December 10, 2014

Guy Fawkes Mask

monstrosities commonplace now
& maybe always while
we are sold our fear,
dear the cost of
assimilated nonsense and mostly
I feel emptied out except for a rage
that runs cold and hard like concrete

tony sez righteous indignation is the cheapest of emotions
            and it circulates like pennies
            clattering into gutters
& held in bottomless jars on dressers
which are taken and cashed in for outrage
imported from countries
who pay their workers
but pennies a day

outrage inrage
it’s all exchange
‘cause it’s no use

so, yeah, fuck it
pull on your Che t-shirt & blast The Clash
pull revolution over you like a rhinestone cape
you can always lay down irony like the right bower
if anyone deeper in the game
calls you on it

November 21, 2014

Fucked

pulling on a Tecate 24
running up Preston
dank night
up about where
Indian Trail slashes across
oily dark swimming
across broken asphalt
dirt you feel as much as see
Preston is a hard, hard shithole
breathing chunked petroleum
sloughing off strip malls

dark
perhaps not dark
so much as light
at crazed angles
coming in as negative light
always people crossing the street
in the dark, you don’t see
them just sort of hanging out
there in the double turn lane
Mexicans Africans Koreans Whites
about half dragging strollers
the lumpenprole defying death
hanging on the edge
of the broken asphalt river

all it is is
you wake up in
the morning
and find yourself
back out on Preston
fucked, like always

October 31, 2014

Wallpaper

a line runs down the side of the face
arcing just inside the cheekbone
down to the lever of the jaw
a fine point line traced by the most delicate
of stilettos, set in the faintest relief by pebbled light

fires are lit & graves are filled by
the kaleidoscopic moods of old white men
staring into mirrors

*

he’s never paid attention to flower arrangements
before; there are, perhaps,
books written

that open up a world of flower arrangement
a semiotic of rose and baby’s breath
a window

into this thing he didn’t reckon
this thing, this world
is there a world

beyond this face, beyond this mirror
in abstract, what even is a world
what even is this question

and how can that thing be called into question
by the language of flowers
the voice of lilac

the world on a tree lined street
buttercups, cabbage, and hollyhock
elms oaks and maples, a boulevard

*
and what is this thing language that
the eskimos have 42 words for snow
and snow isn’t one of them

and snow is still only snow
and war is always war
blood rivulets sprayed like

rose petals sprinkled
in inexplicable patterns
falling across polished pergo floors

so many gerrymandered allegiances
wildflowers flowing in comically illogical
washes

October 6, 2014

Oh, Look Who's Back

Stanley Wright has taken a break from lamenting the death of Justin Verlander's fastball to rant about something else entirely.

RIP 2014 Tigers.  What a dull thud of a season.  I feel you, Stan.

May 29, 2014

All Women, All Men

I grew up sheltered to a large degree, and my realization of the depths of the issues that women face was a bit slow in coming.  The slap and tickle grabass that sometimes broke out among teenagers always stopped at "no" as far as I was concerned . . . and besides, it was mutual, wasn't it?  It didn't occur to me that maybe a girl grabbing a boy's ass isn't the same as the other way around*.  Or, more to the point, that many women didn't have the agency to say "no" when the line had been crossed.

The whole concept of explicit verbal contracts for physicality was just surfacing at universities when I was in my twenties, and was subject to about the same level of incredulity that trigger warnings are today.  And like trigger warnings, the verbal contracts at very least started to bring to the surface deep structural issues (in this case, the pervasiveness of men's institutional control over women and their bodies).

It took another incident to start to bring home what a woman in this culture has to deal with.  In my twenties, I was really only good at drinking, so I spent a lot of my time going to house parties, since I never had the income to blow at the bars.  There was a young woman, "Janie" we'll call her, who used to hang out with us.  Janie was (and still is!) a bright, bubbly girl who had an amazing smile that she beamed constantly.  She was always full of positive energy, and a delight to be around.  She was also all of 16 years old when we first met (I was about ten years older), and perhaps slightly naive about the sexuality that she radiated.  She was, however, a pretty good judge of character, and surrounded herself with people whom she could trust; while she was out on the punk rock house party circuit frequently, she was always surrounded by her extended family of big brothers and big sisters who would watch her back (and, it also helped immensely that she was never much into booze or drugs, so she wasn't compromised in that sense).

One night Janie, my friend Al, and I were at a particularly loud and crowded party.  We got there early enough to make three or four runs at the keg before the line got too long.  After that, Al and I did pretty much what we always did at parties: lean against the wall, slam down whatever booze we got our hands on, and cracked wise.  This party, as crowded as it was, didn't afford us too many beers, so we were light on the booze and heavy on the cracking wise.  At a certain point, Janie circulated back around and chatted with us briefly.  I lamented my lack of beer, and Janie volunteered to go get me one, since she knew the guy dispensing the beer would let her cut to the front of the line.  I was fine with that, so against the wall I stayed.  An ass pocket bottle of whiskey was passed my way, and I got a short drag just before Janie got back with my beer.  As she gave it to me, I told her not to stray too far, that I was planning on leaving fairly soon, pretty much as soon as I finished the beer.  And that's the last thing I remember with any real clarity.

The next day I had to open the record store at about noon (it was Sunday).  As I jammed my key into the lock in a mad scramble to get the lights on, drawers counted, and the store open, I managed to slam my right hand in the heavy glass and metal front door.  That was the first event that I remembered clearly since I got that beer from Janie the night before.

At this point, anybody reading this knows exactly what happened.  But at the time, Law and Order: SVU had yet to turn roofies into a standard plot cliche, so I had yet to grasp the situation.

I was definitely much more than just hung over.  I got the store open reasonably close to on time.  It was the summer in a college town, and the store was right off campus, so no one was banging the doors down to get in.  The light was slicing through my head: it was so bad that I took of my prescription glasses, stuck them in my pocket, and grabbed some shades from the sunglasses display.  At about that time, Al walked in, and seeing me behind the counter with a set of Velvet Underground wrap around Ray Bans pasted to my mug sent him into a laughing fit that lasted five minutes.

I told him that I had no idea what happened to me the night before.  I could only remember drinking, at most, five beers, along with a slug or two of whiskey. I figured something must have happened after we left the party, but Al assured me that I started acting very strangely right before we left.  Al and I were frequent drinking buddies, so he was shocked that I was going to hell so quick on such a small amount of alcohol.

I had totally blacked out part of the night.  The only time I had blacked out before, I had consumed many, many times that amount of alcohol.  To this day, those are the only two times I have ever blacked out.

I was completely confused about what happened.  Al and I went over the night minute by minute, but nothing got much clearer.  He said that after Janie got me the beer, I chugged it, and then told Janie to say her goodbyes so we could hit the road.  That took her approximately twenty minutes to a half hour; by the time she got back, I was slurring my words.  As we walked to the car, Al noticed me stumbling.  He passed a friend who had just arrived at the party and got his car keys.  Janie in the meantime decided to leave with another friend, so Al was left with only me.  He couldn't talk me into leaving my truck there, so he told me to follow him, and he led me safely home.  As I went up to my house, I was barely walking, so it seemed unlikely that I did anything other than fall into bed when I got home.  It's a wonder I managed to set my alarm.

As we discussed it, all I could do is say "man, that beer Janie got me really did me in".  About the third time I said it, Al gave me a strange look, and I realized what had happened: some asshole was trying to get Janie, but got me instead.  Considering how whatever that beer was spiked with hit me, it would have completely wiped out poor little Janie.

We got a hold of Janie a few days later.  I'm not sure if what we were saying to her registered, other than the fact that she had to be careful when she was out.  Fortunately, she already was careful.  I can't say the same for some of her peers that showed up in the scene a few years later.

*          *          *          *          *

I will never understand fully what it is like to be a woman (obviously).  Even my wife, who is no shrinking violet, has had to get off the bus a stop early, or get off and walk around the block, just so some creep that was bugging her on the bus can't see where she lives.  As for me, there aren't many places in this city where I am afraid to walk (a few, but not many).  Only once was I concerned about my safety when I was being followed on the street, and all it took was an opportune scrap of 2" x 4" to redirect the attention of the people following me.

It is all women, and it is all men.  There are thousands of small, seemingly insignificant gestures that are coded in ways that men don't understand.  But worse, there are thousands of gestures which clearly cross the line that our culture still tries to excuse.  The fact that you have every intention of treating women decently is moot unless you work to revolutionize the sexist culture that surrounds us.  The fact that anyone finds the discussion of these things even remotely feminist (as opposed to being about SIMPLE HUMAN DECENCY) is sad.

So remember this next time you want to complain about being "friendzoned": first, she doesn't owe you anything, much less her body.  Second, her friendship is probably the most valuable gift she could give you.  Third, if you even think "friendzone" is a thing, you don't deserve her friendship.

It is time to start shunning and shaming sexist behavior.

_______________
*  I won't deny that boundaries are being violated in each case, but they are in no way equivalent.  It's the same with the idea that men can be the victims of physical domestic abuse.  I once discussed with an acquaintance some of the episodes from an earlier relationship when my significant other physically attacked me, and he went immediately to "see, men can be victims of domestic abuse too!", which was completely absurd because I had a foot and 110 pounds on my ex.  She was not a real physical threat to me.  Situations that are different are very, very rare.

May 21, 2014

Man Who Loves Scenery

drove a truck
between Indy & Etown
was thrilled when
I tipped him off
to the wonders
of the Joe Prather

mountains, he calls these knobs
tells his son he
drives through the
mountains of Kentucky

May 15, 2014

An Old Friend Writes:


Hey! Like your new stuff.  A lot better than what you used to do.  When did you learn to play guitar? LOL no offense.
None taken!

Funny story: I went down to the crossroads and fell down on my knees a little while back to see what I could do about my situation.  The devil, of course, was waiting for me there.

"Well, well, look who’s here.  Been waiting on you almost a quarter of a century. You finally ready to join the ranks of the immortals?"

"Yeah, yeah, we gonna do this deal, or not? Let’s get on with it."

"Now look who’s impatient.  Okay, let’s see what we got."  The devil’s salacious grin suddenly turned to an annoyed grimace.  "Really?  Are you kidding me with this?"

"What?"

"This soul.  This … thing … is seriously devalued, to say the least.  There are so many liens on here I’ll go upside down the minute I try to move it.”

"What are you talking about? It’s not like I go to church, but I still make fun of new atheists.  That’s worth some god points, right?"

"Look, you’re not getting Robert Johnson.  You’re not getting Jimmy Page.  You’re not even in Peter Frampton territory here."  His bony hand went into his hood to rub his invisible forehead. "Best I can do: we heal up your left hand a little bit so you can do full barre chords, you can be the next pop punk legend."

"Because that’s what the world needs, another Billie Joe fucking Armstrong."

"It’s what I’ve got for that sorry piece of shit you call a soul."

"I’m fifty-three years old.  In what universe do I become a pop punk legend?"

"We’ll get rid of the gut, get the gray out of your hair, tone you up a bit.  No one will necessarily know how old you are.  Of course it wouldn’t kill you to get contacts and show up at a gym once in a while."

"Sorry, no sale.  What else you got?"

The devil shook his head.  ”Well, I can do Derek Bailey. Seriously good stuff, but just no market for it.  An acquired taste, apparently.  That’s fire sale value, friend.  It’s a lot more than you deserve, so you better take it before I change my mind.”

"Nope.  I already got a Derek Bailey fake that fools most people.  Don’t need the real thing, I’ve got all his records."

The devil heaved a black sigh. “Fine.”  He rummaged through his robes, came up with a small duffle bag, and threw it at my feet with a metallic clink.  ”Here’s a bag full of really gross guitar fuzz boxes.  It’s my final offer: take it or leave it.” 

"Done and done!"

"Pleasure doing business with you" the devil intoned with a sarcasm that permeated the ages.  He walked away muttering under his breath. "This economy really needs to change.  Thankfully there’s another Clinton ready for the White House."

So that’s the story of my guitar prowess upgrade, old friend.  Gross distortion boxes.  And I’ll occasionally tune, as well.  Didn’t used to do that much.  See you at the reunion show!