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.