Something About a Happy Christmas

Something about a happy Christmas,
that's what I meant to say,
something about the season
and how it's a good one this year,
but like a rat I found a way
to screw it up, because that's
just who I am, a Who who's a Grinch
with a heart two sizes too small,
shuffling my way around.

I wanted to write something cheerful,
but I guess that won't happen today.
But tomorrow's Christmas, and in a week,
New Year's in some way.

Seven Years

Seven years now,
and I still haven't
gotten over it.

I wasn't even there,
and am not bothered
by what resulted by it,
but I think it deserves
more than we've given it,
what happened
seven years ago.

That we're still living
almost exactly as we were
is something worth thinking
about, not the mere fact
that we survived, but
that it happened and it
seems to have had
no impact, just something
that happened, something
to hang a president over,
because he thought
something should result
from it, something to make
the world different.

But it was seven years ago,
and now nothing's much
different. We certainly
didn't change our mind
about him. We didn't change
anything. No,
prove me wrong.

It was a morning that
put me over an edge,
it was something that
I didn't understand
and still don't, and that's
what I think changed,
what we should take notice of.

Something changed,
and nothing did.
But it's seven years now,
and I still feel
much as I did then.

As if there is a difference,
and that's what we shouldn't
forget.

(what follows)

Okay! That's wraps up the second volume of a year-long poem-a-day project (remember Terror of Knowing as the first). I'm going to be switching gears next, attempting a new novel, Yes I Am Falling, in the same vein (as well as the NaNos that eventually produced The Cloak of Shrouded Men), and it will be posted at Monk in Exile on myspace. Whatever readers I had here, I hope I don't disappoint!

The Clintonians

Before you go on,
watch the films
JFK and
Thirteen Days,
which would serve
as an excellent
platform to
remember what
kind of man
the last great
president was,
beyond the scandals
a different era
might have ruined
him over.

The first one
revolves around
the day everything
changed, and that's
what history
is going to have
to remember. It
wasn't just a matter
of the Cold War
entering its
last phase, but
the political
future of the nation
forming, readying
for Nixon's final bow,
preparing for the old
lines to be redrawn.

It took a while.
Reagan got to sit
through the remainder
of the idealism, and
to some extent, H.W.
as well, but it wasn't
until Clinton emerged,
the heir apparent,
that the whole thrust
was put into motion,
a worthy challenge
everyone accepted.
He played every hand,
weathered every storm,
all to affirm what
should have already
been obvious, that
something had broken,
and that only his
successor could signal
the way back, a man
who stepped into
the coliseum ill-prepared
for the wolves. He
had already proclaimed
himself an outsider,
why were we surprised?
He was eaten alive,
sacrificed for his religion.

The Clintonians were
out for revenge. Revenge
for the events of the
second film, all the potential
lost and mired by an
untenable war. Me, I'd
rather be a Clay than a Calhoun,
a Nixon than an LBJ, but
it didn't end up being that easy,
just ask Lieberman. All we
have left are splinters,
waiting to be put back together,
to be taken out of our fingers.

I wish above all
that I could always remember:
my voice should not be heard.
It's better that way,
the way such voices go,
the way the public likes it.
Who am I to give them
what they need?
I am not a code,
I am not a knight;
they've already heard,
they just don't want to.
The truth is always
murdered, the truth
is always free.

Things were lost.
Things will be found.

I know that this is not goodbye.

Running to the Cemetary

Well, it's a lovely day
to appreciate the work
of a couple rock bands
bent on exploring the raw
material of experience,
led by Bono and Martin,
who can sometimes be
confused if you're not
paying close attention.
If Dylan is our modern poet,
then they are our philosophers,
delving inward and outward
into modern life, the questions
that plague us, the relationships
that slay us, as they always do.

One looks at the canvas
so irritatingly broadly
they capture a wicked sense
of the order that can emerge
from chaos, the other measuring
so methodically they can
sometimes get carried away.
Both exist in their own
dream worlds, and that's
to their benefit and for
anyone who appreciates them,
but for those who don't,
they miss the poignant message.

I wish I could get everyone
to hear what they do, but
most people can hardly bother
with what's around them, such as,
yes, me, because Sadie makes
me wish she weren't here and
that she would never leave,
never, not even to go home
where she lives now. If you
listen to these bands, you
would understand, because
they're saying what we
already know, but better.

Christopher Hitchens

Hey,
you won't
believe
this.

I found
someone
else
who may
actually
see things
as they
actually
are.

This dude
Chris Hitchens,
best known
to me
previously
as a book-
writing
atheist,
also spent
some time
explaining
all the
reasons
why it
wasn't
stupid
for Bush
to declare
war
on Saddam
Hussein.

It was
weird,
it was
surreal,
to find
this guy
espousing
everything
I'd believed
for five
years, all
the things
everyone
seemed
to think
weren't
important,
but were
there
all the
same.

I've
just
got to
thank you,
Chris,
for being
there.

Yellow

Yellow's the color of love
Yellow's the color of love
since I left you

Yellow's the color of love
Yellow's the color of love
since I left you

And since you went away
and I followed
but apart from you

Yellow's the color of love
Yellow's the color of love
since I left you

11

It's that number
Sadie seems to favor,
don't know why,
it's just something
I noticed, at least
from those she could
choose from with
the radios. I started
picking it, too,
when she wasn't
working. I guess
she had to notice.

Now that things
are winding down,
I am forced to
realize I should
have been happy to
see her happy,
because even before
I came around, she was,
even when I said
"I hate Steve"
without knowing him,
or her, at the time.

She seemed to become
happy to be around me,
and I let that play
with my other thoughts,
and I really shouldn't
have, because it was
just work, not her
real life, she never
really needed me, right?
I was just a clown,
and I think she
was amused, so she
humored me.

Two weeks to go,
it seems, and things
must end like this.
I'm happy that she's
happy, and am now
willing to leave it
like that. She seems
like she definitely
deserves that sort
of thing, and she
never needed me to
start mucking around
with it, and here it
took me all this time
to realize that.

I suppose I'm sorry
for that, too. Today,
I took the eleventh radio
again, and it might be
for the last time, just so
she knows. Sadie,
that was your number,
for whatever reason,
and it will be one
more thing you take
with you.

I can live with that.

Damn You, Zodiac!!!

I was reading through
another of those
astrology guides,
this one geared toward
romantic interests,
when it struck me
for the first time
you can either waste
your time reading
these poems, or just
sort of review
the topic of Virgos.
One's quicker than
the other. I'm so
glad I read that book!

We Find Ourselves In Circles

We find ourselves in circles
because we like to define
ourselves by them, in every
possible way. Go ahead,
think about it. I saw a bad
movie and that's what got
me thinking about it, and
everywhere I looked, I saw
people walking in circles,
inside, outside, within them,
defining the world that way,
every facet, just having a ball.

Hope of the States/The Living End/Death and All His Friends

I should know to feel despair,
I should know there is no hope,
I should know what they all say,
but I still feel different.

Into Me I See

Cynical calculation
which negates an
authentic voice
is among the worst
and most common
evils to be found,
and I am constantly
butting up against it.

No matter. I have
distractions, I am
able to reason for
myself, and find
worth where others
wag their dogs.

And I can create
my own trouble as
well, when I find
things that only
exaggerate my
suffering, music,
television, film,
these expressions
that connect me
to the outside
world, and further
delude me to think
I have some chance.

I am sorry, Sadie,
for the things I
have put you through,
whether you quite
realized them or not,
because I have always
known what the result
must be. I experience
these entertainments
and they convince me
that I could have some
part, but I know my role
and you, Sadie, were
cast for something else.
You were, if it must
sound inelegant, the latest
confirmation, is all.

This book, too, must close,
as must always be its fate,
and I for one believe
in happy endings.

James Patterson...!!!

Working at a bookstore
will help you appreciate
a great many things
you never thought of
before, but one of them
has got to be all those
shitty writers people
read and populate bookshelves,
um, for no real reason
except that's what's
easy to do when you
want to pretend you're
literate but still shudder
from the memories of
those teachers forcing
you through three hundred
or so pages in a few weeks
when you had other things
you had to read and try
to replicate, not just...
what was the goal?
intepret or whatver,
listen to what they had
to say and pretend you got
that or at least that you
didn't have something else
you might have thought.
It was easier to just
pretend you read it, because
they were going to tell
you anyway, right? And then
expect you to know the
boring details for tests.

No wonder you now
read Patterson!

Lonely Planet

Stop ridiculing
persecuting
shaming
me for approaching
the world from a
different perspective.
There is no shell,
at least not any
your narrow perceptions
would notice.
So, fuck you.

***

It was a betrayal, Sadie,
plain as can be.
I trusted you to be
different from the others,
but you couldn't, you
finally confessed that
you're the same, and for
that, I can honestly say
I won't miss you when
you're gone.

***

It's so hard for me to breath
when the world is bearing down,
expecting me to feel like
I should just belong, when
I know from every angle
that I can never fit,
only wobble my way through,
get a laugh, share a joke,
shout in that quiet tone.

***

It's the end of a chapter,
then, isn't it, Sadie?
I am only trying to make
you understand, in the only
way I know how, and if I
hurt your feelings, know
you broke mine first.
I was looking back the other
day, and discovered I made
that note only in last May,
that I have made no progress
except a slip along the slide.
I'm Sisyphus, a metaphor,
no totem on a pole.
Don't say you know
when it won't count,
don't count on me
when you can't relate.

I sing a tune of one.

I Fail Because I Am

The thing I take
most solace from
is the knowledge
that I know I am
the agent of my
own failures.

These are calculated
necessities, my
own machinations,
lamented but not
regretted, because
they represent
who and what I am,
and I cannot conceive
anything else, for
it would not be me.
Perhaps I could be
happy if only I did
not insist on my own
devices, but they are
what I know and what
I am; without them
I would be nothing,
not even a thought.
Thoughts are not
a thing, but rather
the manifestation of it,
even if they can drive
one mad. I know I am,
but what are you?
I strive to build on
my failures, my
weaknesses, because
I don't want them to
define me, because
their existence proves
the rule of mine, and
if I let them win, then
I will have accomplished
nothing, and that's exactly
wha I hope to avoid,
even as I fail because I am
a person who either succeeds
greatly or fails the same way,
with the middle ground hard
won but enjoyed bitterly.

The Trouble with Poetry

The trouble with poetry
is that everyone knows
what it is, Billy,
they've made a commotion,
lost all the motion,
and it's no longer
just what it is, but
what people see.
If we could just find
a way, to combine it
all back, then maybe
once again there would be
no trouble with poetry.

I Blame Amanda Peet

I blame Amanda Peet
for making it obvious.

You know how if you
get to a movie early
that the theater tries
to occupy your time
with a bunch of random
entertainment-related
trivia? Apparently,
Amanda Peet thinks
you need to fall in love
a little bit with your
co-stars.

Well, thank you Amanda Peet.
Because that's the card
I've been playing at work,
too, not so much because
I want to fall in love
with every girl I see,
but that it seems to make
things easier, if that makes
any sense, a sense of security,
of a bond I can count on
to build from, if they let me.
Then again, I usually screw it
up, they catch on, or I settle
on the one I think I'm most
compatible with, fall in love
for real, and they aren't at all
available, because shoot, you're
at work, dick head, some place
people go to earn money, not
to fall in love. It's the only
place I know of where people
will find out a sliver of
what I can be.

Thank you, Amanda Peet!
It's a game I can't help
playing, even though it always
fucks me over. And you had to
go and say it first. Thanks!

To the Fourth

It's one of those holidays
that has sort of become
almost as much about
celebrating some event
as whatever we've managed
to represent as celebration,
but it's still a decent time
to remember what that date
meant more than two hundred
thirty years ago, when
a bunch of colonists
gathered to declare themselves
a unified front, not just
a nation, or a land aggrieved.
If it was about any of those
other things, we haven't done
much fighting or celebrating
about them, those were either
self-evident or self-proclaimed.
But we did have a Civil War
over those who no longer
believed in the Fourth of July,
who decided independence was
little more than an excuse
to do whatever they wanted,
as long as they could justify it,
just as once again, in the suits
of politics, where partisans now
claim we don't need two parties,
just the one they support, because
all we have seen for years
is bickering, all those parties
seem to have been interested in.
But on this day, I see things
differently, that these problems
are an affirmation of what was
decided and signed on that day,
and that it's worth celebrating still.

We Sing, We Dance, We Steal Things

What an odd turn of events, Sadie.
Here I've been thinking that we've
become a terrific set of friends,
even with all those unfortunate
roadblocks around us, that you
might have started to come around,
maybe see all the horrible mistakes
those roadblocks are (cue laughter,
because if I were saying it,
that would be more clear, really!),
but I discovered something today.
In the past, I have been able to
turn such relationships around by
sayingto myself, I'm just happy
to make her happy! if she can't
end up with me, but I've been
thinking, and today may have made
it more clear, that even as great
as we are, I'm not sure it could
go any further, even if it could,
even if we could tease it along
to find out, because there's something
fundamentally in the way, Sadie,
and it's a funny thing to find out,
like it's not supposed to be, no
matter how much we try. I wish
it weren't so, but maybe those
roadblocks were there for a reason.
But yeah, Sadie, I wish it weren't so.

The other thing I found out recently
was that Colorado, unlike every other
state I've lived in, is a battleground
political field, at least this year.
Barack Obama came to speak here
the other day, and I think I saw
his police motorcade pass by.

What thrilling times!

The Vogon Guide to Poetry

First, give a deep
emphasis on classic
forms.

Second, give a deeper
emphasis on classic
subjects.

Third, give still more
emphasis on classic
works.

Fourth, try and write
something that covers
all that.

You may find it
excruciating...

Personally,
I find it
pretty funny.

Ozymandius Exhumed

I came across
a traveler
from a distant
land
who had chanced
upon a statue,
which read
"Look upon my
work, and tremble."
I was a native
of that land,
and knew
just what it meant.
The statue was
in ruins, but
its impact still
I felt,
all over
the level sands,
on whose land
I dwelt.

Coda to the Index

We are a culture
obsessed with
selling beauty
when it's free
all around us.

Deconstructing the Index

The only way to make it
is to trick yourself into view.
They won't notice or care
and you won't make a mark
unless you misdirect attention
your way. Doesn't matter
what you've got, you're worthless.
Until you create the accident.

I used to act,
now I perform a show
whenever I feel like it
at work,
no director, no script,
and a stage wherever I want.

Johnny Depp
was a cinematic Paris Hilton
before he slipped into his Sparrow.

I went to the same high school,
same college, had the same teacher
who criticized him (but she, uh,
liked me), but I never got into
Stephen King until a couple of movies
put him in my must-read stack.

He may have had ways to
engender himself to the crowd,
but Ric Flair learned
to be The Man he had to become The Man
by becoming the most dedicated
star in the business.

It's a bitch of a way to go.

Building the Index

The thing about philosophy
is that it's spent most
of its time concerned only
with matters that seemed
pressing at the time, or
just trying to figure out
what goes on inside our heads.

The Metaphysics of Value
are concerned at least as
much with the concept
of context as anything else.
You could it's one of
Value's primary objectives,
because of its unexamined
importance.

Context is what philosophy
should always be about,
not just in the study
of what people were up
when they were thinking,
but in the way they
were thinking, what they
were thinking of. I hate
to say it, but the history
of thought has been sort of
shallow to this point.
It's not hubris speaking,
that's just the way it is.

Context is about what lies
at the heart of things,
because at the heart of things
is what's around that heart.
If you'll indulge the metaphor,
to speak of the heart of things
is to acknowledge a body around
it, which we've all done a great
job theorizing, but what matters
is taking into account what
is actually there, why something
is, because we know, we have
developed psychology pretty well
at this point, even though any
class you take will teach you
anything but psychology,
just what a bunch of wankers
tested with it. That's because
most people really don't know.
They can think in terms
of context, but they have no idea
what it really is.

That's why it's a matter for
the Metaphysics of Value,
why I must pretend it cannot be
understand, because it really can't.
Context is another distinction
for the guiding principles
of civilization, the belief in
the past, present, and the future.
We've done a great job with the first
two, but notably, even Christianity,
which has footholds in them and
has always talked about the last one,
has never been able to figure out
what to do about the only unknown
we pretend to know.

We pretend, and that's where
the vacuum appears around context.
If you cann't understand where
you're going, then it stands
that you're really just lost.

[The extended poem The Index will be inserted into the collected version of WE'LL SEE at a later date]

Colin Powell Was Going to Be Barack

Colin Powell was going to be Barack Obama,
but then he got into politics.

Labors Lost

Let's make it official -
Sadie's off the market.

I guess it should have
been obvious for a while,
but my pathological need
to be charming and endearing
to women (okay,
in general, which certainly
gets me in unwanted trouble)
backfired when I allowed her
to become the primary object
of my favors, which resulted
in another round of heavy
self-pity and woe-is-me.
To my credit, now this third
one, this third experience,
has helped me along in
the effort to avoid it from
happening again (well,
that and the fact that
the second is still knocking
around in my head),
which is one among many
things I desperately need.

And in desperation
and through desperation,
I have learned of moderation,
that if I obsess,
in the only sense I
currently know
and with all the facts
that haunt me,
only pain may follow.

So again I thank you, Sadie,
for being the unwitting
agent of my liberation.

I need not pursue you more,
not to cause you pain
and learn still more
that pain it will cause me still,
and we shall all be the happier for it.

Well, pretty much.

Grant Me...

Grant me the ability
to see past the things
that sometimes cloud
my vision. It's funny,
because, generally
speaking, I have bad
vision, which would
make a perfect metaphor
if you wanted to be
easy about it. I
just don't, I guess.
I have this terrible
problem with Buddhism,
which is a philosophy
that theoretically
I should embrace,
because it's really
not that different
from what I think,
but it happens to be
human nature to look
at similarities as
not good enough,
relatable but still
too close to different
for us to feel comfortable,
and that's pretty much
human history summed up.

Grant me the ability
to see past my foibles
and remember my strengths,
because the two are too
similar for me to sometimes
tell them apart, and they
work too well together
for me to accurately
predict the future,
which is something people
who think too much
are always trying to do.

Also, grant me the ability
to accept that there are
some things in my control,
some things that are not,
but that in the middle
and between and all around
them, including them,
that are both and neither at all.

World Wide New Fade

Here's the thing
about the New Fade.
It should not be
assumed to be an
insular concept,
but rather one
that embraces
the whole mess
of the world.

Sure, you've got
your obvious muck
in the American
and European arenas,
even the cultural
rumbas down south
of the US, where
perhaps we could say,
the countries themselves
have seen better
political days.

In China, you can find
the last remnants of
the old Communism fad
(unless you count Cuba
and its crazy Castros,
but I think such things
are more a reaction
to being left out
of all the good
benefits of being
the New World, but
at least they like
baseball), but I
think you could say
we're far more hard
on them than we need
to be. I mean,
it has a greater
domestic product
of babies than
celebrities can
possibly keep up
with. There is
going to be
growing pains.
Everyone has
human rights issues,
everyone, even the guys
who make those lists.

Other than that,
you may also note
the Middle East,
in case you hadn't
noticed. They've
got problems there, too,
just trying to figure out
what it means to be
a citizen of the modern world.
I mean, the New Fade
ain't kind, and it
ain't easy. There's
just going to be
some issues along
the way. Things happen,
feelings are hurt,
mistakes are made.
I'm not making light,
just attempting
to shed it.

I mean,
seriously,
the minute
everyone reacts
to the same thing
in the same way,
someone should make
sure a starfish
hasn't been fastened
to all those faces.

I have hope.
Yeah,
I'm stupid like that,
but I do think
we're figuring
this shit out.

I Swear That She Knows

I swear that she knows
(well, they say they always do),
and even though she can't,
she's happy in some parallel world,
we've become happy together,
not just because we can be happy,
but because we can be happy,
y'know, together.

Of course, here, we can't,
and I think I can be okay
with that, and just sort of
be happy for her, because
yeah, she deserves that, too.

(And because it's so much fun!)

Modern Ark

Everyone's always going somewhere.

And consequently,
someone's always
being left behind.


I've been viewing
birds as a vanguard
of nature, making
sure it's still safe
for the rest of
the animal kingdom,
perched or soaring,
jumping at my approach.
I think when they leave,
we'll know we're really
in trouble.

Boo used to be
the center of
attention,
until we moved,
and the dogs came.
In my sister's eyes,
she's been replaced
by Jill.
Not in mine.

I watched a party
of deer cross the street
a few weeks back,
the first a leader,
making the way safe
for the others.

Yesterday,
a german shepherd
somehow got loose
and first caught my
eye just as I
was getting to work,
ruffling the
Furry Lumpy Things
(and their recent new
friend, some tiny breed
of dog). During the day,
I didn't notice when
the page went over about
some dogs loose in
the parking lot,
that he must still
be out there.
So on the way home,
I must have been
the more thrilled
and concerned to find
the same dog still
trying to find home again.
But it was somewhat better
for him now:
he'd found a tiny companion
of his own (cue the movie!),
a chihuahua,
and they both still had
enough in the tank
to continue marking
territory, like
desperate European explorers.

I imagine by now they're found,
and I'm happy if they are,
and just as happy if they've found
some fine way to cope. It's been
enough time, right?

Yeah, I never know
how to measure that,
either.

Lover's Complaint

waaa

waaa

Waaa!!!

I Hate To Disagree With Mr. King

Well, I'll actually
start out by saying
I agree, because
buzz and hype are
different things.
But I have different
ways to categorize them.

Hype is the thing
that's generated
not just for some
big release in film
or literature,
but what you get when
someone just wants
to sell something.
It's basically
meaningless and never
guarantees you'll
enjoy yourself
(on that last note,
we still agree).

Buzz lasts longer.
Buzz is about the
person who ended up
liking whatever
they came across,
and yeah, they'll
talk about it,
but it doesn't have
to be something new,
just whatever they
will still remember
long after the
original experience.
That's what buzz is,
the ability to sustain
interest, long after
supposedly disposable
interests have stayed
with you.

An argument
to be continued...

Chunky Peanut Butter Is Not Good On Bagels

I've had an obsession
with chunky peanut butter
for a while now, and
only in the past few days
have I found a reason
to reconsider it.

I found out it's no good
as a spread on bagels.

Back to the regular stuff!

(But, I'll still
indulge myself
sometimes.)

America Don't Rule the World

The blood in the stream of San Salvador
barely had time to congeal
when the hammer fell on America.
Too soon, already, all things had passed,
judgment fallen and sentence called,
execution, death to the fabled empire.
Mistakes were made even before
the citizens reached the voting booth,
and for that they must be condemned,
long before they put in office
the idiots who fucked up the nation,
before they could rule the world.

I saw it, I was there,
and I reached up with my dead hand,
and signed the warrant with my own blood,
because it would be a cold time
in the old town tonight,
when everyone lets us know
that we can't have what we
never really had.

We'll See, Indeed...

We'll see
when the levee breaks,
we'll see
if the dam can hold,
we'll see
if there's anything different
this time.

Melophobia

I tell you,
I can't hear
a song that
doesn't crack
me up. It's
all funny
to me.

I mean,
seriously?
We're going
to pretend
that in a
hundred years
people are still
going to care
about the music
acts more than
the music?
That's a failure
of the music,
or a failure
of the acts,
to be something
that transcends
experience and
becomes part
of our
cultural
experience.

Tell me how
many acts
from even
a hundred
years ago,
when recording
was already
in full bloom,
that you can
name. I mean,
even Sinatra,
who became
perhaps the first
breakout act
to be put
on record,
was known for
and performed
standards, which
is just another
name for what
every song becomes,
even if it's not
the cool way
to refer to them,
folk music,
just something
someone will
casually
incorporate
rather than
obsess over
its popularity
because of the
act that makes
it famous.
Bob Dylan?
That's the guy
who blew the lid
off the myth,
and he's still
not being
understood.
No wonder
he plays the blues.

The only thing
from the age of
recording that
will still be
around in
a hundred years
is film, and we
know even now
in what form,
as a curio
still more will
be doing over
again, because
unlike books
or even paintings,
it was born in
a time of great
transparency,
when DeMille
was remaking
his own Commandments
(and making it
more popular
the second time),
when the great stars
were cemented,
at least for
a few years.
As the techniques
evolve, so will
the interests,
which is not to say
something once
revered will become
irrelevent, but rather
will lose the mystique
that just because
it was a first,
it was among the best.
People will still
make these things
and there will
still be audiences
and all these things
will just sort of
linger and be
appreciated
like old books.
The classics are
only beginning
to emerge,
despite what they say.
The medium is young.
And there truly is
always a second time
to get it right.

In music, the second
time and the third time
and every time after
is a continuing test,
because in music,
it's a constant
understanding, in
whatever form, that
must take place,
either by the artist
or by the audience.
You can get it wrong
a million times and
still get it right
and that product
can outlive a bloodline.

And yet, all you hear
is how much better it is
to like an act no one
hears now and still won't
long down the line,
an act of self-loathing
because popularity
is anathema
unless you see
that you too can cash in.

It's a hell of a time
to be alive.

Violet Hill

They didn't end up prospekting
after all, but rather chose
to live the life. Whatever
that ends up meaning,
just because they used to rule,
I'm fine with it!

The Ballad of Oliver Stone

Oliver Stone, Oliver Stone,
usually lands on his feet
wherever he's thrown.

It's a bit upsetting to think
that the man's no longer
respected as much as he was
even when he came out with Nixon,
peaking with JFK and Natural Born Killers,
too controversial to be understood,
too brilliant to be heard,
except now he's going to
visit the one subject
everyone is going to have
something to say about again,
GWB, whom he should know
better than anyone else
but instead seems to have
taken the popular route,
except he's making a game
of it still; he's going
to make people see G
as a person, even as a joke
but as a person and not just
pariah, a legacy who knows
what it means to cower
before history, long
before he had to.

That's what he's doing next,
that's where he's landing,
nearly always on his feet,
looking ahead so intently
he never knows exactly
where he's going, and it
won't matter because
people will tell him,
even if he doesn't agree.

Oliver Stone, Oliver Stone,
usually lands on his feet
wherever he's thrown.

The Perfection of Grace

It had become known to me
that the right things
happen in their own time,
that I needed comfort with
uncertainty even while possessed
with a restlessness of knowledge.
The good aren't good because
they've had it easy
or are the happiest people around,
but because they've chosen to be,
and this is no easy road,
not a choice between two paths
but a constant branching,
a fork at every bend.
How to find grace on this journey?
That's another thing to work on
along the way. You can't just
stumble on it, but rather
must draw on it as a companion.

The P.I.G. to the New Fade

History is a bitch
and it's only getting
worse, fellas.

We've literally been
on the same track
for almost the past
two thousand years,
once we got the Romans
and their inability
to see past the world
they had helped create
out of our way, and yet,
even though we're moving
at a faster pace than
ever before, we're still
worried that it's all
going to go away like
a flash, like it was never
really there. But
the bitch of it is,
as much as it seems
more than ever that we
haven't, we're learning
from our mistakes, oh yes,
figuring out the way to
get what we want and escape
what got us here, because
it's no longer needed.
We practice all the time,
discarding left and right,
long before we need to,
past enjoyments, past
improvements, just because
we can, because we feel
like it, or because
something else was shiny!

Green is the new shiny,
and green is also a funny
little thing all itself,
because we've convinced
ourselves that our bright
shiny future is impossible
because to reach it we've
made it impossible to get
there, because the world
won't support us anymore,
the world that lasted
for untold thousands of years
without us, we done wrecked
just like that! The kids
are the ones who will suffer!
Because some of us are
convinced they can do it
themselves, and we're
letting them, faster than
ever before, because they
like shiny, too, and they
like green, and they
will never be able to
tell the difference.

The New Fade is a funny thing,
too, because it's got something
we refuse to credit it with,
and that's legs. It's
running a marathon, and this
one actually counts. Without
understanding one bit,
we've all been training for it,
so no, we have not actually
been wasting our time.
It just looks like we have.

Wheel C

You know when you want
to hate someone and
then you actually meet
them and you figure
you won't be able to?
Driver 8 had a problem
like that, until he
took control of Wheel C,
a wicked new ride he found
down in the drain slabs
by the roads, where he was
exploring for a considerable
amount of time last week,
for no other reason than
he felt compelled to,
well into the night when
he ordinarily would have
checked in some time ago.

Driver 8 took a break
and found Wheel C by accident,
a kind of fortuitous
occurrence that involved
an epic battle with himself
and the rest of the world,
instigated by the sudden
disappearance of a girl
involved in another ongoing
struggle, another no other
person could comprehend,
so how could he discuss it?
He was told that it was pretty
common for those in his condition
to feel isolated, but Driver 8
stands by his statement that
he is unique, that his condition
like others similar to him,
cannot be duplicated much less
successfully solved, except
with respites such as Wheel C,
which directs everyone
past the construction that
is always going on and
will probably not be finished
on time.

Suicide (Now You'll Know)

People, generally speaking,
are pretty shocked when
a suicide happens.
Taking this from the perspective
of a long-term case
(and refusing to believe
that most are anything but)
they really shouldn't be.

This is a note to document
a point in my journey,
because I have become
more convinced than ever
that it is inevitable.
You see, one of the underlining
causes is that nobody cares.

Nobody cares,
if you will indulge repetition.

How can no one notice
when someone in their midst
is miserable? Because
they simply don't care,
and they'll be the same ones
to be shocked when it happens.
They even know some of the
most extreme moments of the misery,
and they don't care, they know
some of the main reasons
and they don't care.

Would you really be so surprised?

Most cases, I would wager
may share a superficial similarity
but they're never the same -
how can they be?
Mine is a crippling isolation,
at the deep root of it all,
self-claimed, accepted,
and necessary. You can't relate
when you can't relate,
and when nobody cares.
You're stuck with thoughts
you can try and share
but know it will be meaningless,
because they don't relate
and they don't care.
So what becomes the point?
To see how far you can go
on the things that still seem to matter.

Yeah, it's a lot of fun.

Whenever this becomes relevant,
you will know, oh yes, you will
and you will realize how long
you didn't care, the sheer bedazzlement
of the numbers who didn't care
even though they should have known,
at some level, by some small degree,
that this stretches back three years
and nobody cared, not for all the time
it took to reach that point, and what
it took to reach this one.

And should I apologize?
I think that would be missing the point.

Spectre

I dress in green.
Can you see me?

I judge others.
Must I smite you?

I must find a host.
Care to take me on?

I am never the spotlight.
Do you pay attention?

I have earned eternal glory.
Will I ever know it?

Is This A Problem?

I think this may be
a problem.

You see, I invariably
view social
interaction on a day off
as a waste
of my time, because I've
already done
a more than adequate job
of avoiding
things that I really should
be doing.

That's a bad thing, right?
A bad way
to approach things I seem
to be approaching?

Sudoku

I would have tried
a few years ago
to actually make
a witty poem
out of the ridiculous
idea of sudoku,
and in fact started
this poetry blogging
with the thought
that I might get
back to that if
I felt inspired to
(I just haven't),
but that's just not
going to happen -
I mean, why dignify
a fad like that,
like manga? Maybe they'll
both stick around,
or maybe they'll
both cool off together.
Or maybe they'll die!

Anyway, I'll get back
to my comic books.

Don't Know What To Say

Kind of gotten myself
into a fix. This time
I swear, I swear,
it's not just me,
no figment of my imagination,
but something that
I will have to deal with,
and I don't know
what to do with the
tossed salad and scrambled eggs,
because they're calling again.
It's not easy,
I'm in over my head,
the rules are being rewritten
and I'm almost better off dead.

It was just a game!
I was just having fun!
But I'm not death proof,
oh no, I'm not,
and there's no stuntman around
to sail the masts for me.
Please, just tell me
what I gotta do.

The Shooter

A year later
and I'm still
trying to figure
it out.
What happened?

Well, I know
what happened, or
at least what
everyone's best
guess is (not
since that day
have I been able
to view homicide
the same way, not
even with the
Law & Orders
still buzzing),
but it's the why...

Why did it end
up happening?
The medical
reports are
full of reasons,
and the speculations
have been pretty
constant, but
in the end,
I still have
not been
satisfied.
Everyone is
too happy
either
dodging or
condemning
him. Well,
I'm not.

Recently,
I've begun
to think,
maybe it was
inevitable.
His was the last
link of a chain
that strung through
wrestling's new
golden age, where
it became okay
for the public
to admit a taste
for it, even as
pressures mounted,
scandals hovered,
and it became
harder to prove
what a wrestling
purist was.
I think he was
just caught in
the middle.

Two of the stars
he emulated ended
their careers
ominously, one
bowing out suddenly,
the other after a long
personal struggle
that saw everything
he treasured
crumble around him.
Even so, his love,
his passion continued,
and he was even given
a shot no one believed
he'd win, and so did
his last best friend,
who died.

Too few have recognized
how much impact that
must have had, the tradition
it was ensconced in, how
there had to be an end.
His last responsibility,
the last crippling,
must be his.

His legacy seemed
doomed to be lost,
and that would have
been the real tragedy,
for all he had fought
for would too
have been lost.
He was the last
of the shooters,
the last, and he had
no pupil, except history,
and to history
he now belongs.
It would be best
to remember him,
the rabid wolverine,

Chris Benoit.

Atomic Bombs In the Air!

We've got
a faith in fear
and a fear of faith.
The former it would be
really easy to assume
was taken on after 9/11,
while the latter has been
around for a while,
probably as long as faith.
Both are a matter of
stark belief, are totally
ingrained in our
collective conscious,
a real party blaster
if there ever was one.
Woody Allen made himself
an archetype because
no one else does his
kind of guy, and it's
only right that someone does,
which means that all the
criticisms about that
are a poor show of faith,
maybe even a fear that
he may be right.
You can be a pretty wise
person and still be
awkward about it.

I tell ya,
it's a lot of fun.

Zen Has Flown

Lots of people at work
have been wondering
what kind of juice
I got myself in lately.
Truth is better than that.
The truth is, zen has
come again, the bird
has flown, and a strange
confluence of events
just may have made it
more permanent.

Blame Marlon Brando.
And Kevin Spacey
("Superman must die").
I sat through a set
of Ultimate Superman,
not everything but
a good deal of filmed
Man of Steel, around
the time Sadie happened
and I had to try
and figure that out
(Sun says women know -
oh god!), which led
to an even greater
concentration of
twisted evil inside
my brain, swishing
around until it had
reached a toxic brew,
which I drank
and joined Hurley
in the asylum, where
he gets to wait out
while rationality
comes through again.

I'll try and sustain it,
can't wait promises,
but right now I'm enjoying
all the bafflement,
and trying to reap
some rewards.

I'm With Stupid

Which is to say,
I'm with myself!

No, seriously!
If you had the chance
to meet me, you would
assume the same,
that I must be some
sort of imbecile -
I can't help it!
I pass off the vibe,
look the right part!

It is truly a blessing
I would not want others
to steal, for it sets
me apart all the more
and further! Because
the joke is still there
that I am far from it!
I'm smarter than can be
and always willing
to prove it! Look
long and look slow
because that's not
how I go!

Okay, I do move
at my own pace, and that
may be the very reason
of all, that I don't
conform to the statis
of wonder but rather
would have a look at it
from my own comfortable distance.

I'm with stupid!
I'm with myself!
But don't feel too bad,
because I don't myself!

Survivorman

Apocalyptc fantasies
are the concern that
an irretrievable
loss of knowledge is
still possible.
Long life and wealth
are the twin illusions
that illustrate the
importance of this
obession.

Fear motivates all.

History is a game.
The good players
know how to win it.
The bad don't.
Fame is the arena.
The losers merely
create the culture.

War is as it always
should be:
unthinkable.
And that's the problem.

47

There are
a ton of
important
things I
could be
writing
about
right now,
but I've
run out of
time, and
all you get
is one of
those
ridiculous
numbers: 47.

Until next
month...

Gonna Tell Everyone To Lighten Up

I think another problem
most people have is that
they just don't know
when to be serious.
They have all their
priorities in the wrong
places; they're more
grave than gravy,
and it drives me nuts.
It's a matter of
personal responsibility,
which completely
misunderstood: to accept
that there are
things you must do,
matters of politeness
you can call them,
that are more likely
considered insignificant
because for most parents,
they indulged all the wrong
impulses, encouraging
independence at the expense
of assuming the need
to control your environment,
your role among roles,
among others, among things.
It's a story of stuff,
but not the things people
superstitiously believe
despite all reason,
a lack of historical sense,
railing at the wrong ends,
rather of what is truly
important.

And that, my dear,
is the funniest joke
of them all. If people
could just accept
that they could take things
seriously and still be
a ridiculous twit,
if that suited them,
things could be better after all.

Waiting on the World to Change

I have a problem:
I detect imbecility
too easily.
And I hate it.
I know how easily
it rubs off.
It's contagious.

***

The business of a business
is to provide a service.
If it concentrates
on anything else,
it has already failed.

***

You're in a lion fight.
Just because you didn't win
doesn't mean you can't roar.

***

The real problem is
the world just doesn't
want to cooperate with you;
its concept of time
is slightly ahead of yours.
Its minutes last a little longer,
when you'd rather they
match up with yours.

Smoke Monster

Somehow,
I don't think
watching
Lost,
or Grey's Anatomy,
has helped me
in the real world.
Or that I can't stop,
oh no,
not now...
You see,
I believe in them.

The Greatest Bar

Maybe it's because
I just don't know
the normal limits
of the social graces,
because I have so little
experience with them,
the alien concepts,
and I never learn,
even though by all rights
I should know a thing
or two, should have
accumulated something.
It's just, a little
of Peter Pan lives in me,
a refussal to accept
what is taken for granted,
a belief that life
must progress from
one set of priorities
to another. I have my set,
and these are in constant
social conflict. I have
no lost boys, and flying
only gets me so far.

That's why Capt. Hook,
like Lex Luthor, is among
the most fascinating figures
in literature for me.
Now is a great time
to re-examine the concept
of villains.

In Case I Don't See Ya

Ever since 1998,
ever since Truman Burbank,
I have been a little
obsessed with viewing
my life as a TV show.

I wish it were as simple
as a straight imagining
but I've been paranoid,
I tell you.
I have seriously
considered that it is.

People, as a fact, can't
approach me the same way
they do others, and not
simply, not merely
because I lack most
of the social graces,
but almost as if they
don't want to, as if
they can't, because
of who I am. I've
lived in three parts
of the country; it's
pretty unamimous, right?

The grace I have is
my humor, which I wield
as a shield, and as
a weapon, but most people
probably don't see it
that way. It probably
improves the show, though.

I bounce against
the population,
but always manage
to stick around,
like a bad pop culture
reference.

Find some worth in me!
Let me savor
my misery! Watch
as I pound against
a fabricated horizon!

Who could prove
such a thing?
It doesn't matter
if it's true,
if it's just another
sign of my delusions,
which fester, always
in the backdrop,
a character trait
but never
a diagnosis.
Wouldn't that
spoil the fun?

I am always alone
but the eyes
are always there,
like the billboard
in Gatsby,
a subtle reflection
of my lobotomy.

Why I Am So Wise

I ordered a burger once
and it came with fries.
That's why I'm so wise.

You Enjoy the Convenience of My Solitude

Had I known,
I never
would have
done it.
Apparently,
all the good girls
here were
already claimed
by the jocks,
leaving me rot.

I guess
it's still
strange to me
that the military
has become
such an easy source
of personal security
in our day, when
everything screams
the opposite.

I don't know.
I guess it's
protecting
me, too,
just in no way
I can appreciate
at the moment.

Energy of Fear

I think I know
what keeps me
going.

It's called the
energy of fear,
and the deal
is something
like this:

Because I am
petrified of
just about
everything,
running away
from every
basic impulse
known to man,
I have been able
to develop enough
adrenaline
to keep going,
despite it all.

It's kind of
exciting!

Afterthoughts from Sadie

I've changed
my mind, Sadie.
I don't think
you've helped me.
I've only succeeded
in hurting myself.
Again.

***

Bill Bryson
may have been
in the store.
I didn't care.
I wasn't in the
mood to humor
customers.
But I do find
that funny.
Hey, Bill!
Sorry I didn't care!

***

Nothing against Steve,
but man, I hate you.
That would be envy, there.

***

It's just,
I'm sick of it,
sick of feeling
bad, sick of
knowing I'm bad,
that the whole
coveting thing
is frowned on
even though
it's hotwired
into us, encouraged
at every wink,
and even if I
can rationalize it,
all it does
is hurt me, because
I can't do anything
about it, because
I can't do people,
I can't do 'em,
even as much as
I try, and sad as
it is, a lot of it
is just the stuff
that bites me
again and again,
not as punishment
but because that's
the pattern I have
everywhere else.

That is punishment,
to whip me around
and leave me behind
every possible way,
no matter how close
it sometimes seems.

I run myself ragged.

And, I guess,
I still don't
believe
in love.

Mostly because
it don't believe
in me, the wicked slate.

Sadie

You make me
a better person
just in knowing
you're here.
I believe in love.
It's still out of
reach, but I know
it's there again,
thanks to you.

Where Are We Going?

I guess I need to know
because the reports
I've been getting
from family say the
economy is probably
worse than I imagined,
with gas prices
so crazy they're
screwing everything up,
either for heating
or in flights from
cheaper airlines
(Jet Boo remains
unaffected).

What does this mean?
My new home proved
to be exceptionally
affordable, and the
community fit for
a hobo king (who
recently got new shoes),
so in my isolation
I hadn't really noticed.
I've only been fucked
in the job market
because of who I am,
not because I can't
find work.
What do I know?

Who knows?

Because I Don't Know

I'm a master of everything
because I don't know.

I can best everyone in knowledge
because I don't know.

I detest stupidity
because I don't know.

I learn
because I don't know.

I pretend to learn
because I don't know.

I gather information
because I don't know.

I hoard
because I don't know.

I write
because I don't know.

I know
because I don't know.

JES322

Climb the combine
four to the floor
six to make a fix
never to say nor
everything will be fine

PoetiX

Nocturnals

In the twilight
of poetics
stands a reason
to explain
why everyone's
been wrong
all this time,
now that it's
too late.

Poetry is dead.

Poetry is dead
because we let
it be corrupted,
just as
"video killed
the radion star"
in a time of
transition
no one quite
realized; and
the reason is
the same killer
waiting in the wings
of all pop
entertainment,
a vicious inclination
to subjugate the past
at the leisure
of the present
and thereby
ruin both.

Poetry is dead
because all it
remains to be
is nostalgia
and bad readings
that put people
to sleep.

I think I enjoy
being there
for its death,
where it has lost
all its power
and only the words
remain, soon to
become sounds
and then

nothing at all.

PoetiX

III: Master of Zen

The problem I've always had
with Buddhism
is that it becomes just
another career:
you work at keeping yourself
away from the world.

The more I've thought of it,
the more I've become convinced
that the best way to find peace
is to embrace a total sense
of responsibility,
in that you don't expect
anything from the world
that you're not willing
to give back. It's another
old formula, but one that
I'm not convinced anyone
has truly tried to understand,
or at least, every time
someone has tried to voice it,
they're end up completely
misunderstood, and the classic
example is Jesus, who got
a whole religion built around
him that ignored the best extent
of his teachings, his example,
where to be a leader you
must also be a servant.

It's hard to even talk about him
without having it construed
as a lesson in faith, but
there's nothing to believe
in if you actually understand him,
the lesson he taught in washing
his disciple's feet, even in
sacrificing himself, which
became the most famous thing
he ever did, probably the best reason
he was remembered well enough
for people to begin remembering him.

Anyway, the thing about life
is that it's a terrible thing
to get wrapped up in, but we
all are, and because of that,
we ought to realize that
the only sensible thing to
do about it is to remember
that, even as individuals,
we constantly owe everyone
around us the same courtesy
we expect. I know, I know,
old hat, but it's just not
understood.

PoetiX

II: Your Enemies Closer

It's always the enemy
you don't see
that will end up
biting you harder.

One of civilization's
great obsessions
is capturing the villain,
and it's a very noble
profession, but it's
still a game whose
rules are underestimated.
Most people focus on
the chips that will win
them some personal acclaim,
while others go after
points that aren't
going to win them points,
but the easiest to find
and the most difficult
to identify are
the niggling details
that make it all possible.

You can probably call it
sabotage, the art of working
against the other players,
the lack of unity in a sport
where everyone's doing
the same thing, and to get
ahead, sometimes you think
you playing against
everyone else, and must act
accordingly, to skim off the top
of others to add an extra inch,
a meaningless mile in a sport
of lightyears, because,
most times, no one will notice.

Most of what makes up a life
is nothing you will ever learn
from someone else, but rather
how you cheat when they're
not looking. This is clear
enough, but people actually
choose not to pay attention.
The devil is always in those details.

The trick to it, not in
the winning, because secretly,
there are no winners,
is to pay attention.
You're going to lose points,
but at least you will know
what's really going on.
In this way, you keep
your enemies closer,
because they ultimately
mean more.

PoetiX

I: God Was On the Move

The best way to describe it
was that there was a glitch
in the system.

Clearly the programming
was still operational
but things were amiss,
functions not responding
as they should, outcomes
reading as they weren't
expected to, all while
everything pretty much
remained the same,
the same basic belief
in place.

Garbled, would be a way
to put it, because that's
what it really amounted to,
a new tower from which
the sensitive equipment
had fallen, and only now
were the results beginning
to show. Perhaps, though,
it was all according to plan,
maybe that's the way it was
supposed to work; there were
no difficulties being
experienced now, just the
intended effects, as if
the best way to understand
was to not even try, because
it was really only hopeless
in the middle of all that hope.

What we never truly understood
was that God was on the move,
not a mere static being
to be everywhere but being
everywhere along the way,
not an architect or some
mystic oracle, but a wanderer
in search of what he already knew,
because that was the best way
to see it, to find some perspective,
which even the divine must need.

But what were we to know?

PoetiX

" the archaic
" the anarchist
" the all-consuming

Preludes

Poetry Month was supposed
to be this month, but
for a number of reasons,
I celebrated it
in March (for Putin).

If no other body of society
is allowed to schism,
then poets should be,
if for no other reason
than it is their birthright,
for theirs is the ability
to contradict, to rise above
mere democratics and say
what must be said, whether
they are in agreement
or not, because for the poet,
to be heard is not merely
to be agreed with, but
for the caged bird to sing,
for loose sounds to be captured,
for the North Star to point
southward, and for all
natural things to act unnaturally,
so that they may be understood.

I guess I don't always
understand this myself,
but I have taken a vow,
and so must proclaim it
anyway, just because I must.

Point (In Case)

How does one
begin to chronicle
the modern age?
It seems as if
the whole of it
has been consumed
by the sum
of human experience,
that in our zeal
for the future
we have brought
an end to it.
We no longer believe
in miracles.
How could we?
Every present
for the last century
has been sacrificed.

Mysterious Distance

You can sing about it,
you can explain all the ways
to be fascinated by it,
you can sit there puzzled
even while the basic truth is
we're stuck together
just because that's what we do,
while the real mystery
is why we find still more
ways to complicate it
by setting up rules
we know are right
as they get in our way,
frustrate and torment us,
so that sometimes, we're
glad not to think about it,
until something brings it up again.

That's the mysterious distance
between man and woman.

Do Panic

Panic,
because
things
are
probably
going
wrong,
and there's
not much
you can
do
about
it.

So,
panic!

Past Due

Running out of time
can be such a poor
example in trying
to make up for it.

The Dreaming Dream

The dreaming dream
didn't realize
what was going on
until it woke up,
but of course
it was still dreaming,
a predicament that
continued ad infinitum
so that the dream
became so confused
it had no idea
what the concept
of reality was anymore
because all it knew
was that in dreaming
a dream, a dream was
being made by a dream,
and if there was any
sense to it, that, too
must have been a dream,
and the only conceivable
way to solve the problem
was to somehow wake up,
even though waking
was the reverse of dreaming,
a suicide in the world
of sand, taboo and unthinkable,
but increasingly a dream
itself, so that the dreaming
dream dreamt of a nightmare,
one so tantalizing and
unforgiveable the dream
could only further retreat,
despite every urge to escape.

Fucked Up State of Mind

If only I would write
here what I have been
thinking, for several
years now, you would
think much the worse
of me, so that you
might gain pity, or
worse, for me.

If only.

Mouldwarp

Mouldwarp,
with apologies
to Peter Ackroyd,
is the mess
we're all
currently
in the midst of.

Mouldwarp
is a new way
of saying
what everyone
should already
know, that we're
a little screwed up
at the moment,
a little ahead
of ourselves,
fascinated
and frightened
by a past
we know
all too well
but haven't
truly learned
from, a past
we'd rather
use to our
benefit, in
one way or
another, as
scare tactics,
as a rallying
point "for
things we haven't
learned," as
justification
that we somehow
were always right
even when we
were wrong,
what have you,
an age that
constantly looks
to the future
and wonders why
it's not what
we dream it
to be, as we look
at Arab culture
and remark how
it regresses
and pride ourselves
that we don't,
even though that
is the increasing
threat, an age
where the present
only laments itself,
an age that no longer
respects itself,
a real shame
of a thing, a wobbly
little ship
awash somewhere,
but maybe not
in the water,
not exactly
sea-worthy,
you see.

Scratch

What's even worse
than faking it
is fudging
a good story
by not really
thinking it through
and worse still
are the sheep
who play along.

Just saying.

In Memory of That Fish I Had For Breakfast

I despise the fact
that most of the books,
and I'm not talking
fiction alone, in
a bookstore today
should never have
been written, but were
just because so many
people want to be seen
as clever, when they
aren't and are only
made up to be, to make
a quick buck while
literature still remains
a viable option for
cheating at a living.

The thing is, because
the youth culture
is so enamored of
getting their entertainment
for free, this is simply
not going to be the case
for much longer. It'll
probably screw me, too,
but I blame the fakers
first, and the ship jumpers
only after them.

You can't rush the future
but you can definitely
screw your way to it.

A Guide to Places You Won't Want to Go (Mandatory Hysteria)

Sometimes
I think
humanity's
greatest
recent
acccomplishment
is its ability
to reach
erroneous
conclusions
in a golden age
of information.

I think
that's what
Orwell
was really
trying
to say.

Fair Friday

To be surrounded
both those who
make you look crazy,
and then to wish
they were there
when they're not,
that's a strange
thing to realize.

But that's what's
been going on today.

Zen (You Come and You Go)

Like an ebb & flow,
I sometimes grasp
the center of myself,
and then it just
slips away, like
nothing that I think
matters, just what I fear,
and that seems like so much.

I remind myself
that I am
a rational
being.

Here's to the Chef

Some movies you go see
but don't expect to like
as much as you end up;
they're just supposed
to be fun, maybe pass
the time, run up the clock,
but it doesn't turn out
that way; you kind of
fall in love, for more
reasons than you thought
possible, more reasons
than should have been
possible, just a complete
wash of things and you
anticipate a long affair.

Hey, it's easier than
figuring out human romance.

It's Raining!

Oh Anthony,
a pioneer of
the quiet epic,
I had not expected
for you, too,
to join
the recently departed,
and yet there you are.

I am glad to have
finally completed
watching your
English Patient,
like an early memorial.

Stuck in the Middle (and I Can't Get Out of It)

My curse extends too far.

As much as I've been
an outsider for as long
as I can remember,
that has led to the
exclusive opportunity,
perhaps just the knowledge,
the self-awareness of it,
to slide along most circles,
so that I've got contact
with anyone I care to.

It goes the same way
with romance, of course,
never finding the right fit
even though they're all
around me, completely
unattainable, every time.

That's the curse,
to see the world
revolve around you,
not in an egotist's manner,
but as the realist sees it,
and the pessimist believes
it will always remain.


I wish I could ask
someone about it,
but as it seems,
that's pretty much
impossible...

Patron of the Arts

The thing I like best
about the foolishness
of modern economics
is that anyone can be
a patron of the arts.

I'm a dabbler, which means
I have collections of
a number of things, which
are constantly growing,
comics, movies, books, CDs,
even art as it's known today,
"paintings" (I have a ship
that was probably mass-produced,
found in a K-Mart and with
me ever since), posters,
knick-knacks that cover surfaces
like mini-statues, even
some stuffed animals (crazy
about dee monkeys), and
when I'm not buying, I'm
paying, to see movies, or
the occasional concerts and plays,
which were some of the best things
I did in college, built into
the cost of admission.

The real shame is, even if
I didn't do any of that, I
would still be steeped heavily
in the arts, as someone
trying very hard to add to them.
The great thing, though,
is if I never get a penny
for those efforts, I'll still
have succeeded in contributing,
in some way, as a patron of the arts.

Keep the Love Comin'

I think I've
discovered
a dangerous game:

How long can I
pretend my finances
aren't that bad?

Tonight
I'm going
to keep
playing.

Writers Are a Disposable Breed

I wish I could say it weren't so,
but writers are a disposable breed.

Writers are a disposable breed,
so many want to write,
so many already are,
every one of them is invisible,
and you only need one good thing,
writers are a disposable breed.

Writers are a disposable breed,
they'll love you more when you're dead,
the things you leave behind will shine,
if you make no money now, don't worry,
writers are a disposable breed.

Writers are a disposable breed,
we heap on each other great praise,
we openly seek criticism, good or bad,
but hope it comes when we need it,
and not at the worst moment possible,
writers are a disposable breed.

Writers are a disposable breed,
as many make their living as they can,
and sometimes they can do it with their art,
writers are a disposable breed.

Writers are a disposable breed,
they're incorrigable, incurable, incalculable,
writers are a disposable breed.

But they're not usually born that way.

After Birth

I have been
staying away from
my sister's house,
and I know that
this has to change.
Another thing's
happened and she
probably needs me,
and not just because
that's what everyone
thinks. The baby's gone,
oh, the baby's gone,
before it even came,
washed away
with a tide.

Sonic

Say what you mean
and not what you think,
because there's clearly
a difference that
you don't even know.

Colorado Springs Dichotomy

What a place
for a military base,

or to look for religion
and find some way to sin,

fight against the war
or find it to root for,

be a terrific liberal
or find that rather full,

to be a melting pot,
or not think that's very hot.

That's Colorado Springs.

Gang Related

I had to take
the better part
of the day
to cool off
from the events
from just a few
minutes of last night.

It seems Colorado Springs
is on the verge of finally
feeling the wrath of its
terrible integration practices,
yet another lag time
to be experienced,
another moment and confrontation
between the old and new,
a combat of contrasts.

I just happened to
see myself in the middle
for a few moments, and
it unsettled me. I don't
really understand
how the city, this
of all cities, can't
get a handle on it,
in a place of such
open spaces and obvious
developments. They
can't be paying attention,
or they've taken the
wrong side of "let it be"

and in that matched
the rest of the nation's failure,
the penchant of the population
to ignore problems
because it's just easier that way.

It's a rotten thing to experience,
but that's just another aspect
of this rotten little
city on a hill
we'll just have to accept
because that's what society do.

Insolent Grace

It's not something
she suddenly adopted
(funny phrasing,
considering),
but a natural part
of her subtle charms,

her insolent grace.

When the pair of them
made their separate
appearances, she already
possessed, along with
her natural charms,

her insolent grace.

I always believed
she rather favored
her temperament, even
before true contrasts
could be found, against
her natural charms and

her insolent grace.

She was a cat,
they were less than dogs;
they were puppies.
Perhaps one day they might
outgrow their clumsy humor,
but as for her, long
into the twilight,
when age has claimed
even her natural charms,
she will still have

her insolent grace.

Poetry Month for Putin

I've decided
that 2008 is
a good year
to declare
Poetry Month
in Putin's honor.

I might have chose
Castro, but somehow
he's less popular.
People just don't
like beards anymore.

So this year
it's for Putin,
the great Russian
leader, part of
the triad with
Blair and G,
a new leader
in the new
millennium.

Now his time
is running
short, yet
his legacy
only begins.

This year is
for Putin,
and to him
all is to be
dedicated.

Maybe next year
can be G's.

In My Sister's House

I suppose there's a thing
to say about visiting
someone you used to live with,
which is what I get to do
these days, pets and all
("and all" soon to mean baby).

Some of what to say
might mean that
I still don't know
what to think,
because so many things
were happening,
and happened, during
the three years
we spent reconnecting
that it will take
a number of years still
before I have a real
understanding.

Family life is always
difficult, in some way,
but it can be still more
intimidating when yours
has as many complications,
none obvious, as I have
experienced in mine.

So when I visit
in my sister's house,
it's exactly what it seems,
and nothing like it.

***

The thing about
the brothers Liam and Noel
is that they’ve grown up
in the hazy period
after rock reached
past the crib, became
a part of the generation.
Everyone says they
do nothing but
their own cribbing,
but to watch them
and see as they are,
you know it’s just
what they are,
as much caught in the stream
as musicians of the first order.

It might also have been said
that Brando held
“a disdain for Hollywood’s
creative decline” and that
he might’ve
“chosen to set a good example.”
The surprise, dear writer,
even if he didn’t know it himself,
was that there was no decline,
that all the weight he had
assumed for the industry
in its early years
he not so symbolically
returned to himself,
like an Orson Welles
or Bill Shatner. He
never lost his edge, in fact
never stopped rebelling.

That was his real magic.

***

Only immigrants understand,
seem to truly understand, the need
for community. The rest of us
fend for ourselves.

It occurs to me
that true suffering
is in the impulse
to retain
what must no longer
be retained,
that we bring upon ourselves
all our sorrows
when we fail
to recognize
that all things
must fade
in the inexorable
march of time.

It’s not so much
a thing of progress,
for many great things
are never seen,
much less embraced,
and far too much evil
is institutionalized,
where we only thought
we placed the delinquents
(what a joke that is!),
but a simple matter
of age, whether
our own or
the collected effort
that keeps us all
from falling feral
to the ground.

We still pretend
humanity is better
than other animals.
That’s another good joke.
Me, I’ve never liked fish,
and it was recently,
which I say as no vegetarian,
that I vocalized for myself
the reason why:

It’s bad enough we eat
things that resemble us,
why stoop lower?

***

In my sister’s house,
things are simple
and difficult to comprehend,
a matter of family
and the individuals
who comprise it.
Of course I love her,
and cherish what
bonds no speculation
can shatter, but
family is not
the final word of
a sentence,
at least not this one.

We still can’t agree
on movies, but the last time
she (sort of) compromised,
I think that’s when she found out
she was pregnant.
I consider that
some kind of miracle.

Still Just a Rat in a Cage

It's a terrible thing
to be impotent, to know
when it comes down to it
you'll never get what
you want, no matter
how hard you try, because
in the end, you just
don't have it in you.
That's the life of failure,
knowing you'll go down
with a whimper, maybe even
with people laughing,
still thinking you're
a good show, just for
none of the reasons
you want them to.
You fight and you strive
for the right to be yourself
when everyone around you
is just making it go
for the benefit of
those around them, bereft
of any potential, hindering
you, obliterating you,
piece by bloody piece.
What does it matter if
you eventually win,
when you won't be able
to enjoy it? Is that
so selfish, to know
you made a difference
and not just a shadow
on the wall of the cave
you lived your whole
miserable life in?

I wish to god it weren't.

I Look at Myself and See Nothing Worth Liking

The whole of human history
can be viewed as a struggle
between good and evil
because that's what it
essentially is,
polar opposites strangely
interacting, becoming one.

People have a tendency
to either crave the spotlight
or shun away from it,
and that's the same dichotomy.

I think the biggest trouble
comes when someone succeeds
in intersecting these impulses,
the person who hates people
but who is otherwise a real
people person, capable
of charming anyone they please to,
sometimes whether they want to or not.

The Matrix films came
within a hair's breath of
becoming the new Star Wars,
up until the second and third
installments were released
(with the new Star Wars themselves,
it only took until the first),
and people suddenly realized
what was really going on
(like they themselves woke up).

The story of Neo
was a classic example
of that inner war.
It turned out his adventures
weren't just about
cool fighting or
a wicked premise,
but a true exploration
of man's self-loathing
desires to see his world
crumble around him
(even before Morpheus
came calling, Neo
was a hacker, after all)
while being its savior,
which exactly in
the biblical sense,
ended up costing him
a personal happy ending.

I think that's what made
Christianity the draw it became,
actually, the reverse of Neo,
becoming popular because
of its paradox, that good
could come from evil.
I'll bet the early converts
heard more about the cross
than the beatitudes
(like I said, the reverse Neo).

That's the spirit of the revolution.

Oh, the Humanities!

I have a dream, too.

I dream that one day,
all work will be created equal,
so that it will no longer
be dreaded, but become
what it was always meant
to be.

I dream that in our
modern age, the
economics of the future
can be realized,
so that they are
driven by reason,
by a sense of accomplishment,
not by a sum total,
by results,
not by demand.

I dream that demand
will become a thing
of the past, that supply,
as it already is,
will become plentiful
and reasonable,
because reason
is the last religion,
the last belief
in which there can be
no doubt, only worship,
not of ourselves
but what we are
capable of.

Because we are capable,
of a great many things.
We just happen to favor
hamstringing ourselves,
for no other reason
than "what's well enough alone,"
the worst philosophy I know,
or reason that thinks
it's novel when it's not,
managed thought that works
like a machine,
the evil terminating kind.

Reason should tell us
these things, and it does,
and we choose not to listen.
"Reason" also tells us
that when we are allowed
to do what we want
and not what we have to,
vital work would not
get done, "because
it's not desirable."
Human nature,
which is Reason,
tells us differently.

The dream lives on,
will become the wave of
the future, will
become the future,
because the present
is the future,
which is the present,
and an extension
of the past.

These things happen.

It's Always Golfball Season

When I moved here
just before winter,
people were frantically
golfing away the last
of the season.

Four months later,
where it's still
winter, somewhere,
they're back.

I don't know,
I guess it's because
this is the first time
I've had a course in
my backyard, but
I just never realized
how rabid these players
really are, always ready,
always game, stalking
those tiny balls
and smacking them away
into small holes.

It only sounds dirty.

C'mon! Old people do it!
It can't be wrong!

All joking aside,
I've never gotten
into golf myself,
but it's funny to see
all the people,
riding the greens,
looking for the perfect slice.

The most fun
I've had
on them
was finding out
about the fence.

I guess it keeps
the gophers
away.

I'm Off the Bus

I'm off the bus,
and I guess that's
what ultimately
separates me
from the last age
of poetry where
I would actually
fit in.

Don't get me wrong,
I'm sure a lot of
really fantastic
stuff's being
written right now,
but really, if
no one knows,
if it's being
done in the same
vacuum I inhabit,
what does it
count for, a
movement of
Dickensons?

Forgive me
if I don't
relish that
thought.

But forty years ago,
things were really
happening, and it
wasn't until I saw
Easy Rider
that I truly
understand
the fundamental
divide that culture
brought to
the landscape.

These people were
every bit one for
themselves. They
were distanced from
everything around them
not because they
were trying to be,
but because that's
what the culture
made them become.

They had found
a new way
to be themselves,
and that's what
they were doing,
and darned if
everyone didn't
get on the bus
with them.

That's the real
problem, of course.

Everyone got on
the bus.

When the revolution
is institutionalized,
it's no longer
a revlution.
This is not to say
that the revolution
was successful.

A revolution
is not necessarily
meant to change
the world,
but to broaden it.

Communism, for
popular example,
easy to understand.
People embraced that
and it fucked things up
real good.

Cars are another
good one, but
people don't know
that one because
they only know it
as a convenience,
not as the hindrance
it is. They may
kid themselves
and slap it into
their notions
of mankind's great effect
on the world around them,
but they don't
understand how
drastically it's
shaped and corrupted
everyday life,
condemned it
to slavery.

No, I don't propose
to burn all the petrol
and the metal monsters
who feed on it,
but to think rationally
again, to lose the
revolution,
to redefine it
for what it was
originally intended
to be.

I'm not on the bus
because I don't think
anyone knows what
that bus is anymore.
The bus is not a car,
is not a single constipation
on the road, but a means
of uniting interests
across a vast expanse,
the one we've utterly
claimed and staked
as our own,
pretending we've
taken everything
but overlooking
all the pretty horses
that still roam free.

So no, I'm not on the bus,
not until people start
to realize
how stupid they are
and smarten up.

Take your car
and meet the bus,
and reclaim
the revolution.

Harry Potter Comes in Spanish, Too!

I don't pretend
to know the details,
but today's the big
release date of the
last book in the series
for Spanish readers.
I can't imagine
that Spain didn't
get the release
last July, so
on the surface,
it's confusing.
Ordinary American
readers are still
toddling along,
picking up random
books in the series,
but for Spanish language
readers, they get
two whole copies
for their big day!
But, they have to wait!
Not even when
the store opens
can they have
one of them, but only
after noon strikes!
I'm so excited for them!

The babel fish tells me
that I should care more,
that I shouldn't mock
the occasion, but here
I go anyway, because
it just seems so absurd.

Part of the joke,
of course, is that
this is a British
phenomenon washed up
on our shores, and
even though we've
all but recobbled it
in our image (the first
book, at the very least,
when we rechristened it),
made a celebration
out of each release date
(except this one),
Harry's not ours,
and it probably gnaws at us.

We're the new kings of comedy!

But there they go anyway,
claiming the prize,
all the glory of the Muggles,
while we fashion the reward
as our own (we made the movies).

And then the new
release date comes,
and we're forced to
eat Muggle pie anyway.
The Dark Mark is
imprinted on all
our forearms,
a signal of
our opposition
to all that
Harry stands for.
United?

Hardly.

Batgirl

The problem that developed
between Batgirl and Nightwing,
even though they seem
destined for each other,
is that they simply
are not ready to commit.
Everything's there,
they're both waiting,
but it just isn't time.

But it'll be magic
when they finally do.

Three Minutes

In Real Life,
things are
just as fake
as if you
were in
a virtual world.

I never quite
understood that
until Tad
showed me,
proved how
much people
can lose
themselves
in fantasy.

I can't say
that I'm
immune.
Perhaps I'm
the worst
of them all,
but if there's
one thing
I have not
imagined,
it's that
matters
with the girl
are not over.

Maybe that's
fiction, too,
but I'm okay
with that.