The city is
A person forest.
The city park
A person for est.
The city is
People concentrate hard
The city washes blood
Red hands of
White collar crimes on
Blue collar backs.
Evokes in me
Which is itself
The city is
The common man –
Home from work,
Covered in filth,
Pours a drink,
Sits down to unwind:
At the filth
(*Driving to Wednesday work
Following a marineairforcearmynavy
Semper fidelis veteran:
I hate his truck,
And bumper labels
And I think all American veterans
Because any child
Born under the sun
With a magnifying glass
Can burn ants.
I hate him as he
Left tombstones shadowed.
Living domestic partnerships
With drugstore flags,
The tombstones told tales
Of domestic abuse.
I hate myself
For hating him.
I hate people
That I barely know.
I hate myself
For writing poetry,
And for thinking
Poetry is art,
And for thinking I’m an artist
Because I say Poetry
And for thinking I’m making
An artistic statement
By saying I hate myself
For thinking I’m an artist
Based on my realization
Of thinking I’m an artist
For claiming poetry
Is not art
In a poem,
And so on.
But I don’t hate hate.
Is the (square) root
Of all hate.
Is the product of multiplying
Love against itself,
And fear is a factorial!)
1. Sometimes I happen upon ideas within my head that I think are marvelous, and I instantly sit down to work these ideas out into art, or craftsmanship, or utility, or for no reason but compulsion. But as I get through the work, I realize that the whole idea was fleeting and broken into pieces not fully materialized.
The meat of the work comes out instantly, because it was given to me in insight, in epiphany, and the completion of the rest will rely on a substantial amount of personal energy and commitment. So now the work gets abandoned, neglected, and every return meets me with another layer of dust, until the idea is unrecognizable. I might come back and try to complete it, but it won’t measure up to my original vision.
I don’t know… these are no more than just pixels on a screen, right?
And oh ya: Sartre something or other, blah blah, because hell is…
White and blank…
Drip like slobber
From mouth of
from scuff – to fluff
Chemistry is everything, nothing isn’t chemistry,
Bonds bounce through our brain.
Making us laugh, sniffle, sigh, cry, fuck, eat, wonder, act, react, this, that, on, and on
Making us go insane.
Chemicals are everywhere, housed in matter,
But it doesn’t matter.
No matter what we know,
All is the same.
We know only of making things
As means to know more about making more things.
There are no ends, only means.
Everything is mean!
An eventual regression to the mean.
“I thought she was a great person… until we hung out more.
I then realized that she was a waste of time.”
That’s because you didn’t collect enough samples at the beginning.
You needed more data.
Only then could all her qualities collapse into average.
Everything is average.
Outliers are only there to make you question:
But in the mean-time, ordinarily, I’m usually typically average,
This tile, “The Break Down,” can allude to an array of different topics and directions that this blog post can escape into. For instance, I could be talking about the importance of breakdowns in a piece of metal music. Or, I might be talking about mental collapse. Maybe I’m having car trouble…
Rather, I would like to “break down” my last post so that it doesn’t go largely misunderstood. Parts of it are incredibly esoteric and other parts are written in my own word codes. Hence, I feel it necessary to “break down” my word reasons in my last poem so that I don’t experience mental collapse and, consequently, break down. I’m still going to leave some parts of the poem unanswered – as one man said in the obscenity trial of Ginsberg’s Howl, “Poetry can’t be translated into prose. That is why it is poetry.” – but I do think that there are some inherent historical examples within the poem that need mentioning. This might be moderately conceited for me to do, but so it goes. So here is the poem, again, with the director commentary turned on:
Cumming of a Creed
What we need
Is the cumming of a creed:
A doctrine of divinity that
Shakes human from slumber:
Words of thunder
To the strike of wonder:
There are no seconds to count (counting time between lightning and thunder)
Between what comes forth:
And what comes fourth
Is always wonder,
Curiosity, amazement, bafflement.
Wonder is the most common
Denominator amongst demigods
Such as ourselves.
Ourselves as barb ells
Of differing masses:
For we all possess
Sharp, measuring minds (“barbs” are sharp – “ells” measure)
With their own
Gravitational pull. (the gravitational pull of an object depends on its mass)
Low tolerance to time
Has left us lightwaits. (one who does not like to wait)
Forever abandon the now,
And start the next,
This creed shall be of us,
In the Abrahamic tradition. (“…of the people, by the people, for the people…” is from the Gettysburg Address, spoken by “Abraham” Lincoln. I’m playing off the Christian, Jewish and Islamic Abrahamic traditions.
It shall encompass
And end compass
It shall guide us astray
To the ashtrays
Of our minds
Where thoughts are pinched out
Laying in heaps
Of perceptual filters,
Yet shielding the Formica countertop
From collecting dust.
It shall explode
Upon the Hiroshima
Of humdrum humanity,
Of dismal dailies. (dropings of the atomic bombs in WWII)
It shall be a specter haunting. You erupt (Marx’s Communist Manifesto starts off, “There is a specter haunting Europe – the specter of communism.” Vietnam War was a war against Communists)
27 years later (amount of time between WWII and Vietnam War)
When the values
That vested you
Are vaporized off your body by
Napalm napalm napalm napalm napalm
During Vietnamese Kodak moments (famous picture of little girl with clothing burned off by napalm during the Vietnam War. Google “Vietnam napalm” and you’ll find it.)
That warp your face
Into Edvard Munch hallucinations (Edvard Munch painted “The Scream.” The facial expression in the painting looks similar to the faces in the napalm picture.)
Of harrowing beauty.
It shall Socratically “WHY?” you (Socratic method of asking “why?” repeatedly)
While you worry “why YOU?”
Until your ever present thoughts (“ever present” = ubiquitous)
Strip the Y U
From intellectual ubi-quity, (take away the Y and U, and your left with bi-quit. To quit twice.
And you declare “I know nothing” (quote attributed to Socrates)
For the second time.
It shall deflower your comprehension
With Joycean oceans (James Joyce used a lot of poetic codes and riddles in his writing)
Of cryptic cry,
And it won’t call the next day.
Or the next.
It shall be
Crowley (Aleister Crowley, but also an allusion of a circling crow of death)
The flower of truth,
Waiting to descend
Once “what thou wilt” (“Do what thou wilt shall be the whole of the law” – Aleister Crowley)
Wilts petals into wonder.
And word thunder
As long as
And tongues tumble
All down to the bottom,
Because even this
Fall has an autumn.
This is my first post in about a week because of my six-day work week and all my free time spent either with my girlfriend or working on the prospects of writing a Holy Book. I have a poetic introduction to this (most serious joke) book in the works which I will eventually post, but in the meantime this is a piece I did last year that I will post for the sake of saving this blog from lapsing into a full on coma.
“Something there is that doesn’t love a wall”
During epiphanies of disinterest with the self.
Something there is, in moments of clarity,
That doesn’t love the big blinding barricades
Constructed from the bricks of right or wrong,
This way or that, A or B, true or false…
Stones of perceived mathematical objectivity.
Language is the foreman of such mental masonry.
When courage is gathered to climb over these walls,
Leaving behind one’s Humpty Dumpty fears,
The ego erodes to uncover the bottom layer:
A layer deeper than the crust of character and
Even deeper than the mantle of one’s mannerisms;
Down to the pineal core where one finds that
“Something there is that doesn’t love a wall.”
I tried writing a quick poem under five minutes with whatever came to my head first. I was sort-of inspired by Gertrude Stein’s stream-of-consciousness style and Ginsberg’s “first thought, best thought”, although this misses the mark of those poetic prophets.
If it doesn’t burn
You should have no problem
Interrupting erupting embers
With your cold touch,
Shift with clutch,
Don’t take much of such
With a grain of salt… halt.
Give it a break
For time-breach sake,
Don’t make – if you can’t relate
Come back around,
With walls of sound,
Beat to the ground.
Compound and compensate
For what you can’t make;
Two hands will shake
To seal one’s fate.
Ambiguity spawns ingenuity,
Embellished with stupidity
Cuz I don’t have this planed
Make the consonants crack
By loosening slack
Between word rhythms.
It’s culinary for your soul kitchen.
It don’t take enough
To pull a diamond from the rough
So either keep pressing on
Or call my bluff.
Kerouac traveled far, but I went FURTHER.
Somewhere along the way I tripped on a school bus
and was sent tumbling merrily across America.
Just let the Kool-Aid carry ya.
Jerry and I ran some tests,
and even the Angels turned on
We got help from the man with the guru grin
who was “on the outside looking in”
and coined that magick mantra.
Chief Broom opened my Demon Box
and I flew over the cuckoo clocks
all the way to Oregon
where Leland Stamper told me to
Maybe I should have taken Leland’s advice.
Does blotter burn the brain??
A lysergic chisel and a mind made of wood
has fashioned me more inspired/less understood.
From where I once stood, has it been too high of a climb?
I’m not too sure
“I been away a long time.”
High up in his ivory tower
Blake read books by the wise.
He lived by “Knowledge is power”;
An axiom for demise.
He overthrew and built anew
The science of his thought.
Although one can alter what is true
Can does not imply ought.
The more Blake learned and read his books
The less he could relate
To those who’s shallow resting hooks
Were cast without their bait.
Conversation could not be held
While Blake was in his head.
Talk washed over well-built welds
From blowtorch books he read.
As Blake prided his education
The judgments they did come.
And he developed a fixation
With others’ mental slums.
He thought of himself as far better
Because he’d learned so much.
Yet knowledge was his greatest debtor:
He used it as his crutch.
The Mart hung in the distance like an obsolete super-computer
Overcompensating for its faulty wiring,
While nervously waiting for the next big thing.
In a field, I stood in the epicenter, across from this epiccenter,
On an uneven ground of weeds, dirt, gnats, puddles, trash.
In the limits of vision, I saw the par-king lot
Balancing its inputs with its outputs
Into the super-computer.
-> In went bleak, gray, hungry bits of code
Out came obnoxious, colorful, fat bits of code <-.
I – usually bleak, gray, hungry – approached the Mart,
Pulled from the dirt-tangled field
By the electromagnetism of the straight angles ahead.
As I closed closer,
There emerged a binary to these bits.
And the Mart proclaimed, “Let this be man and woman,
And let their sacrificial computations be predictable, timely, and manipulateable,
And above all, let the 1 of woman and the 2 of man serve separate functions
To my Consumption Processing Unit.”
The Mart looked over all that it had made, and behold, it was very good…
My heel hit the hard of pavement and rolled up to my toe;
And as this became a recurring action,
My feet dealt distance with subtraction,
And the bits of code, post-transaction,
Grabbed my eyes with curious attraction.
These ostentatious outputs carried colorful cases,
Walked with manufactured importance,
Slapped smaller outputs and told them, “When I say stop, that means stop!”
Sputtered and spat at the ground,
Rolled toward their steel boxes like medicine balls in the wind,
Held the reins of their belt-buckle stallions, bucking for a fight,
Or yanking their buckles over their bulbous bellies,
With crooked smiles, crooked laughs,
Crooked plans, but straight paths.
The par-king lot carried the code
The best that pavement could.
Should cement lament it would.
I tried to think up a better system:
-Maybe a cloud based application (?)-
But my thoughts were sparse,
So, instead, I joined the cement sojourners,
Rolling toward my own steel box,
And together we awaited the next big thing.
I wish I could tell people
Is the product of
That I am conducting,
And they, participating in.
That my actions are all
Calculated and with
That their reaction to my,
To say the least,
But I will have to bring it under
But in actuality,
I’m just strange,
Without deeper intentions
Thanks to the puter-upers
With the decency
to just shrug
And continue on