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Supranowicz & Kirchner – August 2023

Craig R. Kirchner and Edward Michael Supranowicz traded art and words. Edward shared this image, titled “Something Wicked This Way Comes”:

In response, Craig wrote this poem:

Helter Skelter

We never tripped unless Charlie said it was OK.
He would put the acid on our tongues,
and then he would go and quietly sit,
pluck his guitar and watch.
We would listen to the music.
It would become frantic, zigzagged, schizoid,
and always, Charlie’s eyes  

When I get to the bottom
I go back to the top of the hill,
And I stop and turn, and I give you a pill. 

We never knew who to partner with
It became an every-which-way orgy
of colors and bodies.
The walls would move and melt.
Charlie sat, watched, and assured us,
“we’re not the Merry Pranksters,
we’re Manson’s Marauders.”  

Do you, don’t you want me to make you,
I’m coming down fast but I’m miles above you. 

We would dance, frolic and writhe,
knowing we were part of something big.
We would change normal, as folks knew it.
Only Charlie knew how to do it.
We had to wait,
until he was ready,
knowing he would tell us the plan.  

Will you, won’t you want me to make you?
I’m coming down fast, but don’t let me break you. 

We knew only Charlie could provide the words.
He explained that the pick-up truck spun out,
when we floored it in the sand,
and the fear we had of losing control,
was the fear we had to deliver.
“They won’t see it coming,
but it will send them into a tailspin of hate,
and then we will emerge, on the know.”  

Tell me, tell me, tell me your answer.
Well, you may be a lover, but you ain’t no dancer. 

We thought it metaphorical, poetic even,
when he said, “deliver the message so,
they can’t miss it, write the words,
on the wall in blood.”
We thought he meant the beauty of the lyrics,
of his vision,
the premonition of the song.  

Well look out! Helter Skelter,
Helter Skelter, Helter Skelter.
She’s coming down fast. 

I got blisters on my fingers.

* * * * *

Craig shared this poem with Edward:

Asphalt Cancer

Last night I watched the sidewalk quiver,
spasm as if caressed,
bordered by tufts of neon moss,
chameleon in green finesse.

The trickle in the gutter,
leftovers from a mint fresh rain,
corroded bricks to urban silt,
sloughed to sewers, to mud, to dust.

Trees like plastic Hollywood, 
were cramped by raised cement.
It seemed as if this camouflage,
these row-house slabs of man,

had failed to cover, to hide, to dent,
the transcendence of crawling weeds,
the evening’s strange foment.

In response, Edward made this image, titled “Flowers Wandering in the Night Breeze”:

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