Featured Mystic Boxer

REVIEWED BY LYNN ROGERS, M.A.

Dipping into the Illuminated Edition of Michael C. Ford’s work IN CASE OF FLOOD STAND ON THIS BOOK…IT’S DRY ENGLISH is like following a river of spilled wine, in and out of creative outpourings from this multitalented Beat poet, critic, jazz commentator, artist who now becomes a Legend.

In addition, this is the most beautiful book designed to date by its publisher, Daniel Yaryan, and he has shaped many.

From nostalgia anchored in ‘50s Southern California, with the requisite peripatetic wanderings, to critical asides (sans misogyny by the way, yeah!) his poetic prose is spooled out over many a moody graphic collage. Yes, the euphonious Ford can turn a phrase, especially about his area’s claim to cultural cool; “Tidewater pouring into sand/ pool cup/brims over a Pacific coastal/afternoon.”

Thus, he evokes nearby Hermosa, Altadena, La Crescenta, Mohave, Rialto Radio Theater etc. “Homeless World War 2 veterans making a racket like inebriated mockingbirds boinked on bad bourbon under the sill of Sunday mornings in Monrovia.” Personifying “Pomona, Pomona you were child to this Los Angeles father whenever mother got sick,” he draws us into his fabled anti-land of noir and beyond into the heart of hip America, by rail or imagination.

His allusions to musicians from Davis, Pepper and Getz, to Morrison, to literature like that of Elliott and Joyce, reflect Beat perceptions. Michael C Ford says for example, that Joyce found “the idols of the commercial marketplace supremely unimportant”, whereas Ford admits to the contrary that “a few icons of the marketplace, mainly those related to film or music or anything automotive or creative cartooning…billboard advertising…packaging…” are inherently poetic. And that distinguishes Beat sensibilities from those purely literary or academic. Ford encourages other poets who create on the edge and so are deemed illiterate by the literary mainstream, not to take such snobbery to heart.

And Michael C Ford can, on occasion, incorporate the Feminine: “…we are erecting imaginative pedestals of insane worship of certain women…” …”wind out of the West Indies able to say its name with no sexist accusations/or feminist injunctions…” “If you were my wife I’d ride prairie schooners to the shores of your flowery Kansas mouth..”

He experiments with reverse Catholic “sacraments,” suggesting mixed feelings about their meanings: “Art farther out than Heaven,” complements Kerouac’s associating the term Beat with biblical Beatitudes: Anti-materialistic, they of course suggested a natural simplicity and spiritual surrender as with the lilies of the field. 

Ford goes further to create poetry and a kind of beauty amid and from ugly damage done to the environment: “Note on the orange grove obsolescence along Route 66 between the San Gabriel gateway and the City of San Bernardino.” 

“What’s writ down, here, is in defense of any Southern California’s neighborhood architectural blight.”

In a similar way he creates ambivalent poetic human profiles. Take “The Importance of a Tennis Racquet,” a key piece in this book: It has place, Mariposa (meaning butterfly) Drive; nostalgia, “the blue innocence of my childhood.”

It recalls the elegiac lyricism of the most well-known Beat poet, Allen Ginsberg. The reader can hear reverberations of familial Kaddish themes in Michael C Ford’s own description of his antihero uncle before he got “rousted for robbery and sentenced to death in an alcoholic ward at Utica…” On the other hand, remembers “when I was 7 making him recollect a memory of The Army Airforce bombing of Dresden and all that he’d/ Been trying to forget?” 

Ford identified with this uncle he never really knew, but wanted to forget because of “the memory of a toppled Christmas tree - the star of Bethlehem broken on the/Family living room..and he’s puking into/Somebody’s ribbon-brocaded Radio Flyer wagon.”.  Despite these insults, the author was imaginatively imprinted with his wayward uncle’s earlier image: “recalling a snapshot of you on Skokie Country Club court when you were 16 and When you held your racquet like a saber…”

In short Michael C. Ford’s poetic life reminiscences let us revel in the flow of literary and artistic insight over time, spilled out now into in this Illuminated, full color coffee table edition, designed by Beat commemorator, Daniel Yaryan, like fine vintage wine.

ABOUT THE REVIEWER:

LYNN ROGERS M.A. was inspired by Beat icons and ideas as a youth on the road  with Cassady and Kesey. Recently she has been invited into Who’s Who of America as Author; Artist; Advocate. She has written 14 books beginning with Born in Berkeley, created prolific mixed media art pieces and advocated for the marginalized. She co-hosted Sparring with Beatnik Ghost in Northern California; served as contributor, staff artist and author for Daniel Yaryan who has encouraged and understood her work as no other/

ABOUT THE BOOK AUTHOR MICHAEL C FORD:

MICHAEL C FORD is an America poet, playwright, editor and recording artist who is influenced by poet Kenneth Patchen in terms of integrating spoken words with Jazz. Ford has published steadily for over 50 years and is credited with 40 volumes of both print product and recorded solo tracks and compilations. He has created collaborative recordings with members of “The Doors” including drummer John Densmore, pianist and keyboardist Ray Manzarek and guitarist Robby Krieger. Ford has also performed in poetry shows with Jim Morrison, Jack Hirschman and Michael McClure among others. His debut spoken word vinyl (on SST Records) Language Commandoearned a Grammy nomination in 1986. His book of selected poems, Emergency Exits, was honored by a 1998 Pulitzer Prize nomination.

REVIEWED BY DANIEL YARYAN

Charles Plymell’s latest book Over the Stage of Kansas (New & Selected Poems1966-2023) is a surrealist joyride of contemplation, exciting encounters and first-hand accounts of a lifetime of adventure outside the mainstream. Plymell and his artist comrades together were a mid-century wild bunch of creative pioneers, hailing from the bullseye of America. Plymell, along with his friends and kindred, artistic spirits of the same region of Kansas were from a group known in counter-culture legacy as the “Wichita Vortex.” Charley, as he’s known by his close friends and collaborators, sprang from his stomping ground of Kansas with other quintessential Beat-era Wichitans: artists Robert Branaman, Bruce Conner and poet Alan Russo, among others (including famed Beat poet Michael McClure and actor/filmmaker Dennis Hopper). It was a staging ground and springboard for youthful rebellion, unconventional mores, as well as an over-burst of artistic expression. Charley and company were compelled to bee-line their way from the rural, rustic plains of Kansas to the well-springs of bohemianism in California and New York, where they could add to a blooming cultural revolution in the making.

In Plymell’s poem “In Kansas” he expresses strong feelings about the Kansas he left in the dust, summarized in the poem stanza as follows:

But in Kansas you may have

the madman’s dream,

white whale on the desolate plains.

Or wild strawberries

of a baby’s dream

crushed beyond repair 

There’s a chronology of when his poems were written included in Over the Stage of Kansas, although all the places and times described in the poems defy that chronology, hopping around consistently. Which is suitable because this big 370-page volume stems from many previously published books and chapbooks dating back to 1966 – a hefty sum of them referenced in the table of contents – selected and played in jukebox fashion as you read onward. This is the best Plymell poetry book to purchase and read right now because it gathers the essence of all of those older editions that are now worth some moolah as rare books, hard-to-find chapbooks and out-of-print collections from the Beat-Hippie axis. In other words, this book is an affordable gateway drug to the highs of Plymell poetry. Andy Warhol superstar and collaborator Gerard Malanga edited and wrote the foreword to Over the Stage of Kansas. In his foreword, Malanga states that he finds it inconceivable that Plymell is not a famous poet. “It’s a wonder he hasn’t received the recognition and respect that came easy to others of his generation,” said Malanga. “The fact is, Charley’s work represents some of the best poetry being written in America at this or any other time. It just is. Real and honest.”

I also agree with Malanga that one of the best poems in Stage is “In Memory of My Father.” In it, you get a beautiful glimpse of where Plymell came from:

To you who sung the riddles of that desolate Atlantis

While wind-worn wagons swept a sunken trail into eternal dust.

To your sod, your grass, your easy hills of flint from glacial

slope to wanderlust. “Perfect cattle country . . . the best I’ve

seen since Uruguay.” I’d oft heard you say, your dreams and maps

unfolded beneath those eyes that invented skies, could you

have known the winter owl’s alarm where black beasts of angus grazed?

I could not see as far, but went my way, you understood, and 

Watched the windmills tell their listless joy to silt and seam.

Life must be beautiful or all is lost . . . those bison of the clouds

were pushed from life . . . slaughtered for sport . . . now they are the

stern clouds watching us from eternity and far beyond.

At 89 years old, Plymell is a poet I’d describe as one of the last “road going,” traveling, sojourning Beats. This is reflected in his writing throughout this book, such as with “Apocalypse Rose” with imagery such as this…

The hand that strikes the match at night

soon may grasp the torch of liberty.

While a dog tail dipped into a wound

holds the mirror union of the senses

Here’s another striking, insightful stanza from the same poem, written by Plymell, who you can tell spent a great deal of time with and was influenced by Allen Ginsberg (note: Plymell was the first one to turn Ginsberg on to Bob Dylan’s music):

Do those who cannot see, love darkness?

Does nightingale trade its song for fame?

Are you in human form, calm once more

With your imploding love to blame?

“Apocalypse Rose” is a brilliant poem that harkened the sympathy for fellow humankind that the Beats embodied, including the plight of people trying to survive on the streets. In one segment of the poem, Plymell ponders the existence of the cruelty and callousness toward the downtrodden, describing a wino dying in a stack of cardboard, then having other winos stacking cardboard and sleeping on top of his long-dead body, described as being “crushed like a rose in a Bible.”

There are several poems delving into the day-in-the-life grind of San Francisco streets. Another is this cool riff on “Apocalypse Rose” titled “Petal from the Rose,” here’s the whole petal:

Baby break that mind trap in time stigmata

through your outline has gone beyond the changes

of the mercury in your flaming youth!

Weary streets of waiting,

     walking,

under the marquees of all night movies

on the meat block

where teen-age hustlers cruise.

Market St.

And the moon is full.

We see an old newsreel with the face of Dillinger.

“He smiles on the right side of his face,”

You say, “like Bogart.”

Voices in the fog

dispelled the blocks

of waves bright lights hung on.

In Over the Stage of Kansas, there are many phenomenal poems Plymell dedicated to many of his friends and cohorts, including Bob Branaman, actor Dean Stockwell, poet Jack Micheline, John Cassady (with a poem about Neal Cassady and Anne Marie Murphy – both of which were Plymell’s flat mates in San Francisco in the sixties).

Yet, the one dedication that I find to be the most powerful is his poem “From the Neo Surrealmic Manifesto (For S. Clay Wilson).” Plymell and Wilson were friends for many years, starting when he first published Wilson in Grist magazine from Lawrence, Kansas. It helped launch Wilson’s career, solidified with his inclusion of Zap magazine, not long after Plymell printed the premiere issue of Zap on his Multilith 1250 press in 1968. The underground comix movement was a shared passion of the two friends. After S. Clay Wilson became a famous counter-culture figure and famous artist, he always stayed in constant contact with Plymell – a friendship and correspondence superbly documented in the Water Row Books special artbook edition of Dear Charlie.

Here, is a fantastic stanza that sums up why it is among the top selections in Stage, especially among the dedicated poems:

Do you know something I don’t know, man?

Don’t let the bolts and liquid wrenches creep

                                                           upon you

or the punk ghosts will squeeze the

                                                   rat cowboy

                                                   out of his sleazy hormones

Probably the most spiritual, signature poem of Plymell’s is really the pyrotechnic, fascinating, big-finish offering of the epic “We Heard the Game Lord Speak, His Voice Became the Vision (Animals learn from Nature. Man must learn from Animals to understand nature’s reprisal).” This is undoubtedly bound to be the most talked about and is clearly the most visionary poem of Plymell’s in this collection. It is sensational; so here’s a little snippet from the 14-page poem to wet your appetite for something special that falls into a Robinson Jeffers and William Everson category of high-powered nature-as-conduit-holy-hero zone. This is an area of great interest to me, being a follower of Everson, who was a devout disciple of Jeffers. There is a uniqueness though in Plymell’s voice, being one that can morph between the boundaries of humanity’s terrain and the natural world. Here is a preview of the poem that conjures up the native images of Plymell’s Kansas vortex:

All suffered forever more man animal voice of space void

              of hands and brains to conquer, attack, render

destruction in the name power taught in all curricula

              to become aware of death in first written history

or discuss afterlife of the abstract gods

              while elephants sensed their burial place.

Over the Stage of Kansas (New & Selected Poems1966-2023) is published by Bottle of Smoke Press and can be found on bospress.net or other booksellers online.

(Photo of Marc Kockinos by Robert Fischer, 2021.)

    My mind contains many fond recollections of kindred comrade Marc Kockinos, who departed this world February 2, 2024 after a bout with cancer. Marc and I met when we were both participants of the San Francisco literary arts scene, coinciding with the early years of my multimedia poetry series Sparring With Beatnik Ghosts, which began August 23, 2008 in the city by the Bay. We first met earlier that year at the Beat Museum at the Beat Friar Brother Antoninus induction celebration and exhibit. We quickly became comrades and read at the same poetry venues throughout The City. On one occasion, after I featured at Gallery Café, Marc and I headed over to Hotel Utah’s weekly, long-standing Monday night open mic and performed our poetry to music with mutual poet friend and pianist extraordinaire Steve Arntson. At the end of the night, my car had been towed and I needed to get home to my kids in Santa Cruz. Marc, to the rescue, drove me all the way to Santa Cruz and I dealt with the car situation later.

     Many-a-night when I was visiting San Francisco as I frequently did, Marc and I would grab pints at places in North Beach such as Vesuvio’s, Specs or Tosca; often times in the Mission District too after the popular 16th and Mission reading (during part of that time I lived in nearby Burlingame). We shared many brother-deep stories and had fantastic discussions about the many challenges of life, world situations and pondering the universe as thinking beings often do (and he was highly intelligent, yet never judgmental or ego-maniacal as many other creative people I’ve encountered over the years). He had empathy for people and always cared about and wanted to know in all sincerity how they were doing or how he could help if he could. Bottom line, he was a real “people-person,” never of the commonplace, superficial variety and never self-declared. This trait is perhaps what made him such a successful organizer and host of one of the largest poetry events in the United States, which was called “Poetic Brew” in San Diego which set attendance records in the hundreds monthly, prior to moving to Northern California’s Mill Valley. A SF suburb, Mill Valley is a short distance north of the Golden Gate Bridge – rich in the arts and majestic beauty, which includes Mount Tamalpais, one of Marc’s favorite hiking spots, maybe second only to Muir Woods.

     Marc hosted Open Heart Poetry at Om Shan Tea in the Mission District and was a member of San Francisco’s Revolutionary Poet’s Brigade, which also included the late, great SF Poet Laureate Emeritus Jack Hirschman, among many other trailblazers.

     Marc was an active member of the IATSE Local 16, San Francisco. Local 16 said “Kockinos was often seen on the Trade Show floor, in the Breakout rooms, and the Keynote sessions.  He was known for his compassion, deep booming voice, and expertise in nearly every facet of event production.  He handled audio mixers as well as projectors; and was always happy to mentor newer folks in all the different skills that modern video and audio techs need these days.  He was also very active in the SF and San Diego literary circles, as a poet and spoken-word performer.  As well, he was a photographer, just an all-around lover of the arts.” I recall how dedicated Marc was to his job. One time I was on my way to the Berkeley Poetry Festival in 2012 for a special presentation of Sparring With Beatnik Ghosts. I took the BART train from the Fremont station up to the BART stop by Berkeley City College where the event was held. As I disembarked the train, I got a call from Marc asking if I could take over for him as host of the festival (about an hour before it began). He was called into work for an emergency and regretfully couldn’t make the event. I hosted in his stead and performed a Sparring set. I was grateful and honored that Marc thought of me to take his place for the event. Really though, no one could compare. He was one of the best hosts I’d even seen, with a calm demeanor, respect (and patience) for performers. Also, he understood how to engage the audience with a seamless command of the microphone.

     Marc Kockinos hosted and performed in many Sparring With Beatnik Ghosts events over the years in Santa Cruz, Berkeley and San Francisco. He was truly masterful at delivering unforgettable professional events. In Marc, I found the optimal representative, along with co-host Ginger Murray, to usher the famous Poetry Festival back to Santa Cruz on 2/12/12 at the historic Cocoanut Grove Grand Ballroom at the Beach Boardwalk. It took a year to plan and was one of the greatest projects I had ever produced. The festival showcased 40 of some of the finest poets and musicians for an all-day extravaganza. Marc was part of the magic of that day, whereas he helped resurrect a cultural phenomenon in Santa Cruz that had been absent from the town for 30 years.

     Marc was a dear friend who’s resounding voice I can still hear every time I read his indelible poems. I encourage people to watch some videos of Marc performing his work at Sparring With Beatnik Ghosts and other fabulous shows on YouTube. I’ve also included some of his poems herewith in honor of Marc, which prove his words are just as everlasting with the same vitality and energy once captured through his live performances throughout countless spoken word stations. Rest in Peace, dear friend! May you have many great conversations in the ethereal night with fellow Greek poets Homer and Hesiod. May Calliope and the other muses forever be in your corner!

– Daniel Yaryan, MBC Publisher

...

POUND OF FLESH

by Marc Kockinos

If all the spoon-fed illusions

that you have followed since youth

of easy success and popularity..

shattered like glass at your feet.:

Would you pay..

Would you pay..

..to be Free?

If something pure called

from out of the darkness

like a distant lighthouse

leading you back to shore:

Would you pay..

Would you pay..

..to be Free?

Always chasing an idea

down a hundred blind alleys

and over and over

it dispels like fog

just as you touch:

Would you pay..

Would you pay..

..to be Free?

After you've spent another day..

After you've spent another month..

After you've spent another year..

wrestling with a desire

that you can not name:

(Pound of Flesh: 1 of 2 )

Would you pay..

Would you pay..

..to be free?

As you finally start 

to understand what it is 

that you've been searching for;

you pour your soul out

to all your friends,

but no one seems to know

exactly what you mean,

and no one seems

to really even care:

Would you pay..

Would you pay..

..to be Free?

When discontent smolders

from behind your lovers' eyes;

and all you have to exchange

for a guarantee of comfort, 

is your most heart-felt dream:

Would you pay..

Would you pay..

..to be Free?

...