've performed to a standing ovation in a prison. I've traveled around relentlessly in a van doing the same play four times daily at different locations for days on end until I lost my voice from exhaustion in front of a crowd of 800. I once performed with a psychologically challenged actress who didn't see the line of demarcation between acting and reality. One night she said, 'I hate you and I'm going to kill you.' Later that evening, before an audience of 400, she tried to do just that. 

No I'm not kidding.

I remember the uber zealous Christian coalition protesting outside of the production of 'Equus', in which I played the dual roles of the Young Horseman and the horse Nugget. It was the best publicity you could ask for. Standing room only every night. That was my favorite production ever. 

One of my all time favorite teachers, Barbara Lowery, was my first acting instructor. I love this lady to eternity and beyond. She taught me more than she is aware of. I am forever grateful to her. 

I've had some of the best and worst times of my life either on or in close proximity to a stage and it's lover, the audience. I cherish every character I ever played, every line I ever forgot and every crazy ass actor I ever played make believe with. 

The theatre is where I met the love of my life. After many months of working together in various projects, I finally realized that this is the woman I would marry. At the time, I was playing Oberon and she Titania in a small children's theatre production of 'A Midsummer Nights Dream.'

For a kid like me, who grew up as a painfully shy wall flower with a nearly paralyzing stutter, my years in the theatre, in large part made me into who I am today. I am now and forever grateful for all of the triumph and tragedy, both onstage and off. The proscenium, the flys, the orchestra pit, the dressing rooms were my home and my mistress. 

That love affair ended about 14 years ago. Our coitus of hard work for little pay and yearning for the illusion of fame became a stale tango. We parted ways with a final kiss in the alley, behind the dressing rooms while the final act curtain dropped and the applause faded into echos in the mist and like all sacred lovers, never to be forgotten.

This poem was written many years ago when my love/hate relationship with the theatre was not at the point of equilibrium that time and distance have since provided.

High on a horse

of bullshit and tears

rides the beaten down artist

wrapped in a fabric of fears. 

Of all of his needs

the greatest of these

is a kick in the collective ass. 

While mincing and prancing 

and aloof in his silence

he shits in the doorway

hoping to instigate violence. 

He purges his soul

and opens his heart

where on the privileged may pass. 

Though the theatre is empty

the show still goes on

and the critics can all go to hell

The audience is sleeping

except for the hero

standing stage center

proclaims with a yell

and flapping his arms

as if trying to take flight

above what he believes 

is injustice

and towards 

the center of the light. 

The horseman then entered stage right

with an axe and the vaguest of smiles

an idea of destruction before the creation

the artist threw in the towels 

and bled on the tiles. 

The boards of the stage

quivered with rage

as our hero reached out of the lady

but his arms were too short

and his tongue was too long

to stop the aft one

before she finished her song. 

Then down came the doors

and the cops all rushed in

like a thousand bison in heat. 

With a standing ovation

and a punch in the mouth

no one could find a dry seat. 

The nocturnal emission

and exposure indecent

brought gales of laughter

and screams of disgust. 

The lights all came up in the house

Who are these grave robbers?

These crass motherfuckers?

Then the ingénue tore off her blouse

‘Leave us alone

you booshwah pig slobs

or I’ll slice off your heads with my tits!

We’re artists God damn it

you’ll pay for our drivel and like it!

Now sit your asses down

and lets get on with the show. 

These is our lives that we’re spewing. 

so have some respect 

for the scenery chewing.

and after the fanfare

 you can all go back to your lives. 

But this is a temple 

and you’re all just sheep. 

You wouldn’t know 

art from your elbow. 

Blaspheme and declaim 

if you must

but there’s a knife in my side 

and it’s starting to rust. 

When we left off

the artist was dying

before we were so rudely interrupted

the theatre was quiet

all eyes focused on him

squealing and shitting

and hoping you’d listen

to the story of his fire within. 

All my love always,

Max

PS. Here is another short video clip from the evening of October 23rd, when I was the featured poet at Java Monkey Speaks in Decatur GA. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dFrlLHpxq7A. 

This Woman's Heart

After all the good times are reconciled and bad times forgiven, I have never before or since wondered why I married this woman. She is, after all, the best person I've ever met. She is the home of my heart.

One of our two cats, I'm sorry to say, is dying. It may be a few weeks or a few months, hell, I really don't know. All I do know is that my little black and white furry comrade will soon be leaving us. I'm sure my parents in heaven will welcome him with open arms, pet and comb him, hand feed him thin sliced smoked turkey breast (his favorite) and spoil him with all manner of affection for eternity amongst the clouds. 

Until the day comes when he passes from one world to the next, I am daily seeing a tableau of the images of Kelley wrapping Skittles in a towel fresh from the dryer, feeding him kitten formula from a eyedropper, speaking softly and sweetly to him, monitoring his weekly weight loss and crying while sitting across the kitchen table from me...

...if we can just get him to eat...

...if we can just get his weight up...

...if we can just keep him comfortable...

...until he dies...

It is especially in these moments of tender simplicity that I see the heart of this woman. The question as to who else I could have married and spent all these years, raised these children and weathered the hurricanes and near bankruptcies with never arises. Especially in times like these. 

If I were given no choice but to sky dive into the middle of ground zero and extricate myself from the hells therein, no blanket would I wish to be swaddled in upon my emergence, but hers. 

We caressed and kissed

in the kitchen 

last night

I cried into your hair

as we whispered

I love you

as we have always

across a million aeons

Your tender shroud of light

graced the floor

we tiptoed across

and I noticed my silhouette

clasped by your angel

holding me to your lips

drawing from me

every last desperate breath

I have sucked

in this life

attempting to hold onto

every last prayer

I have offered

in each drunken midnight

and every painful dawn

I cursed.

I claim not to know

but only sense

in this house

those of us gathered

could do aught else

but convene

beneath our roof 

and within our walls

We shatter

to one another

our imperfect mosaics

and help each other

reconstruct ourselves again

and over again

I knew nothing 

of the outside world

except of the pain

it had brought me

All I know

is when I turn the key

I am greeted

by their silent acceptance

The family

I would have sworn

I don't deserve

welcomes me home

again

and again

My wife and her clutch

on my soul

My daughter and her eyes

plucked from 

my father's ghost

clear blue and full of compassion

My son and his courage

in spite 

of his tender heart

displays an armor

I can only hope

to emulate

Each day when I leave

I pray

the 91st and 23rd psalms

so that when I return

beneath this roof

and within these walls

for as long 

as we are graced

with this time together

I never

take for granted

this love

of us four

I hope 

one day

they realize they

are the answer

to the prayers

that turned a bitter atheist

away from the side

of a cliff

and the shards below

whereupon 

I would be torn

beyond recognition

my identity obliterated

and every trace

of my birth

eradicated

save for the placenta

which was long since cast

to the gulls

since my ejection

left to make the best

of my cursed existence

wandering the wastes

until arriving

at our door

with this ring

their blankets

and my reason

to be alive.

With all my love,

Max

PS. I wrote this poem for Kelley, Amber and Daniel sometime during the winter of last year. The accompanying narrative was scribbled on legal pads and typed up this past Monday and Tuesday nights. In the predawn hours of Thursday, my little friend passed on.  I was with him when he drew his last breath. I think that's how he wanted it to be. It was graceful, painless and without fear. I buried him beneath the wild rose bush in our back yard as the sun rose. In the distance, I heard a train and knew he was well on his way. Kelley and the kids have shed their share of tears and are dealing with the loss as well as can be expected. Like any friend who is not there anymore, expected or not, it hurts like a son of a bitch and the pain doesn't retract any quicker, no matter how deeply one grieves or how much transcendental wisdom one possesses.  As for me, I'm happy that he is not sick anymore and at peace. In these last few sentences here at the laptop is the first time my waterworks are beginning to open. Not for him, but for me and us. After all, when the time has come, death is easy, life is the tough part.

Blessings and love,

Max

Wandering Bishop

When 'bite my ass' and 'fuck the world' sentiments boiled deepest and sprang highest in me, the top name on my shit list was God. When I viewed the heavens through someone else's telescope, my perception of the Divine became grainy and obtuse, blurring revelations with rhetoric and dogma. I had become very disillusioned with the church. 

'You have no other God before me, for I am a very jealous God...'

Sounds like you got yourself an inferiority complex there God-boy and perhaps you should. Given all the poverty, famine, disease, violence, hatred and injustice maybe your not the hot shit your butt sucking, dim bulbed, lip servicing, hypocritical men of the cloth crack you up to be.... 

....furthermore...

We are as we have been created. If our creator looks upon us with disdain and reprimands, then it's the dumbass Lords fault for not paying better attention to quality of craftsmanship. Not ours for being born. Period. Fuck you very much and have a nice day. 

Someone once tried to sway my young pissed as holy shit self by saying that I needed to start going back to church because 'God views us a discarded menstrual rags, but will love us anyway if we gather at his house.' My response was 'Fuck Church! At least menstrual rags go someplace nice.'

Then I came to find myself in the company of those with greatly unbridled access to high quality LSD and I began to imbibe. What I discovered was a land beyond shock or ridicule. A space in my cortex with a river of brain chemistry, it's surface a fabric of revelations above disenchantment and pathos of imagined obstacles and barricades.

One night, while in the throes of many hundred micrograms of blessed ergot, I looked at my face in a softly lighted mirror and saw the gift God had given me. It was this life and pair of eyes, this brain and heart. Then I realized, it wasn't God I had been mad at all those years. It was the lies I had been told about who God is and how this works. Anyone who claims to have a monopoly on that knowledge is a barefaced liar or a deluded son of a bitch but most likely a venomous conglomeration of both. 

I began to read the Psalms and Proverbs again with new eyes, as well as the Tibetan Book of the Dead and The Analects of Confucius, and to practice meditation and chanting. These were my first delicate steps out of the abyss and into the magic that is life unencumbered by blind ignorance and misplaced faith. The many steps that have followed since are other stories for other times. 

I love Jesus and revere the Buddha, but some of their slack jawed, narrow sighted, overly caffeinated, righteously indignant groupies and hangers on frankly scare the living shit out of me. Ignorance, intolerance and rock hurling catcalls of 'My God can beat up your God!' must be exorcised and banished if we as a species are to evolve. It is the gloriously hypocritical among us who, if there is ever to be such a thing, will be the ambassadors of Armageddon. 

I want to be there

when you explode

catching the shrapnel

on my tongue

like snowflakes

unwavering sword

of Michael

abolishing 

vitriolic subordinations

imprinted slash tattooed

deep deep

fucking deep

making no mistakes

no unclear crystal messages

slaying

false prophet configurations

exploding

distressed labyrinth logic

composed

by racist

blinded secular monarchs

deconstructing

a symphony

of referendum 

assailing

blind wicked abyss tenders

to hock 

their own creation

in a blithering of effluvium

once and forever proving

the sanctity of our rituals

and the absoluteness 

of their void

Temple bells

ringing echos

never recalled

back to divine providence

instead allowed to roam free

beyond the chrysalis

and venture

into the abandon

of we know not what

but plunge into 

what we must

if we are to survive

and evolve

as our creator wishes

and blesses us

we must

without backward glance

we must 

we must 

we must

Namaste and amen,

Max

For C.B.S.

To the best of my knowledge, I am an only child. Joan and George Grimm gave birth to a son named Max in October of 1962 and that was, as they say, that, period. 

However, something happened, a contact was made at the beginning of spring 2011 that makes me question this. Not that I think my father was ever unfaithful or led a double life or other such clandestine activities, but someone made contact with me through the most innocent of vehicles, a facebook posting in the group 'If you grew up in North Miami Beach in the 1970s'. The initial message said, 'Max Grimm, I can't believe I finally found you...'

The rest is a story for another time. Mostly because I'm not yet ready to tell it and largely because I don't fully understand it and close to fully realize that our story has only just begun. 

The weeks that followed that first contact found me at the computer corresponding with this person every night. Long tear streaked emails passed between us. I sat there wondering why I am bearing my soul to this stranger and she to me. I know the same applied to her. Always with tag lines like 'I can't believe  just told you that'.

When I finally first heard her voice on the phone, I said 'Oh my God, is this you?

This is a woman who is the closest one I've ever called my sister. By soul or by blood matters not, to me, she is family.  Always was, I just didn't know it until recently. 

A part of my heart and soul was restored to me that I never knew was ever missing. 

Each day I give thanks for her in my life and wonder, what would a good brother do now? 

In an attempt to answer that question, as I often do, I wrote a poem.  It is about the childhood we never shared and the estranged siblings we never became, as it seems to have become so much of a disquieting ratio of my own blood relations.

I want to run with you

in dizzying spirals

creating breathless whirlwinds

regaling laughter resounding

from our secret hilltop kingdom

until we surrender and collapse

to the sloping descent

rolling upon effervescent green hilltops

squealing and hurling our rag doll selfs

into valleys of summertime

waiting endlessly below

Scribbling secret codex

in margins of textbooks

unraveling their mysteries

freeing our precocious brains

to plan unseen adventures

pirate ships and secret agents

with dragons to slay 

and criminals to apprehend

to hide and go seek

until you find me

sequestered and giggling

unable to wait

until you find me again.

Swinging on ropes

twined around rhapsodies of branches

above the shimmering river

where we witness

one another flying

above its surface

just before releasing its braids

shortly before

creating cascades 

plumes 

and concentric circles

on its liquid mirror

much delighting

minnows and tadpoles

You taking my hand

on the journeys for Halloween candy

and sheltering me 

from the bombardment 

of Independence day fireworks

rushings to near missed school busses

long nights of influenza

masses on Sunday 

when we would say to each other

'peace be with you'

'and also with you'

Me hating your first boyfriend

for taking my best friend away

My new best friend I found

when you first fell 

really in love

who awashed you 

in a kind of happiness

I had never seen you 

drenched 

in such

before.

Then weddings and babies

grandparents and uncles

aunts and new siblings

small feet and sleepless nights

occasional phone calls

Thanksgiving

christmas cards

quick emails

dissolving to

damn

I think of her 

so often

I really

must call

God

I hope 

she is OK

Does she fell the same?

Hell no

after all

the phone works

both ways

I'll adore from a distance

and wish her the best

even if she

has forgotten me

and recall our secret 

hilltop kingdom

catching raindrops 

on our laugh stretched tongues

daring and egging each other

to run into the rain

face to the sky

to catch clouds

in our mouths

then return beneath the awning

where we huddled

damning the downpouring

onslaught

realizing

there is no one

who will ever be 

you 

to me

sister

Your precious sweet face

ancestral blue eyes

are tattooed

on the soul 

of my heart

for the next 

million 

lifetimes

until we are

absorbed

into the stars.

All my love, always and forever,

Max

PS On 10/23/2011 The very kind gentleman, Mr Kodac Harrison invited me to be the featured poet at 'Java Monkey Speaks'. A weekly open mic session going on in Atlanta for over 10 years. The honor and privilege was very humbling, to say the least. The crowd was so kind, the weather was lovely. To be a small part the legacy My Harrison is creating swells me with happiness.  It was the first time my kids ever sat through an evening of Dad reading his poetry. The link attached is the conclusion of my readings for the night. Over the next bit of time I will gradually share bits of this video document. Kelley, my love, thank you for the camera work.  

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1O7MtGWmSTQ

Make no mistake, I love this sharing of my soul with you all. Thank you so very much.

Max