The February 21st Post may have been a little harsh... the whole revolution for the sake of revolution seems like a misplayed scenario. What do I do every day after all? I put people on planes. Take them off planes. Put them in overly priced hotels. Take them out of those hotels. Place them in seats. Make sure it's an aisle or your ass gets chewed off. Give them a car I couldn't afford to drive to wheel around in for a couple of days. Get them home to their wives. OR cats. Sometimes I can't get them home fast enough. Sometimes I want to tell them to go to hell, put on a plane to Bangladesh, maybe then they'll shut up. Sometimes I can't stand it. I went to college too. I just didn't master in business. Instead, I'm stuck with a crappy English degree. A lot of knowledge about the Romantic poets. Coleridge's dilaudinum habit. His tuberculosis. Etheridge Knight, Mass Media & Modern Culture. Reflections on the gender politics of the Gillette razor. I realize I was a person once. Maybe people even regarded me in a such a manner. I fight the powers that be, occasionally, but often lose. It's a tug-of-war throughout the week. My bosses--- there are two of them--- and they rarely come over and talk to me, haven't caught on to the fact that I can be downright argumentative in certain circumstances. I can't always get a grasp on what people are asking for, or what they're up to anyhow. So, I disagree with them. I think they're being childish or rude. Sometimes they are, but I've learn that big business motto, that the customer is always right. You're not supposed to argue period. My roommate tells me I have to learn to not give a f*#@k , something which only makes vague sense to me. What am I supposed to develop an indifference toward. Other people's words, their commands. What if you just don't know how to do what they're asking? What if you've entirely lost them in the syntax? There I go, being argumentative again. Just don't be a s:%thead and I'll mostly get along with you.
But it's not a winning attitude I've taken on. I've resorted to reading Buddhist reflections on Anger and Peaceful Acceptance. There seems to be great pain involved in that level of acceptance. Of giving up what you have learned or have interpreted for the truth, for some other plan that has been mapped out. People are getting away with that on a constant basis, I think. Just not giving in to the madness. Not taking it personally. Letting go of the self to discover the self, as priest I knew once said. It's the kind of thing so many people can give advice about, but yet so difficult to put into practice. Especially when you're not disposed to it. I love my old man dearly, but I learned a lot of behavior from practicing what he does, just blows an absolute gasket sometimes, cuts you up from the underside with a snide remark. It's in the genes, they say. Maybe. But there has to be a way to break the cycle.
I've taken to blogging this evening because I thought maybe it might make a difference, this cynicism that's grown into me like a cyst. That you shouldn't let people cut you up. I still don't think you should but how many people have I known and heard say how when you react, you let them win. It's never felt like a win just by being passive. They don't seem satisfied. I've even had people say, "are you still THERE?" which seems to suggest that they are attempting to drive me away, or rock me down to their level, where I say, son, you bet I'm still here, and by god, I'm entitled to be. Like that declaration alone will validate my existence. What a cobweb.
I'm going to work on it, because my former MO was to whimper and cry and overmedicate myself when I got home by playing video games all night in my room. Blotto myself. Rock the brain into a coma. But that doesn't work for me. Great, if it works for you. It's always been more in order to channel all this crap. Welcome to this Channel, thank you all, I'll be in town all week!
Wednesday, February 22, 2006
entropy.
Such as dancing the tarantella
With your lover and tripping
Over your heels which
Smash her birthday gift;
Or feeling the terse breeze
Of an electric fan
And mistaking the shadows
For an evening under
A Managua heat & gunfire;
Such as misnaming your firstborn
For the Cuban general
Last castrated by Communist sympathizers;
Or such as, losing enough grace
So as to drag the electric
Fan with you into the bathtub;
Or your wish to remove
Your mirrors from the premises &
Biting your lip at the urge to
Give practice lectures to
the stranger watching from the walls.
Or such as this sleeplessness again,
Which wakes the neighbors,
All the windows propped open,
Because you are freezing anyway;
Thirteen below, the weatherman
Shivered and smiled saying this;
He wears a suit and tie that you
Decided you could not afford purchasing.
Such as the clock ignoring
Your need for a fresh start,
The savage children who will
Eat you alive again.
Such as rubbing your forehead,
Palms sweaty, tremorous, condensation
On the martini glass, and you
Wouldn’t be doing this again,
If you could afford paying back the loans.
Such as abandoning your car in traffic,
Dry-heaving in the bushes,
While drivers gawk at the red light.
Such as explaining your unbalance
To the psychiatrist, covering
Your ears to drown out the nonsense
Of the last few months which the death
Of a loved one might explain.
Such as the grey shapes above your
Closet or just outside your window,
Which are ghosts of your procrastination,
Which are thank-you letters unsent.
Which is ruthlessly needling you,
Wishing for a cocktail to guide
Through the evening news, which is
The man at work always inviting
You to happy hour across town.
Which has medical advice for the remedy,
And whose name you keep changing,
Which is costing you your wages,
Which you have never pegged w/ your finger.
Which is the drawn bow of your
Everyday panic, which in your mind,
Has drawn you indoors, placing
A peephole so you know who is calling,
With your caller id you feel safer,
Which has you worthlessly attending
To menial labor, so its summons
Won’t rap so loud, you ignore its
Knowing insinuations, its vicious poetry
Working on your last nerve
This side of you raging through the city
Blood pouring from your ravaged heart.
Such as dancing the tarantella
With your lover and tripping
Over your heels which
Smash her birthday gift;
Or feeling the terse breeze
Of an electric fan
And mistaking the shadows
For an evening under
A Managua heat & gunfire;
Such as misnaming your firstborn
For the Cuban general
Last castrated by Communist sympathizers;
Or such as, losing enough grace
So as to drag the electric
Fan with you into the bathtub;
Or your wish to remove
Your mirrors from the premises &
Biting your lip at the urge to
Give practice lectures to
the stranger watching from the walls.
Or such as this sleeplessness again,
Which wakes the neighbors,
All the windows propped open,
Because you are freezing anyway;
Thirteen below, the weatherman
Shivered and smiled saying this;
He wears a suit and tie that you
Decided you could not afford purchasing.
Such as the clock ignoring
Your need for a fresh start,
The savage children who will
Eat you alive again.
Such as rubbing your forehead,
Palms sweaty, tremorous, condensation
On the martini glass, and you
Wouldn’t be doing this again,
If you could afford paying back the loans.
Such as abandoning your car in traffic,
Dry-heaving in the bushes,
While drivers gawk at the red light.
Such as explaining your unbalance
To the psychiatrist, covering
Your ears to drown out the nonsense
Of the last few months which the death
Of a loved one might explain.
Such as the grey shapes above your
Closet or just outside your window,
Which are ghosts of your procrastination,
Which are thank-you letters unsent.
Which is ruthlessly needling you,
Wishing for a cocktail to guide
Through the evening news, which is
The man at work always inviting
You to happy hour across town.
Which has medical advice for the remedy,
And whose name you keep changing,
Which is costing you your wages,
Which you have never pegged w/ your finger.
Which is the drawn bow of your
Everyday panic, which in your mind,
Has drawn you indoors, placing
A peephole so you know who is calling,
With your caller id you feel safer,
Which has you worthlessly attending
To menial labor, so its summons
Won’t rap so loud, you ignore its
Knowing insinuations, its vicious poetry
Working on your last nerve
This side of you raging through the city
Blood pouring from your ravaged heart.
Tuesday, February 21, 2006
what are we doing revolution-wise?
or is the goal to go zig-zagging into the anonymous dream?
are we waiting for walk the line to arrive on DVD,
live our quiet lives vicariously through an actor playing a legend?
are we waiting for the next super bowl, keeping drinks on ice
and a pantry full of salsa and tortilla chips?
what have you done revolution-wise? other than telling the boss
to stick it, stuff your pockets full of lotto tickets,
and clench your fist while shuffling into the unemployment office?
last I checked, we got a curveball in the white house,
been there for the greater part of the decade, writing his own laws,
signing his own tickets, while his buddies get rich, richer
and the oil fields over there get hot, hot, hotter from the rising fires
and the academics get brainier, the drunks get drunker
and the methheads get empty in the head, in the skin, in the teeth,
you would think there would be someone raging at that,
some wild-haired gent or lass just seething at the audacity of all that:
fill in your blanks, folks, when was the last time the stars
danced for you, when you could get outside of the nine-to-five,
banned food day, boycotted happy hour at the seventh heaven
or drudged up a charity fund to get some of the negativity, the cobwebs
out of your just-trying-to-make-it-to-four-thirty frame-of-mind
it doesn't have to be cranky, you don't have to smash equipment,
but necessary, don't you think, called-for wouldn't you say?
let's not forget how we might get revolution-wise, open up the conversation,
breathe the real air, not the kind that's blowing by on the tv screen,
where we're captive, strapped to the chair, our eyes held open
by steel wires, where we're screaming inside, our mouths sealed shut,
alone, thinking, getting it, with no one to tell, with every chance to forget,
because we think we're dreaming after all, anonymously dreaming,
of being on film, changed and beautiful, wishing we could act revolution-wise.
or is the goal to go zig-zagging into the anonymous dream?
are we waiting for walk the line to arrive on DVD,
live our quiet lives vicariously through an actor playing a legend?
are we waiting for the next super bowl, keeping drinks on ice
and a pantry full of salsa and tortilla chips?
what have you done revolution-wise? other than telling the boss
to stick it, stuff your pockets full of lotto tickets,
and clench your fist while shuffling into the unemployment office?
last I checked, we got a curveball in the white house,
been there for the greater part of the decade, writing his own laws,
signing his own tickets, while his buddies get rich, richer
and the oil fields over there get hot, hot, hotter from the rising fires
and the academics get brainier, the drunks get drunker
and the methheads get empty in the head, in the skin, in the teeth,
you would think there would be someone raging at that,
some wild-haired gent or lass just seething at the audacity of all that:
fill in your blanks, folks, when was the last time the stars
danced for you, when you could get outside of the nine-to-five,
banned food day, boycotted happy hour at the seventh heaven
or drudged up a charity fund to get some of the negativity, the cobwebs
out of your just-trying-to-make-it-to-four-thirty frame-of-mind
it doesn't have to be cranky, you don't have to smash equipment,
but necessary, don't you think, called-for wouldn't you say?
let's not forget how we might get revolution-wise, open up the conversation,
breathe the real air, not the kind that's blowing by on the tv screen,
where we're captive, strapped to the chair, our eyes held open
by steel wires, where we're screaming inside, our mouths sealed shut,
alone, thinking, getting it, with no one to tell, with every chance to forget,
because we think we're dreaming after all, anonymously dreaming,
of being on film, changed and beautiful, wishing we could act revolution-wise.
Monday, February 20, 2006
Listening to a little Vic Chesnutt tonight but I've been meaning to start this thing for whatever it's worth...
in no particular order...
Field Work in Ash & Blue
I left all my thoughts on Leavenworth Street
That lazy avenue always crying under the wet tarp:
For its anonymity, for the cracked-up eyes lingering
on its curbstones, which wonder where you've been lately
and who you're fucking at night while your children sleep;
that name synonymous with jails and private card games:
a legacy for the hustle, food stamps and warm dry gin,
But that was only where it began, the fat artery out of which
Blood then & now had been flowing: not blood for the nightly
news or the photos on the inner lining of the wraps, but
the scuffle just down the side streets, under dark awnings
and yards of cardboard glass, to be hidden from the neighbors
But known like the cheat in a spread: not a dime that drops
there is worth its keep, yet I dared nightly to dream
while my engine idled in the sad corners of its parking lots.
I held a fare uptown with a woman who danced for men
for twenty-five years, every night, I carried her twenty blocks
east and four south, and she spread her hair along the backseat,
as if somehow that would break the mystery of her shroud
as if men must live through such seductions to keep their namesake,
and survive the smoke as it curls from lips, and smile but look
the other way, no matter how lonely they've become
by the end of the day, no matter what the cost of the bear & bait,
as if anyone could fend off her silky advances & flip down the nightshade,
then slide away to sleep with clockstroke & cool antacid.
I seemed to be outlasting all the wretches, for no other reason
than to scratch together a few dimes, run back to the garage
to punch my card & rendevous to my nearest base of asylum,
without any kin to take me, the last remaining namesake this end
of the Missouri River, with the want of a nail for my kingdom lost,
just a witness in this field of spinning ash & blue, skinless around
the scalp & faceless like so many of these corners, long shots
to a ticket elsewhere, stunned in the midst of the anonymity
of every stranger and their crazed introductions, their demands,
their alibis, their aliases and wigs: beneath their cover, I am offered
these in confidence, should I contact someone who shouldn't hear the news.
In this vein, I took it all in stride, a nightly parade through this
cowering alley, old Leavenworth, ashen in winter, muddied by spring,
so that with summer, I left all my thoughts in the bus stations,
in the alleys, and at the girlie bars, in the fag dens, with the marquis'
with the spinsters, with this street and all its drinking buddies,
with its poker friends, its bartenders, its bookies, its shrinks,
with its Indian chiefs, all pass off and left in the notebooks, painted
lily white, all new and fresh on the clapboards, a new print for its sheets,
lying in a dress of satin, glimmer and found clean like so many other
passing streets, in other seasons, towns of intrigue, fools who wander
from the painful strain of hidden mistakes, streets washed over by ash & blue.
I really have to rework some of the images on this one, never one of my stronger pieces.
There's stuff I like about it but ahh, whatver. I can always improve of some of these pieces.
I don't hang out on Leavenworth Street in Omaha, NE very much anymore.
I don't have the time nor the wherewithal. I guess it's probably no worse than Broadway
in Council Bluffs, and a far cry from the Bowery in New York, or other places I've been in Baltimore or DC, but it's worth a nod. I'm always game for hearing about the places that never sleep, like the Strip in Vegas ir whathaveyou.
in no particular order...
Field Work in Ash & Blue
I left all my thoughts on Leavenworth Street
That lazy avenue always crying under the wet tarp:
For its anonymity, for the cracked-up eyes lingering
on its curbstones, which wonder where you've been lately
and who you're fucking at night while your children sleep;
that name synonymous with jails and private card games:
a legacy for the hustle, food stamps and warm dry gin,
But that was only where it began, the fat artery out of which
Blood then & now had been flowing: not blood for the nightly
news or the photos on the inner lining of the wraps, but
the scuffle just down the side streets, under dark awnings
and yards of cardboard glass, to be hidden from the neighbors
But known like the cheat in a spread: not a dime that drops
there is worth its keep, yet I dared nightly to dream
while my engine idled in the sad corners of its parking lots.
I held a fare uptown with a woman who danced for men
for twenty-five years, every night, I carried her twenty blocks
east and four south, and she spread her hair along the backseat,
as if somehow that would break the mystery of her shroud
as if men must live through such seductions to keep their namesake,
and survive the smoke as it curls from lips, and smile but look
the other way, no matter how lonely they've become
by the end of the day, no matter what the cost of the bear & bait,
as if anyone could fend off her silky advances & flip down the nightshade,
then slide away to sleep with clockstroke & cool antacid.
I seemed to be outlasting all the wretches, for no other reason
than to scratch together a few dimes, run back to the garage
to punch my card & rendevous to my nearest base of asylum,
without any kin to take me, the last remaining namesake this end
of the Missouri River, with the want of a nail for my kingdom lost,
just a witness in this field of spinning ash & blue, skinless around
the scalp & faceless like so many of these corners, long shots
to a ticket elsewhere, stunned in the midst of the anonymity
of every stranger and their crazed introductions, their demands,
their alibis, their aliases and wigs: beneath their cover, I am offered
these in confidence, should I contact someone who shouldn't hear the news.
In this vein, I took it all in stride, a nightly parade through this
cowering alley, old Leavenworth, ashen in winter, muddied by spring,
so that with summer, I left all my thoughts in the bus stations,
in the alleys, and at the girlie bars, in the fag dens, with the marquis'
with the spinsters, with this street and all its drinking buddies,
with its poker friends, its bartenders, its bookies, its shrinks,
with its Indian chiefs, all pass off and left in the notebooks, painted
lily white, all new and fresh on the clapboards, a new print for its sheets,
lying in a dress of satin, glimmer and found clean like so many other
passing streets, in other seasons, towns of intrigue, fools who wander
from the painful strain of hidden mistakes, streets washed over by ash & blue.
I really have to rework some of the images on this one, never one of my stronger pieces.
There's stuff I like about it but ahh, whatver. I can always improve of some of these pieces.
I don't hang out on Leavenworth Street in Omaha, NE very much anymore.
I don't have the time nor the wherewithal. I guess it's probably no worse than Broadway
in Council Bluffs, and a far cry from the Bowery in New York, or other places I've been in Baltimore or DC, but it's worth a nod. I'm always game for hearing about the places that never sleep, like the Strip in Vegas ir whathaveyou.
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