Collaborative Poem #1: la Luna and Zen— TMI as a result of TBI


“Jack, as a matter of fact, I lack tact.”  ~~~Wm. Andrew Turman


“This whole fucking poem smells like bacon!” ~~~la Luna


His name was Bo Diddly

a 1965 Chevy Biscayne

the orignal lead sled

190 engine with a three-in-a-tree


Bought for $600

from Pope Taylor

a man who ran a 

BBQ joint outside of Murfreesboro, Tennessee


It was the “Summer of Drugs”

As long as I had checks, I had money in the bank

Buying cases of Redi-wip 

at the Piggly-Wiggly grocery store


We would take “Fear Trips” in the middle of the night

down and around the back-woods roads.

High on life and weed

Doing whip-its  during the straight-aways.


Neon cow skull strapped to the grill

a cassette player dangling from the rear-view

squealing out “Pale Blue Eyes”

R.E.M. and Dead Letter Office


The night I killed him.

My best friend.

A missed turn, off the road

We crashed into a tree.


Windshield spider-webbed

Blood streamning from a gash in my head

I passed out. 

And later awoke in the hospital bed.


“He’s dead,” she said.

Your head bled

on the mossy dashboard

like storm-blown water over a bridge.


The viewing was held

at Jake’s Auto Storage

a scrap-yard outside of town.

I cried.


The day was grey 

as my angel eyes teared.

His death marked the end of an era.

I graduated with no honor.


The years have passed

but still I mourn.

I am torn.

Between then and now.


He was not my first

Nor was he my last.

My skull scars and bumps 

are the road map of crashes I have had.


I still wake up

heart pounding in my throat

pressure on my chest

gasping for breath.


Night terrors, says my therapist,

Because they are not dreams.

My hopes, my fears

Lie in a field, crumpled like yesterday’s newspaper.


The doctors say that 

the frontal lobe is the gestapo of the brain.

It is the part of us that shows restraint.

But mine is damaged from increased trauma.


When they take me on the gurney 

into the operating room

to slip me into a deep sleep

to prepare for the 50 000 volt jolt,


My mind wanders to the memory

of a royal blue automobile

with wings instead of fins.


My best friend 

and I killed him.

The Man of Un-constant Sorrow

Man of Un-Constant Sorrow…

~~~Wm. Andrew Turman, 2012

Man of Un-Constant Sorrow: All through my days I yo-yo…up then down, walking the dog longer than I wish. How I love the burn—I yearn for it to last, but it is bittersweet for I know that the crash, though not in view in the flame of the moment, it hovers waiting to drown me in tears. I break the chemical restraints THEY have put me on time and time again. Each exotic cocktail, psychopharmalogical, lasts for only so long before I feel the scales tipping. I hate what happens to me.The rapid cycle, the mixed states, the suicidal ideation, the surly irritation, the fact that I have no skin, like I am on fire. I love what happens to me. The rapid cycle, the mixed states, the suicidal ideation, the surly irritation, the fact that I have no skin, like I am on fire. A friend mentioned to me that I need to find serenity, to find the balance. She inspires me. She works hard to push through the fog. As must I. Buddha and Benzos, my Amazing Grace…. How sweet the sound… High above the chimney tops, until the other shoe drops. Dum spiro spero means “While I breathe, I hope”and that, really, is all I have. That one day, the cycling might stop.

~~~zen image bliss, 2013