My Back (a poem)

I've already nicknamed my computer room the Death Star because basically, I now have a fully operational Death Star of writing. It's great. I should have had one of these a long long time ago.

Anyhoo, while building said Death Star, one thing I've been doing is going through all my old writings be they old lists, tablature, old songs, poems or notes from the ladies of Hall High.

Most of the poetry so far has been complete rubbish, the kind of thing a late teen stoner would write. Here's one after I was just laid off from my prestigious position as an administrative assistant at The Corporate Source Group. A poetry professor of mine once taught us that we should never do preambles before our poetry, so I guess I'm going to stop now.

My Back (March, 2001)

It is sour to live,

job slowly being unscrewed,

the mechanical device

could soon fall apart.

And people do this five times,

drink coffee, smoke,

dress business casual

and collapse in a cubical.

Ain't been stress'd 'n awhile

and here I am again,

looking down from the ladder

with so many strangers

walking under it.

I want to suck the clouds

and spit them on these people

so they look up.

But I can't see ladders,

or glorious hot slides

to return me to a pop destination.

I hesitate

preparing for an action

that gets trapped in another person's

motion. I hear silence

from birds that are tired of flying.

It's beautiful how things come back,

like the rain after a drought,

like solid ghosts of kindness,

helping, showing me.

I need something metaphorical,

a building to implode,

a unique front pulling over the city,

the proper twist within the perfect

plot and setting.

Keys and Things (Poetry)

The hangover dark kicked in,

As I dropped off the things I no longer remembered.

Without keys, I had lost everything,

My place to sleep,

My way to get from here to there,

And the second coming wouldn’t have mattered

Because in that one instant,

I lost full control of my life.

Imagine what else could be in the bushes?

After sunset, they’re no longer green.

They’re drenched with the dark, but

Shiny solutions always have a way of being noticed.

 

I’ve always enjoyed the cool August breeze

After a hurricane that just missed town.

Or how an airbag prevents you from going though a windshield

Right when you need it to, though I know

The eye can come right for me and sometimes airbags don’t release.

All I can do is board myself up, strip of myself of my desires

And ask you that you don’t take the freeway as much.

You love the freeway.

You’ll take the freeway just to travel a block.

You’ll take it if it’s congested with tired cars.

When my fuel pump went out, and I had to cut off a gas tanker,

just to reach the shoulder before the inevitable stop,

You got behind her with your car,

And pushed me off the exit,

Where everything slowed down and I could call a tow.

Random Verse (2nd one)

I see the remainder
of yesterday's stress caught in my drain,
the bits of macaroni and cheese,
the stout stained loaf chunk
that was too unchewed to be digested
by the sink.
A meat dressed pint
of beer that went unfinished
because two was plenty
and they couldn't let me vent
the way I could with a steak knife
that sliced through the plastic cover
of tonight's frozen entree
that needs to breathe
while it bakes at 350.

random verse

Ain't never was, no sweet dreamy boy
polluting myself, with pop culture's noise
if it's not that, it's the booze, remorse and repeat
happy to feel lonely again, emotion is a feat
but there's no more idealism on my path to wisdom
yet I consult God in my quest to my find my soul
there's fate, and destiny in between cheating on my right hand
I'm slammed with sarcasm and junk food out of control

Here's what's going to happen next
It's exactly what you'd expect
a visit, a letter, a call, email or text
no worries, we'll just keep heading west

But I ain't leaving this armpit, despite the mess
Crawling out ain't easy, even 6 feet under is less
the levees are patched for now, the bridges are sound
but it's the worn one, on top of the mountain, that i gotta get around

A Delicate Place

Internet News Bulletin at 11
AM, while most people are employed,
I’ve added a new feature to the time
as I’m un. I’ve become
the guy in the grey hoody,
with his matching sweatpants,
who would always walk purposely,
simultaneous with my routine
of driving to a 9 to 5 desk job.

Some people pull up to the channel, park,
read stories with great interest,
or judging by a dank dirty smell,
“chill out” unknowing that their illegal activity
has penetrated the outside world from their car.
The local college crew team practices.
Boats begin journeys of afternoon recreation.
Squirrels and young crows don’t mind each other.
Mothers jog with their children in three-wheeled carriages.

I walk past the place I once panicked,
and floated a rent-a-car while delivering pizza.
The same place where we used to buy seedy schwag
from a guy named Tomas, who as is turned out
was really simply named Thomas, adding
shame to his shady drug dealing persona.
I shyly snub the guy walking his dog,
the elderly couple battling their retirement,
and slow down so I’m keeping a good distance
from the mailman who pretends to deliver mail
to a house, so I pass him, and his space is returned.

At the docks, where I see the daily grey heron,
which in my optimism I once mistook for blue,
where the cab drivers park alongside,
and a black and white striped butterfly fish
meditates near the underwater rocks,
a fin stabs the surface and a wayward dolphin
uses his time to swim between the sailboats.
This tiny button of water becomes his place
to break away from the channel, the bay, the gulf,
the ocean of life that has past before him,
and awaits his return.

The 70s

“She’s not on the list
because she’s not going to die.”
I told my friend with a straight face.
In the past, my explanations weren’t absurd,
I was elusive while running with a football
Because I was terrified to be hit.
I singed my ears with dirty rock music
Because I enjoyed the sexy sluts in the videos.

After burying her mother and father
Within 7 months of each other,
She smiles as she baby sits
Her oldest son’s newborn twins.
This reversal of inevitable solitude
Didn’t come in a plastic bottle
Much to the let down amazement
Of people who have discovered
Old ideas for new people.

That moment when I’m looking
Into the conclusive horizon,
Without the truth of experience.
The compass pointing North,
And I turn around to see
The dirty oven night,
Proven correct by the exact science
of either the job or mistake of love,
the sunset will succumb
to the otherwise beautiful pollution.

The Continuing Decline of Poetry

Poetry I'd say is about three decades away from being a completely forgotten art. Granted BORDERS isn't a "Writing As Art" mecca, but I remember in the late 90s, after it was built, there was debate amongst us "poets" about whether it was scrupulous to buy books from there seeing it was this large capitalist entity, which in Writer's Circle World, is just about as evil as Hitler. The problem was, the local Indie store, Inkwood Books, just didn't have the selection that BORDERS had, but we still managed to find our Donald Justice versus there, or they'd order it for us if they didn't, so BORDERS was rarely travelled.

A little known secret about the aforementioned BORDERS was that when they first opened, they were bringing in some acoustical musicians to perform, and delighted I was, when I saw Kip Winger's name in the Creative Loafing (which then became the Weekly Planet, but now is again the Creative Loafing). Me being a serious senior with a dim sense of irony, HAD to go see Kip, mainly to see him play Seventeen. There may have been 4 of us, or it may have been merely me and Jacob Nickerson, whom I have many stories about, but I'll spare them here. I don't think he went for Mr. Winger, but he went anyway. (Kip never did play Seventeen, claiming that he was in his 30s (maybe even 40s) now, and that could get him in trouble. I didn't understand that then, but I do now. Good for Kip. You know Kip is always going to take the classy way out.

Back to the death of Poetry. I went to buy "Best American Poetry 2007" and not only could I not find it, I couldn't even find the poetry section. In fact, they barely even have a poetry section anymore. It was literally about one shelf of books, and "Best American Poetry" was not among them. I wonder how large the section at Inkwood is now? Inkwood is like Tate Brothers to me, too many ghosts. I'll probably never go back there.