TO MUSCLE MEMORY

by Lynnie Gobeille

"Automat" (1927) by Edward Hopper

He says he plays by muscle memory
Stares off into space while on the stage
In some sort of out-of- body zone.
He asks if writers ever feel that way.
Do we experience the Zen
Of lost time and space?

I think of countless meals burned,
Eggs exploding on the range,
Long past “boiled”—moving on
To become lethal weapons;
As I sat patiently
Waiting for the arrival of the Muse.

I tell him—
Maybe that is what love will be
In this time of Covid19 and
Social distancing is really
All muscle memory with no touch.
I tell him not to worry—after all—
Hell—this is nothing new to us.

Artists are used to creative isolation.
And all this fear over Solitude?
—Just another name
For how we live our lives.
He picks up his guitar and plays—
I turn back to my computer.

Our words hanging there
Along with our silent fears
To be digested later.


Lynnie Gobeille: Co-founder and retired Co-Editor of the Origami Poems Project. Champion of all things Poetry & Magic.

ON THE RECENT DEATH OF CHUCK BERRY

by Gil Fagiani 

To Chuck Berry, 1926-2017

I was a chronic bed wetter. My teachers mangled
my name, called me Fag-ee-annie, no matter how
many times I corrected them. I wore orthopedic
shoes and had stomach cramps in class. I couldn’t
sit still and Miss Harrison tied me to my seat with
jump rope. When I couldn’t recite my homework,
Miss Wilson shook me, leaving nail prints in my arms.

Then I learned how to turn on Chuck Berry
in my head. His voice jolted me out of my stupor,
his guitar chords, like a tommy gun, riddled
the blackboard, the bookshelves, the display
cases with prize-winning science projects,
the Stars and Stripes, the Pledge of Allegiance,
the portrait of the President of the United States.


Gil Fagiani is a translator, essayist, short story writer, and poet. His latest book is Logos (Guernica Editions, 2015). Gil co-hosts the Italian American Writers’ Association’s monthly readings in Manhattan. In 2014, he was the subject of a New York Times article by David Gonzalez, “A Poet Mines Memories of Drug Addiction.”

TO PHIL OCHS

by Bill Dixon

on the 40th anniversary of the death of Phil Ochs

It's open mic night at The Sacred Mushroom.
   Phil Ochs tramps
onto the red stage,
and glares at me, some punk kid.

He has a Gibson acoustic guitar under his arm
   and confidence under
his battered leather coat.
He turns toward the crowd in folding metal chairs.

And a jittery 10th grade kid awaiting his turn next.
   That's me in the back row
Wishing that I'd sat closer
to the spotlighted red stage by then.

Walking's the hardest part, up to the stage.
   Then climbing on to it,
carrying my beat-up old Kay 6-string
clenched in my left hand, stepping unsteady steps.

Phil finishes his last protest song,
   with a flourish I still can't do,
and he nods unsmilingly
at the audience of old Beatniks.

They applaud and then pause, as I creep,
   onto the red stage
as slowly as a snail. It seems
the crowd's faces are as old as my father's.

I sing my three songs, sweating under the lights,
   in the January-cold coffee house.
I had done what I could do.
I nodded at the faces, and stepped off stage.

I was not Phil Ochs, but there was applause.
   I thanked the listeners.
I am now a Folk Singer,
and I am now a man. Thanks again, I said.

Author’s note: These events took place at the Sacred Mushroom Coffee House, in Columbus, Ohio in 1960.

Bill Dixon worked his way through the Ohio State University, got an M.A., taught school, did iron work, worked at the Columbus Zoo, tended bar, and worked his way into a CEO position at a Columbus bank. He has written two books, Disorderly Conduct (1960's at OSU) and Guitar Collecting. He writes a regular column "From The Edge" for ragazine.cc. Dixon lives in Florida and Maine.