Thursday, April 30, 2009
Tuesday, April 28, 2009
Just past the Fatmans place
a blue man in a rubber suit
walks the black hills
a rusting tower sits in the foreground
making stacks out of the past.
Grey sky and train tracks are a destination
a woman arranges plastic flowers on a muddy grave
as a family of ducks walk behind her in single file
three times in a week is too much for some
He arrives in pieces.
Sunday, April 26, 2009
Wednesday, April 22, 2009
(Int.- A restaurant, in the recent past)
A man sits at a table, eating with friends. He is a dullard, a slow lumbering man. He is a dolt, with the deliberative manner of the truly clueless. He is a man who spent his whole life either, in middle management trying not to rock the boat, or of someone who has something to hide. Probably a combination of both. His appearance and cautious manner give the impression, to some, of a man who would end up exposing himself to the neighborhood children. (This is not an accusation, just an observation.) He is the kind of man who would grow a beard in retirement, and spend his days watching t.v. and dream of tea-bagging parties. He is the kind of man who carries and drinks out of a super-sized plastic cup, full of some undefined icy beverage wherever he goes. He is a buffoon, with a clowns posture and the wit of a pinhead. He is a bloated man, full of hot air and gas, he has the confidence of the unchallenged. His thoughts never rise above platitudes, he lives in the comfort of the uncluttered mind. Empty and vacuous, he lives in fear of the unknown.
He once went up to someone, unsolicited, and said "If you use profanity, you will never walk in the sunlight of the spirit".
The man replied, "How could you possibly know that?"
He walked away silently.
In short, the man is a fool.
Wednesday, April 15, 2009
It is National Poetry Month. I almost missed it. Dang! The good news is it is only half over. I saw a poster for the Late Seating series, at Actors Theatre, they are having a poetry related show to celebrate National Poetry Month. If it wasn't for that, I might've missed it completely. Poetry means a lot to me, you see, I am married to a poet. She got her degree at the Naropa Institute in Boulder, Colorado, where she studied with Allen Ginsberg, William Burroughs, Gregory Corso and Anne Waldman among others. I believe poetry brought us together. Our first non-date was at the launch party for her book, "Filmmaking", which was held at the Head Injury Clinic in Berkeley. If that is not a perfect metaphor for poetry, I don't know what is. That is the beauty of poetry, if you look, there is poetry everywhere. At the Head Injury Clinic, at the bus stop, at the intersection of curiosity and certainty. See, that's poetry right there. Open your eye's, close your mouth and find your voice. Oop's! More poetry. (It's hard to turn it off once you get going.)
I must confess I don't know much about the event. (Don't let that stop you!) But from what I understand there is a group of poets from something called, InKy, which, from a cursory reading of the poster as I walked out of the coffeeshop, is a local group dedicated to poetry. Kudos and salutations! To my new InKy friends! That is also the beauty of poetry, you have all these friends you've never even met. I'm not sure about the name though, I think it's probably a metaphor for blood, sweat and ink. All mixed together to make a bitches brew out of emotional reportage, ennui and cranial leakage. And tears! Must not forget the tears. Tears and the gnashing of teeth are the particle accelerators in the supercollider of the poesy machine. The Ky is probably for Kentucky, and they are in Kentucky! This can't be a coincidence. It can't! But poets are tricksters and magicians sometimes, so who knows, maybe it's is a riddle wrapped in a metaphor wrapped in a simile. The good ones make it look so easy.
So rise up and find the poet within!
(cue the saxophone, I feel a poem coming on):
Words are my weapon,
my heart is unarmed
You wear your smile like a loincloth,
snapped and dragged
through the fire of our desire.
DESIRE WETS THE BED!
Our connection is electric
Our love is combustible
Sing the music of lawnmowers.
So go to Actors Theatre, go the rooftops, go to the street corners but mostly go to the depths of your souls.
Let us raise our goblets on high, and toast the goddess Erato! Our lover, our mistress, our shared muse. And let us drink from the rivers of her mystery and swim in the pools of her symbolism. Her lifeblood is our poetic nectar! Let us suckle at the breast of her perfection, and let us snuggle in the vicinity of her divinity! She gives us life and we are her humble servants!
MAKE ART, MAKE LOVE, MAKE POETRY!
Saturday, April 11, 2009
I found a suicide note once. It was in San Francisco. I was on my way to work, at my first real job. I was 18 years old.
The note said "Goodbye all you blessed little saints". It was tucked into the side of a building. Next to it on the ground was a brown sock. The sock was wet.
I kept the note.
Sunday, April 5, 2009
WFPK, our local public radio station has a feature called the "Guilty Pleasure", a song you like but that you feel guilty about. All it makes me do is think about is guilt. I feel guilty about a lot of things. I feel guilty I don't write on this blog everyday. I feel guilty about calling this a blog. (It is so much more.) I feel guilty about accidently hitting a girl in the nose and making it bleed in the 4th grade. I feel guilty I can't remember her name. I bet she remembers mine. That doesn't help with the guilt. I feel guilty about things I've said over the years, that I can't take back. Like when I said to a girl in 4th grade (it was a tough year), that I didn't like her and she stopped talking to me. I didn't mean it, but it didn't matter. I can't remember her name either, (it wasn't the same girl), so she goes in the nameless, faceless, abstract, giant ball of guilt pile. Right next to the lies and half-truths, next to the letters unwritten, to the phone calls unreturned, to the anger and resentment, to the said and the unsaid, to the envy and jealousy, but mainly right next to the fact that I don't take nearly enough pleasure in my guilt.
What song captures that?
It's got to be Journey. Their whole catalogue, (after Steve Perry joined the band) is full of humiliating, embarrassing, monumental, outre' and it turns out essential moments of emotion, that even if, I ever was man enough to feel that way, (admittedly a very big if), I would certainly never have the guts to express it publicly. (Separate ways indeed.) Steve Perry RULES!
"Yeah, I'd like to hear "Faithfully" by Journey. This is dedicated to the me I wish I was. Don't stop Believin'!".
The shame washes over me as I crank up the volume.