Blather

this is one of the few poems that i really like without much editing. i wrote it last night.


"A Demonstration of Genius"

I only called it that so you would read it.
I have a problem with titles. I don’t know
why.
The body of a poem is so easy
to fold and knead and eviscerate;
it’s any shape you want.
But the title is like set in stone.
It’s immutable. It’s gravity. It’s death.
Once that line is set above the body
of the poem that poem’s destiny
is irretrievable.
Bukowski knew that and
he didn’t give a shit and a half about his titles.
I guess booze gives you that freedom.

If I tell you my poem’s about genius and
you want to read about genius, then
you have to read it.
If by the end you realize that I was full
of it (shit, not genius), then you would
have read it anyway and I still win.

I can write ten lines or a thousand and each
word is precious and every single one of them
is expendable. I could
change every word in this thing and it would
still be a demonstration of genius cause that’s what
I SAID
it would be.

not sure this constitutes a poem, maybe more of a rant.

"A Musing"
Or
"Treatise Against Nonsensical Abstractions"

There’s no such thing as integrity. Kindness is an accident, honesty a mere mistake. When we are good, it is simply a momentary lapse of cruelty. Like when a dog shits outside instead of on the carpet just because he was in the right place at the right time. We don’t do things out of love; we just use that phrase to describe what hate looks like outside—a steaming pile of sentiment curled on the lawn because for a few sublime moments we forgot about contempt. Those of us who know better steer clear, others choke that shit down and pretend it is the best thing they’ve ever known. What’s worse, we all of us think that we are capable of love at some time. We think, sure, we can do it. Why not? We can ignore our own mindless self-indulgence and give our whole selves to someone who deserves it. Hell, what’s so hard about that? But we should know better. We can only hurt; we can only destroy. We’ve done it since the first caveman stole food from his brother. Since Eve bit the apple. Since the Universe collapsed on itself and deposited intelligent cosmic fallout on Earth. We are fallen; we are dark; we are human. We cannot create beauty; we cannot create life; we cannot be whole. We. WE. Hell, maybe it’s just me.

reading it just now, i notice there is an overt shift in the middle...hmm...

this one's akin to the poem about the island.


"Rock Bottom"

A writer—a real writer, not someone who prostitutes
his vocabulary for a pittance dangled in front of him
by the media—a writer knows he’s hit the bottom
when he tries to write a poem exposing his depth of
thought and his lust for truth and all he comes up with
is some sputtering collection of misquoted clichés
under the name “Platitude Adjustment” (i.e. “A penny
saved is a waste of time”) which would be well-suited
for a spot at the end of some heart-wrenching story
of recovery in Reader’s Digest. Or maybe he was
actually trying to be funny. Either way, maybe it’s
time he hang up the whole poetry thing (cf. “Can’t
never could, but what did can ever do?”). Better
yet, maybe he should quit writing altogether to avoid
putting forth the same witless tripe that pervades
today’s insight-starved literature (see also: “Genius
without education is like silver in the mine, neither
of which is a renewable resource”). Then again,
maybe he should keep writing and forget about this
one embarrassing little misstep (e.g. “If at first you
don’t succeed, then it wasn’t meant to be”).
(“You can do anything if you just don’t care”)
(“If you think you can’t or you won’t, you’re right”)
(“Failure is not an option; it’s an inevitability”).
See also: Laughter, the Best Medicine. Maybe
He has to hit the bottom so he has a basis for
Comparison when he’s on top later. Oh well,
all in a day’s work…


i hope all the reader's digest allusions are clear enough...

this is one of the latest (i've actually written quite a few in the last day or so). it's uncommonly rough; it must be the three-month drought that has pressed me to post this before i'm satisfied with it. i think the even the title leaves much to be desired. nevertheless, here it is.

"Absolutely Perfect"

What you see is a row of perfect white teeth and smooth bronze skin and deep
cold blue eyes.

What you don’t see is the stockroom of chemicals and the makeup artist.
You don’t see the lights aimed and tested and dimmed and moved and relit and adjusted.
You don’t see the photographer changing lenses and switching to a low-speed film, something like 100 or 200 to make the texture softer.
You don’t see the beads of sweat on the model’s face from the lights and the cigarettes and the metabolic surge.
You don’t see the craft services guy talking on his phone to his friends about the shoot he’s working on with this hot girl.
You don’t see the hundreds of man-hours it takes to make this girl a goddess for 1/100th of a second.

But that doesn’t mean she’s unhappy.

After all, she is prettier than you.

What you see is what you are not.

i did it again! i finally got around to writing something new. this is about a couple of incidents that have happened at the high school where i teach. you can probably guess by the title what the causes of the incidents were.


Flip-flops and Diet Pills

A mound of sandals, the spoils
Of a war between an army of pride
And a proletariat of defiant naivety.
Bare feet stepping on the toes
Of men and women trapped
In shoes ankle-deep in self-
Righteous authority. They fight
For freedom, they fight for no
Reason other than to fight for
Something. They fight against
Those who punish an innocent
Exchange gone wrong and ignore
The misdemeanor deals gone right.
They fight against the very shoes
They will fill in ten years, and they
Will forget how to fight and what
to fight for.

without knowing the stories, this poem may make little sense, but i think the attitude is clear.

this is not directed at anyone in particular, just my preferred technique in dealing with hateful people.

Silent Slaughter

Indifference is the blade with which I will remove
your hateful tongue. I do not arm myself with rage
or spite. No, my weapon is apathy. I will not fight
fire with fire, but with patience—time will extinguish
you. You will curse my name and lash out in frantic
bitterness, and I will defend myself with but a smirk
and a deaf ear. And I will relish my silent victory; I
will laugh to see your face twist with loathing; I will
celebrate your violent self-destruction. Love is out
of the question, but you are not worth even my hate.

this one took a little work to "shape"...