CRAZY BONE

Author: Billy Jones
Includes 18 Drawings by Billy Jones
Genre: Poetry, Trade Paper, 6X9
Publisher: Lummox Press (PO Box 5301 San Pedro, CA 90733-5301)
www.lummoxpress.com
ISBN: 978-1-929878-
37-6

Pages:168
Publishing Date: August 2012
ARTWORK by Billy Jones // title: "Indian Corn"

For Billy's bio and samples from the book, scroll down past the "add to cart buttons"...

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BIO:

Billy Jones was an artist, poet and emotional expatriate born in Camden, New Jersey in 1935 where Walt Whitman died. He quit high school, joined the Marines, then went back to school on the GI Bill majoring in American Literature at LA State. He migrated to Australia from Stockholm in 1967. In addition to his previously published poetry collections and numerous exhibitions, he has kept a journal of drawings, paintings, poetry and every day events since June 28, 1975. Started as a hermit on the riverbank in a she-oak grove at Mary Smokes Creek five weeks after his then girlfriend, Diane Kelly, was killed in a car accident, he was working on volume 167 (ME & MY GANG OF ALTER EGOS) when he died ---100,000 pages, 4500 illustrations. Overall title: THE ILLUMINATION OF BILLY BONES.

Billy Jones died on July 3, 2012 at the age of 77 after a brief battle with cancer. It was his second...he was a tough old bird with a beautiful soul.

COMMENTS:

Billy Jones is well known to poetry lovers in his adopted country, and by some of the art world there, but he is also known in his country of birth. He is a no-borders man. His love of life startles me into joy. Even a serious illness brings him poems and wisdom and art. Even his fears take wing and fly over beauty. I am a long time admirer and fan of Billy, and a friend. I introduce him with affection and respect and love.  

Ann Menebroker, poet
 

A unique American expatriate poet in Australian outback w/a soul as fine as a dingo dog & as big as the universe & as beautiful & wild as a Van Gogh sunflower

Fred Voss, poet
 

Optimism underlines his sympathy for fellow creatures and respect for things in the natural world. He speaks of auras, halos and spirit: This is Billyís spin, perhaps, on Ďall that lives is holyí. This poetry is no throwback to Beatdom though he writes of booze, hitchhiking, sex and the rapture of being alive.

Michael Sharkey
 

I first "met" him back in the mid-90s. He's always been annoyingly optimistic, making a realist (what others would call a pessimist) like myself feel small and cheap. Now I stand in awe of his feat.  He, like a towering Redwood, feet firmly attached to the ground, head in the clouds, buzzed on the energy of a natural, living world; the flora and fauna, his inspirationÖ Billy touches the sky and laughs in the face of death. Death is too small for the likes of him.

RD Armstrong, poet

 

SOME SAMPLES

EVERY SECOND COUNTS

 

writing bar top poems

pine knots resembling galaxies

magnetic fields

my change 4 coins randomly

placed by my half empty glass

            2 cents

10 cents

                                                50 cents

     $2

 

sacred stones smash my illusions

Iíll never be born again

never exist anywhere else

every second counts

this is it

 

Iím in the picture

but my face

is off the

page

 

 

 

20 CENTS

 

in China

the families

of executed counter

revolutionaries

charged

20 cents

for the

bullet

 

 

 

ABORIGINAL MADONNA

 

Iíve seen her many times

poor

drunk

bedraggled

as she looked at me

just another white face

in a once pure Aboriginal world

that goes back maybe 100000 years

 

Iíve seen her in pubs

parks

at bus stops

Iíve seen her hitchhiking

saw her walking through

a burning forest when

I lived up north in

a leaky caravan

too dilapidated

to move

 

Iíve watched her wade the wide

shallow pebble pretty rippling Flaggy river

I even saw her once at a poetry reading

 

her face

reflects rape

genocide

dislocation

she almost appears fierce

but I know she isnít

because a softness

radiates from

her sacred

ground

eyes

 

she looks immortal

in my painting

against the blue

sky holding her

baby in a little

yellow dress

 

when I stepped

off the plane

a migrant

in Oz

all it took

was the laugh

of a kookaburra

to make me

feel at home

 

 

 

WAITING FOR MY DAD TO COME OUT OF BARS

 

ďIíll just go in for a quickieĒ

he would say & 2 or 3 hours

later he would come out

mostly I just sat

in the car until

I got hungry &

then I went in

 

I enjoyed

being inside

sawdust on the floors

long lovely mahogany bars

shuffle boards

pool tables

laughter

good stories

horse race results on the radio

but most of the time

I waited for him in the car

or wandered around the neighbourhoods

which wasnít so bad

taught me how to look at things minutely

there was nothing else to do

but ponder the dashboard

the dust on the windows

the upholstery

the parking lot

I learned to look with meticulous wonder

at just about everything

gravel became huge gem-like stones

translucent leaves inlets

into another dimension

back streets

main streets

alleys

dogs

birds

trees

vines

bushes

flowers

squirrels

& when he did

finally come out

Iíd look at him

in the same

searching way

whiskey on his breath

cigar butt in his mouth

apologizing for taking so long

telling me what a good boy

I was not to be mad at him

 

grand were

the glints

in those

drunken

blue

eyes

 

 

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