another rough draft.
White Collar Blues
Weary. Oh not
with the bone-ache
of working men,
that day-end drain
and strain on all
sinew and tendon
and limbs longing
for langorous ease.
Weary. Of thought
neverending, never
slowing, ever
racing around
the hamster-wheel
of the forebrain
while always, only
wishing for the
magic-zen-eraser
clarity of glass,
empty. Blank.
And glass, full.
Whisky.
...
edit: 12/12. see. told ya i'd work in hamsters. [grin]
we're deep in the heart of the "holiday" season now, and once more, amongst the garland and tinsel and silver bells a twinkling, my biggest christmas-time peeve rears it's ugly head.
betcha ya wanna know what it is, doncha? no?
fine, well, i'm going to tell you anyway.
it's the use of "scrooge" as a noun. not so much that scrooge has become a noun; that's a terribly common sort of thing in english, and one of the ways the tongue evolves. no, it's the meaning that irks me. we've all used it this way, likely myself included. but it still bothers me when "scrooge" is used to indicate someone who dislikes the christmas season, or is generally miserly, miserable and misanthropic. why? because any semi-sentient being who has read "a christmas carol", or seen one of the many stage and/or film adaptations (muppet version included) should know the point of the story is the fucking redemption of ebenezer's soul. the book ends with scrooge being remembered as a man who knew how to keep christmas. yet, all we seem to have retained in our collective, cultural memory is "bah, humbug!". why is that? do we just not, as a people, honestly believe in redemption? or is the name just too evocative of miserliness? it certainly has the right sound for it.
regardless, it irks me. for if nothing else, it says something about reading comprehension.
i've been reading a good deal of the posts on fire joe morgan (damn you bacon!) lately, and it got me to thinking about american anti-intellectualism. how (or perhaps, why?), you may ask? it's very simple.
baseball, while no longer the most popular sport in the good ol' us of a, has long maintained the myth that it is the thinking man's sport (as well as being the national past-time). this is highly debatable. yet the perception (less vaild, i think, in the era of fantasy sports) is that baseball has always been the most statisically obsessed (major american is and will be implied) sport. most people who at least causually follow the sport know about batting average, rbi's, era, home runs. in the context of this, efforts in the past decade or so have rachetted up to develop improved statistics to evaluate players and their impact on the team's chances of winning.
enter the backlash. for, while baseball may be staticially obsessive, it is also an extraordinarily conservative sport. no modern player can ever be considered superior to someone who played in the golden days (say, the 20's). the older players "knew how to play the game" and didn't cheat like they do these days (only cause they didn't know about steriods. oh, black sox anyone?). and while statistics are good, these new fangled stats aren't. let us also not forget intangibles. ah, glorious intangibles!. the old stats were good enough (for moses!) then, so they are good enough now. the biggest knock though, is they have been developed by "nerds" who never played baseball professionally and thus cannot really understand the game (this comes often from former ballplayers turned analysts).
why does this attitude exist? partly because, like news in general, sports reporting and "analysis" has become all about TV ratings. so, if you use information readily availible to the public, where is your job security? you need an angle. that angle has become the idea that stats, particularly newly developed stats, cannot be the sole basis for player evaluation. nevermind that no one has ever claimed that they are anything other than an objective toolset to be used amongst a variety of criteria. they can't tell you about a player's heart and grit, damn it!
ah, heart and grit. we're tying ball back into the mythos of the american "self-made" man here. this, i believe, is where the anti-intellectualism of american society is best reflected. we worship the self-made man. the kind of person who suffered through hardship and succeeded when all others thought he'd fail; getting by not on skill or talent, but on grit and determination. we love the sort of guy who doesn't go to college, but winds up a millionare businessman (likely because of natural talent and skill, plus some luck, but no matter).
what causes this? my opinion is that intelligence is a method of creating an elite class. that is, it falls prey to the twisted interpretation of "all men are created equal". this phrase should rightly mean that we all start with the same chance. not that everyone is equal, in the end. those who are more intelligent often are more successful (not always, naturally, but that's a different discussion). those who are gifted thusly do not have the struggle of the common man, and this creates a sense of inequality that must be stiffled. moreover, we, as a nation, seem to still suffer the lingering effects of puritanical conservativism. intellectuals challenge the status quo, and for conservatism, that's a no no. the old ways are the best, don't try to change them. let experience be the yardstick. and so on.
had more to say, but work has distracted me. any comments are welcome though. plus, read that blog, even if it's just for the humor value.
leftovers are dangerous. this, i learned in rather embarassing fashion last night. perse had very kindly made me a turkey & cheddar sandwich, which i unfortunately faild to finish. why, you may ask? turkey is delicious, even as leftovers from the great feast day. some might argue that thanksgiving leftovers is the real joy of the holiday. usually, i would chime in with agreement.
not today though. all because i scraped my lip on the toast enveloping said delectable turkey (and cheddar!). yes, you heard me. i injured myself with toast.
what this means in respect to my manhood, or even in regard to my status as a compentent member of the human race is, at this time, unclear. it could be argued that, well, lips are sensitive and (mine, at least) prone to chapping. if a bit of wind can injure your lips, well why not hardened bread as well? people cut themselves on paper all the time and no one (well, mostly no one) thinks less of them.
still, i cannot shake this feeling of deep, dark, horrific shame. i mean, it's toast! how could i hurt myself with toast? what sort of graceless creature could do such a thing? yet i find the answer is: me.
oh yeah, christmas carols are everywhere now. was going to write more on this, but i've got to go cut some eyeholes in a paper bag...
rough draft
Gulf Coast
The wind in the palm leaves
whispers of rain. Not just
of imminence, nor only of memory.
But all: a song of deep green
longing for days where grey
washes blue from the skies.
With rustling fronds they speak
of shaping clouds and conspire,
with rooted will, to seed
them with the idea of water.
Barefooted, listening, basking
in the yellowed blaze; I sink
my toes beneath the moist
flesh of the earth
and am inclined to agree.
Muyil
The jungle has eaten the city.
Only roots are left behind,
crossed with pathless trails all
leading beyond this shore.
This slim sandy green spit, stretched
into a dock over cleared blue.
These planks, rough-hewn, uneven
move under my feet. They feel
grey, bleached by sun and time.
I walked past time to get here:
crumbling in places, grown tall
in others, stumbling into now.
This spot where time stills
into a salted breeze
playing the marsh reeds
I long to dip my toes
and wonder if night brings mist.
Tournesol
The dewed cool of the morn and I,
with my fingernails
under the dirt, sowed them as children.
Months long have I exhaled small clouds,
whispers of water;
held the sun still to shine them.
And now.
Walk slow in the shade between
the rows and let them
bend yellow heads low, to kiss you.
Structure
In Sunday school, they taught
me with allegory. How the wise
men built homes upon the rise
and ridge of solid rock;
how the foolish staked their claim
below, and on the plain
made treacherous homes.
The shifting silt and sand
was unfit for those who thought
beyond having water close at hand.
So, the story sings
that stony perch is where
our soul should sit. Firm
on the rock where the Word
was first writ.
I learned something, though
not the lesson they sought.
Sand was stone, stone will
be sand and sand again
will return to rock.
Orogeny
They were mountains, once,
jagged with the arrogance
of youth. Then time came
with wind and water: ice, rain
wore the striving peaks
to smoothed hills, rounded,
hoar with winter, ground
still finer still into silt,
soil, sand, dust, dirt.
All return as Adam, bound
by rivers, went back to clay
and in the sea's abyss they lay.
For the ocean owns us all.
Snowfall and Moonlight
Most others keep inside, nights like this.
We know the secret though, to staying warm.
So these nights seem made for us alone.
A night like this, the first you woke me.
You'd been dreaming of the daylong storm,
heavy flakes piling thick on branches groaning
the weight in the wind, like at this midnight.
Waking you padded soft to the windowpane,
unveiled the moon as you wiped away your breath
and, like this night, roused me from sleep.
Eyes alight, your smile begged our footsteps
be first to fall upon the fresh snowfall.
In this moonlight on snowfall, at midnight
again, I follow you across shadow trees
the world glinted sapphire as your eyes.
We melted angels into the snow, a night like this.
Jack O'Lantern
through the hollowed
shelled out hull
the knife-blade slashes,
cleaves the skull
sideways rends a
terrible grin
flashing cross the
wrinkled skin
cat-slit glinting
eyes afright
with flickering, eerie
shadowed light
jack beheaded
waits alone
as ghoulish welcome
to your home.
In the Morning
Dawn reminds me I forgot
to close the blinds.
Slipping out of bed a
warm steel grip grasps my
wrist, attached to half-dozing,
questioning eyes, a
mischievious grin peeking
out beneath the sheets.
In my defense
I only wished to make
blueberry pancakes.
still you insist on
convincing me brunch is
far the better meal.
slowly our debating
builds in tempo, finds a
rhythm of point and counter
till we reach a mutually
satisfactory conclusion
that breakfast can wait.
ghost hands
beneath your words
lies a quiver my ears
alone are tuned to.
your ache is mine,
not a pain alone.
across the miles
my ghost hands slip
into your breast,
cradle, caress, hold
your heart together.
let me stand a
shield, absorb
the buffeting blows.
i do not bruise;
my bones refuse
to break; my skin
a cloth to soak
time and tears away.
First Snow
Even when you expect it, it's still a surprise.
Snow clouds never hold the same warning pain
as storms that make the summer skies cry.
Walking through memories in Central Park.
The growing wind unwinds your scarf;
my fingertips graze your neck as I wrap it again.
We kissed on that bench, under that tree
and everywhere between. A spring day,
the first our hands met.
Fresh snowflakes land in your lowered lashes.
You stick out your tongue with childish delight
to catch another, your lips still warm
as a spring day past.
dream
sleep deep wrapped warm
blanketed in dreams
long desires tasted.
exhale.
the fire burns low
in the hearth. from
the ashes i rise
phoenix-like bared
skin and soul before
your eyes striding
across the room to
open the box you
kept hid from pandora.
inhale.
low vibrations your
breath'd voice floats
between locked eyes
speaking a vision;
land greened twined
with blued seas, waves
unmatched power pull
on the shores swell
break through stone
walls helpless to resist
the spring-tide. rhythm.
exhale.
wake to memory. touch.
sense kept alive, light
in fingertipped skin.
Cold Front
Just after sunrise you can see the line.
Straight smooth stratus clouds
riding over the lower layer:
dark rolling nimbus, edges torn, tattered
by the battering breath of the north wind.
A widening blue cuts the sky, clearing.
Perhaps it will rain again today.
They said it might return. Even now
the road is still dark with wet.
Later this week I'll lean, sore-armed,
on a well used rake, pulling cold air in,
silently cursing the stubboness of oak trees.
For now I walk,
an unneeded scarf kept to my throat
by the soon bitter wind. A change.
They say tonight it may snow.
coffee break
smudge-grey skies,
the kind that blend
and blur concrete
lines, cast over
my footsteps on
puddle-pocked sidewalks.
a light drizzle, whispering
of just passed rain
still waiting around
the corner, mists
my breath, mingled with
caffiene steam floating
from my clasped cup.
phantoms both, just as
your step beside my
stride; your held
hand in my pocket.
i turn my collar up
against the wind and
walk into november.
Early morning brings
the whispering
of your breath upon my neck
I collect this peace
as memory
to face the days between us.
Early morning finds,
still lingering,
your fingers twined in mine.
In the early morning, I
suspect my socks are blue.
Still, I will not wake you,
for I love to watch you
smile at your dreams.
Bang my Whimper
Soft, loud or silently mouthed
the circle still completes.
And as the world shudders,
implodes in contracting
convulsions, shatters and ends,
the beginning thrusts itself
forth, again. Slow, swift,
the rhythm of life returns,
the circle still completes.
