Sunday, May 20, 2012
Status Update
Thursday, May 10, 2012
Thursday, August 4, 2011
Ooze
But it's not the same feeling
like you have in the morning,
over your first cup of coffee
groggy and disorienting.
And even though
the above stated is me...
(I'm having my coffee)
It feels more like
a new memory.
Like the top of a tree
with the absence of leaves
branches reaching up from the ground.
But then turn it upside down
and paint it white -
it's lightning.
This is why I'm struggling.
I feel everything pulsating -
changing and waiting
until no one is looking
to continue mutating.
And I'm still
even when you're not here.
When we're
together, I think
it feels better?
But I'm still here...
and I'm still.
While the rest are
oozing around town.
Or doing
whatever it is that
movers and mutate-ers do.
Sunday, March 20, 2011
So sue me.
I grew up in the 90's.
So sue me.
I'm in love.
& it's not
like the movies.
There is no music
when we touch.
There's no slow-jam
when we fuck.
There's not a camera
to catch every cuddle
or every subtle
innuendo.
But in the end, know
that I am
in love.
I put up walls around everything
I only write in ink
I've got a bowl full of cereal
And dishes in the sink
& you're an estranged constellation
Broken beyond weird repair
You're so sure you're in love
In the mirror/In underwear
There's a light through the window
There's no way you heard me
There's no good way to let go
There is no one listening
And I love to watch her do the most mundane things.
But, hey. It's the moon. And it's out too soon so let's retire to the bedroom. Let's build a cocoon and talk about everything gloom & doom. Because when we go out to the bar, we just stand in the corner. Make fun of kids drinking PBR, and make our way back to the car.
& we go home early
watch a porno movie
you say that you feel dirty
but only
you mean you're not clean
Just to be clear:
I was born inside a diorama
Wednesday, March 9, 2011
Junk mail
The White House
1600 Pennsylvania Avenue NW
Washington, DC 20500,
Re: Payment Notification:
We are writhing to know if it's true that you are DEAD. Because we received a notification from one MR. John Rice of USA stating that you are DEAD and that you have giving him the right to claim your US$ 10.5M funds. He stated you died on a CAR accident. He has been calling us regarding this issue, but we cannot proceed with him until we confirm this by not hearing from you after 3days. Be advised that we have made all arrangements for you to receive and confirm your funds of US$ 10.5M without anymore stress, and without any further delays.
All we need to confirm now is your been DEAD or still Alive. Because this MAN's message brought shock to our minds. And we just can't proceed with him until we confirm if this is a reality OR not but if it happened we did not hear from you after 3days, then we say: MAY YOUR SOUL REST IN PERFECT PEACE"
YOUR JOY AND SUCCESS REMAINS OUR GOAL.
May the peace of the Lord be with you wherever you may be now?
Your Faithfully,
US Secretary of State,
---------------------------------------------
Needless to say, I wrote back right away.
Mrs. Clinton:
What and HONOR to finally hear from you here. I Just CANNOT believe that I Are DEAD or have been thought to be been ALIVE now. It is more than truth it is fact of matter. I've been DEAD for quite a time now and all is going good. (Just a warning, Heaven is a BORING) Please give MR RICE my US$ 10.5M funds that I was waiting on when I was not DEAD.
Thank your so much for writing me. I've always looked up with you as a HERO and a babe.
Your truly?
Shaun
Thursday, February 10, 2011
Internet.
of the internet.
The high-speed
wiring.
Misplacing scarcasam.
Mistaking emotion.
"Hyper-communication"
broken down
to its simplest...
its easiest.
It's easiest
to let it
become your crutch.
To let it
consume
you,
instead of
vise versa...
Or, whatever.
"It's just cleaver marketing."
"It's just kids."
"It helps me connect."
"I stay in contact."
The internet is still inutero and here we are, trying to let it lead us.
Let it feed us. Let it do the meeting for us. Glorious. Gory. Messy.
Clean up... optional I suppose.
It's just social networking working for the greater good. Helping me and Mom keep in touch.
So when we go to breakfast next Sunday, we sit in silence, because she's read my statuses all week long.
"Did I tell you about ______"
"Yeah I read that."
"Oh."
"Tell me more about it."
"Well, that's it, really."
"Oh."
"Yeah."
"Um, what else is new?"
Hard to say in person.
Much easier to slowly type. Re-type.
Spell check.
Fact check.
And re-type again...
Making sure it is witty, as well as insightful.
Creative.
Original.
Funny.
Epic.
Because you've had 5 minutes to plan these 140 characters, so it's perfect.
And you have the rest of your life to build up your friend list.
And be hyper-connected to everyone you've ever met, and a lot of people you've never met.
And you go out just to take pictures to post to your blog... or to check in on 4 square.
Ignore your real life.
And while you're out, you check your Facebook.
Post a status.
Read a message.
Then send a text.
Ignore real life.
Check how many calories are in your drink.
Get lost on Wikipedia trying to find the info.
Ignore your life.
Google yourself. Check your friends blog.
Digi-stalk that guy from the coffee shop you met once.
Ignore the waitress.
Oh, internet.
How did we ever survive with out you?
And, by the way, check out my band's website when you get a chance.
Or any of my electronically published poems.
Or this blog.
Or my Facebook.
Friday, May 21, 2010
Old Empire
This may or may not come as a surprise but the events that have transpired over the past day or so have really left a bad taste in my mouth.
At first I didn't know how to feel. Confused, I suppose.
Bits of information via text while working.
Taking a closer look at the last few months in my head.
For those of you who don't want to read through all of this, this is my letter of resignation.
I feel like I'm throwing all of you under the bus, and I guess in a way I am.
For this I'm sorry.
My time in Old Empire was wonderful for the most part. It was everything that I wanted from being in a band and more. I got stage experience. I became eons better at the piano from when I started playing with you all. I got to record with Dave at his amazing studio.
Above all else in this band, I was able to play with some of the best musicians in the city.
So why am I leaving?
First of all I feel that now would be better than later. The band is at a transition period since Danny is being replaced.
The last time we tried this everything seemed off, but I went along because it was necessary.
When Josh was filling in the sound as a band was more sloppy. The feel in the room was awkward.
It wasn't because of Josh, or his playing, it was because it was all foreign. I knew we could stick it out but it would take a few months for us to get back to a familiar feel and a decent sound. We'd have to put things on hold as a band and start over.
I was willing to do that last time because I felt I could stand behind the decision of switching drummers.
Danny was at an all time low. His attitude toward the band was completely negative. He did not like playing with us nor would he take critiques/suggestions regarding his playing.
So when Gabe told me we would have to have another talk with Danny I didn't understand why. Since his return to the band, I felt he was not in the least acting the way he was before. Gabe said he was pulling the same shit as last time, and I informed him I couldn't stand behind him in that decision.
I felt we were all playing to our best ability.
As a band we were all giving it our all, and if everyone is giving their all, then there should be no issue.
Does that make sense to everyone else?
Last I checked we were in a band. A group of creative minds trying to work together for one sound and everyone has a part. I see reason to worry if one part is stepping on another part, but not if everyone is playing what they think is best. If everyone is giving their all, which I think we were, there should be no issue. And if there was an issue, it would be one that is easily fixable.
We've had too many excellent moments at practice for me to not think we weren't going in the right direction. When Gabe says something like, "This is coming together perfect." - or - "This is so much cooler than I thought it was going to be" how can we point the finger in one of six directions and say, this needs to change. We're all working together to make something new.
Earlier that morning, before any of the shit hit the fan, Danny was asking me if I knew what was going on. (Because I was left in the dark on all this, I had no prior knowledge of another drummer, or even that anyone was thinking of a change in the band - No one asked my opinion) Danny said the band was acting weird, and he had a feeling he was getting kicked out. I said, "I don't think so." "Send out an E-mail if you're worried." "I don't think that some other drummer making comments about our songs on facebook means you're out of the band."
A few hours later, right after Gabe was trying to convince me via text that Danny's attitude and poor playing is leading toward a band talk, Danny tells me he's out of the band.
Then all the pieces started fitting together.
The reason we have no shows booked.
The reason Gabe won't take shows Danny is trying to book.
Why this confusing string of text messages that have no validity lead to Danny's exit.
All of this was premeditated and my vote didn't count.
Not only did my vote not count, I wasn't even privileged enough to know what we were voting on.
I was fed a line of shit in hopes that I would eat it up and keep on keepin' on.
And it was only after I hear from Danny that he's out, I get another odd text talking about a drummer.
An attempt to cover up tracks.
The oops moment.
I can understand if I was left out because I'm living with Danny. He's my old friend. I could have told him before our last show, and he could have quit early. Keeping me out of the loop for the sake of the band... But our last show was two Thursdays ago, and 6 days later, all the events transpired. Seems to me to be plenty of time to put me in the loop. It's not like we have anything planned in the near future.
Back in July when I had my first talks with Gabe about joining the band he described it as a democracy. Said the band worked together to make the sound they have. He even told me I could bring some of my songs to the table, which I wasn't comfortable doing.
Gabe basically said he writes the bare bones and everyone else fills in the blood, and organs, and skin, and hair.
Sometimes the band worked like this.
But a lot of times, if the band didn't play what was initially in Gabe's head, the song needed to change. We'd play through it a few times with everyone getting a feel, and soon little changes would start coming out. "Change this fill" - "Play a hook here, but play it like this." - "Solo needs to be shorter, and maybe it should be lower on the neck"- etc.
This band was not a democracy. And though it took me a few months to fully understand, everyone knows it's Gabe's band, and his decision is final. You get a vote only if you agree with Gabe's opinion. If not, then too bad.
I'm not saying this is a bad way to run a band, but it's not what I signed up for initially and it's not what I want anymore. This is Gabe's project and always has been. Tom's not writing the songs, so it would be weird if he ran the band. I'm not paying for studio time, so it wouldn't make sense for me to try and make changes to songs, band members, etc.
At some point everyone in OE gets that we're just backing Gabe. That we have enough faith in him and his songwriting to take us where we want to be musically. If one of our musical ideas passes song inspection, it feels good because we made the grade. If not, oh well because it's not our band.
Everything that has transpired has made me loose faith.
What's to stop another keyboard player from taking my spot in the night?
Some handsome, classically trained pianist who loves 60's surf pop, instead of the self taught, fumbling, indie-folk-crap loving, piano plunking me. I could see that switch happening in a minute because it's better for the band.
How can one have any stability in a group when everyone [minus songwriter] is expendable. When there always might be a better fit around the corner, lurking in a coke sniffing cover band.
There is more, but I'm tired of writing.
I just wanted to tell everyone how I felt as opposed to just talking it through with Gabe.
I always thought we were all of equal importance and what we did was worth something.
[And I know that it seems like I'm dogging you Gabe, but someone has to be the bad guy in this situation. And in all honesty the bad guy could be me for up and leaving, but I couldn't admit to me being at fault here. I mean, what did I do?
This is not to say that I'm mad at you though. I understand your decision. You are the one who has to make the hard decisions, and none of us can make them for you. You are the leader, and I really hope that you can rebuild this project bigger and better than before.]
As for the new record, I give you permission to use any of the stuff I've recorded on it, though I don't think Danny feels the same.
Let me know if there is anything you guys need from me in the future, aside from playing in Old Empire.
It's been fun.
Cheers.
--Shaun
Sunday, April 18, 2010
Love is...
mutual hopelessness.
On the 27th of March, this year I wrote:
Today I drove toward the sunrise
as it rose over metro airport skies
with the airplanes shrouded in clouds.
And I found an old CD by The Microphones
turned up the stereo
and listened in as Phil strummed an old guitar
loudly in my mother's car.
Earlier...
the neighbors tree waved at me and I'm sitting in the grass watching new leaves of spring move with the westward breeze while I wait for Julie. Now the clock, it's a little after 3 on a Thursday and the dog plays with a pink Frisbee. I have iced tea and the sun is shinny, and this time around it's so difficult to believe another winter is gone and deceased.
For you spent the better part of your teens
and twenties
to this point
looking for the love of your dreams.
A few times,
you were so sure
that you found her.
Simply replace all the above 'you's' with 'I's' and 'your's' with 'my's' because this is my life.
And also:
All of my closest friends are songs I've once loved
All of the great musicians
who wrote them
found comfort in
killing themselves
Goodnight, "Apple Bed"
May you sleep soundly.
So they question me, and I don't have the answers,
I say, "This thing; This love. It's an incurable cancer."
and may we all suffer the consequences.
Sunday, February 28, 2010
Fake Falling in Love
Fake Falling in Love
December 20 - 2007
The sleep that I've missed since she's been back is well worth the pain that seeps into the back sides of my eye balls.
Today a pretty girl stood me up. Or maybe just disappeared for a bit. I should have known better and saw it coming. This is the reason why I stopped talking to her in the first place.
She would be extremely sweet to me for a period of time then without warning or reason she would neglect me. She'd not answer my calls and not call me and I wouldn't see or hear from her for a long time.
Anyway- This is the story of me and Marie.
The very first night that I met her she had me hooked. I was living in Warren Michigan at the time with a few of my friends. I worked the night-shift at an all night diner in the neighboring town where I grew up called Hazel Park. It was around this period of my life that I started frequenting a restaurant called National Coney Island to get away from the restaurant I worked in. Even though I worked at a restaurant and got comped on a lot of the food I'd eat there, I would literally wake up in the evening, drive 5 miles to eat dinner at National then drive 5 miles to my place of work when I finished.
National Coney Island was a chilli dog and milk shake joint that was fairly cheap and had a wait staff that was friendly in the most honest of ways. They waitress would ask how you're doing, and you'd say fine and ask her the same thing and she'd say, "Shitty. Tired. And I don't want to be here."
I was very fond of that. It was that attitude along with the women who held it that sparked my very unhealthy addiction of paying girls to be nice to me through the form of coffee drinking and tipping well. As an aside, I am currently at National right now, writing down theses old thoughts and explanations nearly four years after I met Marie.
It was nearly on accident, or coincidence how Marie and I met. Then again if you analyze and break down anything enough you can write it off a coincidence. No matter.
It was any normal late evening of that year and my friend Jason and I were hungry so we went up to the Coney Island. As we exited my truck and headed toward the double doors two young girls were heading to the same doors from another side of the parking lot. I forget which one of us held the door open for the girls, but one of the girls, namely Marie returned the favor and held the second set of doors for Jason and I. Because of this, the four of us were all approaching the "PLEASE WAIT TO BE SEATED" sign at the same time. Those few awkward steps and collective dance from the door to the sign was short lived for J and I breezed right past the sign while our female cha-cha partners we're left on the dance floor.
During the dance there were many exchanged glances between us four. Marie was wide eyed and seemed to be animalistally darting from one place to the next as opposed to walking.
I pretended not to notice or care, for culture at this point had taught me that to be cool was to be apathetic and reckless in the same breath. I had just turned twenty and thought that being a calm, pseudo-thoughtful, liberal, atheist was ground breaking shit; not to mention I was growing a huge beard in protest of societies standards as well as being newly broken hearted off my high school and beyond sweetie of 5 years.
Secretly though, I was hooked.
Jason and I sat down and talked in depth of what just happened using mostly facial expressions and little dialog. The girls were still standing by the sign: waiting to be seated.
"Pretty girls, eh?" Jason said after a few seconds of discussing what had just occurred with out the aid of spoken language.
"Oh yeah," I said sounding sarcastic but being very serious. "Real pretty," I continued.
"Pretty girls man," he said again, this time with a slight sigh of relief.
It should be said that for whatever reason Jason and I worked fairly hard at not being in situations that involved pretty girls that we didn't know personally. The half minute cha-cha and hard looks we experienced at the door was enough for us to run home after dinner and tell everyone we talked to about the situation. Gloating over the smallest contact.
Perhaps being raised in a podunk suburb town that all the surrounding towns spit upon verbally, metaphorically, and otherwise had forced us into a walled off disassociation from anyone who wasn't from Hazel Park. Yet this feeling of segregation gave us strange pride. The urge to belong, to be liked and recognized was lost because somehow the feeling of being below everyone else made us see ourselves as above the rest of the world.
Monday, January 25, 2010
Hazel Park
but mine work still.
There's still clothes
in the bedroom closet.
You left the the door open
oh, what for?
That old belt that you never wore
now you
use it.
[Please don't let me be]
[Please don't let me be another]
The old kitchen
the wallpaper torn.
New baby
in utero.
The cat's asleep
on the couch.
New smell settles
all over
the house.
[Please don't let me be another]
[Please don't let me be another small town]
No note
nothing is left in this place.
Except snapshots
we've yet to take.
And the T-shirt
that you had on.
In a black
trash bag
on the front lawn.
[Please don't let me be another small town]
[Please don't let me be another small town suicide]
Wednesday, October 14, 2009
Swamp Things and Lilly Pads
It started with a story: heard by me and my cousin and told by another. A tall drink of water spatting and spewing this yarn about screwing this homeless homosexual out of two dollars by the vague promise of promiscuous behavior on the cross town bus earlier that week. The story, like many of the stories the tall drink of water told came to an odd halt with no real ending, just a sigh and a shrug when we arrived at a park in Warren. Needless to say, sometimes when people go through weird or rough spot in their life, that spot lasts for years and years.
At the time, and now, I'm not sure what the name of the park is, but we called it the Warren Trails. There were two places we called the Warren Trails, which sometimes lead to confusion when you were meeting someone there. The first Warren Trails were actually in Madison Heights, on the edge of Warren somewhere, but we didn't know that when we named it. They (the trails) were behind a hospital just northwest of the cross streets Eleven Mile and Dequindre.
The Warren Trails we were visiting that day were just off a park south of Nine Mile between Dequindre and Ryan Rd. And this is not to say that either of these "trails" were actually trails, but they were small, hidden wooded areas in the middle of lower-middle class suburbia.
Us three, The Water, my cousin, and me went to the park to spend some time outdoors and to take in the wind that was rapidly whipping around after days of rain. That park in general always rubbed me the wrong way. On one side was a trailer park, and the other side was industry. It was the perfect place for twenty year old white women to bring their multiple children while they argued on the phone with one of their many possible baby-daddies in spaghetti strap tank tops with strange fat in areas you never knew could get fat spilling out over short shorts or pajama pants.
As we exited the car we approached the area very slowly because something was amiss. We'd visited the Warren Trails southern branch at all times of the year, day and night and it had never looked like this. The closer we got the more foreign it seemed. The ground shimmered in the light and moved with the wind. The sun that crept through the trees spread across areas that were usually shrouded in darkness. This was a new world and we were Christopher Columbus in a grade schoolers eyes, filled with awe and apprehension and wonder.
"It's rain," my cousin muttered.
The park had turned into a swamp. Each dip in the land was filled and over flowing with sweet and stagnant water that had fallen and refused to drain for the decaying city was too poor to fix the sewers that year.
Wednesday, September 30, 2009
Readymade
The cascade is long dry, hanging on a wall.
So much for the rent…
as to say- in side joke
"If you're pissed, urinate."
(Yours truly, R. Mutt.)
Mongrel dog, laced with rabies
Cunning
Defeatist
A receptacle to hold defecation
In a Modern Art Museum
In America.
[So today's poetry will be a readymade of sorts.]
[As most of my poetry resembles]
[Some junk]
[Someone found]
[And called art.]
As defiant as a loose canine might be
Cheeky
Funny
But that's besides the point.
later, in Ney York:
The now deceased
Max Roach
Gets his ears wet.
Plays with The Duke
When he's 18 years old.
So, of course there's envy…
Improvisational little jazz drummer boy
Bebop/hard bop
And I'm filled with deceit.
Maybe I was dreaming
And my legs just are not
Long enough
There is no distance
So distant
To deliver me
Far enough
To forget about the good days
To jump start a heart
Which has since refused
To beat.
Packing the drummed drum set in the trunk
Tree trunk bark falling off the tree
From the long nights rain
Dogs in the distance
Barking at a haunting
The moon is
not the moon
nor is it anything
that should concern you
My lips are dancing alone
Talking consistently
with the hum of the coke machine
In a big empty room
Sensual lights
Dim and detailed
With a sash draped over top
Gliding across
A new suit
Tailored specifically for me
(is it safe to keep,
All these secrets?)
My arms holding on to big balls of sheets
Eye holes
Old time costume of a ghost
The memory of the tattered house
We called a home
Where I felt comfortable writing countless love songs
And read William Carlos Williams
On the back lawn
When night came and the day was done
I'd sneak into bed
To reach these arms around
A body
Somebody
… a sturdy snowball in hell that melts so slow you can't quite recall the old and trivial differences. A steady change that is monstrous…after so long. A creeping that haunts you in your sleep like a death certificate with your name misspelled or your first rejection letter from heavens publishing company that took 6 weeks to appear magically in the box nailed to your house...
Let's just say:
Mornings are lonely
And memories are concrete
Hard as nails
On chalk boards
clumsy
awkward
Youth as you'd like to forget it.
Life seems
relentless when
everything
reminds me of
the beginning
of "you and me"
I write
simply to have
a written collection
of my own handwriting
So when I'm old and bored
I can count how many times
I actually wrote the letter 'E'
It seems suiting then
That after Duchamp was long dead
His "Fountain",
(the urinal
that he placed in a museum
after writing R. Mutt on it…)
was selected nearly 90 years later as
"the most influential artwork of the 20th century"
by 500 renowned artists and historians…
But that's not really the point.
Your Life, Your Meal, and Everything
If I took us out of context?
Out of our normal setting…
What do you say
To the familiar waitress you see
At the grocery store…
She's awkwardly smiling
Because of a slight recognition
You say, "hello…"
Knowing full well
She barely recognizes you
"Hi," she chirps back slowly…
Her voice is different-
Different than before… different than when she asks what you're eating today,
Or how everything was…
And by 'everything' she only means your meal.
And you know that, but her voice is uplifting when she asks,
And it makes everything a tiny bit better…
And by 'everything' this time you mean your life
Which hasn't been everything you had wished it to be
But the waitress is being so very nice today,
She must realize you're having a shit day
And she is so very understanding that there's no need to let it all out on her
You know she's understanding because of that amazing tone she uses when she talks.
Refilling your coffee and asking about desert…
You answer,
"Everything is fine… Thank you."
And when you say everything back to the waitress,
You mean everything.
The voice she uses in the grocery store is less friendly and more casual.
A bit more real and down to earth
As if she had met you in a high school class that you both hated
And seeing you reminds her of this class,
Although she seems happy to see you, she is thinking about the terrible Calculus exam she failed
And you passed…
Barely, but you passed and she is proud of you for being so studious but resents you also.
This voice is bitter, like your voice is when you first enter the restaurant she works in
A voice hardened a bit by the real world
A voice that talks just fine with minor proper English issues
But is laced with thoughts of rent being due soon,
laundry having to be done so you have clean work clothes
Budgeting so that you can afford to put gas in the tank
And knowing that you might have to ask someone to help you financially
And how degrading it feels to be at the mercy of someone else
Being tormented by the fact that they help you
Because they can hold that over your head…
This voice is harsh…
and you don't like this new voice.
She's confused, you can tell this much.
And her hair is down. You've never seen it down, and you like it down but because her voice is not the one you remember from the restaurant, you convince yourself that she looks bad.
"How are you?" she asks.
"Fine, fine…" you answer, followed by a pause.
"Good."
"Yeah… I'm doing well."
"Nice… It's nice to hear that."
"Yeah. Well… How are you?"
"Oh! I'm fine… I'm good. Real good… just shopping for some food." she says with a smile.
She likes her own observation about her shopping… because it's obvious, it's funny. You smile at her. You like the joke, because it reminds you of the waitress at the restaurant, not this bitch at the grocery store who is hard and normal and not a bright ray of golden sun as she is at work.
"Ha, yeah… me too… Obviously." You joke back, with the same joke, hoping that it holds water again.
"Ha, cool… well…"
"Do you work today?" you blurt out nervously when you think she is going to leave. The beginning of the sentence being fast and loud, and the end being quick and normal volume.
"Oh!…"
[It clicks in her head that you come into her restaurant often… Now she remembers.]
"Yeah, I work at four…" she says. She speaks hesitantly still, and you realize that this is because she pondering if it is rude to tell you that she had no idea who you were until now.
"Sounds like fun," you say a little offhandedly.
Now you're a little pissed
that she's thinking about
what she is thinking about,
because you know what she is thinking about.
You knew who she was, even with her hair look dumb and down, and her not being in a uniform, and she doesn't know who you are even though you have her as your waitress at least two times a week. She knows what you drink and makes you feel like 'everything' is a bit better when she wants to know if 'everything' is ok even though your everything is your life and her everything is your meal.
"It's not bad when it's busy, you know? Gatta buy groceries somehow…" she states, very matter-of-factly.
[It clicks in your head that you're a decent tipper… You're buying the block of cheese and bag of potatoes in her cart this week]
"OK, well, maybe I'll see you later. I have to check my bank account after I leave here," you tell her, "see if I can afford coffee and pie today."
What if I was able
To put us back into context
Having me pay for your kindness …
Knowing full well
We're both humans
Both standing on our own two feet…
If we were babies,
It wouldn't matter
If I gave you a five or a single…
Because mommy would fix it
No matter what had happened
Living under her roof
asking what time dinner is…
But as adults, You have fears and worries and need someone like mommy to ask if everything is OK. As long as you tip well, and talk politely, everything will be fine. Your meal, your life, and everything.
Saturday, July 4, 2009
Submission Poem
I joined your mailing list
because I wish to be published.
This is not to say that I actually
thought that there was someone
who checked on that sort of thing.
To be honest I have no desire to
read your online magazine. . .
unless, of course
I'm in it.
This is nothing personal.
I could care less about
the literary goings on
in a city where
you live
and I have no want to visit.
I know what I'm looking for.
It's not some kid
going to grad school
writing poetry about
reading Nietzsche -
trying to be obvious - blahblah
getting acceptance letters,
blahblahblah
typing up cleaver bios
blahblahblahblah
about still working in a grocery store
blahblahblahblahblah. . .
As if working a shit job
and being a published poet a shock.
Like it shocks me,
reading the poems
that some people have also read
and consciously published.
In short,
thank you for
considering me
for publication
and picking someone else.
God knows I wouldn't have wanted
to be in this last issue
with the Nietzsche kid.
And please remove me from your mailing list.
Sincerely,
Shaun Wisniewski
Thick Accents
"I've never been . . . in a men," she said to me.
I laughed because I knew what she meant. And she laughed too, but I'm not sure why. She was trying to say she was a virgin, which I knew was bull shit. Any man with half a rod and working eyes would have gave her a shot.
"Oh yeah," I asked.
"Yes. Yes, sir," she said and laughed again, but this time, fell into me. Putting her hand on my leg and breathing alcohol ridden breath on my face. We had been at the bar for a couple hours just drinking drink after drink. And at first is was hard to understand the broken English, so I did most of the talking. She seemed to understand pretty well and was good at saying yes and no, so it went on like that for a while. For whatever reason, it was easier for me to understand the more we drank.
"That's something else," I told her.
"How do it mean, some thing else," she asked.
"I mean, it's nice."
We kept drinking til the bar closed. I was surprised she was flirting so heavy on me all night, but I suppose she didn't know many other people here. We had just met the day before through an ex-girlfriend that I'm still on good terms with. A friend of the family, somehow. I didn't ask for details. Both of the goddamn families were at this bar yesterday: my ex, her mom and dad, Nadia, her parents and her younger sister.
"Will! Will! How are you," called my ex.
We all sat and small talked for a few minutes, before I wanted to leave and get drunk at a different table when my ex asked me if I was free tomorrow. She had to work a double and Nadia would be in town for 3 more days. Blah blah, she's nice and I don't want her to be bored, blah.
"Where we going to," she asked when the bar locked it's door behind us.
"I don't give a damn," I told her.
"What house do you live," she offered.
"No house," I said, "Shit hole apartment."
It wasn't a long walk, but it was a pleasant one. She held my arm most of the way, like an old lady holds her husband when she can't find her walker. And when we got in, I did some quick cleaning. Just the big things like dishes in the bathroom with macaroni stuck to it, and a giant piece of cardboard in the living room floor that I was painting on earlier that month.
When I finished picking up the major messes I was happy to see her putting a record on the turntable. The last girl that was in my apartment that knew how to use a record player was my mother, but that's the nice thing about people from other countries: Culture.
I sat on the couch and watched her. She put on the Stones and started dancing the way girls dance when they know they're looking sexy and drunk. She made her way to the couch and I puffed out a few short laughs. She smiled. This moment was short lived.
We went to my bedroom to have sloppy sex.
"What this," she asked, crawling onto the bed.
"It's a rag," I told her.
"Why?"
"It's for clean up."
"Clean up by bed?"
"Yeah. It's a cum rag."
"I'm not knowing this," she said after a long look at it.
"You know, after sex, it's sometimes pretty messy, and it's -" and then it hit me, "Holy fuck you're actually a virgin."
She looked at me sideways, the way a dog does when you make weird noises at it.
"I'm sleeping on the couch," I said.
She was confused. Thought she did something wrong, big tears, and lots of talking I didn't understand because I only speak English. Eventually I convinced her I was sick from drinking, which was a flat out lie. "Americans are light weights - No balls," and "I'm vomiting in my mouth right now, but not because of you - glug glug vodka - beer," and things like that.
I slept on the couch but took the rag with me. Told her it was in case I threw up on the couch I can clean it. Made coffee in the morning, and served up some toast for us with jam. She seemed chipper, but I was back to square one with the language barrier and couldn't understand a goddamn thing she was telling me. It was just nice to wake up to someone who was pretty with a thick accent.
Sunday, June 7, 2009
Dead Men Float
 | I drew a bath. I had high intentions: To get rid of the dirt and stink and bad memories and weird dreams and odd feelings and piss and shoe marks and scars and un-treated wounds and beard I've been growing to hide myself from the outside. I undressed and stepped into it. It was luke-warm. The hot water ran out mid way. It was slowly draining. "The drain pipes must be fucked up," I thought. No matter. I found a wash rag and stuffed it into the drain. I sat. I took it all in. I looked about and cleared my mind of bull shit. I put my head under the water, and opened my eyes. I saw my ceiling the the bathroom. It was quiet and calm. I was exposed and wet and getting colder. I re-emerged to drips and my stereo playing lightly in the background. I looked myself over a bit. A mess of hair and loose skin. I felt my face. Nothing changed. I turned over and floated as dead men do. I kept my ears above water, and imagined that I was not under water. I closed my eyes. I waited a minute, not breathing or moving, just feeling the water slowly feel like nothing on my face. I knew I was underwater, but I was trying to trick myself. "I need air," I finally thought. Then I sucked in what seemed to be a gallon of dirty water into my lungs, and I shot myself out and upward, coughing and hacking, and gasping for real air. Then I let the scene settle. I sat there, naked a crying a bit. Then smiling. I was stil alive. I wasn't smiling because I was alive, but because I had tricked myself into thinking I was above water, so much so that I took into my lungs a good ammount of water. I laid back down. Cold and Ill. Sniffing a bit from tears and a bit from my sickness. I found soap, and cleaned off the parties and nightmares and empty masturbation and hateful thoughts of humans and the drugs and drinking and self loathing selfless image of myself. I tried hard to scrub the wounds and scars, until they re-opened and then I scrubbed harder. I kept cleaning until the bath water was white from bar soap, and I could see my skin flaking off in specific areas. I was so clean, I could not wash off. The bath water was liquid soap. My eyes burned from it. My skin wrinkled and weakened. I took the wash rag out from the drain, and let the tub drain, while I laid inside. I waited until the water left and made it's last dying sounds while it was rushed into the sewers below. I stood up, and turned on the shower head. I let it blast me with cold, then hot, then cold water again. My insides shuttered and I kept my eyes closed, for fear of seeing myself in the mirror if I were to open them. I pissed all about just laughing inside of my mind. I turned the shower off and stepped out from the tub and opend my eyes. I saw myself, beard puffed out, and skin dripping and white. I smiled.
Then the phone rang off the hook, and I was brought back into real life living once again. I got dressed and took a nap to try and re-live as a dead man floating.
Now I'm dry as an unburried bone, waiting for the winter months to finally set it... |
18 Oct 05 Tue
| Current mood:Awake on Niquil I wrote this while seeing how long I could stay awake after a triple dose of Niquil... ---------- A night Quilt. A million ways to end. "Write about rambling!," I ordered. My hand looks a bit too small and the plant is waving goodnight. Niquil showing signs of life where it should not be found. Eyes becoming dry and heavy from gravity, probably. A night quilt.
over and over and over and over and over and over and over again and again
Offer me a drink. Something on the rocks. A shot of bottom shelf liquor, just for looks. Take advantage of me when I'm good and drunk. Please. Honest.. . Try and show me the thing that real boys tend to think of all too often. I'm stuck in this shallow corner with bad lighting during a thunder storm on X-mas eve. You're gone for the summer, you say? When will life blink? An ugly bird yells in the distance. No parents intentionally raise quitters... that's just another let down my parents have had to face. |
It used to be that I could be your queen
Now nothing is the way it seems
The last 6 months.
Note to self:
be careful
Be aware
Lines are blurred now when you're sober
This may be something bigger than you expect.
Anyway,
Last night
The night in June
You let her in
the side door slid quietly
Sneaking around for fun.
Tonight the wind is dark and beautiful
The sky is bright
Like a song in five-four
The rain drops crescendo
A ladies voice sings sweetly
in the corners of the room
Running your tongue over your teeth
The light switch waits to be turned on
You picture it
The new dress
The fashion show
She's concerned - conscious
Pages dampen
Cute as a button
Stiff as a board.
"Like two curious kittens
In the kitchen window
Looking out."
That's seriously what she said to me
Without moving her mouth.
And after the fireworks were done in Detroit we walked like cattle away from the park.
And the homeless man sang to us - shaking a cup full of change - "Have a heart"
He told us.
Drove to KY and almost died.
This song is called Bigfoot
It's about invisible monsters.
It's about waking up before the crow of the rooster
Because you're searching for something
And some people sing holy holy
While others dig their fingernails in deep
Mostly because it was never enough
To cut your wrist for practice
We need the attention
We never deserved.
The feeling is never mutual.
An Addiction is a promise.
The next morning I woke with a shiner on my right eye. "I guess I didn't own you," I thought to myself. I've tried countless times to blame my mistakes on my parents. You know, the way most people tend to do. It was never that bad for me growing up. I resent that. So I'll be in when the headlights on the hoods of cars are most bright. The Time of the night when you're sure everyone is sleeping, working, weeping, or keeping a secret from their lover.
I'll be in before first light.
A short list of things:
- R.I.P. Green Hornet (1996-2008)
- Had a nice 68 Schwinn for a while but it's gone now.
- Bought a new digital camera but I dropped it in a cup of ice water.
- Failed my classes for 4,000 dollars.
But Language is my long lost lover.
Fingering my forearm.
Under the covers
Crawling around my wrists
And then the rest of me
Breathes
So she starts tying herself
Tightly
As you'd expect a bracelet to do
Something to show off to your girlfriends
At a cocktail party
Prefacing the main event.
Or maybe
she's twisting
over my visible veins
Like a terrible tattoo
One you learn from
Or make the same mistake again.
Reading the words
The spelling tortures me
'I" before "E"
It teases
Receiving a tether
Compliments of the mother
Wherever she may be.
"Just tell it to my number 2!" he yelled.
"Lifeless in the old bedroom…"
The walls still stand baby blue
From the day of my birth.
The woman who brought me here
Sleeps alone at night
No man to make her his wife
Listen:
hear her weeping lowly in the kitchen
Calmly chopping vegetables
Knife in hand
Asks me nicely to set the table
Dinner is never ready.
It used to be that I remembered everything
It used to be that I could be your queen
Now nothing is the way it seems
Last Tuesday
[17-03-09]
“Hello. This is Dr. Henry Bryant’s office calling.”
“Hi.”
“Is this Shaun?”
“Yes it is.”
“Hi Shaun.”
“Hi.”
“I’m calling in regard to your outstanding balance.”
“Alright.”
[silence]
“Well I had talked to your mother a few months ago and she…”
“You talked to my mom?”
“Yes.”
“How is she doing?”
[silence]
“I’m not sure… you see, I called your mother to talk with her about the balance and she informed me that you’d be making monthly payments to us to pay off your balance.”
“Oh. Ok.”
[silence]
“Well we haven’t received any of those payments.”
“Yeah. I know.”
“You know?”
“It’s probably because she never told me that I’d be making these payments… because you called and told my mom to tell me to make payments.”
[long silence]
“Well, Shaun… this call is to inform you of that.”
“That you called my mom?”
“That we haven’t received payments.”
“I see.”
“Ok then?”
“Bryant… that’s the tooth doctor, right?”
“Umm, yes. Oral surgeon.”
“Yeah. Ok.”
[silence]
“Alright?”
“You guys sent me papers, right?”
“Yes, we sent bills to a 23784 Crossley avenue. Is that correct?”
“Yeah. I’ll get right on it then.”
“Ok, then.”
“Wonderful.”
“Ok sir- Have a nice day.”
“Thanks.”
“Buh-bye.”
“Bye”
[hang up]
[enter Laurie]
“Hey Shaun. You want coffee?”
[exit Laurie]
“Yeah.”
“What?”
“Yeah. Yes! …[enter Laurie] Coffee, please.”
[exit Laurie]
[silence]
[enter Laurie]
“Here you go.”
“Thank you.”
“How about that sun shine?”
“Yeah. How ‘bout it.”
“Sorry I didn’t bring you your coffee sooner. I didn’t want to interrupt your phone call.”
“That’s fine. No problem.”
[silence]
“You know, I’m bummed cuz it’s so beautiful out there and I’m cooped up in here until 8 tonight.”
“Yeah. Shitty.”
“You don’t use cream. Why did I put these down here?”
“I don’t know. It’s fine though. I’m not mad.”
“You know, yesterday was nice too but it’s supposed to be almost 70 today.”
“If it makes you feel better, it’s not as nice as they say it’s going to be.”
“Yeah… Not yet. [silence] Hey! You hear about Wayne yet?”
“Yeah I heard.”
“Ok, just makin’ sure.”
[silence]
“Can I order from you?”
“Yeah. Just one sec. I just had a table seat..”
[exit Laurie]
[long silence]
[enter Laurie]
“Ok. What can I get cha?”
“2 eggs over medium. Hash browns and wheat.”
“Alright.”
“Thank you.”
[exit Laurie]
[silence]
[enter Trish]
“Hey there Shaun.”
“Hey there Trish”
“More coffee?”
“Sure, Thank you.”
“Well, you’re very welcome dear.”
“So, how are you?”
“I’m good. I’m good. Did Laurie get your order?”
“Yeah. I’m taken care of.”
“Ok. Ok. Just making sure hun… Shame about Wayne, isn’t it?”
“Yeah.”
“You heard, right?”
“Yeah. Rocky told me.”
“Ok. Let me know if you need more coffee or anything.”
“Ok, thanks.”
[exit Trish]
[long silence]
[enter Laurie]
“Here you go. Here’s breakfast.”
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
[exit Laurie]
[long silence]
[enter Sharon]
“Hay man.”
“Hello Sharon.”
“Ya hear ‘bout Wayne?”
“Yeah.”
“Isn’t that some shit?”
“Pretty sad.”
“You ain’t kidding. I waited on his ass Wednesday morning’ I think it was.”
“Yeah.”
“When’d ya hear?”
[silence]
“Friday morning, I think.”
“Friday?!”
“Yeah. I was walking in the same time as Rocky and he asked if I wanted company for breakfast. I said sure and asked if he was waiting on Wayne and that’s when he told me.”
“Well that little shit bastard didn’t tell us ‘til Sunday.”
“He probably didn’t know how to tell you girls.”
“Hay! Rocky told him Friday!”
[silence]
[enter Laurie]
“He didn’t tell us until Sunday.”
“That’s what I told ‘em.”
“Why’d he tell you Friday?”
“He probably didn’t know how to break it to you. And, maybe he was waiting until he had more information to say anything.”
“Hmmm.”
[exit Laurie]
“Ya. Maybe. You want more coffee?”
“Sure. When’s the funeral?”
“Taday! Duh?”
“Oh. I haven’t seen rocky since he told me - He didn’t know then.”
“Ya. Taday at 2.”
“Wow.”
[silence]
“You done with this?”
“Uh, yeah. Yeah… I’m full thanks.”
“Yap.”
[exit Sharon]
[long silence.]
Friday, May 15, 2009
Blue Devils
I.
What to say-
Your poetry smells cheap
and is full of fatigue.
But the Loving Lincoln Memorial
On top of the gray
leveled torso top
Is full of
apprehension
and looks like the young.
How evenly spaced
cookie cutter dynamics
of this fag couple
The one to wedge
and the other one
demanding the meek to wet his dick
With what honor do I hold in my palms at the sight of these strangers? Where have they been hibernating and hyper extending naive egos on top of the dinner table. This ball of matter made up of a 'Bruno' and 'Popeye' and, of course Olive is just as whiny and wishy-washy under the elevators. Your new home is shocking, I'm sure.
That's the point. right?
That's how you keep up the street cred.
Cried and caught pneumonia
And at long last found the lost and listless
Ate their dinner
Ran their dishwasher
Warmed by their stove
Talked with their storks
Went to their meetings
Listened to their pounding headaches
Came in their toilet paper wads
Washed in their stalls
Smelled their shit and pretended not to
Sailed in their clothes closet
Failed to produce in their production
Found another lost and listless in there
Followed their lips and slowly sank
Frown
Fallen inside
I hope it's all it should be. It should be free. We all know that.
You said the bed was warm and good.
I believe you.
Kick rocks and bend over—
Time for your meds.
I found this list of worries next to my bathtub- as if someone had broken in just to vent. Strange cursive in the way the lower case "L's" looped so large, I mistook so many words to be misspelled. Unable to tell. The list was very worried about the future - about how school is going to be next semester — looking for just the right angel to wed — worried what they may be doing was irresponsible — Worried the drugs they had done may really bite them later in life...
I know you couldn't have wrote it.
It was brave.
It was / had heart and life.
It was breakable and real life. It refused to be caught up in a dream of floating rotary joints and parts and whistles on top of gravediggers.
It's really a shame about me.
It really must have been bad.
But, the difference between you and me is that I know exactly who I'm ripping off, whereas you claim to be original. [And I know who I'm stealing from now, with this modified thought] but to be honest — There is too much honor in plagiarisms when you don't know you're plagiarizing.
I'd like to think positively and say, "You'll get it."
I'd like to write as well as the writers I look up to as well — But that wouldn't be true, or imaginative on my part.
Maybe it would.
Maybe you'll get it.
Who cares anymore?
It must have really been bad.
I wish I was sorry. I've never made a cake as fine as yours — but I have seen my own asshole, and the cake I eat comes out just the same as it comes out of you. I'm not tooting my own horn anymore [and I say anymore, just in case, on purpose], nor have I ever claimed to be a great baker or even work in a bakery.
But I [have/had/have had] a job.
And an unclouded view of reality.
Oh, How does the world work wise guy?
How does the cookie crumble? How does a big wave reach the shore? How can this be true? How many right angles are on main street? How can we trust history books? How can we trust the phantoms of phone messages? Who's to say I'm still sober and twenty two?
Who has the fever? Who has the disease forever? Who can't wait to look stupid and laugh in the grass in a park?
put down my vice break down the yanks put up your fists paddle the middle
to what do I owe this immediate honor plus this apron for sure shelter
as the sky holds
a homo-friendly kid kite
on my birthday
I had déjà vu
with wonderful streamers and my lover's face
lit up by sun and smiles
reflecting in dark sun glasses
my best friend of 2 decades
calling my name
these visions I know
will rerun
the moment I cease to live
and I'll die happy
again and again
Spring is here — so I say
Goodbye blue devils
I'll miss what we had
and what had happened
But I'll not wish
For us to live
like children using depression
As an excuse for something other.
So please excuse me
From the table
For I have work to do
And an angel to marry
II.
"But there is too much," I say
"Oh, but not enough?," She questions.
It's amusing now. A little.
What did you ask, my angel?
Are you sure you want the grown up answer?
It's a big long hallway out there—
Can we make it to the end of it with out stopping for water at the fountain?
[This seems directed at you, (and you) but I assure you, it's not.]
But I'm constantly giving myself a pep-talk.
That's what all of this always is. It's always me talking to me. Telling me to give up. Telling me to walk straight. Telling me to grow a sack and put two little testes inside of it. My dermatologist said, "quit your itchin' " ...
Well maybe he's right. He's old, and smelled all right for his age. He sat upright and walked upright. He wrote down 8 prescriptions for 8 different things for me to take to a pharmacy and then in an hour I'll have drugs to fix me up just right.
How kitschy it all seems when you step out of it.
This is what I wrote when I entered the room after the waiting room:
Things to mention to the Doc:
– Different Meds to use on face vs. rest of body...?
– Is the Steroid I'm using now safe for facial use...?
– How often should I use the Meds...?
– Is there any new Meds out there...New info about Psoriases?
– T-gel on my scalp...Is that still a good idea?
Is this Dr Appointment a good idea? This entire building is despicable.
This room hasn't changed—
Though I've never been
In this building
Never went up the ancient boxy elevator
With big box buttons
That don't even light up
Never sat in the dim depressing waiting room
With chairs that look tiny under the huge humans occupying them
Stained and broken
Dated gold magazines hang from a wall rack
Though I've never been in this room
Where I wait under dirty florescent clear ceiling tiles
With an oscillating fan in the corner, for there's no air conditioning
The yellowed walls from when
Smoking was still permitted indoors
The little dark brown stool
With it's little wheels beginning to rust
...
Nothing has moved in here since the early to mid-eighties
When these things listed above were brand new
Clean.
Bright.
Sterile.
And then you look above 'Sterile' a bit in Webster's and see:
ster·e·o·ty·py
[ˈster-ē-ə-ˌtī-pē, ˈstir-]
n
1. persistent inflexible behavior pattern: a pattern of persistent, fixed, and repeated speech or movement that is apparently meaningless and is characteristic of some mental conditions
Which is what happens here.
Which is what brings me back.
Brings me back to my earlier thought
Back to my repetitious ...
Repeated speech
Or movement [around — circles — circuitry — phonetically speaking "súrkit"]
That is [or is not]
[or it is]
Apparently meaningless [devoid of a meaning — devoice — mouthing meaning through smiles and whispers and hums]
But secretly
I wish for things to appear on page.
As I write.
I secretly hope for dreams to make themselves evident within the few words I pick and misspell.
I trust my pen to walk over the paper and make love happen.
In verse!
[sometimes] I find myself re-reading just to look at the way it's written.
I'm looking for meaning. (It's the same poem I've written a million times! It's not creative anymore! It barely was at one point — at the beginning)
But the blank page... The empty page.
It is a kingdom.
It is the universe waiting for a big bang.
Alien life forms, and the moon full and cloud covered on a fog patch night.
The page blank can be the most amazing thing ever written.
It's waiting to be perfected, and find its perfect mate
[papermate pens and color pencils and back to school sale excitement.]
These are the improper training courses needed to look at the blank page.
And in order to ruin another:
The page
Sparkles
Speckled with strange freckles
Like the most beautiful red-head in mid-summer
Like no other
She'll smile and melt mountains.
Open mouth
Mouths words which I scramble to write
And scribble ...
And the page adjacent
Now sparkles.
Because it is fixed.
It is saved.
It is not the page with the bad poem written on it.
That one has passed away.
It's fallen to hell with the rest of the poems that have:
not been very good, /
not been very inspiring, /
not been very proud to be poetry, /
Just some form of recycling
Such as, if I we're to say,
"Earth hates toxic waste..."
I could reply:
I might consider
taking up smoking again...
this is simply because:
I've drank more water in the last 3 weeks
in order to detox
I'm very afraid
of this big full bladder bursting
because I'm holding all of it in
so I don't piss away
all of the coolness I've built up
But we're all going to hell soon enough.
I might as well stop trying so hard
to be an indie rocker
to be a Detroit hipster
to be a Nu-beatnik
I might as well enjoy the ride.
III.
In a car.
Going to work.
Watching with a closeness out the wrong window.
With precision and a slow motion accuracy.
the way you might expect to see a real life train wreck.
The young boy tied to the tracks—
...
Then it rains red.
But the good doctor always was an advocate for the imagination.
And who can blame him.
When looking at bad modern art—
And good modern art too.
There is a definite sense of imagination which finds it's way around corners of cubism.
No pun intended.
Right as Rain.
As the fire spreads
Its black wings
Over Florida and Georgia
Women roll up the windows of the sedan
And men roll up their sleeves
Sweating profusely
With a broken A/C unit
On the bottom of Interstate 75
As Earth rids itself of itself slowly
Strangely enough, everyone received an invitation. [Oh, you're invited too. No need to send a 'save the date' we'll come to you, you see but besides that, you'll want to come. Everyone is coming. Anyone who is anyone at anytime will reach out and grab the arm of a stranger Cry in public— Be covered in
blood— Run from the giant glow of disaster—
Religious figures will have field day after field day after field day with the world's end.
The ravens will suck every last worm out of the holes in the ground.
They'll wake at noon and shrug.
Carelessly
Caressing the deep winds under wings
under cloudy smog and smoke
Above the ground
above the buried alive
This just in!, or ...
But in other news:
Believe it or not— The water is still safe to drink. After the move from ghetto suburbs to suburb suburbs the streets are brightly lit at night. The streets have very little garbage. The streets have a blanket about them, something that covers up any honesty that the city wanted to yell about. The tattoo you regret is covered up in the eyes of your neighbor. And this— This being the suburb living... This is something. This is a community's attempt to have some self dignity, or at bare minimum, have the respect to know that most outsiders don't care to know your dirt. They don't want to see your garbage, hear your wicked little secret, or what you claim to do behind closed doors. They barely want to know how you take your tea/coffee- They simply hope you keep it down at night, and respect their lawn as well as yours.
And
If you're the anti-Christ,
and you now live across the street...
Please keep
the blight in the backyard
so my company
(which I entertain on Wednesday evenings)
will not have to
be a witness
to such an eyesore.
But of course.
This is a nice town.
With nice folk
But I have no real black-eyes.
I've yet to really decided if this is worse.
I've also yet to decide if I'm being sarcastic concerning the uptown suburbs.
But I have no real black-eyes—
[but as I started earlier...]
I just want to run into the bars... name dropping obscure hip bands or modern authors or post-modern painters. I want to keep saying, "I don't live 'round here... you see, I live where poor people die on the streets and nightly you can hear men beating their girlfriends, or racial comments lead to police sirens because for some reason or another houses burn down all around me every other day... I live down the street from this guy named James— the singer of the Detroit punk/experimental/noise band 'the piranhas' ... Oh yeah, they broke up a little while back... Blah..."
Hogwash—
But I have to grow up.
I feel so foolish thinking in this manner—
I wish I could talk circles around people all day and night, but the way these kids are now I'd either end up over my head because I don't know enough or half as much as I claim — or I'd still get disrespected for being pretentious and counter culture...
I need to grow up.
Or the next bar I run into will give me a black-eye.
Sometimes
it's very difficult
to just be
To just listen
to smile at bad jokes and feel sincere
"don't go over the situation in your head," I think to myself before entering a room
"let the room be.
"you're not as important as you wish.
"don't feel sorry — don't be sorry —
"don't wish
"don't wash it down, or bring it up
"Just listen.
"Just be."
This is often when the imagination does it's best walking and best watching. Intuition leaking into imagination and blowing a soft tune into wanting ears
Just listen
Having no destination to reach
No time constraints ,
the two simply roll about one another beaconing
the something that could eventually waltz around
the feeling one gets
the feeling you get
covered in strangers' blood after a long night
after you grew fangs
under the forced full moon
IV.
Under blue light —
with white stars —
black sky —
Soft wind and swaying trees
Moving in and out and about
The street lights are long
Long turned on
turned down to light the ground
And,
Mother would be
So proud to watch you passing this test—
Seeing you looking both ways
Even though it's 3:49am
And even the drunks have passed out by now.
Just the real life early birds
Grabbing worms
Out of dirt
Lowly lit from a distant street lamp.
These are the times when you stop and realize, after walking alone on the streets where you grew up from sunset to sunrise — just being one with your center — your old stomping grounds — the elementary school a few blocks north of eight mile between the bowling alley and I-75 — the overpass that will take you to grandma's house — Or the Ball Family house on the corner — Meijer bridge where the cars all run the light — your cousins house a few blocks north of the bridge, down the street from Marinco's party store — or even the house you grew up in on Madge —
These are the times when you relive childhood moments:
And know that
going to hell
won't be such
a different place
except the devils
will wear red
But sir, this is not to say....
Yes I'm sorry.
You mustn't come to such depressing conclusions ...
I'm sorry I don't follow?
Hell on Earth sir, it is such a depressing thought.
I was unaware Hell was depressing — I'm having the time of my life.
Be patient
You're in the Hospital.
On top of your bed, I found the puzzle pieces.
[Push the button Call the nurse]
I found the pieces of dry skin— Fast fallen from your limbs which itch and twitch and bump into other legs in the night...
While you sleep.
While you dream.
In empty rooms filled with space and high ceilings with fans circling like
[has she come yet? Get the nurse.]
vultures in fast forward and the kitten leaping from one pillow to the next...
While you sleep.
While you dream:
Of oceans and library meetings of you and people you're afraid to see during the day— you'll have hushed talks over his typewriter — and a fight will break out in non-fiction — by books on near death experience with witty specific religious insinuating titles such as, 'walking toward the light in the tunnel' —
While you sleep.
[H e's slip ped fa r into his se lf]
While you dream.
At the height of the scuffle, a muffled and strange goodbye will be mouthed to you as you watch your partner in non-violence be pulled away by something. Run away from someone. Disappear behind some bookshelf somewhere. And as the scene plays out in less than real time, to feel a sharp sting on your chest- looking down to see someone sticking pins into you—
While you sleep,
You wake
Simply to know
somewhere,
someone
just died.
And you didn't save them.
For you
were busy sleeping—
Dreaming.
Searching.
Looking for the directions back to—
Away from slumber.
"Where is this ladder?"
(Genesis 28:12)
Climb it to Heaven...
But it is gone from you.
There is only,
the bed sheets
the sweat under your body
the striped walls:
painted by street lamps
and cheap pull-string blinds
the open door
the buzzing fridge
the parlor window:
Which sits cracked
Letting in the crisp night rhythm and blues
The fuzz and the June bugs
An empty bar with a full juke
Your wide eyes and jugular
It's time.
Wake-up.
V.
Yawning on the front lawn while the baby bird is eaten by flies.
A car passes by.
You plant some honeysuckle and breathe out billows.
You remember your pillow and the confusion of the dream you had had.
Yellow clear glass holds the plant.
Decadence.
Dance on air.
Re-appear.
Yellow stains on your smile. For a while you saw that there was a fence between the two of you... but no more. The fence which was hopped time and time again and hacked down by time passing... the weight of a human. It's only wood inside of dirt. Mother natures can have at it at will. Mother may paint it, but it will still rot from the inside out. . . This fence is no longer around... torn down by whatever, and it doesn't matter, because it's gone.
It's more of a locked door now which leaves you stuck in summer, or another [any other] season while others are off in winter.
Or Fall
having fell—
Not having seen—
have a beer before bed
have nine
nineteen minutes into the reading.
ninety pages into this book
From the nineteen twenties
twenty minuets later you've forgotten the preface
you've forgotten the plot
you've forgotten if it's prose or poetry, and if it matters.
Re-read:
Because of spring...
Refined and antique.
"It is the complete antithesis of poetry!"
Oh yes. . . Here we are.
It's spring and the Devil wears blue.
The Devil shows others
how he suffers
though echolalia*
And of course
makes friends
through echopraxia.#
* parrot-like repetition of a word or phrase just spoken by someone else
# repetitive imitation of the movements of another person
Blue
like the color of sorrow and the sky in spring — mid-morning
Blue
Pusses pity on periwinkle flowers in the summer when the street shows a mirage in the distance
Blue
Work shirts that hang off men and women who know better — who've long been bitter and angry with diseased scripture in their mouth and moths in the dresser drawer — The ever growing urge to take away from others, piece by piece, in order to make themselves look taller — bit by bit, and inch by inch — look closer to the blue above — The midnight blue sky — The berry blue car she drives — The navy blue slacks and socks mismatched — The blue ice trays gone empty — The blue and white heaven that floats around, looking down on jet planes with pilots and co-pilots wearing blue suits and silver pins shaped as wings of blue angels drinking blue ocean earth water in the blue envelope to a blue birthday party by the big blue house next to the blue mail box surrounded by blue spruce which are all cut down to make blue books listing the elite blue blooded royalty but before living with them are blue jays which fly away once every blue moon just as the Blue on Blue friendly fire but never telling and receiving the blue ribbon but the dead man is just another blue-eyed boy with a wish to sing blue-eyed soul so they plant bluebells on his blue-grey headstone —
Blue
As the day she died
[As the day is long
And willing]
in her will
in her suicide note
she wrote
"He is as Evil as the Devil
and as Kind as a Christian”
And she died in a blue sun dress having over dosed on purpose, of course....
This note was written in Webster's in blue ink, under the definition:
blue dev·il
(plural blue dev·ils)
n
"barbiturate capsule: a capsule containing the narcotic and sedative barbiturate amobarbital"
(slang)
What else to say—
My prose is cheap
And smells of me.
—So...
Of course the devil wears blue,
For when it's half past spring
He'll admit in silence
"I'm still watching you."
