Saturday, November 13, 2004

Rastling ternment

They hire new people at the Steak Buffet like madly-ensuing hell. So, they've got about four new bus boys. One of them, Seth, has been unracking when I'm washing lately, and he's slow.

As I'm stepping out to leave the hellish place with my good friend Chris Olson, he points out to me this note Seth's tacked up on the board, requesting some days off.

It says something like, "I have rastling ternment in dickinsonon," and I burst out laughing.

Seth is in 7th grade and he's 14, and he is illiterate.

I wish I could've taken a picture of that note, but I can't any longer.

Chris Kuntz walked over, and read it, since we beckoned him to. He then crumpled it up and ate the paper in his mouth and spat it at Seth.
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Friday, November 12, 2004

Ani Difranco - Self Evident

yes,
us people are just poems
we're 90% metaphor
with a leanness of meaning
approaching hyper-distillation
and once upon a time
we were moonshine
rushing down the throat of a giraffe
yes, rushing down the long hallway
despite what the p.a. announcement says
yes, rushing down the long stairs
with the whiskey of eternity
fermented and distilled
to eighteen minutes
burning down our throats
down the hall
down the stairs
in a building so tall
that it will always be there
yes, it's part of a pair
there on the bow of noah's ark
the most prestigious couple
just kickin back parked
against a perfectly blue sky
on a morning beatific
in its indian summer breeze
on the day that america
fell to its knees
after strutting around for a century
without saying thank you
or please

and the shock was subsonic
and the smoke was deafening
between the setup and the punch line
cuz we were all on time for work that day
we all boarded that plane for to fly
and then while the fires were raging
we all climbed up on the windowsill
and then we all held hands
and jumped into the sky

and every borough looked up when it heard the first blast
and then every dumb action movie was summarily surpassed
and the exodus uptown by foot and motorcar
looked more like war than anything i've seen so far
so far
so far
so fierce and ingenious
a poetic specter so far gone
that every jackass newscaster was struck dumb and stumbling
over 'oh my god' and 'this is unbelievable' and on and on
and i'll tell you what, while we're at it
you can keep the pentagon
keep the propaganda
keep each and every tv
that's been trying to convince me
to participate
in some prep school punk's plan to perpetuate retribution
perpetuate retribution
even as the blue toxic smoke of our lesson in retribution
is still hanging in the air
and there's ash on our shoes
and there's ash in our hair
and there's a fine silt on every mantle
from hell's kitchen to brooklyn
and the streets are full of stories
sudden twists and near misses
and soon every open bar is crammed to the rafters
with tales of narrowly averted disasters
and the whiskey is flowin
like never before
as all over the country
folks just shake their heads
and pour

so here's a toast to all the folks who live in palestine
afghanistan
iraq

el salvador

here's a toast to the folks living on the pine ridge reservation
under the stone cold gaze of mt. rushmore

here's a toast to all those nurses and doctors
who daily provide women with a choice
who stand down a threat the size of oklahoma city
just to listen to a young woman's voice

here's a toast to all the folks on death row right now
awaiting the executioner's guillotine
who are shackled there with dread and can only escape into their heads
to find peace in the form of a dream

cuz take away our playstations
and we are a third world nation
under the thumb of some blue blood royal son
who stole the oval office and that phony election
i mean
it don't take a weatherman
to look around and see the weather
jeb said he'd deliver florida, folks
and boy did he ever

and we hold these truths to be self evident:
#1 george w. bush is not president
#2 america is not a true democracy
#3 the media is not fooling me
cuz i am a poem heeding hyper-distillation
i've got no room for a lie so verbose
i'm looking out over my whole human family
and i'm raising my glass in a toast

here's to our last drink of fossil fuels
let us vow to get off of this sauce
shoo away the swarms of commuter planes
and find that train ticket we lost
cuz once upon a time the line followed the river
and peeked into all the backyards
and the laundry was waving
the graffiti was teasing us
from brick walls and bridges
we were rolling over ridges
through valleys
under stars
i dream of touring like duke ellington
in my own railroad car
i dream of waiting on the tall blonde wooden benches
in a grand station aglow with grace
and then standing out on the platform
and feeling the air on my face

give back the night its distant whistle
give the darkness back its soul
give the big oil companies the finger finally
and relearn how to rock-n-roll
yes, the lessons are all around us and a change is waiting there
so it's time to pick through the rubble, clean the streets
and clear the air
get our government to pull its big dick out of the sand
of someone else's desert
put it back in its pants
and quit the hypocritical chants of
freedom forever

cuz when one lone phone rang
in two thousand and one
at ten after nine
on nine one one
which is the number we all called
when that lone phone rang right off the wall
right off our desk and down the long hall
down the long stairs
in a building so tall
that the whole world turned
just to watch it fall


and while we're at it
remember the first time around?
the bomb?
the ryder truck?
the parking garage?
the princess that didn't even feel the pea?
remember joking around in our apartment on avenue D?

can you imagine how many paper coffee cups would have to change their design
following a fantastical reversal of the new york skyline?!

it was a joke, of course
it was a joke
at the time
and that was just a few years ago
so let the record show
that the FBI was all over that case
that the plot was obvious and in everybody's face
and scoping that scene
religiously
the CIA
or is it KGB?
committing countless crimes against humanity
with this kind of eventuality
as its excuse
for abuse after expensive abuse
and it didn't have a clue
look, another window to see through
way up here
on the 104th floor
look
another key
another door
10% literal
90% metaphor
3000 some poems disguised as people
on an almost too perfect day
should be more than pawns
in some asshole's passion play
so now it's your job
and it's my job
to make it that way
to make sure they didn't die in vain
sshhhhhh....
baby listen
hear the train?

Download it here.
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Thursday, November 11, 2004

Rubbish

I
we're bored with existence
we're bored of the sound
our voices say we speak our mind
our feet shuttle around,
walking, walking, walking
ahead

II
black and white,
gray and dull
so solemnly without feeling
crying nothing at all
wishing something
would color it new

III
but no
but no, no no no
no no no
no one, will
no one, nothing
not a thing to feel
but no
so i sit aloud
and dream
but no
i stitch my eyes
closing out
but no
so go
woe
but no, no no
no
but no
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USELESS

I
Painting faces: spinning time
over upward; the pond reflects grime
How we change as years unwind; how it never seems
to just kill us out of our mind
"What a work of art is a man"; he does as he can
Until age shoddens, time gives demands

II
Just a reflection, an infection; a flesh fragile,
easily broken; a machine easily stopped; full of
clicking cogs; endless veins; arteries, capillaries,
blood pumping to a narrowed heart; ripped and rent,
torn to pieces, shattered apart:
this is the painting of suffering, brushed to pieces
by a veiny hand in some land
far, far away. . .
some dream dreamt
far, far away. . .

III
GiViNg
one more chance
at this prance
this endless
RoMaNce
the drama
one last glance
to feel
the pants
of tired-eyed
InViTatIon
beckoning its
USELESS
fingers
upon
me

rip, and
TEar
assunder
what's
together. . .

IV
better, better,
and, let her
and, wetter
and better, better
set her
down
and better, better
let her
pet her
and better, better

she is
a child
getting
better, better
let her
pet her
set her
down
send her
off
to the pound
better, better

better she be
locked in cage of steel
better she not know
what to feel
the steel, the feel
better, better
take her
let her
live like an
animal
unknowing
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Wednesday, November 10, 2004

Simple Poem

I was a child once,
I swung my arms around the rusted swing
Going back and forth until my hands were tired.

I was a child once,
When the smaller things
Seemed to give so much satisfaction.

Back then,
Life was layered with
The simplest things.

And now,
I have lost it.
I am no longer a child.

Enjoy well these days
You have to enjoy
In innocent bliss.
For one day,
They shall be taken
As nothing taken before.

Still,
It seems I see some shadow
Of a thing
Going back and forth
On a swing,
Smiling the truest smiles
That ever touched this face.
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Monday, November 8, 2004

abc

Yesterday wasn't all that bad actually, because I didn't want it to be.

I told them to give me 11 a.m. to close on next Sunday, too.
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Sunday, November 7, 2004

So tired so sick so gone so lost so sick so tired so gray so walked on so trodden so faded so far aw

I worked 5 - about 11 today.

Tomorrow I work from 11 a.m. to around 11 p.m. (I have to close). That's about 14 hours. Don't worry, though. You don't care anyway. No one does. All they care about is themselves.

I felt like crying earlier. As I was driving home. I didn't though. What is the point to cry when it doesn't help? What is the point of anything if it doesn't help. Sure, the tears on my eyes would feel like something physically showing my mental feeling - but the tears would be wiped away or would dry and evaporate into the air and condense in the sky into part of a cloud and eventually fall to the earth again in the form of rain and stain someone's jacket or fall dully on a sidewalk only to be picked back up and condense into the air again and repeat the cycle. The meaning and emotional feeling of those tears would then be long forgotten. It would only be water, fluid and wettening.

I figure people do a lot of other things to get away from everything, too. Drugs? Drugs are a lot worse. They're addictive and some kill brain cells (alcohol does), and some kill who you are. And why do people do these things? Release. But it is only momentary release. It doesn't last forever. So they have to abuse the drugs again and get in the state where they no longer feel completely and fully here. Only to revert back to this mundane existence to complete the same cycle.

Everything's such a cycle.

I should go to sleep, but I keep thinking about tomorrow. I shouldn't be complaining, though. And I'm really not. It's just going to suck, is all. Today, working 6 or so hours, that sucked by itself. It sucks, it sucks, it sucks. And, 50 or 60 more years of this, too.

Something console me. Make this seem all worth it when it's not. Make me disappear.

Sleep seems the answer. The only.
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TeH HaMLuT PaPaR oF AwHsOmENeSs

Act 3, scene 2 and act 1, scene 3 of Shakespeare’s Hamlet show how women have been universally mistreated throughout their coexistence with man.

Act 3, scene 2 consists of Hamlet, the King, the Queen, Ophelia, and Polonius and a few others sitting beside each other and watching the play Hamlet dubs “The Mousetrap.” The play reenacts Hamlet’s father’s murder, at Hamlet’s request, so he may find if the King is, in fact, responsible for the slaying of his father.

As Hamlet goes to sit down to watch the play, his mother asks him to sit by her. Hamlet responds by saying, “No, good mother. Here’s metal more attractive.” This “metal more attractive” is Ophelia.

Notice the use of the word “metal.” “Metal” is a word used to describe a machine. Therefore, Hamlet considers Ophelia just a “machine,” or “metal.” As an object that can satiate his inherent desires, his wants, needs.

Hamlet then continues using innuendos and equivocation until he asks Ophelia if she thinks he meant “country matters,” meaning sex.

She replies, “I think nothing, my lord.” And thinking nothing denotes ignorance, which women have long been coerced to have. Instead of being intelligent and thinking for herself, Ophelia doesn’t know what to think except what others tell her. Ophelia’s ignorance spans so far she doesn’t even have the integrity to tell Hamlet how insulting his comments toward her are. Instead, she remains unknowing and Hamlet remains in absolute control of her. She also calls Hamlet “my lord,” because he has more status than her. In Hamlet’s eyes and all other males’ eyes, she is inferior, they are stronger, better, more immaculate in every way.

Hamlet continues to demean Ophelia as the scene unfurls. He tells Ophelia how it’s a “fair thought” if he were able to “lie between a maids’ legs.” He tells her he could narrate a puppet show of Ophelia and her lover “if I could see the puppets dallying” – meaning, having sex.

Ophelia replies only, “You are keen, my lord, you are keen.” She continues to not stand up for herself.

Hamlet, indeed keen, tells her it would “cost her a groaning” to take off his “keen” edge.

In act 1, scene 3, Ophelia’s father and brother, Laertes, instruct her on how she should act toward Hamlet, Ophelia’s so-called “lover.”

“Perhaps he loves you now,” Laertes tells her, but the love he has won’t last forever. Because Hamlet’s will is “not his own” he’s “subject to his birth.” He has to marry for country, not love. Therefore, Hamlet, Leartes argues, may not marry her for who she is, since “on his choice depends the safety. . .of this whole state.”

Ophelia responds to this advice by saying she’ll keep it in mind.
But when her father, Polonius, comes he acts as if he’s superior to her. Although a father certainly has the right to lesson his daughter on matters, he does so harshly. Also, Ophelia may be older than eighteen – perhaps even in her twenties – and should be able to do whatever she pleases, despite what her father’s wishes may be.

Polonius tells Ophelia to think herself “a baby” as he begins. This is exactly how Ophelia is mentally. Physically, she has the womanly bounties of her growth – breasts, thighs, hips – but mentally, she “thinks” herself a baby because she’s told to. Her ignorance runs so deep she is a baby. And as a baby, she has to be told what to do by someone. Even if she is old enough to think and do as she pleases.

Ophelia entreats her father that Hamlet has “importuned” her with love in “honorable fashion –“ but Polonius is not fazed.
He goes to tell her he knows of “when the blood burns” and how this intense feeling – like that of her and Hamlet – “lends the tongue vows.” He says this love-feeling she has will burn out, and not to jump into it.

Polonius then uses images from finance and negotiations and the military to tell Ophelia to spend less time talking to Hamlet, because his vows are but mere “implorators” of “unholy suits” – meaning, Hamlet only wants Ophelia for her beauty – he wants her for her body, for sex.

He then tells her never to speak to Hamlet again. Ophelia’s answer? “I shall obey, my lord.” If truly she is eighteen or older, this shows an immense ignorance and indoctrination for her part. It would be enough for Ophelia to tell her father she would keep what he said in mind. Instead, she unquestionably does as her father asks, unlike with her brother Laertes.

Ophelia shows a good sketch of women throughout their lifespan with man. It is only in the more recent timespan that women have finally stopped unquestionably being housewives and childbearers and nurturers and have gone out in the world and done as they wish. Even so, women are still ailed in our society with the need to be beautiful. So much so that they will do anything to attain it. In this superficial society, they are still being told how to look and how to be. They are still looked upon as mere objects in many cases by men – objects whose purpose is to satiate their wants and needs, and bear forth children. Perhaps one day this inbred shallowness of our culture will dissipate. But as with all things in society, there will always be a considered norm that is the prototype of a woman. There will always be a stereotypical view of how they should look. A certain gender identity for them to fill and be assimilated into.
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Saturday, November 6, 2004

Somewhere Out There, cont.

XI

Whenever I’m driving, I hate it. I hate how organized the mess of it is. How there’s roads. Signs pointing you this direction and that. Stop signs. Stop lights, changing from green, going to yellow, bleeding to red. The line in the middle of the road, it just makes me want to cross it. I stare at it and it stares at me and it’s tempting me. Sometimes it’s uncontrollable. Something I can’t fight with the better instinct of me.

I always want to crash. All this power’s in the palm of my fingertips, it’s on this circular wheel that turns around and around as I pivot it to move the tires to take the turns, to move this machine whichever way I want. I just want to commandeer it into a building, crash into it at one hundred miles or more, cross my fingers, hope to die.

Especially when I’m in a cynical mood, when I’m a crazy bastard in that way, that’s when I want to crash. When I want to roar my car into something. Sometimes it’s a wonder if I get home, all the times I almost pivot into wide-eyed staring death, try to embrace it with open arms – times when I slightly turn but very much don’t turn into some object. It makes it a wonder when I avert death. When I fight the instinct.

I can’t stand it. It’s a teeming metal hell of cars scuttling all around. Polluting the air. Driving in their machines.

Our life’s like a car. We have our hands on it, we do control it to some extent. But there’s no steering wheel on it. We’re inside this machine – this society – and we just rev and rev all around, we keep driving, but along roads. We come to crossroads, we make limited decisions based on what society presents to us. What we have to do. All like Robert Frost’s “The Road Not Taken,” we make the decision to either take a path we don’t know, or do. One that’s worn, trodden, stamped on, or one that’s fading away.

The engine of our car – life – is the godforsaken self-perpetuation of the human spirit. That determination. That will. The fight in us. The endless takedown get up and keep trying until you get it. If we let our engine get rundown, inundated, then we stop moving along in life. We end up standing still. We end up just sitting in the metal hull of society with nowhere left to go, and only one thing to do.

To step outside of the machine. To die. To fall into the hands of the unknown and let it cradle us and rock-a-bye-baby us to the deathly aftermath.

When age shoddens us, when it destroys all we are or were, our old rusted now piece of shit car stops. Just stops. And we step out. And we truly walk alone, without the metal grip upon us, for the first time.

We become more alive in death than in life. We effloresce into nothingness. We deliquesce to meaningless. We lose all our organic matter on us – the skin, the organs, tissues, the cells – it goes away. What’s left is the frame of all we were, our skeleton. There’s our skull, our ribcage, our armbones, our legbones, fingerbones. Bones and bones, and more bones. This is the matrix of us, left behind. The inorganic part of us that supported us, just like the machine of society tried to do, but failed. All that’s left is the osseous. A rememberancer of what once was alive.

As Hamlet would say, “Alas, poor Yorick.”

I want to crash the car. I want to crash this life.

I can’t stand these cars. These round blurring wheels rotating and rotating on their axles. The engine making force to push it along. The brake stopping the force to slow down and stop at the stop lights, see the insidious red light blearing outward. The brakes that let us stop and yield our life’s elapse for a moment, contemplate our next course. The heater that offers dull warmth for the coldness of this overspanning machine.

Somewhere out there, someone’s dying. Someone’s breath is leaving them. Their car’s sputtering to a stop in the intersection, a dead hull housing them inside, old and shoddened, gray and grotesque from all these years cramped in their uncontrolled but so controlled car. This person’s no one special. They don’t even matter. They paid their dues and worked their time, they made their green lovely paper confetti and retired. They lived a life unlived. They lived in the narrow hellhole of their traveling hull of a ship until the reached the end.

He’s dying. His breath’s going. She’s lying in the bed old and gray eyes with cataracts. She’s rasping in air, coughing and sputtering and her heart’s stopping. It’s so sinister. All these lives taken. His life taken. Her life taken. All of this life taken for it – the machine. It won’t ever be satiated. Its existence will never end. Its control will never cease, an iron grip of wracking wrenching compressing steel. Beating and indoctrinating and inoculating cold appendages and tendrils and grasps and shoves and bellows.

I can feel it breathing on my nape, right now. I can feel it. Whispering in a clanking and asking to take everything I ever am.
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the caressing wail of thom yorke abound,
talking about sailing on a little row boat
i'm exploding with teetering thoughts
as a boat on open water
about to fall in
my mind's held in the skull
trying to always make sense
of everything

i wish some of those
black-eyed angels
would swim with me
because
i'm about to fall in
the tranquil waters
his voice trembles
about

this song
is emptying
as this life
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