Poem: Corn

 Corn

She always has a lot of questions at bedtime.

She asks when will be the next time that I pick her up from school
and I explain again how I work Monday to Friday now
and can’t do school pick-ups these days.

Oh.

She asks how much money I make at my job
and I tell her my hourly wage
and she ask how much that is for the whole day
and I tell her.

That’s a lot, she says.

It sounds like a lot, I say,
but it all goes to rent and groceries
and she doesn’t quite understand
so I explain that after paying for our place to live and our food
there’s no money left.

Oh, she says. That makes me feel sad.

I see the opportunity to slide in a lecture,
something about why we need to be appreciative and not wasteful
and finish our meals and clean out plates
even when we don’t particularly want the dinner daddy made
and oh yeah
I really need to use the corn in the back of the fridge before it goes bad
I should really check what we have in there
I don’t want to waste anything either

And instead of a lecture I tell her we have everything we need
and we’re doing just fine
and that it’s really time for her to go to sleep so she can wake up tomorrow.

Besides, I think to myself,
our money problems will all be solved
once my poetry career takes off.

(2021).

Poem: Earliest Evidence

Earliest Evidence

Someone asked about my earliest memory of wanting to be a writer--

when did you first know, etc., etc...

and instead of thinking about some conscious acknowledgment of writing
as either activity or vocation,
before I had any inclination of learning how to write fiction,
or effective, efficient non-fiction--

I remembered an event from first grade,
when I was literally learning how to write,
as in read and write,
printing block letters in pencil on lined paper.

Our teacher, Mrs. Deaton, asked the class what happened on the weekend.
I couldn't think of anything interesting that happened,
but I immediately thought of something interesting that didn't happen,
so I raised my hand and explained how,
on the weekend,
our kitchen stove caught fire. 

The other kids were amazed, no one pressed me for details,
and I wrote the sentence in nice block letters
with a picture of my stick figure mother
running away from out avocado green stove as it burned.

Mrs. Deaton gave me a check mark,
wrote "Good picture!" in the corner,
and we all hung our work in the hallway so everyone could see
what a great job we were doing learning how to write.

A few weeks later our family went to church,
and after the service was over,
my mom brought me back into the empty sanctuary.

She told me how another mom had seen my sentence in the school hallway,
and how that mom had asked my mom if we had replaced our burnt stove yet.

And mom explained how lying is wrong,
I guess hoping that the message would have extra force
if she said it to me in church.

It hadn't occurred to me when I wrote the whole stove thing that it was a lie.
To me, a lie was when someone asks you a question and you give a wrong answer,
like,
did you carve up the furniture with your boy scout knife?
No, not me.

As far as I knew,
the stove thing wasn't a lie.
I was just making something up to entertain others.

So if the question is,
when did you become a writer,
I guess it was around the moment
I learned how to write.

 

Poem: The Funniest Thing I Ever Heard My Father Say

 The Funniest Thing I Ever Heard My Father Say

I was around twenty
and he helped me find a used car
for going back and forth to the university.

It was a 1983 Chevrolet Celebrity sedan
high mileage
but not in bad shape
and a bargain at $500
because the owner had to sell it fast.

After a few weeks the steering went
leaving a puddle of pink fluid on the street
and requiring the replacement of the rack and pinion.

Dad did the work.
He always fixed the cars.

It was not an easy operation
as the steering had to go in an awkward place
up under the engine.

Dad,
self-taught in the art of automotive repair
during generations when cars were built
with easy and accessible structures
began ranting against the more complicated models
stemming
he believed
from American companies imitating more complex Japanese design trends.

I stood by the tool bench
passing him an occasional wrench.

He got more and more frustrated
trying to fit the steering assembly into its niche
and eventually exploded:

"Lee Iacocca
When I die and go to Hell
I'm going to find you
and kick you square in the balls!"

I didn't hang around too much longer.
He had all the wrenches he needed.

I reminded him of what he had said once
years later.
He didn't remember
and was surprised.
Several years sober by this time
he speculated about how many rum and cokes
he might have had that night.

The car ran well for several more years

until I took $500 dollars for it

when I had to sell it fast.

Welcome to the Era of Openness: Poem

Welcome to the Age of Openness

Welcome to the age of openness

Where your worth is tied to your willingness to share

Where your experiences do not exist if they are not documented

    and posted for like share subscribe

Where every thought must be broadcast, every idea shared

Everything everything everything is content

And we are all just content creators and content consumers

And it used to be "it's not what you know, it's who you know,"

But now it's "how's the content, how many followers, how many subscribers,

    and what percentage of them are bots?

And people cry defund the police and oh no, what would we do,

    how would we catch the bad people,

    and we realize that cops don't catch the bad people anymore,

    people with cell phone catch the bad people by posting the videos,

    including videos of the cops.

The cops of the future will just be really, really online kids,

    and the choice will be cancel or convict.

Welcome to the era of openness,

Where the current president got nominated off the strength of his Twitter game,

Where simply documenting your existence is a viable career \,

Where you can be a youtuber, an influencer, a cosplayer, a gamer,

and a new defining aspect of being a have or have-not 

    relates to the speed of your internet connection.

Welcome to the era of openness,

Where maybe you don't have health insurance

    but if you can share well enough

    make yourself sympathetic enough

    maybe you can crowdsource enough money

    to see a doctor after a cop breaks your face

    for protesting against violence cops.

At least you got the whole incident on video .

That's great content.

Welcome to the era of openness,

Where the unwired are the ignored,

Where the private are the forgotten,

Where life is but an attention-desperate consumer

    that struts and frets through meme-cycles online

    and then is shared no more,

Where we are the idiots full of sound and fury,

    endlessly repeating nothing,

Where or social media profiles live on after we die.

Welcome to the new immortality.

* * *

Two Poems: Colloquial, and Omniphoria

Colloquial

The first good thing I wrote was a story

for a creative writing class.
We had an assignment each week
and by week three I was out of ideas
so I wrote a story about writer's block
that turned out pretty well--

That became one of the major themes of my art,
such as it is
art about art
because there's nothing else to talk about,
|novels about writers who are writing
novels about writers who are writing
novels about, hell, I dunno, me, I guess. 

If I was deeper person I would have deeper themes,
and sometimes I come up with something.
Love was a theme for a while,
And I got some mileage out of angst and depression
and drunkenness and the fear of going mad-- 

But eventually I'm left writing a poem
about not knowing what to write a poem about.
Metatextuality, they call it--
that act of creative, self-reflexive self-awareness. 

The colloquial term is being a dumbass.

* * *

Omniphoria

Dragons hoard gold and gems cups and crowns
Pseudodragons hoard any shiny crap they see
like spoons
beer bottle caps
or whatever

crows collect shiny things too
paper clips and such
carry them around
show them off
sometimes give them as gifts
to children who set out  food for them

It is omniphoria
a neologism
Greek omni ‘all’ + pherein ‘carry’
-> ‘all-carrying’

and it applies to the artists too
the painters singers poets makers
who collect the shiny little things
carry them around
show them off
and then make gifts of them.

* * *

"Omniphoria" originally appeared in Suggestion Box: Fifty Poems.

Three Poems: Octopus, School, and Quaint

Three poems: "Octopus," from the Suggestion Box: Fifty Poems collection, "School," and a new poem, "Quaint."

Octopus

The common octopus is a marvel

eight tentacles which can be categorized
as two legs and six arms
with a battery of super-powers:
the toothed tongue for sawing through shells,
the ability to change color and texture
to blend in with surfaces,
the ink spray to obfuscate its escape
while jetting away at forty kilometers an hour,
and smart enough to dance
with its reflection in a mirror.

It is an amazing creature
the smartest invertebrate
and one of this planet’s wonders
and yet it lives
only twelve to eighteen months
before dying.

And here I sit
eating stale chips
and reading yesterday’s paper.
I’ll probably get eighty years.

Doesn’t seem fair, somehow.

* * *

School

One thing that made it possible
for me to get up every morning
and drag myself through the mixture
of tedium and drudgery,
the mild threat of violence or humiliation
that bullies and social hierarchy presented

was the possibility of the random encounter
the crossing of paths with my many crushes
the chance of a kind word spoken
or a moment of eye contact

but let's face it

as necessary as the whole thing is,
for the most part
school was just
a goddamn drag

and my crushes faded into the past
not knowing they were my crushes
and if I was anyone else's crush
I faded away
not knowing it either.

* * *

Quaint

Anybody can be amazing once
Anybody can hit a single home run
Or throw one knockout punch
Anybody can bust their ass
and lead the pack for one single day. 

But the challenge comes the next morning
when you have to get up
and the pack is ready to go again.
The challenge comes after that single great success
and you’re told
“Great shot, kid. Do it again.”

 Anybody can be intense for a brief stretch.
It’s much harder to be consistent.
It’s much harder to get up every single day and tell yourself,
time to do it again. 

No one ever made it off of
one great shot or one great day.
You only ever make it
if you’re willing to do your best
again and again
and again
and again.

* * *

Two Poems: Waves, and Putrefaction

Waves

 

Trouble comes at you in waves

Crashing against you relentlessly

 

Demands and criticisms

Dangers and needs and insufficiencies

Conflict and danger and worry

 

These waves are eternal

They never stop coming

 

And like stones on the seashore

these waves can shape you

wear you down

wash you away

 

Some days are storms

the waves hit you like blows--

Other days are placid

and you feel nothing but a caress.

 

What can you do?

You can't stop trouble from coming

any more than the rock can stop the sea.

But just like the rock

you can stand strong

with eternal patience

and understanding.

 

* * *

Putrefaction

 

There was a time when I saw a real problem with rock and roll--

Rock and roll, and beer, and TV,

and everything I really liked basically--

 

Because I saw them and all the other

amusements and entertainments that make life tolerable

as blocking real progress--

 

Anything that lets the proletariat blow off steam

prevents the steam from building up and rupturing a broken system.

 

Because who needs to concern themselves

with throwing off the yoke of the oppressors

if you can get drunk and dance to good music

and if you don't meet a girl or a boy or whoever you like

there will always be some TV to keep you company--

 

Marx said religion was the opiate of the masses--

true for his time perhaps, although too narrow.

A regime that represses everything will always fall sooner or later

But an oppressive system that allows religion

and beer and porn and rock and roll and everything else

is very difficult to overthrow because

there is so much to distract the oppressed from the oppression--

 

and it's so hard to focus on the putrefaction of the system

and overwhelming injustice and inequity and corruption

when your sports team is in the playoffs

and there's a new Thor movie coming soon

and weed is legal and beer is in the grocery stores--

 

Who could rebel under such a system?

Consumer culture keeps us as happy little victims.

 

Billionaires laugh

while we drink and dance and blow off our steam.

 

* * *

New Poem: Delicate

Delicate

 

It can be really difficult living with other people

I've never met anyone who can be happy all the time

and familiarity breeds contempt

while absence makes the heart grow fonder

and all the other very true clichés--

 

and all I want is to be alone most of the time

but just like when I was a little kid

and I hated drying the dishes so much

but I often did it without being asked

just so my mom wouldn't have to do everything alone--

 

Now I spend my time with the others

maybe not as much as they want

but more than I want--

 

that sense of obligation and duty pushing me--

 

but then sometimes when I do too much

and it starts to grate on my nerves

I get shitty and nasty and on edge

 

"you're always on edge" they tell me

and it's true

 

it's all a delicate balance:

be there so much that they never miss me

but be away enough that I can stand it

 

and most of all

I really think I overestimate

how much I'm needed anyway

 

sometimes.

* * *

New Poem: Opulence

Opulence

 

One factor that motivated the French

to surrender Paris to the Nazi war machine

rather than fight for every inch of ground

was the desire to preserve the architecture

the art

the monuments

the opulence--

 

They didn't want to see their history

churches, museums, palaces, etcetera

demolished by bombs, artillery, and tanks--

 

Better to surrender their monuments

of victory and liberty to the fascists

and as a result they saw Nazi soldiers

smirking as they marched under the Arc de Triumphe.

 

Sartre was right in his comment

that surrendering these objects to fascists

robbed them of their worth

and made them meaningless.

 

Try to remember when you're living under fascists

not to cry too much at the destruction of property

belonging to the oppressor class.      

A broken window means nothing

compared to

enforced poverty

and a boot on your throat.

 

 

* * *

New Poem: Juxtaposition

Juxtaposition

 

Riots again.

 

The current president

is calling for those who protest murder by the police

to be murdered by the police.

 

The previous president

is saying murder by police

should not be normal in America in 2020

Even though he went dining and dancing on Martha's Vineyard

on the night of the 2014 Ferguson riots--

 

doing absolutely nothing to change

what was absolutely normal

about police murdering black people in America.

 

A black woman dies in Toronto with police on the scene

and some people assume they killed her

and some other people say the police here are different

Canadian police aren't so racist--

 

And I remembered the Saskatoon Police

taking Indigenous men and dropping them off in the snow

to freeze to death twenty years ago

(although they admitted they'd been doing it for at least forty)

and no, it's not the same thing--

 

But a white supremacist cop

is a white supremacist cop

and it's not much of a juxtaposition

between theirs and ours.

 

* * *

Two New Poems: "Ghosting," and "Market 2020"

Ghosting

 

I'd like to apologize for ghosting you

It wasn't my intention--

I have a bad habit of assuming

that I won't be missed.

My more natural inclination

is to assume that contacting you

would be bothersome to you

"oh, it's THAT guy again"

and I tend to prefer being alone anyway.

 

I admit that when I was younger

there were girls I didn't call

and if they called I told them I was sick

or I just wanted to be friends.

I suppose I could have been more straightforward

 

But ghosts

are naturally inclined

to be cowards.

 

* * *

Market 2020

 

During a moment

in which 100,000 Americans have died unnecessarily--

 

and many more are fighting pitched street battles

for the right to not be openly murdered

by those sworn to protect them--

 

A moment where the American government pledges

$484 billion to help those suffering (April 24)

And it is announced that America's billionaires

just got $484 billion richer (May 22)--

 

And the government reminds American workers

that they are human capital stock,

a term which fixes value on a worker's ability

to make billionaires even richer,

 

It can be hard to find the motivation

to perform the little tasks

like sweeping the floor or making the bed

or writing another stupid poem.

 

There is no end to that which must be protested

And no end to that which must be done.

 

* * *

New Poem on Alcoholism and Sobriety: "Peel, Bark, and Root"

Bark, Peel, and Root



At about three months sober I started to crack.

I recognized the benefits of sobriety

I wasn't planning every minute of the day around my beer run--

I wasn't swinging on a three-day cycle

between craving, drunk, and hung over--

I wasn't snapping out in rage quite as often

(sometimes, but maybe less)

and I didn't have to hide or lie or make excuses--



but I was starting to crack.



I was hitting two or three AA meetings a week

Whenever I could fit them in

And I was feeling all the stress.



When I was drinking, I had a bunch of small-to-medium problems,

And a big problem, which was drinking.

But when I had a drink in my hand, I didn't have any problems.

Now sober, I still had the small-to-medium problems,

Still had the big drinking problem,

But didn't have the relief of getting drunk.



I broke and got a pack of dealcoholized beer (0.5 %)

to try and take the edge off.

I told my temporary AA sponsor about that and he said

that was slippery-slope material.

Better to try some chamomile tea to try and calm down.



So now here I am with small-to-medium problems,

A big problem, and a long time standing in the coffee and tea aisle.

Chamomile, spearmint, orange peel, and lemongrass.

Black tea, chicory root, ground coffee beans, and cinnamon bark.

Ginger root, blackberry leaves, linden, and lemon peels.

Licorice root, anise, cardamom pod, clove bud, and black pepper.



What the fuck, man.



* * *

Two Poems: Universe and Stained Glass

Two more poems. Did you know I have poetry books for sale at Amazon, Smashwords, KoBo, Nook, Apple, and literally everywhere else? Just saying.

* * * 

Universe

They're not getting thrown out

you patiently explain over and over

they're just going into storage

we can take them back out another time

and it'll be like having new toys all over again

 

but they're not even really toys

they're just things

a random collection of plastic bits

accumulated without intention

tiny dinosaurs, fairies, heroes, cars

doll accessories, pirates and pieces--

a mismatched menagerie of junk

an unplayed-with universe

acquired on every visit to the dollar store

in every happy meal, inside chocolate eggs

and found every day

when a child walks down the sidewalk

 

a treasure for an hour

then forgotten,

and you think of their grandfather

who had to make his own toys

for himself and his cousins on the farm

from wood and nails

and bits of string.

Stained Glass

The past is an abandoned church

the scenes of your story

play out in the dusty images

of broken stained glass windows.

Let it come down.

* * *