Michael Andrews Arts

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

A Calendar Of Women

A tribute to women by Michael Andrews


Artist Book

Poems relating to women as sexual objects and the lighter side of relationships. The title of this book, A Calendar Of Women, is taken from the title of a poem of the same name. The collection is comprised of two different views of women as an intermingled series of images along with poems which are not associated with any particular image.
The images of the first series belong to The Naked Muse, which are nudes of real women, all of which are associated with the arts; poets, actresses, dancers, etc. These represent, for me, the artist's muse. The second series is titled Painted Ladies, and is comprised of found images of women as street signage.
First Printed 2005. Three different sized editions, all limited to 17 copies. 76 pages on 100% rag, archival paper with no optical brighteners, including 34 pigment images, printed & handbound in Mohair Black by the author. The cover image in a recessed window. The text is composed with Albertus and Erie typefaces.
The text is Albertus and Erie typefaces.
Three different editions:

15x22 inch edition

10x15 inch edition

7.5x10 inch edition




Sacred Hearts & Sacred Breasts

Lagunilla Market, Mexico City, 1979

    Jesus was a sailor when he walked upon the water.
                  Leonard Cohen
    Jesus was a freako babe, just like you and me
                  Dory Previn

I am looking for wise old Indian shamans in the park.
Yesterday I saw one, all wrinkled and crusty with wisdom
but when I turned my head, he disappeared.

Today Roberto tells me all about the demon locked in the cellar
of the cathedral, trapped in a coffin all plastered with exorcism papers.
It must be one of the old Aztec gods and he's mad as hell, getting nailed
into a coffin by a bunch of mumbling, organ pounding white gods.
They've had him in the coffin since 1600 and something.
They can't let him out or he'll tear Mexico City off the mountain.
It's all in the national archives, how they got the demon back into the box.

So it must be true.

So Brad and I go to the cathedral.
I've never talked to any kind of demon, Aztec or not.
The flocks of the righteous are muttering and crossing and lighting candles
they are wheeling and dealing for a little bit of heaven
after they get nailed into their own coffins.
They know they won't get any heaven here.
The priest has the look of a man who has just shaken hands with the pope.
The pope has just left town handing out cigars for more babies.
The Indians are so hungry that they are eating the cigars.

I can't stand all this sanctity. So we're heading for the Lagunilla Market.
It's as crazy as an ant hill in the rain.
Everyone is wheeling and dealing just to keep out of the coffin.
It's full of pots and pans, lights and guitars, tools and brooms and clothes
and shoes and art and a whole section devoted to religious kitsch.

Not a wise old Indian in the bunch.

But there is a herd of Jesuses standing in a soup line
a bank line
a theater line waiting to see Gidget Goes Hawaiin
a line for the Savior's Ball, Hurry Up And Wait
and all those Jesuses have got it all; the nail holes, leaking hearts,
lots of blood, looking for someone to save, crosses to bear
sins to forgive.

I think that they should all march down to the cathedral
and have a heart to heart talk with that demon.
It would be the christian thing to do.

The Aztecs had a god named Xip.
He died for somebody's sins so the priests tried to make it up to him.
They flayed some of the righteous alive and wore their skins for leisure suits.
If they wanted to get a better crop of corn they got one of the faithful,
tied him up so he couldn't shoot back
and they took their atl-atls and shot him full of arrows.

It's the kind of thing that makes gods happy and the corn grow.
Tearing out beating hearts really tickled them pink and got the priests fat.
You just can't trust a priest who has your best interests at heart.

I whip out the camera and start shooting pictures of this holy chorus line
and I am muttering, "I just love a parade."
"You wonder why I've called you all here," I chortle.
"Please take a number and wait your turn." I start laughing
and yelling at Brad, "Will the real Jesus please ascend."
Brad starts tugging at my sleeve. "Line forms at the rear," I shout.
"You show me yours and I'll show you mine."
A crowd begins to gather. "It's the 8th, 9th and 10th coming," I howl.
"See my new necklace," and the tears are rolling down my cheeks.
"The Marines are looking for a few good men," I bellow, and
Brad is trying to drag me out, but I've gone crazy.
"Breasts, get thee behind me," I shout, waving my hands like a madman.
A bunch of priests are getting out the ropes, the knives and the atl-atls.
In the back of the line is a girl with good sense and huge knockers,
Aphrodite Pandemos, the aspect of the whore
a lady with a golden heart, with or without arms.
I like to think that she brings a little sanity, a dash of joy
and all the heaven we are likely to get.

"What's a nice girl like you doing in a joint like this?" I scream.

Brad is trying to save me by strangling me to death.
Just like a priest.
As he drags me out of the market I tell him that the hill called Guadalupe
where the Virgin is now the top dog, used to belong to a goddess named
Tonantzin, which means Our Mother and she specialized in making babies
but she was no virgin having come by her babies the fun way.
They say that she is still there disguised as a virgin
so she wouldn't end up as a three-piece suit for some priest.
The priests are loading their atl-atls.
Brad is heading south.
Someone is building a sacrificial pyre and honing knives.
I am running for the exit with the righteous on my heels

Not a wise old Indian in sight.

Behind me I can hear Aphrodite say to the last Jesus in line,
"Hello, sailor."