Radio Omed

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Dr. Omed will be on the air TODAY on ARTxFM in beautiful Louisville with the beautiful Rachel Short, host of Keep Louisville Literary. Broadcast begins at 1PM U.S. Central Time, 7PM GST. Rachel and I will be chatting, as she puts it, “about a myriad of discrepancies and half truths. Poetry too.” The best part, pilgrims and seekers, is you don’t have to be in the broadcast area to listen. Due to the magic of the virtual panopticon, you can get your ears on by downloading the app or simply clicking the link. Will the true identity of Dr. Omed BE REVEALED?? Hear the Voice of Omed! Tune in!

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(I’m excited. I haven’t been on radio since 1990. Don’t tell Rachel that the DJ was fired after our show.)

BONUS POEM:

Radio Ishmael Orchestra

My head is in your lap.
Rocking upon the waters,
I lose all sight of land.
Tuned to the Polestar
by the lodestone
in my blunt white brow,
I sound deep undersea
riding the slow sine arc
and flex of my ragged flukes
North.
In the cold Artic wash across my crooked jaw,
I scent hartshorn
and peony, witch hazel
and wintergreen, and I sing to you
across leagues of ocean
the one song of the Radio Ishmael Orchestra.
I order the violin to disembowel itself
like a samurai,
with a screech.
I make the bagpipes walk on all fours,
tell it to spin like the spider.
I give up the sax to the white hot crucible
to melt down
and drool over the brim.
I tool the gracenotes of my clarinet
working the leather in intricate crescents.
I attack the tympani with an icepick,
seeking to spit the brass tongues of the angels.
Finally, I make the oboe moan,
that lonely wraith
twisted out of the flesh that is grass,
and the glory flowers out of it
as I kiss it
down its length
to an end full of yeses.
You will hear.
I swim in your wake.
My head is in your lap.

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3 responses to “Radio Omed

  1. Poor Donny B. I saw him several times in the months and week just before his unfortunate demise. By his invitation, in his apt. As if he fore-knew. As if, perhaps, I was standing in for the Good Doctor. He expressed a fondness for the “forty gauge petrificant” poem; which see; i.e. maybe
    he sensed his Februant existence was being closed out soon.

  2. I had this image arise upon reading your plug above. It was of Jonathan Winters doing standup/ improv in response to audience demand. He once took off his belt and had me, anyway, believing he was roping cattle with it. Among other things.
    Fortunately he also wore Sansabelt trousers. Will Rachel hit Dr. O cold,
    out of the left-est of fields? on ary subject imaginabobble ? Profoundly to be hoped.

  3. I lent you my best pencil in late ’86 and you never returned it. How can you live with yourself?

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