We prefer to call him Godfather. As of yesterday afternoon, the irascible bard has consented to be godfather to our unborn child. It wasn't easy. Here's an excerpt of our conversation:
My sometimes-pregnant wife and I would consider it an honor if you would be godfather to our child.
What? Me? Fuck! Why me?
You're my oldest and best friend, that's why.
But you know I hate kids!
Hate kids? You have 30 of them!
That was my wives' idea, and anyway when will I have time to write if I have to be godfather all day long?
Dude, you haven't written a thing since 1982.
I had him on the ropes. I waited for an answer as he groped for excuses.
Fuck me. Fine. Fuck!
And thus he hung up. In spite of the misgivings, we know the McBonerito will enjoy a wonderful, warm bond with his godfather. While it is true Foliglio is known for a rough exterior and a relationship with society that could best be described as erratic, only a soul at peace could have conceived of the lilting beauty behind this sample from his trailblazing Diz-aster Book of Poems:
hawk in the sky
hawk in the sky
can fly very high
hawk in the sky
can fly so high
hawk in the sky
can fly as high
as the high sky
The simple, soaring words of an artist in his prime. Written at the height of Cold War tensions and under the influence of quaaludes and crème de menthe, this lone 'hawk' in the sky has been said to represent the deadly, determined flight of a nuclear weapon. The image is an example of the poet at his ironic best. Eschewing the blunt conventionality of a mushroom cloud or smoldering crater, the artist instead captures the terrible potential of a warhead unleashed against a sky suffused with pristine blue.
Beauty in death. Ruin exalted. Like a mouse in a field, Moscow waits unsuspecting for the hawk to descend.
In spite of appearances, the outward paranoia, the suspicion, the Don't Tread on Me ethos, I know a true mentor resides in the soul of the Godfather. Can't wait to show the kid the compound!
nwb
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