Michael Andrews Arts

See Announcements for details on publication of Archilochus poems in Arion Magazine.

Dem Bones

Life, Death & Xrays, by Michael Andrews


Artist Book

38 X-rays and 75 poems on 192 pages of Somerset Book, in 32 page signatures in a 6½x10 inch format. The 38 X-rays are all of the author taken by various doctors for various reasons at various times. They include x-rays, ultra sound and MRI s ranging from being a cripple as a child, a root canal without novacaine in Saigon, a motorcycle accident, the complications of Type 2 Diabetes and the deaths of significant family and friends.
The macabre nature of the contents reflects the timeless issues of old-age, disease, death, loss of loved ones and, by implication, the horrors of the medical situation as currently imposed in the United States.
Case bound, printed with cover image on the book cloth. Set with Albertus & Lydian typefaces, printed on a natural mould-made, rag paper. Limited to 49 copies.


1 2 3 The Devil's After Me

Jimmy Conrad was no friend of mine.
We hung around together
because we were both outcasts;
me with crutches
and he an ugly frog.
He had his stooge
and I had mine, Steve Dieghton
who had the biggest crank
in the sixth grade.
The school was private
and christian and was run by
Just-call-me-Mack McClendon
who was a Christian,
who was a gunnery mathematician in WWI,
who said, I'm from Missouri – show me,
who said a lot about
Common Bay Horse Sense
and carried a ping-pong paddle
in case you forgot to say Sir;
and his wife Gladys who
was even more Christian,
who wore shapeless cotton dresses,
who dangled her glasses on a chain,
who let me go to school for free
because I was crippled
and poor and a prize student
and no one else
was supposed to know about it
because they all paid
but I got mine for love.

So one day
after the flag salute
the national anthem
and morning chapel
we were playing tag
with a basketball
and Jimmy's stooge, Ronny Delano,
who was a fat shit just like Jimmy
called me the crip
so I hit him between the legs
with the ball
while he was running
and he fell asshole over elbows.

I smacked him a few times
with my crutches because
nobody fucked with the crip
and in the fight that followed
I told Jimmy Conrad
that he was just a fat-shit slob
because he paid
and I didn't
and he ran straight to Mack
and told him what I said
so I fell from grace
about which I felt bad
and said extra prayers.

Fifteen years later
Gladys went to her heavenly reward
for which she was heavily insured.
Old Mack became an alcoholic
and lived next door
to Gorgeous George the wrestler.
I am sure that fat-shit Jimmy
is selling used cars
or insurance in Pacoima.
But the crip got away clean;
his crutches turned to pens
and now he writes poems
and says

the devil made me do it.