Tag Archives: poem
Pop tunes remembered
Another found object — music and lyrics from 1909 by Carrie Jacobs-Bond:
Swapping Shop Talk at the Slop Shop
I sit alone upon a hill, green grass overhanging rock outcrops, a row of fence posts marching down the slope, their steps frozen in single file, held together by wire.
A few spring flowers push up out of the dead brown patches where cows once grazed and left their marks.
Hieroglyphic lichen patterns hold the landscape fast.
Cloud shadows flow across the hills and valleys below.
I am home.
Home am I.
Happiness and freedom far from the cabin in the woods.
Wandering the countryside.
Alive.
This is my universe, my place of rest, the activity of ions and atoms busy out of sight right here in front of me.
Relaxed.
A sunny breeze tickles the tops of grass stalks.
My steps disappear behind me and reappear in front of me.
Miracles.
Farmhouses in the distance.
Mirages.
For years…
For years, I thought an intellectual conversation had to include dissecting the meaning of the universe and debating the [non]purpose of life.
Then, at the suggestion of a friend, I checked a few books out of the library, books written by or about David Foster Wallace.
After reading the material, I came to the conclusion there’s no reason to read his writings anymore because DFW committed suicide, which in itself is the logical conclusion of all the arguments and observations he made in his writing.
Thus, as I have thought before but never articulated, an intellectual conversation can emphatically state or totally ignore the meaning of the universe and the [non]purpose of life.
I won’t go as far as saying that the writing/artwork/music/biographies of people who committed suicide should be banned, burned and/or buried.
I do suggest that we take into serious consideration the conclusion the suicidal people reached in their thoughts, less so for those within a short, miserable ending of a terminal illness, whatever we may [not] wish to call a terminal disease.
If a person created anything — a bridge, a computer, a spaceship, a novel, a quilt, a child — and then later committed suicide, the creations are part and parcel of the suicidal thoughts, are they not?
It is one thing to muse on the futility of our individual lives, and quite another thing to end our lives, regardless of our auspicious or suspicious beginnings.
What, next, about career suicide or similar forms of cutting off oneself from societal ties?
There are no failures. There are no successes. There is only what we choose to do next.
For me, there are 13,637 days until the next big step, despite momentary distractions that loom large in temporary comparison.
If a person ends his life, there is no “next” left.
DFW’s writings are absent from my future because he chose to absent himself from the present — I respect his right to say goodbye to my life. I say goodbye to his.
“Why I voted for the Green Party”
The words we choose follow in perpetuity, echoes crashing against canceling waves upon waves of grain and wheat and grapes and leaves.
A voice appears to appear in the middle of a laptop computer due to stereo speaker sounds competing for binaural ear stimulation interpretation.
I have no idea about today.
I live 1000 years from now, where sounds from this moment are embedded in layers of archaeological papers and electronic storage.
I have.
I live.
A historically accurate portrayal of Christa DeCicco vibrates the air from 2009.
Drumbeats.
Trumpets.
Happiness is sitting here, electricity lighting the air, my eyeballs, the wind, the desktop designed for a writing surface height, not a laptop computer keyboard.
Parties celebrate, mourn, serve, destroy.
Punch bowls, cookies, napkins, candy, cups.
Doing what I want, many expenses spared, nodding my head to the music.
Thinking ahead, behind, behead, ahind, letters and characters symbolically assembling thoughts rhythmically.
Composing the next video.
Looking for an artist, an ensemble, to complete the audiovisual puzzle.
Waiting…
As usual.
Waiting…
Very unusual…
Waiting…
Waiting…
Tables.
Bars.
Songs.
Nonsense words.
13,695 days to go…
Hum, did-ee, dumdum, doo-be, be-too.
The Future is Calling But is It a Wrong Number?
Some books of my father wait to be catalogued and read, a few based on war and spying.
Is a civilisation a sign of its architecture or the other way around?
When we survey the megalopolises that attract people like moths to a flame, how does the data sort out?
The boxes and cubes,
the donuts and folds,
the windows and doors,
the ceilings and floors.
Their general purposes.
Our general intentions.
We tear down buildings that no longer profit us when the footprint is more valuable for deeper/taller skyscraping monoliths.
A few pyramids and burial mounds remain from the thousands that once existed.
We pour prehistoric plants and animals for roads between cities that grow like slime mold, tendrils stretching for miles and miles.
Roads that fade into history as the oases that feed civilisations die out and sprout dies.
Dies and molds,
Forms and shapes,
Injections and cuts,
Diaphanous and cold.
When two or more generations separate us from war, what will our descendants think about civilisations — their competition for primary cultural status in architecture, for instance?
Seven Ages of Man, Redux Revisited Remake
I lay on the sofa in the sunroom, watching leaves follow an imaginary gravitational path to the ground, when a mosquito bounced against the window screen.
I thought about all the mosquitoes that are born and never find a meal, dying before they reproduce.
I thought about why our species has such a strong urge to save so many of us from certain death.
I remembered the poetic recount of the Seven Ages of Man.
I wondered what it would look like if I pretended not to know what the Seven Ages of Man is supposed to represent.
I thought of beds, chairs and desks.
That’s it! The Seven Ages of Man is about furniture!
Thanks to the following websites for the reposted use of their images:
http://etc.usf.edu/clipart/44400/44468/44468_baby_crib.htm
http://www.freecraftunlimited.com/clipart-school-2.html
http://jessesharville.com/2010/09/08/lazy-lovers-in-bed/
https://www.australiandefence.com.au/news/thales-wins-dmo-cisso-contract
http://classroomclipart.com/clipart-view/Clipart/Legal/legal_1-judge-on-bench-in-court_jpg.htm
http://www.andreadams.com/the_cartoon_express_senior.htm
http://imgur.com/r/pics/O5IzW
Habits of Habitual Habitating Habitats
I am a man of opposites.
I don’t always know why.
If you say left, I say right.
If you say can, I say might.
If you say Catherine, I say Kathryn.
If you say Jennifer, I say Guinevere.
Opposites have meaning in alliteration,
Different than meanness in symbols/ideas.
Vocabulary definitions,
Vocational constabulary,
Destabilising vacations,
Docent verifications.
Definitely vocal.
Defiantly local.
Lo-cal.
Vo-tech.
Lo-tech.
Hi-tech.
Hi-test.
Tie vest.
Vie via “veni, vidi, vici.”
Vital.
Words curb.
Curb words.
Carve wood.
Weave curds.
The rhythms rhyme with rheumatism like no other word could.
THE END
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Thanks to Morgan at Dreamland BBQ; Robert Gates; Tony Yates; Christa DeCicco; “Christabel” by Samuel Taylor Coleridge.
In support of my mother and our family
I was sent the following information in response to one of my recent posts. Good advice, regardless of [non]religious belief:
Ecclesiastes 9:10
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