Saturday, August 29, 2009

Megalithy As Example

We say we want to change
this world, our law, the socks
but baited, we wait~
sarsen, lodged in supposition

We say we need the change
this weight, wake early, be happy
but really, our hope so~
trilithons, balanced all precarious

We say we long for change
this job, new places, the travel
but senseless, to leave~
bluestone, convenience too near

We think alone we'll change
this island, our singularity, so exclusive,
but truthful, what isolation~
heelstone, aloofness and closeness

We move devoirs to change
this cerebration, our regards, the ideation
but how, we need it~
orthostats, marking the heavens


Tuesday, August 25, 2009

I've been a bit stressed today. Everything is piling up, yet I am turning from frustration (making a conscious choice) and finding solace in my blog. Despite what connotations bankruptcy carries, isn't that the truest form of being a steward? Ultimately accepting responsibility at the utmost level?

My thoughts were jumbled earlier; convoluted with visions of my pending bankruptcy, the frustrations and allusions of financial failure
from calling all the loan folks, from realizing I only own a single TV (freshly broken and irreplaceable), and the overwhelming bleak outlook of being a bankrupt young thirty-something who should be courting success instead of this.

My thoughts turn inexplicably to optimism. I mean, haven't people blown their own brains out over stuff like this? Yet, despite these macabre suppositions, I find myself thinking objectively. I find myself writing paragraphs like the one below. I find hope in myself and my wife and kids. This too shall pass.

My overwhelming thought:

The thing about mania is proximity; either how close you are to a situation or how closely you are observing the same situation. If you can leverage taking a step back long enough to grab a few breaths of unpolluted air, it can force perspective. A clearer head will prevail; proximity is never a lasting situation, even in death.

-Jay Blair

Friday, August 21, 2009

And Thus We See Applied Force's Infirmity

I seem the impotent man, and bound!
utterly fettered by both rule and your opinion
continually ousted by your compulsive thoughts.
whetted witticisms undercutting my legs

so what if my truth is not your truth?
and what matter if my ability the half of yours?
this malaise is my own, neither bought nor sold
and it works in my milieu, works in my world.

You all are not I and gratefully
neither am I swallowed up in your ownership
what a prison each would make of one anothers flesh
what hellish steps would be those shoes.

Perhaps this is the great sin
that issue that angels trip'd and fell over
their tumbling from grace. possession and compulsion
a third the hosts itched to own you and I.

Be free! I'll not manage you to death or distinction.
Achieve either on your own.
man is free, I am merely a magistrate;
let your amplitude play out over God's marten stage.

Break and be broken if you will
your daily small cuts, but tiny nothings, all sewn up
stitches standing out in neat surgical precision
tidy black on skin, they disintegrate when healed

both scars and rules are made and unmade
-yet nothing is so great as God-
He is the last executor of will, so be still!
today is not the last, nor the greatest.

If we are creatures who live beyond this veil
what false notions we must own about work.
how tiring this life! Will an eternity of rest
be the salve to still the throbbing bunion?

What if our next life is not avoidance of fatigue
but one where we relay the truth behind creature,
gently prodding folks that sin leads to Savior?
that at the root of all things, these lead to God?

If we were to now but sit and draw in the dirt
when the stones are gathered and raised
perhaps we'd realize bullshit is merely that.
only God can judge, He and none else.

And some are the times when He would sew up
wounds, pouring in oil. Perhaps other times
staying His hand and allowing the bomb, the fire,
the flaming sword wielded by the angel at the tree.

This life has nothing tiny, all is significant
and consuming anger is really but a sting, a stone
awaiting to be flung. Qumran! Let my stones be
flung away and my jars be unearthed.

If canopic, allow them to be. They carry my heart
they carry anointing oil, they carry scented herbs.
Let God restore and heal; let Him mark my brow
let the my soul be unstoppered and all poured out!

Let the poor and the bankrupt all sit and sup
Let the grievances be allayed, the cacchination
be subdued, the false pride be corrected.
My God will rule evenly in the end, mark'd and fair.

My God will make a place to sit,
on that plateau where he marks his meal,
and at that chair, that symbol lost again is drawn,
bridegroom's feast! Thieves and beggars at both elbows!

So mock on, my friends. My anger is now dried up
this manager is no Simon the sorcerer.
My odium at your work is gone
and the compelling power I longed for is freely surrendered to God.


Wednesday, August 19, 2009

I am suffering from identity crisis. As of today I am no cyclist, but on the other side of the Jay-spectrum I am no biker either. The two worlds I was once part of have passed me by--I am selling my Harley, and haven't ridden my bicycle really much at all in the last three years.

I rode today. I squeezed into a too-small shirt, modestly covered my too small cycling shorts with a pair of baggy cargo's, and pedaled 16.08 miles from my home up to Bridal Veil Falls and back. Today I spent 1 hour of time cruising at an average of 15.8 mph on my black Specialized Allez road bike.

When it comes to aches and pains, my right knee hurt first but then worked it's way to smoothness by mile 3. My left knee and left ankle hurt the entire time, but I took it easy and cruised. They were tolerable. It is hard to describe the stance on a road bike, but it can make you grimace--the muscles on the back of my head were starting to ache, and I remembered to relax my ears to make it go away. It is funny the things which can come back.

My overall speed was fairly laughable. My max speed was 28.5 due to a long downhill, and made me remember being skinny, more so than the ill-fitting shorts did.

Now, this whole identity thing is a bit of conundrum to me. I rode bicycles quite seriously for a decade, only hanging them up in the garage when I got my first motorcycle back in July 2006. I suppose it was the fact that I was on to a new thing, but I gave up the cycling for motorcycling.

Fast forward 3 years and one bankruptcy later. I am 15 lbs heavier and don't exercise a tenth what I used to.

Today was a revelation. I remembered how much I like the little things about cycling--the way a turn can be taken in a graceful arc, the feel of the pedal stroke, the sound of the wind in my ears, the incredible lightness of being after a climb, and mostly that special washed out clean feeling after exercising for an hour.

Truly, there is nothing quite like it, and I intend to continue this renaissance of my cycling passion.

Don't really have any way to succinctly tie this up; perhaps with a suggestion? If you haven't ridden a bicycle in a few years, get out and try it. You just might remember why you liked it as a kid.


Thursday, August 13, 2009

My Day at PCCI Plasma

I neglected to tell them of a pierced ear from thirteen years ago. That's my sin.

First a little background to the story. I have gone to two different plasma centers in the past decoade. I started back in 2002 when Melissa and I needed some extra money, and Alpha Plasma Center on Center Street in Provo (now closed) saved our bacon. I'd donate twice a week and it helped put food on the table.

Fast forward a few years, to 2007, and to PCCI, a plasma center located behind Sizzler on State Street in Orem. I started going again for much the same reason, earn some extra money to feed my family. They are pleasant, helpful, offer a service that helps bring money to me. It was a mutually beneficial relationship.

When they originally screen their applicants, they gather all sorts of information. They ask you questions from a questionnaire, give a physical, and keep charts of you. They may ask: have you ever been or traveled to Europe? The Moon? Had KJD, KGB, CNN, or ESPN? Had sex with a man, had sex for money, had sex with a golf shoe, touched a immunization site of someone who has a hepatitis vaccine, murdered vegetables and drunk of their blood; and are you aware you should report symptoms of west Nile virus for up to six hundred weeks after having them? Yes I am being a smart ass on some of their questions. I am angry tonight, as I just got permanently deferred because of a damn questionnaire.

Never mind the fact that I refer people to their location, have no diseases, donate regularly, never tamper with their machines, and never tell one of the phlebotomists to go shove that needle up their own arm when I get stuck wrong and bleed all over the place. I am the perfect donor, or was until 45 minutes ago.

No, I neglected to tell them in a recent second physical that I had pierced ears in 1996. Thirteen years ago. Most of their donors and their lab techs were five when that happened. Never mind the fact that I told them originally and it is still in my damn paperwork. Never mind that they ask in the daily questionnaire if you have had any piercings or tattoos in the last six months. No, I signed something saying I had answered correctly to the best of my ability. I didn't see the fine print that I was to tell the truth and nothing but the truth so help me God. They didn't even give me a Bible to swear on! That fine print was their clause that if untruthful I could be permanently deferred.

On snap! I also forgot to tell them about another major surgery I had. I was circumcised when I was a day old. Holy batshit! Run for the hills! My plasma MUST BE INFECTED (never mind the fact that additional screening sets the standard that I am clean). They think this one is a compulsive liar, so I must be lying about everything else. Let's permanently defer him!

Yes, to add further insult to injury, to rub salt into the smarting wound, all their plasma products are tested for disease every time, no exceptions. They are screened before being made into medicine, otherwise any blood-borne pathogen carrying person could donate, regardless of past history, and resultant products (to be given to other people) be damnned.

Why was I asked to talk to their manager? Because this rule is set up to make a point. They are telling me 'You lied. You neglected to mention in your re-examination that you had piercings. We already know this as you told us before, but our bureaucratic bullshit knee jerk rule is there because once upon a time we would take any crack-whore or junkie off the street. Our rules keep us from making an exception'.

So, donor beware. They want your plasma, but if you overlook anything, your ass is deferred permanently. To illustrate a point, even the collateral consequences of a misdemeanor are gone after five years. This is for life. For missing a single question.

Jay, you may be asking yourself, why not just go to another place? Plasma centers are springing up like fungi after rain. Why not go to Joe's Plasma just around the corner?

The killer here is the permanent deferral. They now think my blood and blood products are suspect. Because I neglected to tell them what they already had record on. You heard it, already had record on!

And THAT is why I am angry.

I am clean, willing, and need the money. But they apparently do not give a flying fark about that.

As I said above, donor beware. I am now logged in a national database as unable to donate. Don't you just love corporate knee jerk rules?

This donor is going to keep his plasma, thank you very much. And the plasma center can shove their rules (and their needles, forms, and bureaucracy) straight up their collective asses.


Vampires! Zombies! Tech Support Managers!

I've just woken up from the best sleep of my life. If you can imagine for a moment one of those sleep number bed commercials meeting a near death coma, you'd be pretty close to the sleep I had today. It was like that.

I am a night shift manager at a tech support firm. I have nearly twenty guys who regularly come bounce questions off me, and we are busy 364 days a year (Christmas seems to be the only holiday allowing respite). I have zero chance of sleeping on the job. And if you add to that fact that I am married and have four children, the marvelous sleep I had today feels like it should be important. More important than anything else, right?

It is true, I do own some black-out curtains, and my wife is a near-saint in the fact that she allows me to rest in as quiet an environment as possible. I won't try ear-plugs, living in the near-ghetto, and I absolutely abhor sleep masks; the end result is that I get something akin to half sleep.

Like today, she took all four of our amazing children to her sisters to sew. The kids went out back and played their little legs off (what with it being summer and school being out still), and daddy slept in till 4:30. Nine hours of solid sleep! Heaven's Bliss! I haven't slept nine hours like that since I was an infant. And I should know, I've kept a journal for years.

The only trouble with my deep and utter coma, my blessed boneless slumber, was that I had a mandatory make-up session meeting with upper management at work. Did I mention it was mandatory, and make up?

Yup, I slept through the last one three months ago. Slept straight through it like Rip Van Winkle, oblivious that two miles away some corporate type folks in kakhis and collared shirts were gathering in blue fabric chairs around an oval table, and discussing.

I woke up this afternoon, knowing I was supposed to do something. I should have been tipped off by the dreams I was having--they were frantic and involved an impossoble task. I call them naturs alarm clock. I realized, after looking at the time, that I'd done it again. I wondered at the quiet home, noting the whir of the fans instead of the bedeviling noises from three older siblings which I am so accustomed to sleeping to.

Horrified, I reached for my phone, but it was nowhere near. I searched the dresser, my bed, the bathroom, every nook of the house. I found it in my laptop bag. There it sat, shinily vibrating, left there after my ride home this morning. It was safe in it's cocoon, oscillating away furiously. I had both voicemail and a text message from 15 minutes after the meeting start asking where the *#$! I was.

I replied to that text, properly identifying where I was and asking if I still had a job to come back to. Who knows what this meeting was for, it could have been secret plans for taking over the world, and I missed out. The paradigm is that it was just as easily the plans for new scented urinal cakes in the men's room. I'll not get into the strange phenomenon of the quarterly meeting.

Now, lest you think me a slugabed, and one who periodically sleeps through gainful employment, recall that I am a graves shift manager. That's right, I work when most American humans are sleeping. My world is the polar opposite of yours. I take escalation calls from people across the dateline, and I am up and at 'em till most of you are just rubbing the sleep from your eyes, pouring youself a cup of joe, and scratching. It is then that I pack up my gear, put on my bike helmet, and pedal home for my bed.

Like I said, opposites. I talk to folks like Long Duck Dong in Korea, and Doobie Sellers in Adelaide (no lie). The night shift is entertaining; between my sleep deprived engineers and the international UNIX engineers we speak to, no day is mundane.

I am no vampire, despite the fact that I often claim I am infected with the night walker bacillus. I need my sleep. It's precious to come by, and if the studies are to believed my serotonin receptors are a bit jacked by my sleeping during the day. I walk about mostly tired all the time, like a zombie.

Last Sunday in Salt Lake, there was a second convention of zombie walkers. Amazing! Before this I never would have believed that many grave shift workers existed in the state.

I read the following this monrnig and it has stuck with me. Very interesting we conservatives are being called un-American. Also of interest is that the protests being made are still being called artificial (remember the same thing being touted back in April during Tea parties?)

Let me know what you think.



This also was an interesting read:

This is absolutely the most cool thing I have seen in a while in regards to bicycles. I had a co-worker message it to me, and opened it wondering what the latest greatest carbon-whiz wunder gadget he was linking me to. My jaw dropped, and I just had to share it out to you all.

Renovo, located in Portland Oregon, is making beautiful and functional wooden framed rigs. What? Yes, you heard me correctly. Wooden Framed Bicycles. They are doing it and they are engineered to last. Don't believe me? Read on:

True, they carry a $2300 price tag, and that's more than most folks would pay for a lifetime's worth of bicycles; I have owned a nice bike before and all I can say is they're worth every penny. The bikes in my life have run the gamut of a gas pipe stingray in my youth, to an S-Works Enduro, and everything in between. They have all been fun to ride, but the sweet costly ones are a joy to ride, and this little beauty would be a joy too. I can already tell.

It is true, you do have to be a little crazy to get a thing like this. But, to help shed a little light on being me, and the mania which makes me up, I am posting tonight's link. I deem this a thing of uber-coolness.

If I had a million dollars, I would definitely have one of these in my stable. And all it took for me was one look at that sweeping top tube. The extra fact that the thing can not only dish, but take licks is bonus.


Tuesday, August 11, 2009

Writing exercise 8/11/09

He was led to a non-descript cell by just one person, a woman in her thirties dressed in a robe. He knew it was an experiment, had known it when he woke to see this place, verifed it when he'd seen how strange it was, how alien. He'd been through the therapies before, dozens of them in his years as prisoner. He knew there were cameras hidden in the walls, affirmed by the confident way the woman strolled on ahead; her back and the blank walls verifying it.

They came to a door, a non-descript wooden thing which had no visible joints, and no handle. The woman turned and regarded him, her face sober but not overly so; he noted her eyes were blue with a tinge of green and they appeared yellow in places.

"This is where you will stay"

The man did not answer, merely looked around the vesibule ouside the door ; the blank walls, the door, noticed for the first time that the whispering of the slippers he wore was from a blank stone floor. Some sort of slate, he decided.

The woman touched the door, and it swung open to a small lit room with the same blank walls, but a high lit ceiling; the sort of ceiling that gave the impression of sky, despite the fact that it was only a dozen or so feet or so above the stone floor. She had stepped in ahead of him, fearless, and upon turning around was studying his eyes as he came into in the room and took it all in.

There was a simple cot, of the same fine material and workmanship as the door. He could see no joining marks, and the grain and color was dark and smooth. Both appeared oiled, it was the only word that he could describe, and were scratch and mark free. The same floor also had accompanied him in, but he could see no toilet, no sink, and no mirror.

Cocobolo. It had come to him, from the depths of his memory. The door and bed were made from cocobolo, and were worth a fair sum. Most folks who worked in the wood made it into gun or knife handles--he had never heard of someone using it for furniture or doors.

The woman was regarding him, having remained in the same spot, each of her hands clasped calmly in front of her at about waist height. He could see her naked wrists, and her steady breathing as she stood, patiently, waiting, expectant of his possible questions.

But he knew how the game worked. He ignored the woman now, laying down on the cot in the direction facing away from her. The wall met his eyes, and he pulled his knees bent and tucked them up into his chest, pulling at his own robes as he did so.

He hated to admit it, but there was a part of him which was terrified. He struggled to throttle the gibbering madman part of hiself into silence. Granted, this place was different from all the others, and he had grown accustomed to the routine of prisons. But this place was not bad, per se. This place was just plaing odd. What place didn't give a man a toilet? What place issued robes a man could hang himself with, not that there were any place to fix the noose on the smooth walls. What place allowed solo women guards? In any other place, that was asking for trouble.

The woman, sensing his desire to be left alone, turned for the door, again placing her back to wards him. He grit his teeth in anger, and shut his eyes, refusing her.

If he could have seen what she did he would have been even more astonished at the place he had been moved; she stroked the edge of the door and whispered to it, lips moving but no sound coming forth. The door trembled and went still again; she walked through the doorway and it swung silently shut behind her without the echo of a lock slamming home.

He swung back to the prone position, stretching out in the bed to feel it's ends. He couldn't touch, and decided that the bed was very nice. His eyes were drawn again to the ceiling, to the diffuse light. The ceiling appeared painted light blue, and the light appeared to pass through the blue; lighting like that didn't exist in a prison. Perhaps at the Bellagio hotel, but never in a hell-hole.

He longed to try the door and see if these people had locked him in.

Who were these people? Were they going to do, experiment on him? Perhaps his latest escapade had been too much and someone had realized he was beyond rehabilitation. If it were Roman times, he would have been led to the gladatorial tournaments.

His skin appeared as clean as he'd ever seen it, they had even lasered off his tattoos; the ink removed without so much as a mark. Why the pampering if they were just going to slam him full of drugs and monitor the outcomes?

He'd had the letters HATE on his left hand and FEAR on the right, and they were gone. Only smooth skin wrapped his knuckles. Since the room was absent a mirror, he wondered at his face. He wanted to touch it, yet refrained from doing so, knowing they wre watching. He'd had a red tear drop of blood and a screaming skull drawn there, and imagined his face with them absent. Perhaps that was why the woman had looked at him with no fear? They had been tools of intimidation before, and in places like prison one needed all the help one could get. He doubted he could find another guy in this place like the last one who'd inked him.

He turned again to his side, to the side of the bed pressed agains the wall, and closed his eyes to try and sleep.
The Girl Who was Phylliidae

I thought this evening of crickets
while walking in to work, and despite
my shuffling feet I heard them calling in the sycamores
their monklike drone broken by the random click of katydids

How fragile their lives!
only a few weeks to live, to die
their recollections consisting of tonight,
and perhaps through buggy hum, a glimpse of last night

What makes up reality for them?
their single song of summer carries on
before the darkening of eye, silencing of voice
how then the private hell the cased cicada must feel!

I thought again of crickets;
after a colleague shared sad news
a missing nephew on a business trip, and
for three days, his future wife in a cocoon of grief

today they found him
he and his brother and father
in a shattered shell of a plane, lost to the trees
the broken chrysalis, and all their pennon souls departed!

life so newly remembered as fragile~
filled moments so normal as to take for mundane
these are the days to sing, our days each so rare
how hard it is to find the Phylliidae for the leaves.

And now she hides, green fronds over face
while the sun beats down in polar summer closeness
the crickets are all still in the stifling heat, waiting
as over in a sister tree we hear the call of a mourning dove.


Sunday, August 09, 2009

I've just finished watching Roman Holiday. Melissa and I sat together and watched it on the Mac in our room, our 2 month old son sleeping on the floor in his car seat. About two-thirds through it, she fell asleep and I wondered at the moment--an old black-and-white romantic movie playing, my wife and I together, and she falling asleep. It felt remarkable, and seemed like a Norah Ephron moment; felt like it should belong in Sleepless in Seattle, if only for the strange similarity. Occasionally, Melissa'd snore slightly (very womanly snoring mind you), and I would in turn kiss her to get her to stop. Now, lest my wife read this and believe she is renown for her log-sawing prowess, this only happened two other times tonight, for a sum total of three incidents. And her snoring only seems to happen when the light is on and it is late--direct tie-ins to the nights I keep her up far past her bedtime watching some TV show or movie. I've never felt it necessary to complain, and am not doing so now. This is merely anecdotal, and honey when you read this, you know I love you.

The last time I watched this movie was in 1996 with Craig Whetten and Kristy Adams in Mr. Barth's Film History class. I was a senor in high school, and was so far detached from the antagonist in this film that I could scarcely relate to most of it. I remember Audrey Hepburn's character sleeping on the street and that is about it. Poor Mr. Barth, I do believe most of my essays were complete and utter crap on most of the films we watched. If only to go back and carry on the intelligent conversation I know we could have had! If only I had granted the attention then I would willingly give now. Time and space separate the boy I was and the man I have become.

I shall say do believe I took much more from it this viewing; I found myself laughing at moments, and in others enjoying the local flavor of a post-war Italy and it's bustle. The scene when she leaves his apartment and he tails her unobserved is fantastic. The other moment I found myself compelled by was the final scene when Gregory Peck walks away, the lone man in a great empty room and ll we hear are his footfalls and the music's crescendo. He pauses to look back, astonished at the singular occurrence of this blossoming what-if love, and realizing that he will never be able write about it, only wishing he could; perhaps believing he will one day when they are old and the time long past.

Perhaps this thought of mine is tied in from the Hemingway I have been reading as of late. In not only The Snows of Kilimanjaro but also Fathers and Sons the author straight out speaks of stories we can never tell while the living subjects of those stories are still among us. I find the tie in of that theme quite compelling.

The other aspect of the story I really enjoyed was the fact that he gave his angle up willingly. Here he had the perfect setup, fully justifiable by the fact that he wanted/needed to get back to the states, and the tell-all story he intended to publish would land him there. This was a girl he could leverage to meet his ends, the golden opportunity landing in his lap. Instead he finds the soul in the Princess; puts a face to the headline, feels the warmth of the smile, learns of the passion and longing despite the weight of responsibility. He cannot bring himself to do it and we identify because we too find the human sides of things in our lives. We identify because we have done the same in some small way in our lives.

As Gregory Peck's character gave these advantages away, for love no less, we are given a sense that this is what we should be required to do. That when we are the outside observer, looking in on a life we know little about, if only we could allow ourselves to get to know that person--walk a mile as the adage goes--we would understand them. And understanding changes people.

I could write about so many aspects of this film. The fact that it was Hepburn's first is very interesting to me--she carries off so many films for me because she has this strange girl-like innocence, as if she were my own daughter grown (strange thought that as she is more of an age with my grandmother, and yet how film lends immortality!). The scenes of her longing to sleep with just a pajama top or *gasp* in the nude, the covering of herself while fully clothed after she'd come to herself and realized she was in a strange room with a strange man. These all lend to that aspect of the innocence.

And it all fits in with the time. If you note, the antagonist's buddy was a photographer of pin-up girls. What were they doing? Showing their legs. Where did you go circa 1953? Could you lend a bit of yourself to these days here?

In closing, I am going to jump back to the end of the film, to that same irresistible final shot. So many stories are told in film, and in print, with a strange tidy wrapping-up of the plot. The Guy and the Gal surmount the odds and get married, the wounded recovers and comes back to life. Why? What reason is this? Why do we keep doing this to ourselves?

Real life has people passing as ships; reality does not resurrect the man from a mortal wound, nor place far-fetched potentialities as the end result. Reality is so often placed out of touch and we buy into it, whole hearted, wanting the resolution, even expecting that all will be well by the end of the piece. Perhaps it is the day we live in; that not a news-report goes by without a violent crime spelled out in the papers, the evening news, or online. And we escape to the movies in droves to show life as it should be. Not as it is. We shove off reality for fantasy as an escape.

While Peck is walking down the empty corridor, and the music swells up, he half turns, expectant. For a moment our hearts are caught in our throats; Audrey Hepburn's character has shown she will no longer be the child taking the orders. She demonstrates thus when she returns to the mansion of her own free will and volition. She even tells her staff this, revealing her new found maturity, and dismisses them to their rooms, punctuating this by refuting the milk and crackers (an object of childhood if I have ever seen one).

Could she in fact leave the room to which she departed with staff in tow after the press conference? Could she run into the arms of the man she obviously in that moment loves? We are led to believe so, for a split second, but then Gregory Peck's character, now the reformed antagonist, now the foil, realizes she'll not be walking out the door. Perhaps the tiny consolation of "She'll always have Rome to remember" carries him forward. And so he turns, walking back to the life he leads and carrying the ideas of his story which he can never tell.

And that to me is worth writing about.

Mr. Barth, I apologize my essay for this most excellent film is being written thirteen-and-a-half years too late.


Thursday, August 06, 2009

The Savage

Tonight I've had a vision,
it's an atavistic dream
one of tomahawk and rifle
'lo a quintessential thing

this throwback rumination
of a distant 'in my past'~
the modern me does battle
how these visions dwindle fast!

a twiggy hold on ancient customs
to forge and knife and moc
these deft skills so clean forgotten
if ancient skills could talk!

and yet I sit and touch you
from perhaps a mile, a league,
on this information superhighway
an electric pulse the steed.

track these events of antecedents!
mark the place from where you're from
persons carried you on forward
humans hammering their drum

lend your hearts to them now
try and feel the formers, gone
time was once ahead for them too
stretching out like jeweled lawn!

no propone I jest to foil you,
see, instead I ask the cost~
that we each must weigh the future
against our past so lost

These alarming implications
of our people without root
do we become a soulless chattel
all our works to count as moot?

No! Reach back, barbaric thinking
allow the savage in the straw!
let the land call back the woodsman
and the lumber and the law

strech out fin to kith with longing
bend the aether with your hand
bind your heart to wood and leather
stitch your soul into the land.


Tuesday, August 04, 2009

Ode to a Mustang

When as a child I'd sit in thought
and project out all I'd be
I'd visualize my great success
oh the things that'd build up me!

I'd never knew that all my stuff
instead would chain me down
and in place of smiles beatific
I'd wear an ulcered frown

I'd never been acquainted
with amortization or it's friends
never known of crippling debt
or been victims of it's ends

And here today, the car is gone
and punky bills heap like twigs
These companies who once courted
now sharpen knives for gutting pigs

I understand the allure of dreams,
and the visions that set you free
posessions never made the man
and ashes tell tales, you see.

This makes me think of the afterlife
of when I've come and gone
which master will I be paying to
will it be devil, or Everlasting Son?

For me, I'll learn from my mistakes
take my licks, dust off and go
continue on the path to Life
there are other meadows to mow.