Empty Frames

poems by DB Cox

ISBN 1-59948-037-9, 90pps, $12

Samples / Author bio / Review

Due for release in October, the advance discount price of $9 will be available from the Coming Soon page until September 15.

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Samples

 

krypto-night

 

after another night
of stumbling done-in
down metropolis streets-
too fucked-up to fly

superman lies
eyes closed
still under the influence-
naked in the space

between night & day
conjuring pathetic
x-ray visions
of a spent comic book hero

too tired
to walk through walls
or leap tall buildings
with a single bound

too strung out
to keep it all
from falling down-
dead certain

that truth, justice
& the american way
are no longer worth
the never-ending battle

so,
for the sixth time tonight
the frustrated
man of steel

grabs the .38
from the bedside table-
puts it to his head
& pulls the trigger

---

bandits

 

felony faces
cutting down the alley
like a cold breeze

police sirens
sing the same names
as last night

darkness covers
frozen footprints
a silent accomplice

seven saintly ladies
of mission hill
standby to alibi the lot

the bandits strut
the street talking shit
like they'll live forever

until they reach
the house of rita
the fortuneteller

where they all
go suddenly mute
and cross the street together

palms in their pockets

---

BackPages 68

 

I.

another troubled night falls
triple-canopy darkness
closes around me, like a body bag
zipped slowly shut

in the mist-filled darkness,
the jungle breathes, a living thing
& i sense the ghostly company
of things that roam late

from the corner of my eye
glimpses of shifting shadows
that freeze in place whenever
i turn my head to stare

five months in-country, & still uneasy
with the weight of the rifle in my hands
still looking back toward old rules
that no longer hold, & old order
that has spilled over into chaos

a strange storm, just before sundown
seemed to bring some terrible omen
from the highlands-how much longer
can angels steer these weary boot steps

streams of sweat find trails
down the center of my back
my dexedrine-charged heart slams
against my chest

how much more mad input
before this heart is stopped
for good

how many more
blinding-white days
& bullet-torn nights
until I reach
the cold understanding

that the best part of me
already lies twisted
in the dense, tangled green

II.

tonight I need refuge
from black wings
& deadly things

waiting--
out there
just across the river

so i trade black market prizes
soap-cigarettes-
johnny walker red

for a borrowed bed
a dangerous woman
& all the dope i can smoke

feeling lucky tonight
like I'm caught
in someone else's dream

her fingers
playing my tired body
like a blue cello--

moving my thoughts
away from
ordinary sorrows

tomorrow morning
i'll hold her hand
a little too long

talk about love
& mean it
because there's not enough

love left
between here
& the grave

& you can never
blame your heart
or your hands

for trying
to hold onto
all they can of heaven

III.

i kneel down
by the river bank
& come back up
wearing my muddy
midnight face--

the moon glows
like a handkerchief
thrown over a lamp
i flip my zippo
light my last lucky strike
& contemplate
an enemy no longer
worth hating-

worried about
the gathering of days
chipping away
at the already lousy odds
i count my sins
so i know
just how long to pray--

hard concentration
as i try to empty myself--
give up my body
to whoever-whatever
waits on the other side

across the river-a line of trees
dying branches
pushed by a purple wind
claw at the moon-bright sky--
backlit water moves by
pulling at my reflection

the realization i've played
this scene before--
a shiver tracks my spine
like cold water
over bones

IV.

back
in the "world"
with stories to tell

about things
he's seen
brutal, frightening

sometimes beautiful
things in vivid
heartbreaking detail

but as silence
walks him down easy
hometown streets

the tales die
inside his heart--
irrelevant recollections

that once burned
blood-red
in the dark

gone
cold as the ghosts
who breathed them

& he begins
to comprehend
how these shapes

carved
into his soul
are only words

VI.

time rides a river-
memories rust
like old bullet holes
in highway signs--

sighs of relief
now that you've
all gone
moved along

with your hard facts
about the bags
of flag-wrapped kids
who ate red dirt

on height-numbered
killing hills--
celebrated at home
with silent songs

of praise
in secret parades
down vacant
american avenues--

immortalized by artists
with too many names
selling monuments
selling paintings

selling empty frames

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About the Author

 

DB Cox is a blues musician/writer from South Carolina. He was born in Laurens and raised in Greenwood at Connie Maxwell Children's Home. He graduated from high school in 1966, and joined the Marines in 1968. After being discharged in 1972, he spent several years playing guitar in bars, juke joints, and honky tonks all over the South. In 1977, he moved to Boston, Massachusetts to attend the Berklee School Of Music where he discovered a thriving blues scene. After twenty-eight years of playing the music he loves with some great bands, he moved back to Laurens, South Carolina where he writes and plays in a blues-rock band called "Nobody's Nothing". His poems and short stories have been published extensively in the small press in the US and abroad.

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A Review of Donnie's work

 

Considering the ubiquitous influence of D.B. Cox's poetry, it's hard to believe that this is his first book-size publication. The fact that the majority of poems in 'empty frames' have already been snapped up and published by some of the best contemporary literary zines and small presses on both sides of the Atlantic is testimony to the poet's popularity.

For the past few years I've enjoyed seeing Donnie's work popping up in all my favorite places -- Thunder Sandwich, Zygote in My Coffee, Remark, Open Wide etc, and I've also had the pleasure of showcasing a number of his poems on my own site. Indeed, the beautiful, 'Shades of Ray,' a tribute to Ray Charles, Donnie sent me within hours of the great man dying, so I was able to feature it as a memorial on the site that same day.

The first section of poems in this collection is inspired or/and evocative of blues music and musicians. Being a blues guitarist himself, Donnie picks up the rhythm, atmosphere and nuances of the music, the musicians and the venues, to great effect.

Blues and jazz legends play on in Donnie's poetry and live forever - Parker, Mingus, Monk, Chet Baker, Ray Charles and, in the wonderful, 'Of Time, and Big Rivers,' Johnny Cash:

"…standing, like an obsidian statue,
on the banks of the big river,

black guitar in hand,
stroking that
same old repeating
riff, quietly singing…

'i hear the train
a coming', it's
rollin' round
the bend… '

& he has a mysterious,
angelic smile
on his beautiful,
time-torn face -

as if, he knows
something i don't."

The collection is peppered liberally with strong, involving poems about the disaffected, rejected, downtrodden; drifters, Vietnam vets, junkies, gypsies... Lost souls resurrected.

Another favorite is 'The Day the Music Died' - a bluesman's swipe at the soulless pretence of modern composers, especially when he reaches the final straw:

"..but my symphony tickets
went on ebay, the night
a well-dressed piano soloist
walked on stage & executed
a piece entitled 4' 33" …

as the audience
watched & waited,
this guy sat silently
at the keyboard
for 4 minutes & 33 seconds,
stood up, bowed & departed

creating the first ever
___musical vacuum
in the local concert hall…

if a concert pianist is seated
at a Steinway -
alone in the middle of a forest
& a mammoth oak tree
crashes down
on his hollow crown___

does it make a sound?

& if it does,
could you,
would you - have the balls
to call it music?

I'm also a real sucker for poems, stories and novels that include lines from my favourite songs. Cox is a master at this, interweaving the wonderful lyrics of Rodgers & Hart, Arlen & Mercer and the Man in Black himself through his own words, like the bits of songs you always have to stop to listen to, no matter how great the conversation you're having is.

As befits such an important debut, the collection is beautifully produced. Main Street Rag Publishing has really gone to town and the book itself makes a considerable visual impact.

Perhaps the thing that really makes Donnie's poetry stand out for me is, he doesn't sit around looking for things to write about, contemplating his navel ad nauseaum. He has more in common with a figure like Dylan, responding to events as they happen, engaging with life, contemplating its richness and dismay with equal humanity.

As the poem, 'Repetition of a Song' begins:
"take me
to a place
where midnight
accumulates"

D.B. Cox - I salute you!

© Laura Hird
Reproduced with permission

 

Laura Hird is the Orange and Whitbread nominated author of the collection, 'Nail and Other Stories' and novel, 'Born Free.' Her short stories have been published in numerous magazines and anthologies internationally. Her new collection of short stories is due to be published by Canongate Books in May 2005. She runs and edits her own loosely arts-related website on which she seeks out and publishes new poetry, short stories, reviews, interviews etc. She was born and lives in Edinburgh.