Biding Time

Here's a new poem. Sorry to anyone who follows me...I haven't been on here because in the past month my grandmother passed and I've been absolutely broken about it. Hopefully out of sorrow can come creativity. This is a poem I wrote yesterday.

Biding Time

Killing ants with ashes,
blowing gray curls of paper
onto the cinnamon bricks…
This is how I bide my time.

Dismembering stubborn weeds,
watching their milk unfold
between my thorned fingertips…
This is how I bide my time.

Shredding paper napkins,
making squares out of the remnants
across the faux oak diner table…
This is how I bide my time.

Stabbing wooden desks,
etching words with staple edges
brushing away the finish crumbles…
This is how I bide my time.

Murdering the gray face,
scooping out the dead eyes
and cutting the parchment lips.
This face is not my own…
This is why I bide my time.

Life is dragging me down, down

I've been going through what I've called an existential crisis. I've been doubting my academic choice, my career plans, all of my human relationships. A nasty emptiness, the hunger that can never be filled, has arisen in me and I cannot seem to soothe it.

I think it all comes down to the fact that I'm bored.

I go to school, I go to work, I see my boyfriend, I do homework, I sleep. Repeat endlessly.

I have my hobbies...reading and writing, art here and there, the gym (yawn).

I would like to cook, to garden, to hike, to foster animals. But I have no place of my own and no car. So...these options are not realistic.

I don't really have time to volunteer (and believe me, I'd like to), because I do have my obligations (work and school). I'm looking for that little extra special me time (but fulfilling "me time"), that little part of the day I can look forward to, that means something.

I feel like a stranger looking in on myself. My days flow in and out...it's only exciting when something bad happens. Nothing good or celebratory seems to occur anymore.

Advice?

Blogs I Like (And You Will Too!)

Check out beautiful photography and vintage clothing with Rhiannon of liebemarlene.com

Get your fix of adorable puppies and obscure music references at hipsterpuppies.tumblr.com

And check out my boyfriend's ironic art at infernalbabypoo.blogspot.com

Photographs

A thank you and a short opinion piece

Hello everybody.

I want to thank whoever wrote that wonderful comment on my post a couple of days ago. Your suggestions were so spot on and helpful! Thank you for taking an interest in my work. The revisions should be up soon.

I only have a short piece today, my top 5 favorite films. I've become quite the film buff lately. I never thought I would, but thanks to living so close to an independent video store and movie theater, I'm all about movies now. I'm taking a "Literature and Film" class this semester and I LOVE it. Maybe my academic concentration will be on film...I just adore the combination of narrative, appearance, and sound. Good films really do change your life.

Deciding my favorite films of all time (thus far) is difficult, but I thought it would be fun and challenging to write about. So here it goes...

5. "The Nightmare Before Christmas" Tim Burton (1993)

I wore this VHS tape out when I was a kid. I watched it everyday for two years. No kidding. Being older, I can see why. The animation, the music (composed by Danny Elfman--that's a no brainer!), the story, the characters...it's all impeccable. We need more people with imaginations like Tim Burton's.



4. "Scarface" Howard Hawks/Brian de Palma (1932/1983)

I could not decide between the original and the remake. They're both so brilliant and honestly very similar. The remake is of course more stylistic, but the story remains essentially the same, just adjusted for the times. Hawks is THE Hollywood director that all directors should be compared to. He was prolific and amazing (undoubtedly you've seen a movie of his..."Gentlemen Prefer Blondes," "Rio Bravo," "Hatari!," "His Girl Friday" and SO MANY MORE). If you have not seen the original, go do so. If you have not seen the remake, that is a crime. Also, am I the only one who lusts for Al Pacino in this movie? He's just so damn magnetic.




3. "A Clockwork Orange" Stanley Kubrick (1972)

This movie will make you crazy. I suppose it's tame by today's standards, but I still find its moral ambiguity disturbing and intriguing. Alex DeLarge, played by the phenomenal Malcolm McDowell, is the anti-hero to end all anti-heroes. Without this power house performance, Ledger's infamous Joker would not have been the same. And I will never see "Singin' in the Rain," or Beethoven, the same way again.



2. "The Big Lebowski" The Coen Brothers (1998)

Dude, just go watch it. I never get sick of this movie. It's the funniest, quirkiest, loveliest damn thing I've ever seen.



1. "No Direction Home" Martin Scorsese (2005)/"The Rocky Horror Picture Show" Jim Sharman (1975)

You couldn't get more different than these two, yet I couldn't choose between them. I love documentaries, particularly documentaries about music, and Scorsese's documentary on Bob Dylan has got to be the best doc I've ever seen. Period. Informative, intimate, exciting...anything you could ever want from a documentary, particularly from a documentary on such an enigmatic man. And Rocky Horror? THE BEST MUSICAL EVER. I'm sorry, but "The Sound of Music" has nothing on this. Tim Curry is to die for.



No spectacular Rocky clips available online...go see it at an independent movie theater near you! It will probably be showing (if you live in Tucson, every other Saturday at the Loft!)

Where Did You Go?

I would appreciate help revising, especially with "Blue Windbreaker Jacket." Thanks.

Blue Windbreaker Jacket

I slept on your jacket accidentally.
Your blue windbreaker jacket.

The one with the black edges
fraying with old age,
pulling effortlessly apart
like the ragged rope toy
of a strong-jawed dog.

It leaves little string bits
for me to step on.

The one with the crisp hue
still virgin, somehow. The one
with the swish swish fabric
that clicks along
with your bicycle.
I can always hear you
down the hallway.
Swish swish.

Much too much large for you
as it’s always been.
And it will always be, I feel,
that same tent shape:
A room for you.

One time I remember particularly well-
you
and your jacket.

It was at your feet
by your blue backpack
by your blue shoes
(I think you might’ve liked blue)

and you were hunched.
I could count
the shallow gaps between
the broad lines of your back.

I wanted to trace them with my black, edged fingernails
and sit across from you.
That is all really.
That is all.

You were quiet, and there it was.
Your blue windbreaker jacket.

Blockade

The pads of my feet gently touch
upon the tile in the dimly lit kitchen
soaked in grease and boot polish.
I can hear them talking, harshly whispering
the dribble coming down from their mouths.
I can hear the click of the duty belt coming undone,
the gun’s muzzle hitting the plastic tabletop.
My heart peaks but my breath softens and slows.
The manipulated breathing is a tool, a skill
that one must perfect in order to be here.
It must be utilized well to eavesdrop on the scenes
you never observe with your eyes.
It must be utilized well to uncover the truth
you never truly wanted to know.
I do not swallow, I cannot.
I lean closer, and as gently as I came,
walk on my toes up the stairs
to employ another tool:
the erasing of memory
through the torture of the body
at the bathroom sink.

I Am Not Trash

If you don’t like tattoos, don’t get one.

It saddens me that tattooed people, though slowly being accepted, are still considered social pariahs. There are valid reasons for this of course. Yes, most convicts are heavily tattooed. A person’s class level, I will admit, can usually be estimated by what their tattoo is and where it is placed on the body. However, ink cannot tell you the whole story.

People who disapprove of body art instantly reject the “it means a lot to me” statement from tattooed people. If it means a lot to you (whatever “it” may be), they say, why can’t you keep it in your memories, or paint it, or so on. And to those who are considering getting a lover’s name or a loved one’s portrait, I would err on the side of caution and take this advice. Who knows how relationships, whether they be familial, romantic or platonic, will change. Yet in the end only YOU can determine if it is skin worthy. You are the one who has to undergo the tattooing and carry the design with you the rest of your life.

I could have kept my body a tabula rasa. I have both the quote and the picture I have tattooed in books. There was no true need to place them on my body. Yet to just carry around these designs on paper was not enough for me. Getting them permanently etched unto my skin allows me to express my devotion and appreciation in ways that words could not. The fact that neither artist will see my tattoos is irrelevant to me. I know they are there, I know Ginsberg and Dylan have changed my life, I know I have proof.

So there is my “it means a lot to me” sentiment. However, in my situation, being tattooed has meant vastly more than just getting a little something because I like it. Being tattooed has been a journey of self-discovery and self-love. My body has taken quite the beating over the years and it is beginning to show the wear-and-tear…scars, dents, dimples. There have been times where I hated my body more than I thought I could hate anything. Yet on the days when I’m having difficulty looking in the mirror, there are my tattoos: beautiful and interesting, permanent and protective, a bit like scar tissue. I feel proud. I don’t take the “walking art museum” quip as an insult. Good tattoo artists are no less talented than painters or graphic designers. My body can only be improved by their work. And no one else will have it. A rare art collection always carried around with me. When I can’t squeeze into my jeans, I can touch my pieces. Phew, they’re there, at least I have them.

I am an honors student and a damned hardworking one at that. I have never been to jail and I have never done hard drugs. So when you get the occasional peek at my shoulder and assume I’m white trash, I actually feel sorry for you. Your world will never expand. You will never meet half of the great people you could have met.

To drive the point home, here are some examples of perfectly respectable people with tattoos:
--Tattoos have been an important part of many cultures since the dawn of humanity. Otzi the Iceman, estimated to have lived 5300 years ago, had tattoos. The Maori tribe of New Zealand is famous for its decorative tattoos, as are many tribes of Laos, Cambodia, Malaysia, and Hawaii.
-- Both Winston Churchill and his mother had tattoos. His mother had a snake on her wrist, Churchill an anchor on his arm.
--Thomas Edison had 5 dots in a dice-like pattern on his arm.
--Many Russian Tsars had tattoos: Peter the Great, Catherine the Great, and Nicholas II.
--Ian McKellen has an Elvish design on his arm! He is the classiest guy in the world. If this doesn’t convince you that people with taste can have tattoos, I don’t know what will.

There is my defense of being tattooed. However I want to be clear: the decision to get a tattoo is a very serious one. Though removal is a possibility now, it is expensive and painful. Best way to avoid it? Don’t get a tattoo if you are a commitment phobe. If you’re dead-set on getting a tattoo, you must choose the absolute right one and be 100 percent sure. This is why I advise choosing a design that is not “narrow.” You may be really into one band, animal, or person at the moment, but can you honestly say to yourself “I will love this forever”? It is a simple question but it is oh so important. A tattoo is forever. Especially keep this in mind if you want to get one done in a visible place, such as your forearm or wrist. Once you have a design, I advise sitting on it for a few months. If you can think about the design 5 months later and still adore it, that’s a good indication that your design is “right” for you. Go to a certified clean space and remember, good tattoos aren’t cheap (unless you are lucky enough to have a parent of a friend like I was). And, I cannot stress this enough, if you are getting something done in a foreign language, get it checked and re-checked by native speakers! The internet is not your friend in this case. And white people, stay away from tribal tattoos you know nothing about. You’ll look like an idiot.

If you’re skeptical of tattoos, I can understand. I just hope that next time you’re in line at Circle K for gas and the person in front of you has tattoos from elbow to wrist, you think twice before assuming they sell dope. That could be Edison or Churchill, a loving dad or college professor. You never know.

Normal Rhythm

I haven't done a poem and poem post in a while. I wrote this poem about a year ago about an ex. The drizzling rain always reminds me of a pleasant memory with him. No hard feelings.

Unsurprisingly, I went with an ex-lover theme for today.

Here's mine. I'm fine with it as is, but I think maybe the ending isn't conclusive enough. My poetry teacher offered great advice: if you think you're done, write another line. I believe this poem needs that.

I hide away, your ghost in mind

I hide away, your ghost in mind
as I cross my legs in a dim Best Western room
in an ushanka, beer in hand.

Vision blurred, I can see you behind my eyes.
Your silhouette, far ahead, sauntering
through raindrops, with dog close by.

A glimpse outside reveals
a flickering McDonald’s arch
and the disappearance
of your drizzled silhouette.

No sweat entangled between us tonight.

But still as I sit, head in knees,
blood cells constricting in rye,
there is your apparition
on the curb
dog leash in hand
glancing back at me
waiting.

I'm usually more into contemporary poets, but I do hold some classic poets dear: John Donne, Shakespeare, Sappho, and above all Lord Byron. I think of him as the Bourdain of romantic poetry. Beautiful form with an edge.

When we two parted

When we two parted
In silence and tears,
Half broken-hearted
To sever for years,
Pale grew thy cheek and cold,
Colder thy kiss;
Truly that hour foretold
Sorrow to this.

The dew of the morning
Sunk chill on my brow--
It felt like the warning
Of what I feel now.
Thy vows are all broken,
And light is thy fame;
I hear thy name spoken,
And share in its shame.

They name thee before me,
A knell to mine ear;
A shudder comes o'er me--
Why wert thou so dear?
They know not I knew thee,
Who knew thee too well--
Long, long shall I rue thee,
Too deeply to tell.

In secret we met--
In silence I grieve,
That thy heart could forget,
Thy spirit deceive.
If I should meet thee
After long years,
How should I greet thee?--
With silence and tears.

Roadtripping Fantasies

Before I say anything, I have to give credit for this idea to one of my favorite bloggers, Rhiannon of liebemarlene.com. She sells vintage clothing (and anyone who knows me knows I love vintage anything) and always has stunning photos to share. Sometimes she'll put together pretend outfits for pretend vacations, which is a cute idea. I couldn't resist doing my own, since sometimes I can't seem to pull my head out of the clouds!

I love traveling and sometimes I love clothes. When it comes to clothes, I'm all or nothing: t-shirt and jeans or blouse, pants, heels, jewelry, bag, the whole shebang. What I love most though is PLANNING. I plan everything: what to wear x day, what to eat, when to get my hair cut like x, etc. So pretending to be packing for a vacation is pretty fun to me.

Normally I just fantasize about trips; I have a long list of places I wish to see. However, there's one trip I have my heart set on, and WILL do (I'm saving now!). When I graduate in 2012, I want to take a roadtrip to Minnesota to see my family. I want to go north, then east, in order to see Grand Teton, Glacier National Park, and obviously Yellowstone. So I will be eating mac n cheese for the next couple of years to make this happen, and I don't mind a bit.

In the little picture I have in my head, I see two great lags of the trip: northwest hiking and Midwest prairie/small town hopping. So I would pack accordingly:




And of course I would have music with me: edgier, more energetic stuff for the grueling West and more mellow classics for the Middle.

Return Home (?)

It's easy to feel content with the place you live in when you never get out. I go to Minnesota once or twice every year, and whenever I come home to Tucson, I want to get OUT OUT OUT. I like Tucson, I LOVE its art scene, but I hate Arizona. A lot. Always have...so we'll see what the future holds.

I'm not one of those "family=best friends" people, but I do love my mom's family (and would like to be closer to them). They've had a large influence on my sense of self, particularly heritage wise. Since crossing the Atlantic, my family has resided in Minnesota, so the place is close to my heart.

My great-grandfather, Joseph Milashius, hailed from Lithuania. I'm not sure exactly where, but his brother Bronius wrote a book which mentions the village of Bruzaiciu. Bruzaiciu is tiny, near Kaunas and the Kaliningrad border. http://translate.google.com/translate?hl=en&sl=lt&u=http://lt.wikipedia.org/wiki/Br%25C5%25AB%25C5%25BEai%25C4%258Diai&ei=MvhQTJGHMIbCsAO_y-CwDg&sa=X&oi=translate&ct=result&resnum=2&ved=0CBwQ7gEwAQ&prev=/search%3Fq%3DBr%25C5%25AB%25C5%25BEai%25C4%258Diai,%2BTaurag%25C4%2597,%2BLietuva%26hl%3Den%26sa%3DN%26prmd%3Dm

My great-grandmother, Mary Delkoski, came from Opole, Poland. I never knew about this specific region until I looked through our genealogical stuff this latest trip. Apparently the region is a melting pot for Polish and German peoples, which explains the German blood in the fam! It's a fascinating little place--I hope to see it one day! http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Opole

Travel

I'm going to MN/WI tomorrow. I'm so thrilled- I need to get out of this awful state! Arizona is beautiful in its "own special way" I suppose, but the Midwest countryside is undoubtedly gorgeous.

Some art representing my reverence. The abstract forest is in colored pencil and the Northern Pike is in pastels.

I LOVE James Wright. He captures the Midwestern countryside effortlessly and is the master of the twisted ending. Here's his poem "Northern Pike":

All right. Try this,
Then. Every body
I know and care for,
And every body
Else is going
To die in a loneliness
I can't imagine and a pain
I don't know. We had
To go on living. We
Untangled the net, we slit
The body of this fish
Open from the hinge of the tail
To a place beneath the chin
I wish I could sing of.
I would just as soon we let
The living go on living.
An old poet whom we believe in
Said the same thing, and so
We paused among the dark cattails and prayed
For the muskrats,
For the ripples below their tails,
For the little movements that we knew the crawdads were making
under water,
For the right-hand wrist of my cousin who is a policeman.
We prayed for the game warden's blindness.
We prayed for the road home.
We ate the fish.
There must be something very beautiful in my body,
I am so happy.

Poems from my teenagehood (oh boy)

I pulled all of my old poems off my parents' computer. Some of them were 3-4 years old. Some of them surprised me and I feel I can work with them, but some were just baaaad. But hey, we all have to start somewhere right?

The "good"

Chai

Night-time grips the skyline
as a tissue scuttles across
the road like some kind
of wounded wretched creature.

No matter whose house it is my heart pounds.

A flutter in my veins
as we discuss places and
services in the world.

White privilege and spiritual partners and I
don’t like to use the word “love” because it is so heavy.

The amount of my life that hasn’t
been spent in internal dialogue
could fit into this two-dollar chai.

I am enamored with
the slenderness of your ankles;
wondering if the flaw within
me is in him or in my perception
of him- all strife is internal.

The clock says 8:45 and I don’t believe it.
Time is not the fourth dimension but I
suppose all is relative.

I never realized how long his legs were
until I nervously tried to keep up
with his steps without disrupting
the conversation.

What have I missed out on
with my numbing attempts?
I ask you.
And you respond,
“Everything you think you have.”

My eyes are tired and my heart sunken,
as a tissue scuttles across
the road like some kind
of wounded wretched creature.

Expectations

I’ll go in five minutes
not before I crank
out a poem about
my and your wrongs.

Too in love
infatuation, denial
something
to see straight
to be angry
to feel mistreated.

I watched tv with him
and sat outside.
No right
to have expectations.

No right
to want
to be poured
over.

We walked his dog in the rain.

Joy

Stretching in the shower.
Hairspray makes the cuts show clearer.
Puffy red to match the stuffed animal.
Bloated sodium starvation stomach.

Itchy itchy exploded blood vessels.
Penny taste fingernail cuticles.
Flakey folded wrinkly elbows.
Fat stump jaundiced knees.

Chewing chewing chew.
On every pillow case and straw.
Scratching scratching scratch.
On every green segment oxidized.

Sit-ups on chilly midnight mornings.
Squats in bathroom stall lunch breaks.
Architect of maniacal beauty.
Builder of Splenda joy.

Void empty hollowness.
Epitome of effort.
Hyperbolic sensitivity.
Plummet spiral.

My Rimbaud Body

Caffeine and nicotine spit-
dirt packed under nails,
and entrenched in cuticles.
A drawer of laxatives
and generic sleep aids
to write a poem à la Rimbaud.
Mais il n’y a pas assez de talent,
my efforts at enchantment
are nothing more than narcotic
nurturing. Relapse without relapse.
The cuticle on my left middle finger
is peeling and oozing and I tend to it
with serrated canine edges.
Scar tissues forms slower if
wounds heal faster and I know
how much you enjoy my scars.
Mountain ridges on an otherwise
smooth landscape to tell of tales
of bitterness solitude hate and
everything else that you are
too full of just youthful spirit
to undertake and comprehend.
Let’s guide our bodies to tell
us stories and recite poetry of
ancient archaic love lost gone.
These words on this page at this hour
could not possibly summarize to you
the trials that my cuticles have seen
as I’ve tried out my Rimbaud life.


Not my best stuff, but keep in mind I wrote these at about 16 or 17, and as Rimbaud said, when you're 17 you know nothing.

The ugly:

Here's this monstrosity for your enjoyment. What was I thinking with that aaaa hard rhyme scheme?! UGH!

Not Much Else

The leaf flickers across the board,
as the gentlemen are being told
about the women who scold
without conscience of what is old.

She is awake when she is confused,
questioning this or that and being used.
Glowing in misery, dripping news
of her once man now paying his dues.

And she says, “Where are these gentlemen?”
She lay on her leather couch in the den,
where have all her tears and leggings been?
Clouds drifting in this mis-en-scene.

He claims it’s a poem by Rimbowed.
She turns to him, thinking Rimbaud,
but he’s gone with the word in tow.
Oh well, she thinks, not much else to know.

Since I've been on this Bourdain kick lately (I've always loved him but for whatever reason now I REALLY love him) and many of the above poems concern food, I'm going to feature an actually good food poem. This is a poem by Li-Young Lee, an Indonesian born poet who taught at my college, the University of Arizona, for a few years. I have to admit I'm not much into international poetry with the exception of French and Russian. No particular reason, it just hasn't happened. However I find Lee's compressed style oddly liberating and powerful. This last line is a killer!


Eating Alone

I’ve pulled the last of the year’s young onions.
The garden is bare now. The ground is cold,
brown and old. What is left of the day flames
in the maples at the corner of my
eye. I turn, a cardinal vanishes.
By the cellar door, I wash the onions,
then drink from the icy metal spigot.

Once, years back, I walked beside my father
among the windfall pears. I can’t recall
our words. We may have strolled in silence. But
I still see him bend that way-left hand braced
on knee, creaky-to lift and hold to my
eye a rotten pear. In it, a hornet
spun crazily, glazed in slow, glistening juice.

It was my father I saw this morning
waving to me from the trees. I almost
called to him, until I came close enough
to see the shovel, leaning where I had
left it, in the flickering, deep green shade.

White rice steaming, almost done. Sweet green peas
fried in onions. Shrimp braised in sesame
oil and garlic. And my own loneliness.
What more could I, a young man, want.

Help me meet one of my idols!

Anthony Bourdain is hosting an essay contest. Winner gets published in his upcoming book and receives 10k from the hands of the man himself! Please create an account (it's free!) and vote for my essay. I will be so grateful!

http://bourdainmediumraw.com/essays/view/521

Photoshoot--Stumbled upon a creepy empty house

"Preacher was a talkin’, there’s a sermon he gave
He said every man’s conscience is vile and depraved
You cannot depend on it to be your guide
When it’s you who must keep it satisfied
It ain’t easy to swallow, it sticks in the throat
She gave her heart to the man
In the long black coat

There are no mistakes in life some people say
It is true sometimes you can see it that way
But people don't live or die, people just float
She went with the man
In the long black coat

There’s smoke on the water, it’s been there since June
Tree trunks uprooted, 'neath the high crescent moon
Feel the pulse and vibration and the rumbling force
Somebody is out there beating a dead horse
She never said nothing, there was nothing she wrote
She gone with the man
In the long black coat"-- Man in the Long Black Coat, Bob Dylan

I love Tony Bourdain!

I have to confess my ever growing affection for Anthony Bourdain. I've been watching "No Reservations" since the first season. Initially it served as my "travel porn," allowing me to immerse myself into a fantasy world of beautiful places I otherwise would never see. However, as years have gone by I find myself watching it more for Bourdain. I read his blogs (not his books yet, though I plan to) and he's just wicked funny and raw. I relate to him a lot...a control freak, organized and critical, yet artistic and dirty. Of course it also thrills me that he's into the New York punk scene, home to The Stooges and Television, as I am--only he lived it. His love of tattoos and the f-word makes me all warm and fuzzy.

A lot of animals rights activists hate him, because he is outright opposed to vegetarianism. As a pescatarian, I am not offended by his views in anyway. He claims that "vegetarianism is a First World luxury" and I completely agree. I can afford to refuse red meat and poultry, but too many people do not have this choice. For a vegetarian to claim that his/her's diet is the only way to go is ludicrous. The only reason I don't eat red meat and poultry is because of the cruel and disgusting ways they are raised and prepared in this industrialized nation. If I lived near a local butcher in Tuscany, I'd be all over meat. So yes, I've been called a hypocrite, eating fish while putting down the cattle industry, but I don't care. This is how I see it. And veganism is again a personal matter--I will never be a vegan but I support those who are, as long as they don't give me shit.

Anyway, Bourdain is a big supporter of eating all of the animal, which is the way to go. I have to laugh at people who cringe at tribes eating intestines on "No Reservations" or "Bizarre Foods." Guess what's in your hotdogs! Bourdain has the upmost respect for his craft and defends it vehemently, which is why I respect him above all else. His frowning upon the Food Network for cheapening and commercializing fine cuisine is akin to my shunning of community poetry forums, in which 15 year olds write about hearts and coffins and call themselves poets. Ick ick ick.

Sound pretentious? Maybe Tony has gotten to me.

Also, I have to point out the fact that he is a downright knockout with a fantastic grasp on sarcasm. Need I say more? I can't wait for more episodes of the new season!

Untitled short story (and unfinished)

I've been working on this short story for about 4 months (I know, not much to show for it, but I am the slowest fiction writer in existence). It's inspired by my not-so-proud ventures of high school, but is in no way autobiographical. I have no idea what to call it! Grr! Suggestions always appreciated :)

Prologue

I loved Lady Lazarus more than I knew I could love anyone. I loved her where I wanted to breathe her, wanted to consume her. Her features begged for rapture. Endless breakable legs, ethereal skin, dark rimless eyes the size of ice cream scoops. At her peak was the inorganic red hair—so unnatural but so fitting, she wasn’t born with it but she was meant for it. It is a curiosity that god created any human after her growth into the perfect one. And she was. From head to toe she was wonderfully fake and perfect.
Her face was not my face. From brow to chin she exemplified femininity in her lack of definition. Smooth and untainted china, invaluable. My face was nothing but corners and height. If her face was fine china mine was cutlery—and I sported it as such. No one was going to set me on tabletops and no one was going to handle me carelessly.
Lady Lazarus and I were inseparable, unhealthily so perhaps but we had no one and nothing else to do but feed each other. We lived off of nicotine and hair dye and black coffee and nothing else. We took turns using the toilet to vomit and compared notes. I know this doesn’t sound like love but it was love in a muddy way. I would have died for her and I think she would have died for me. That is how I defined love and yes I loved her.
We were enveloped in a ménage-a-trois with our only semblance of a closer friend, Bull Burden. Bull was the gentlest of gentle souls and graced everyone and anyone with his shy toothy smile. Us sick creatures took great comfort in Bull’s presence. He was a tall, thick, working horse of a man who wanted nothing more than to see us heal. We cheated him by crying all the time, nestling him for warmth. And he never complained. Not a once.
Lady Lazarus, Bull Burden, and I loved books and coffee. It’s hard to believe but that’s all that ever made us happy. Those two things and each other. So I suppose each of us had four things that made us happy.

Part I

Lady Lazarus and I embraced each other drunkenly. Her perfectly small head drooped in my solid crosslegged lap. She was moaning incomprehensibly, either unable to speak, voicing pain, or moaning for the hell of it I don’t know.
“I need to pee.”
I knew how to respond. I rolled her off and, upon my standing, grabbed her paperthin forearm and jerked her upright. While her weight rested against mine, I walked her to the bathroom, as though she were someone’s shuffling grandmother.
She was giggling now. My eyes were blurry from the eye protein on my contact lenses and the hours of nonstop vodka. I sat on the floor and in the process almost forgot her precarious position on the toilet. She was cackling uncontrollably, her chipped nails digging into the lid desperately trying to keep her body from sliding off. She loved every minute of it.
I hated to stop her idiotic bliss. She was so gorgeous in her cheap tequila-soaked moment. Forgetting everything for a few minutes, she found such pleasure in teetering on the toilet. But I had to grab her and put her pants back on. She shrieked as I lifted her, she saw the slip coming—I’m only so strong after so many drinks. Her head hit the tub.
“Oh god! I’m so sorry, so sorry, are you okay? I’m really sorry.”
She started squealing and laughing, her eyes wincing and tearing, her tongue poking through her smeared crimson lips. I started cackling until I felt my heart swell enough to rub against my lungs and make me pop with pressure. I fell onto her. Our arms locked around each other. We were in a perfect embrace. We were Tiresias’ snakes, wound together in slippery delirious glory, waiting for the mighty cane to beat us into sanity.

We always waited for sanity. We never went looking for it. That would require being sober.

Part II

I drove her to work. She was two years younger than me, with a fresh license. I suppose the difference motivated me to nestle her, making any space around her as warm and accommodating as possible. Transportation was no exception. She closed her enormous lids and wrapped her twiggy arms around the narrow area under her chest. Her seatbelt rested against her chest softly. Her cell phone buzzed.
“Can you pick me up from therapy tomorrow?”
“Sure.”
We sat in silence; she basked in the hot Western sunshine coming through the passenger window. We were both in therapy. Like classic middle-class white kids, we both took it for granted. I’m a fuck up and no one’s gonna fix me. Anyone who did not stand back and watch our fiery spiral was the crazy, quite obviously. We were artists. We were supposed to be out of control! How else were we supposed to create? We would die.

We always thought we were going to die early. It was just a matter of what was going to get us.

She worked at a restaurant. Everyone loved her. She was a charmer of humans of all kinds. I drove her across town every week. I lived with my parents. They didn’t know her. She was mine.

We were artists and we would die. Who could possibly understand?

We got Bull along the way. Bull reminded me of photos I had seen of young Kerouac, high in the forehead and always in Levis and beat up shoes. He looked like a drifter. In many ways I suppose he was, he was up for anything at anytime. We tossed him around like a used baseball—despite my undying devotion to Lady I could hate her and he went from girl to girl for supplementing our needs. He took the full force of each of us manic heavyweights and still stood. In short we both treated him like shit and he never complained about it.

“So what are you feelin’ today, Bull?”
“Whatever.”

This was typical. We drove on in silence. A half hour later we arrived at Lady’s work and dropped her off. Love told me she was grateful but I never heard it from her lips. All I could do was shrug. I turned to Bull.

“Does coffee sound good?”
“Yeah.”

And we were off. Coffee, books, and waiting on Lady’s call. Our lives day in and day out.

Not much to write about lately. Since getting my operation done I've been unfortunately lazy with my writing/painting. I've been catching up on my reading though. I finished Camus' "The Plague" and enjoyed it, but I'll definitely need to read it again, the subject matter's pretty dense. I'm halfway through "War & Peace." I think if you have the time you should attempt to tackle it, one chapter at a time. It's a beautiful piece of work-- essentially you hold all of Napoleonic Russia in your hands. There's a few boring battle scenes, but overall it's very engrossing. I'm 25 pages into Thomas Pynchon's "Gravity's Rainbow." I definitely appreciate the freeflowing, surreal nature of the novel. It's akin to "Cat's Cradle" meets "Naked Lunch." Difficult, yes, but fascinating. Reading it will be an endeavor.

I promise that soon I'll have actual writing for your (dis?)pleasure. In lieu of that, here's some links. My favorite videos--some legit, some artsy, some hilarious.

Tourette's Guy's best moments in a song. Warning, NSFW!:

The sexiest thing I have ever seen. Live performance by The Dead Weather, which contains Alison Mosshart (see Kills post) and Jack White. Nuff said. WOW at 5:04

A tragic collage of video/audio clips of Edie Sedgwick. The fashion world chewed her up, poor thing. By the way, there's Uma Thurman's mom at 2:57.

Bob Dylan's quick mind at work.

Amazing amazing stuff. Kerouac reading from "On the Road" on the Steve Allen Show in 1959. Beautiful words, beautiful voice, beautiful man.

"Anyway I wrote the book because we're all going to die"

Death is a gang-boss

Not a joyful post tonight. I'm going to post two poems, one by me and one by Paul Celan, that deal with the human tragedies of the early 20th century. My poem, "A Daughter's Famine," was inspired by a lesson on Stalin's purges.

A Daughter’s Famine

She ripped a hole in her foot.
The arid earth pulled back in sheets
exposing gray keen stones
risking putrid infection.
Papa Koba held her shoes.

She clutched her Caucasian eyes.
Salt escaped from the tear ducts
but no water and they froze painfully
in the crippling nausea of hunger.
Papa Koba shrugged upon her ribs.

She peeled off her skin in layers.
The crust of her bones coated
the breadless earth with the crust
of other bones—miraculous fertilizer.
Papa Koba approved.

His steel boots sloughed organ caked
black earth which had grown luscious
with protein.

He held her shoes in a
pockmarked meaty fist.

He was a hard man.
He was the Sadovnik chelovecheskogo schast'ja and
he was a father. And she

she was nutrients.

This next poem, "Deathfugue" by Paul Celan, is by far the best poem about the Holocaust ever written. Celan and his parents, both Austrian Jews, escaped with their lives from the camps. My heart was in my throat when I heard a reading of this poem.

Black milk of morning we drink you at dusktime
we drink you at noontime and dawntime we drink you at night
we drink and drink
we scoop out a grave in the sky where it’s roomy to lie
There’s a man in this house who cultivates snakes and who writes
who writes when it’s nightfall nach Deutschland your golden hair Margareta
he writes it and walks from the house and the stars all start flashing he whistles his dogs to draw near
whistles his Jews to appear starts us scooping a grave out of sand
he commands us to play for the dance

Black milk of morning we drink you at night
we drink you at dawntime and noontime we drink you at dusktime
we drink and drink
There’s a man in this house who cultivates snakes and who writes
who writes when it’s nightfall nach Deutschland your golden hair Margareta
your ashen hair Shulamite we scoop out a grave in the sky where it’s roomy to lie
He calls jab it deep in the soil you lot there you other men sing and play
he tugs at the sword in his belt he swings it his eyes are blue
jab your spades deeper you men you other men you others play up again for the dance

Black milk of morning we drink you at night
we drink you at noontime and dawntime we drink you at dusktime
we drink and drink
there’s a man in this house your golden hair Margareta
your ashen hair Shulamite he cultivates snakes

He calls play that death thing more sweetly Death is a gang-boss aus Deutschland
he calls scrape that fiddle more darkly then hover like smoke in the air
then scoop out a grave in the clouds where it’s roomy to lie

Black milk of morning we drink you at night
we drink you at noontime Death is a gang-boss aus Deutschland
we drink you at dusktime and dawntime we drink and drink
Death is a gang-boss aus Deutschland his eye is blue
he shoots you with leaden bullets his aim is true
there’s a man in this house your golden hair Margareta
he sets his dogs on our trail he gives us a grave in the sky
he cultivates snakes and he dreams Death is a gang-boss aus Deutschland

your golden hair Margareta
your ashen hair Shulamite

Asleep...tired...or it malingers

5 days since getting the wisdom teeth removed. I've gotten some reading done but nothing other than that. No writing, unfortunately. I've been so drugged out. My main goal for tomorrow since I'm improving is to revise and write write write.

I'm not going to do any poem stuff today. I'm too spent to forage my "archive" for a poem to post. I want to bring up this nonfiction piece of mine. Being restricted to mushy foods has had an interesting affect on me. I want some cool, crunchy cereal soooo badly...yet, I have lost weight, and I've forgotten how easy it is to not eat. That's a road I dare not step towards, but I've been thinking a lot about body image and food and the like. This is a piece I wrote in February when I was in a similar state of mind:

A Hunger Manifesto
02/25/10

More and more the suggestion “how to be anorexic” pops up in search engines. Obviously the person searching for such a thing is not and will never be anorectic. What the pursuer wants is the ultimate knowledge that the anorectic seems to hold. How do you get so thin…how do you not eat. The anorectic seemingly holds the key to the Western ideal of beauty, of perfection: Thin. And for every person aware that anorexia nervosa is a dangerous mental disorder, there is a person who secretly or not so secretly is envious of the anorectic’s refusal of food.

As if it could solely be about food. It would be so easy to change, to cure, to eliminate if the anorectic simply did not want to eat. Anorexia, after all, means lack of appetite in medical translation. This is what Westerners want to know. How does one suppress appetite? The anorectic, however, is the absolute wrong person to turn to with such a question.

Anorectics want to eat. They daydream of eating and write of eating. Their dreams are full of cake, pasta, bread. Food is their religion: Thin is the God but low calorie foods are the saints. Salads, fruits, vegetables, aspartame, black coffee, and water so much water. The day, the week even, is placed in the framework of food. They have appetite. There is no question of that.

But anorectics are good daughters and sons. The best friends and star students. And starvation is the ultimate act of selflessness. Here is my body on a silver platter. All my food goes to you. I don’t deserve it. I need to serve instead of gorge. They are rapturously devoted. Anorectics cannot state “good enough.” Cannot state “average.” These are alien concepts. More so, these are blasphemy.

And of course everyone prays to Thin. Thin is purity, the adherence to tradition, before food could be gotten anywhere in any quantity (keeping in mind anorexia nervosa is almost strictly a Western occurrence). Thin is upward mobility because Thin is glamorous, fashionable. The initial choice to restrict food intake is all on the anorectic but encouragement is inescapable. I wish I were skinny like you…

While anorexia nervosa can cripple men just as well as women, women are incredibly sensitive to it because of the Western perversion of youth. As soon as the female child begins to soften around the breasts and belly she is sexualized. Men drool at the mouth for her limberness, her excitability, her purity and naivety. He wants to be the first to take her so she always remembers him and at least he can be confident enough to “satisfy” a child. And as the girl grows softer and begins bleeding and feeling tightness in the lower belly around certain boys her father snarls in fear and her mother in jealousy. The girl quickly realizes that she is a new creature who can no longer relate to her father because she looks like her mother and yet cannot identify with her mother because her mother pushes her away in necessity and partly in envy, knowing her daughter will now be the subject of desire she once was.

And if the girl is subject to the most abhorrent act imaginable—sexual abuse—her new body is found an enemy. The softness not only pushed her parents away but seduced my abuser, she concludes. He touched me because I look too sexy. This is her deduction. The only way to be rid of softness is to starve it off. So starve she will.

Above everything the anorectic rejects—selfishness, aging, sexuality—there is consumer culture. Take take take buy buy buy consume consume consume. In this flurry of gluttony the anorectic holds steadfast, saying I do not want, I do not want. In hunger is the affirmation of humanity. Consumer culture dulls senses. Anorectics opt out of the dizzying modern lifestyle in favor of feeling. It is a paradox that in starvation is living, but it makes perfect sense when placed in the context of Western society. The “average” modern person falls victim to the numbing patterns of desk work, commuting, television. Anorectics do not believe in average and will do anything to be exemplary, and this means the rejection of the ultimate consumption: food. The “average” people take their on-the-go food for granted. Not me, I need to feel, says the anorectic. And of course this will result in Thin and Thin will be praised and praised until the anorectic is dying or dead.

As if it could solely be about food. It would be so easy.

Anorexia nervosa is flourishing, becoming an American epidemic. The fact that obesity is an epidemic of the same proportions is no coincidence. Both anorexia nervosa and obesity cross generational, racial, and gender boundaries (albeit they are concentrated in certain demographics), more and more striking at younger ages. The obese suffocate themselves with consumer culture—buying popular, easy, manufactured food and working their sedentary job, blind to the health risks because they simply have too much to do to think about weight gain. The anorectics are hyperaware of this suffocation. They vow to sustain on as little as possible and push the physicality of their bodies despite the temptations of technology, blind to the health risks because “average” must be avoided like a rabid animal.

What is for certain is that consumer culture is here to stay until the next paradigm-shifting technological innovation. And while people are enraptured in consumption they will always bow to Thin as the holy ideal because Thin has the will power to reject modernity. Thin is pure, Thin is transcendent, Thin is youthful, Thin is perfect. And this ideal will continue killing their sons and daughters, their friends and students, because Thin is never Thin. In the mind of the anorectic, the Thinner means the greater and more pleasing, and Thinnest will occur only in death. It is the sacrifice they make to Thin and all its promises of greatness—they will finally be noticed positively by their parents and their body will be a temple instead of a tool of hedonistic desire. Anorexia nervosa is the want to sacrifice. The fact that starving to feel in a deadening culture or starving to feel accomplished results in death is known quite well by the anorectic. He or she is willing to make that sacrifice if their loved ones let them.

brief

Some more of my photography and editing. I'm thinking of investing in a camcorder but they are pricey so we'll see...

I'm going to be MIA for the next few days. I'm getting my wisdom teeth removed and will be using my recovery time to work on gifts for my grandparents' 60th anniversary.

I've made no progress in "W&P," but I did finish both "The Road" and "Brave New World". I need to read them again; both were very beautiful texts. I'm currently reading "The Plague" by Albert Camus and of course I'm in love with it because it's Camus.

Here's a stream of consciousness poem. You just write and write, never lifting the pen from the page for an allotted time. I like the content but I'm debating changing the form. I don't know if I should break it into stanzas or not.

William S. Burroughs Recommends Using Dreams to Write

I dreamed I saw Ginsberg on the campus mall with his long gray beard and khaki fedora and I approached him as old friends. He was an advisor for my thesis, which I debated either making an anthology or book of poems. I told him about how Kerouac’s death should upset me more but it didn’t because I never really knew the man despite seeing him all the time. Ginsberg was silent so I kept talking to avoid the empty space which beckons for people to say what they really mean and I could not admit to me that he was in my head. He was all I had at the moment so I kept chattering about things I didn’t really feel and that didn’t really mean anything to anybody but I had to keep talking so he wouldn’t leave me alone.

Experiments

I tried seriously working with pastels and colored pencils Tuesday. The first piece is half of Edie Sedgwick's face (I did half because I can only do profiles freehand), done with pastels and charcoal (charcoal for the eye makeup). I love pastels because they just melt onto the page and are very intense in terms of color. They are messy though! The second piece is of a Dogue de Bordeaux, or French Mastiff, done in colored pencil. I like pencils because they are easy to control, but it takes a lot of pressure to get the color to pop. I think French Mastiffs are one of the most beautiful dog breeds out there. I wish I could do their coat justice:

I normally don't use rhyme in my poems, but I'm trying to incorporate more formal elements into my free verse stuff. Here is a somewhat rhymed poem I wrote on Monday or Tuesday:

Across the Hall
To I., with much love

He collects soda cans
and he collects hair.
He’d rather collect dishes than
step out and see me there.
I still scrape fat off his pan
and wipe his cutlery with care,
with hope that soon I can say
“No matter how much you collect,
you can’t disappear.”


I don't know if I want to expand on this one or not. I'm going to mull over it.

After reading this following poem for the first time, my heart stopped. Every poem should have a shift in the ending, and this ending is just devastating. Countee Cullen belonged to the Harlem Renaissance school of poetry along with uber-famous poet Langston Hughes. I adore Cullen and my admiration for him began with this poem:

Incident

Once riding in old Baltimore,
Heart-filled, head-filled with glee;
I saw a Baltimorean
Keep looking straight at me.

Now I was eight and very small,
And he was no whit bigger,
And so I smiled, but he poked out
His tongue, and called me, "Nigger."

I saw the whole of Balimore
From May until December;
Of all the things that happened there
That's all that I remember.

We could, we could crash--A Tribute to The Kills

Since I posted so much yesterday and I'll be working on more tonight, I decided to showcase one of my favorite bands today. They are not well-known here in the States and they really deserve to be. The Kills consist of two vocalists/guitarists, named Alison Mosshart (nickname VV) and Jamie Hince (nickname Hotel). Alison Mosshart is currently in another fantastic band with Jack White called The Dead Weather, but she still works with Hince regularly. Hince is engaged to Kate Moss...despite what people think, he and Mosshart are not an item. They are good friends who have been performing music since 2002. Their biggest single is "URA Fever," which has been in a few movies. Yet they remain pretty underground over here (they're a London based band). They're influenced by Patti Smith, Frank Zappa, and the Velvet Underground. The Kills also dabble in art and photography, which I'm showing here. Enjoy!













I pulled those photos from their official website and facebook. Here is a great video of them performing live. This is one of their better known songs.

Finally, some revisions! (and a new painting, too)

This Bettie Page painting took the longest of any non-written art project I've done-- 4 days! Certainly not a masterpiece (never claimed I was a skilled painter) but I'm proud of it none the less. Bettie is a little rougher around the edges than I would have liked, but oh well.

I went up to Phoenix on Saturday with my family to visit my aunt, cousin, and some of their friends. I HATE Phoenix but I love road trips. They are so good for my creativity. On the way there I worked on revising some of my poems. For some reason I always do better revisions with pen and paper. It's a more "organic" process I suppose.

I want to thank "Anonymous" for the fantastic suggestions on my last post. Unfortunately I did not read the comment before revising that poem on my trip, but I'll definitely revise it more with your suggestions in mind! I'm still not 100% happy with this version. I think the title change works better but it may not for you guys, and if not let me know! :)

Tuesday Therapy
My hands at the ostrich wheel, driving down Oracle,
reflecting upon the discoveries of the prior session.
How I’ve waded through the sea of nerves,
riding the nausea and confusing it for love.

How the addict crafts a byzantine delusion
justifying their derisive medication,
I’ve seen the slick of desire as the affection of a friend.
Passion, as it has been presented to me, in lashings
long I believed was my bitter necessity.

As tires roll across the gray at 55
my heart pulsates in its new role
as a palpitating open sore untreated.
Exposed, exposed, all I am evolved.
There is liberation to be found
in mental flaying.

I'm going to post two more revisions along with their originals. The first is "Memoir of a Wannabe American Troubadour," my only published poem. It's been through multiple revisions with help from my poetry class but I revised it even more on Saturday. This is revision #5 with the original (the original is after the revision). The formatting is all wonky because I cannot get it to work, my apologies:

Memoir of a Wannabe American Troubadour
"I like too many things and get all confused and hung-up running from one falling star to another till I drop. This is the night, what it does to you. I had nothing to offer anybody except my own confusion.”—Jack Kerouac, On the Road

I.
Greyhound stationways on the out out skirts of town. Streets littered with long skirts, short skirts, torn skirts: the souvenirs and remnants of days that I don't remember-- what is memory anyway? --Nothing if not a false sense.

Etching
"Madness"

on a bathroom stall

with a ballpoint cap (sharpened with teeth)

II.

Gonorrhea contracted on the sink, damp underwear on the floor,
liquefying bones grounding into musty carpet
burning “regret” into the line of poetry
tattooed on my right shoulder.

III.

And so I wrote it:

The tongue to the roof of my mouth
forming
the hopelessness
of a generation.

"I'll speak it and breathe it."

Memoir of a Wannabe American Troubadour
Greyhound stationways on the out out skirts of town. Streets littered with long skirts, short skirts, torn skirts: the souvenirs and remnants of days that I don't remember-- what is memory anyway? --Nothing if not a false sense.

(Amphetamine fueled crosscountrydaze)

Etching
"Madness"

on the green wall

of a bathroom stall

with a ballpoint cap (sharpened with teeth)

Gonorrhea on the sink,
carpet burn branding poetry
into my personified flesh.

Drip Drip Drip

The tongue to the roof of my mouth
forming
the hope
of a generation.

"I'll speak it and breathe it."



This next one is titled "100." I think the revision is far better than the original; it's less redundant and wordy. I think having so many parenthetical statements might be overkill though. Once again the original is after the revision:

100
To D. and T.

How strange it is, this barrage of thorns
across the skin, an electric numbness.
This otherworldly abduction of the senses—
(This is not my body, it is a replacement)
the inexplicable ache gripping the eyes—
(I did not ask for it, please take it)
the fatigue rattling the mad hands—
(I will throw it away).

A hundred little x’s across your calf,
A hundred little droplets on your sock,
A hundred little words never spoken,
A hundred little lies told instead,
A hundred secrets engraved in skin.

(And oh, we remember all the fingers…and the hundred scar result).

You ask the scent of that water
and I know it too precisely,
the bleach and porcelain spawn.
A hundred hours wasted
watching my briny tears join sterile seas.

And we recall the esophageal minefield
that keeps us up at night.
The desperate mews into the pillow,
“No more, no more, no more.”

The bondage to our own wrists,
the external shell stapled to our musculature,
how can we revolt?

(A hundred frantic whispers.)
(A hundred pairs of deaf ears.)

When we wake from strangled sleep and meet,
donning black sleeves wrapping crusted scabs,
we talk of edges and guilt and endless flaws,
despising our bodily and intellectual captivity
(A hundred futile complaints?)

Between us there is a pool of self-pity
fed into by rivers of cynicism.
Yet when I look up from my Nile,
and take your pruned hands into mine,
I see a hundred reasons to rejoice.

100
To D. and T.

How strange it is, this barrage of thorns
across the skin, numb, a potassium drip.
This otherwordly abduction of the senses-
(This is not my body, I do not want it.)
the inexplicable ache gripping the eyes-
(I did not ask for it, please take it.)
the fatigue madly rattling the hands-
(I will throw it away.)

A hundred little x's across your calf,
a hundred little droplets on your sock,
a hundred little words never spoken,
a hundred little lies told instead,
a hundred grand regrets.

--When you see me now, all dressed and beat,
do you honestly care if it was the cat or the fall?
The plate is empty, the house is clean,
the girl is finally quiet, let her be.--

(I remember all the fingers...a hundred scars.)

The scent of that water, I know it too precisely,
the bleach and porcelain spawn.
A hundred hours wasted
watching my briny tears join the sea.

The esophageal minefield that
keeps you up at night.
The desperate mew in the pillow,
"No more, no more, no more."
The bondage to your own wrist,
the barcode on your forearm,
how can you revolt?

(A hundred tiny whispers.)
(A hundred pairs of deaf ears.)

I join you in a hazy patched slumber;
my brain unlocks a trench of filth,
a blaze of undesired memories,
an hysteric yelp into the pillow
of "No more, no more, no more."

When we awake from cursed sleep and meet,
donning black sleeves and pearl bracelets,
we talk of edges and guilt and endless flaws,
(A hundred furious tendencies.)
justify frantic impulses and "crazy sorrow,"
(A hundred futile wishes?)
despise our bodily and intellectual captivity.
(A hundred nuclear frustrations.)

Between us there is a pool of misery,
fed into by rivers of cynicism.
Weakened by hunger and life we bond
and share our dejections.
But when I look up from my clouds and skeleton
and cast my jaded eyes upon your faces,
I see a hundred reasons to rejoice.


Since I quoted Kerouac in "Memoir" and the Beat Generation is a continuing source of inspiration for me, I feel it's appropriate to feature a Beat poet (my favorite, actually). I'm crazy about Allen Ginsberg, and I'm crazy about his most famous poem "Howl." Ginsberg and "Howl" (and the Beat Generation in general) remain controversial to this day. Some believe they reinvented the way poetry is written, others believe drugs gave them their talent. Anyone who believes the latter has done zero research on Beat authors. Ginsberg was the son of a respected poet and was mentored by William Carlos Williams. He and Bob Dylan were best friends and wrote together quite a bit. The guy had chops! Granted, Beat fans are annoying, smoking American Spirits and drinking soy lattes and wearing Ray Bans on daddy's money. But the bottom line is don't disregard the Beats because they did drugs. Everyone did in the '60s.

Here is my favorite passage from "Howl." I have the "to recreate the syntax and measure of poor human prose" line tattooed on my shoulder.

to recreate the syntax and measure of poor human prose and stand before
you speechless and intelligent and shaking with shame, rejected yet
confessing out the soul to conform to the rhythm of thought in his
naked and endless head,
the madman bum and angel beat in Time, unknown, yet putting down here
what might be left to say in time come after death,
and rose reincarnate in the ghostly clothes of jazz in the goldhorn shadow
of the band and blew the suffering of America's naked mind for love
into an eli eli lamma lamma sabacthani saxophone cry that shivered
the cities down to the last radio
with the absolute heart of the poem of life butchered out of their own bodies
good to eat a thousand years.