Friday, December 21, 2012

My Senior Research Paper


On The Legitimacy of the Occupy Movement
            I was on the road just outside of New York City, heading for the airport after spending a week with a friend who lived upstate. My friend’s aunt was driving. We were making small talk. She asked me about my schooling, and how I liked the colleges in and around the Big Apple. By and by, I told her about my senior research paper. “I’m not sure what my topic will be just yet,” I said, “but I’d like to know more about this Occupy Movement.”
            She looked at me with a sudden clenching anger that sent shivers up my spine. “You mean those homeless bums out in the park who yelled at nothing as an excuse to fornicate in public and not contribute to society?” Oh God, I thought, here it comes. “Those guys were just looking for a handout. Why should we pay for them? They can’t just take money from us hard working, upstanding citizens. You know those unions are what’s bogging down our country? I see it every day: these people have no sense.” Hmmm. Indeed.
            After this instant tirade of right wing dogma at the very mention of Occupy Wall Street, I recognized the gravity of the situation. I certainly had my subject. So, what was the core, the true essence of this social movement? And why did conservatives get defensive so quickly? What were they defending? Capitalism? I didn’t know the particulars, but I did know that there was more to this than met the eye, or the mass media’s camera. After my research, I drew this conclusion. The Occupy Movement did and does have a purpose: civil disobedience is rising because it has become painfully obvious that the system no longer works for the majority of people, and a complete remodel is necessary… but first, citizens have to acknowledge the problems of capitalism, then unite against those problems.
It Started With Adbusters
            On July 13, 2011, a Canadian based non-profit magazine by the name of Adbusters issued a dare for those Americans who were dissatisfied with the United States. “Are you ready for a Tahrir moment? On Sept. 17, flood into lower Manhattan, set up tents, kitchens, peaceful barricades and occupy Wall Street” (Caren, Gaby).  Not a month later, a Facebook page for Occupy Wall Street was established, calling for the first General Assembly, a meeting where supporters could converse about the state of the nation and the world. The New York General Assembly described itself this way:
“…an open, participatory and horizontally organized process through which we are building the capacity to constitute ourselves in public as autonomous collective forces within and against the constant crises of our times” (Caren, Gaby).
This assembly to develop their own groups of self-governed people, to oppose the set structure of society.
            My friend’s aunt might have said, “Well, what’s wrong with our society?” And that’s a fair question that begets a very, very long answer. Adbusters’ editor, Kalle Lasn, says this: “At times, not even they (the protestors) are sure, perhaps because their cause for being there is so vast and miasmic that they can grab hold of any part of it and make a credible claim for anger.” (Eifling) At any time, Occupiers have more to say than can be fitted into one frame or division of national activity. In the 1960s when the last major social movements took place, you had a specific few things to talk about, i.e. the Vietnam War, civil rights, and women’s rights. Now-a-days, the protestors feel that the problem is everything. It is a system that’s set to fail everyone, not just the poor. In order to fully comprehend the frustration of Occupy, a more thorough knowledge of US politics and economics is required.
Capitalism since the Industrial Age
            The famous journalist and founder of Alternative Radio, David Barsamian, in Richard Wolff’s book Occupy the Economy, talks about the gradual rise and final stop of the ‘real wage,’ meaning the amount of money the individual takes home when taxes are done and the bills are paid. “Every decade between 1820 and 1970, the real wage kept rising” (Wolff, 13). Then, the real wage stagnated for several reasons: the invention of the computer dramatically lessened the need for workers; US employers realized that it was cheaper to hire outside the country; US employers didn’t have to keep raising the real wage; women joined the work force; and flocks of immigrants, both legal and illegal, entered the workforce in search of a better life (Wolff, 14-15). In short, the fall in the amount of jobs offered was catastrophically matched by the rise in demand for jobs, marking the start of a downward spiral in economic status where the rich got noticeably richer, and the poor equally poorer.
            The American people had grown used to the idea that the US was a place where the sweat of a person’s brow paralleled the money in that person’s pocket… and as these corporate decisions (to stop raising wages, to outsource employees, or to replace them with computers) were made in private by a small board of directors and major shareholders, the average citizens thought that their wages had stopped growing because they weren’t working hard enough. Therefore, productivity continued to rise, as did the profits, yet the vast majority of people saw no reward for their efforts. As Barsamian puts it, “…the freedom of one part of our population (i.e. the richest 1%) deprived another part of the population of its freedom to prosper from its own work” (Wolff 23). Collectively, as a country, we have believed that self determination is boundless; that, as in Game Theory, to work for one’s interests can never be a bad thing. However, there is strong evidence to the contrary.
 
            Figure 1: A graph showing the gap in growth between the highest and lowest classes after taxes. Data from “Trends in the Distribution of Household Income, 1979-2007: Presentation to the National Tax Association 2012 Spring Symposium” (Congressional Budget Office 2) Web, 7 Dec., 2012.
 
            Figure 2: Another chart, showing the average total income before taxes. Chart generated on the World Top Incomes Database, “Average Incomes, United States, 1970-2010” Web, 10 Dec., 2012. 
The charts above are drawn directly from the Congressional Budget Office and The World Top Incomes database. Notice the growth in the household income of the wealthiest .01% and .1%, where the bottom 90% of incomes reached a flat-line average of around $30,000 annually (the standard deviation is about $1,000). As you can see, the majority of wealth isn’t even distributed somewhat equally between those in the 1%... instead, .01% of the population, or about 31,159 individuals, possessed roughly 76.5% of the United States’ money in 2007. The discrepancy is staggering, especially if all our recent economic chaos is taken into account. Even during the 2008 crash, the average person belonging to the 1% made $1.137 million.
            Since the 1970s, we as a nation have catered to the “needs” of these CEOs and stock holders, despite it not being in our best interest. Barsamian said of the Obama stimulus plan, “We did have a recovery, from early 2009 to 2011, but only for banks, insurance companies, large corporations, and the stock market… for the majority of Americans, there was no recovery” (Wolff 24). Both Democrats and Republicans, and right wing movements such as the Tea Party (the very antithesis of Occupy), campaign vigorously for the renewal of the system that, by the books, no longer works for most people. It’s as if they feel that giving money to the cause of the problem will somehow miraculously fix the problem. Why? It would seem that there is a stigma against questioning capitalism. And such a strong stigma that though “between 1979 and 2007 the share of income of the bottom 80% of the population fell between 10 and 30%, while that of the top 1% increased by 130%” (Trudell), capitalism persists today in much the same fashion.
The Tyranny of ‘Being Right,’ and the Tea Party
            In fact, as in an Orwellian nightmare, Americans choose to shut out opposition to a system they only think is right. They build a protective wall around capitalism to avoid difficult thinking. As Barsamian says, “Those few who have dared to raise questions or criticisms about capitalism have been either ignored or told to go live in North Korea, China, or Cuba as if that were the only alternative to pro-capitalism cheerleading” (Wolff 7). I’ve seen this demonstrated personally, by my friends’ aunt, my hyper-conservative Evangelical Christian aunt, my much-loved grandfather (all of whom are oppressed by the very systems they defend), and countless politicians such as Mitt Romney, and Wisconsin’s governor, Scott Walker (who assaulted workers’ rights in 2011) (Bauer).
            The danger of the Tea Party is that it formed in order to manipulate the masses to push for a strict interpretation of the Constitution model of government, allowing a temporary escape for Corporate America, at whatever cost to public rights. Tea Partiers masked this goal by proclaiming themselves a popular movement over the mass media. They utilized two ingenious lies to pull supporters in from the generally languishing public.
One: the Tea Party is a grassroots movement that spreads because of public outrage. Indeed, “The (Tea Party) movement grew rapidly, but it was not as spontaneous as it appeared on the surface; it was heavily promoted by two right-wing organizations, FreedomWorks and Fox News” (Berg 5). Participants who either weren’t aware or refused to become aware that the news agencies were in the back pockets of wealthy promoters took the reporting at face value and assumed that the Party was growing because it was a legitimate movement.
The second lie: government control is the root of your problems, so let’s stop them, as “The idea of a group of ordinary citizens coming together spontaneously to demand that government get off their backs resonated powerfully in American popular consciousness” (Berg 5-6). Coming from the background of once being ruled by a harsh British Monarchy, it is apparently easier to believe that any difficulties arise because of improper governing. This plays right into the hands of the wealthiest Americans who, finding their standard of living in decline along with the economy, advocate for the loosening of the free market to their own gain, while enforcing austerities on a public that is blinded by faith in the American Dream.
The Santelli Rant
The name “Tea Party” came from a speech by Rick Santelli, known as the Santelli Rant (Berg 2), in response to a provision in the ARRA that would help homeowners in mortgage-related financial crisis. He famously said, “This is America! How many of you people want to pay for your neighbors’ mortgage that has an extra bathroom and can’t pay their bills? … President Obama, are you listening” (Rosenthal)? It was an ironic statement, considering that he himself made enough money to have more than one spare bathroom, and most likely his entire audience had that many bathrooms too. Yet Santelli maintained that his audience was “a pretty good statistical cross section of America” (Zernike 21), “with average incomes of equal to 366% of the average for the US as a whole (down from 409% just before the crash)” (Berg 3). He was dishing misinformation, which began and sustained the Tea Party’s campaign against the modern worker.
            As Berg notes, “the Tea Party tells a story of a nation collapsing under the weight of people who demand government support, rather than earning their keep through their own efforts” (Berg 3). There is another irony here, because the facts prove that no matter how hard a middle class person works, their wages won’t rise, yet their wages aren’t enough to pay their mortgages. Disregard those (of which there are millions) unfortunate enough to be laid off from a specialized position—they have to get a low-budget job, or they won’t have any source of income whatsoever, if the Tea Party philosophy were made government policy.
Another problem is the limited number of low-budget jobs, considering that since the 1970s, women, immigrants, and computers have entered the work force. Plus, how demoralizing would it be to work at McDonalds after losing a high paying office job with benefits?
Supporters of the Tea Party therefore have a very limited perspective on the origins of foreclosure and poverty, and a forced inability to change.
              The shortsightedness affects every aspect of American culture, as Berg postulates,
“Once these mental categories have been established, government policies from health care to the bailout can be framed as taking from the deserving to give to the undeserving. Democrats (or perhaps “socialists”) want to take your money to give to irresponsible people: poor African Americans who live in a culture of dependency, overpaid bureaucrats, and a variety of contractors who have learned to get federal subsidies for shoddy goods, ineffective services, and “bridges to nowhere”” (Berg 4).
            America’s problems are ignored, shifted by politicians, distorted by the mass media, and ubiquitous none-the-less. The statistics show that the wealthy are consistently favoring themselves over the common man (World Top Incomes…). So what of the massive unemployed or meanly employed population and those who lack the ‘three H’s,’ (heat, home, and health care for themselves and their families)? They have find a voice and express dissatisfaction for themselves, and Occupy is the first step. 

Occupy: Rebels in Autonomous, Holistic Free Thinking
            What can be done when the entire system seems bent on objectifying the average worker? Occupy’s answer is simple: come together, and through peaceful means, display your solidarity. Using peaceful protests, the Occupy movement is effectively directing the center of attention away from petty bickering in politics to the natural rights of citizens in a modern society. Dan La Botz, a teacher in Cincinnati and active member of Occupy, reported on “labornotes.org” that in November of 2011, an assault on worker’s rights to bargain for wage change, collect dues, and go on strike, was prevented by Occupiers and local unions (La Botz). The Occupiers in the major cities of the West Coast teamed with dock workers to shut down every port in December of 2011, to remind the government and sea-faring companies of who they were meant to serve (Trudell 8).
Also, on that same day in December, Occupiers gathered with the employees of Walmart to protest its many infringements on human rights around the world (Trudell 9-10). This is what the Occupy Denver General Assembly had to say about the issue: the relentless pursuits of higher profits by corporations like Walmart have damaged the work force at home, and ignored the natural rights of countless foreigners. Therefore, we must organize on December 12th to shut down Walmart “in support of the actions taken across the US, especially those on the West Coast against Goldman Sachs and other bankers” (“12/12 Walmart Action…”). Protests are still being staged by Occupy in Colorado. The most recent one was on Black Friday. Walmart actually tried to deter participants by convincing them that their actions are illegal. As Walmart has never directly addressed protesting organizations like ‘OUR Wal-Mart,’ it is evident that Occupy’s philosophy has spread enough to pose a threat (Greenhouse, Clifford).
Occupy web pages are loaded with ideas and printable fliers for advertising community action. Far from dead, the Movement seems to have moved from the city parks primarily into the land of social media and impermanent meeting places. Special attention is given to Facebook and Twitter. I ‘liked’ Occupy Wall Street’s Facebook, and now I receive daily updates on every subject from the economy to the progress of legislation that could potentially affect the rights of the 99%. The dates and locations for General Assemblies are listed online, so that people can still gather and debate in person.
Occupy survives as autonomous groups of concerned individuals who refuse to be reigned into any political party. They disbelieve in the legitimacy of any “pseudo-leftist” groups like the ISO (International Socialist Organization), the American division of which actually assists the Democratic Party (Beams 1). Doug Singsen, a writer for SocialistWorker.org and effectively a representative of the ISO insofar as point-of-view, wrote a clever piece to convince Occupiers that, as true autonomy is impossible unless we revert to the Neolithic Age, and real change is virtually impossible in society as we know it, Occupy should just strive to make changes in the system as it stands. He claimed that revolution began with demands that were met by the authority; that power was claimed, historically, bit by bit (Singsen). But that’s entirely false. Take our own independence, for example. We claimed all of our freedom at once, not one piece at a time. We didn’t bother to fix a flawed system then, but instead disavowed and redefined a good system entirely. The only difference between then and now is the weapon. Occupy doesn’t need physical strength, but solidarity: peaceful retaliation in the form of civil disobedience.
Nick Beams of the World Socialist Web Site (or wsws.org) says that if Occupy admitted to Singsen’s so-called ‘realism,’ any expression of dissatisfaction would be turned into “so much hot air aimed at turning youth and students away from a struggle in the working class and bringing them back under the wing of the Democratic Party” (Beams 1). The Democrats have proven themselves unable to pull through on their promises for reform, and Occupy refuses to become involved any more. They network and protest, and the numbers of conscious individuals can only grow. Even in the time between when I ‘liked’ the Facebook page for Occupy Salt Lake City and now (about an hour), twelve more people have ‘liked’ the page.
In a short two years, the Occupy Movement has grown from a single event in New York City’s Zuccotti Park into a worldwide opposition to capitalism, a general longing for some higher societal standard. It is not like any movement in our history, because everything we know is under question. But the future of the world is still in our hands. We can choose not to prolong the global economic collapse and rip off the bandage of the 1%. It is my hope that the struggle will stimulate the evolution of mankind, a growth into greater spiritual kinship between all human beings. Perhaps when the dust settles, people will camp in the parks for fun instead!




Works Cited
Bauer, Scott. “Scott Walker, Wisconsin GOP Poised To Cut Worker Rights In Budget Fix.”      
Huffington Post, 15 Feb. 2011. Web. 10 Dec. 2012.
Beams, Nick. “Critical political issues raised by the Occupy movement.” World Socialist Website,
22 Oct. 2011. Web. 5 Dec. 2012.
Berg, John C. “Occupy Wall Street: Does Changing the Story Change Votes?” Suffolk University.,  Web. 26 Nov. 2012.
Caren, Neal; Gaby, Sarah. “Occupy Online: Facebook and the Spread of Occupy Wall Street.”
University of North Carolina. 24 Oct. 2011. Web. 10 Nov. 2012.
Eifling, Sam. “Adbusters’ Kalle Lasn Talks About Occupy Wall Street.” The Tyee. 11 Oct. 2011.
Web, 28 Nov. 2012.
Greenhouse, Steven; Clifford, Stephanie. “Protests Backed by Union Get Wal-Mart’s Attention.”
The New York Times. 18 Nov. 2012. Web. 29 Nov. 2012.
Rosenthal, Phil. “Rant raises profile of CNBC on air personality Rick Santelli.” Chicago Tribune.
23 Feb. 2009
Singsen, Doug. “Autonomous Zone on Wall Street?” Socialist Worker. 11 Oct. 2011.               
Web. 2 Dec. 2012.
Trudell, Megan. “The Occupy Movement and Class Politics in the U.S.” International Socialism:
The Occupy Movement and class politics in the U.S., Issue 133. 9 Jan. 2012.                 Web. 7 Nov. 2012.
12/12 Walmart Action, In Solidarity With West Coast Port Shutdowns. Occupy Denver.               
2 Dec. 2011. Web. 7 Dec. 2012.
Wolff, Richard. Occupy The Economy: Challenging Capitalism (in conversation with David
Barsamian). Open Media Series, City Lights Books, 2012. Print.
Zernike, Kate. Boiling Mad: Inside Tea Party America. BiasAlerts, 2010. Print.

Thursday, December 20, 2012

The letters i'm too tired to write


Because my eyes fought their lids,
I closed them instead of writing
in the open notebook before me.
The other three students, all three of them
girls, and I the only man,
continued scribbling.
Like a top set in motion on a wide flat table,
winding down. I was already wound down.

But the sound of pencils could have been
the crawling of landed flies,
searching for food with loose feelers
on a tree ten feet from me—
with my eyes closed.
The busy scratching. Foraging.
I imagined old parchment and inkwells.
I smelled the newly spouting fountain,
over the winged shoulders of cherubs.
Water does have a scent, and cherubs…
they smell like furious pencils,
writing letters to nobody.

Believe it or not, Nobody has a address.
Don’t ask me what it is.
My eyes were closed, remember.

If you want to write a letter to Nobody,
take a sheet of paper and scribble,
until you’ve sharpened three times.
Then fold your paper into an airplane,
and just throw it into the wind.
Oh, and don’t look either. You don’t need your eyes
to find nothing. Just send it out, and on.

That’s just what I did, sitting back in my chair.
I felt the pencil scratches were mine.
Anything is me when my eyes are shut.

Wednesday, December 19, 2012

Stratum: Some Red Place



It was my assumption that the internet did not
make a sound. My fingers typed
while I watched from a sporting bleacher,
cheering my hurrah like a beached seal.
Whatever I was looking up, it was sandy.
It had to be wrought in pieces,
for soft feet like a yielding surface to tread.
I vaguely remember searching my candy bag
When my tongue got hungry, and finding nothing.

I remember when my hands learned
        to follow lines,         to lag,
               and my head trail
                      knew not
                           to trail, to lag
               knew not trail
     and my head lag—
to follow lines
I grew stiff like cardboard
and got wet in the rain
I hadn’t noticed.
My skull molded to the pressure of the wind.
It was like a soft hammer thump.

Loose particles jumped from the red rock
Of the arch I stood beneath
  In Southern Utah or some red place
  In which I laid with my body
  searing the connected sandstone
that concealed the yawning blue sky
onto the backs of my eyes.

  I see it even when I don’t look,
  like the words inked on a prize page
  neatly sandwiched by hard bookends.

On the internet, I caught Delicate Arch.
I halted my search, lingered on the strata.
The window of the arms was carved, supported.
Ah, the shape was crafted, but not the stone.
The stone was in the bleachers.

My assumption was right:
the breath exhaling from the internet
had truly come from me.

One thing overlooked


I was building a circuit.
There were resistors, capacitors,
and wires of blue, green, white, red
to connect each component.
I soldered for hours,
drew conduits about the central chip,
and created a spaghetti mess
of worms writhing together, 
breathing together, trading electrons
first through the white wire,
then the black, then the red
and through the switch, 
and by the time it reached
the green wire, I hadn't a clue
where the electricity had really gone.
I followed the schematic, 
until there was no more wire
and nothing to solder. 
I flipped the switch, and wasn't surprised
when the circuit didn't work.

Firestarters


I watched the hair model burn.
Her face lifted ashen into her hair.
The clean shaven guy
in the cut black jacket said his last
"Can you hear me now?"
I said, Can YOU hear me now?
I tossed the Costco ads
in the Walmart ads
and watched those new TVs burn,
their price tags curling up
into the screens like a cocoon
in reverse. Spandex
and jeans and denim,
new and used Honda Civics,
watches, shampoos, guitars,
the get-rich-quick schemes,
the new pharmaceuticals 
and the ads for lawyers 
to sue the old pharmaceuticals,
the dentists and cheeky fake suited philanthropists,
feed my fire, 
at least keep me warm tonight.

Tuesday, October 16, 2012

Rising Ant

I woke up in the bottom of a tunnel.
I looked around, dazed, carefully brandishing
my weak antennas. There were other three pieced
black bodies crawling over one another.

After a time I could tell
that tunnels were only dug straight up and down,
or just forward and back
or at a rough angle.
I scratched the dirt off the right wall
and found it surprisingly smooth.
I applied a little spit-shine,
recoiled, my feeble antennas flailing
and fell backwards off the sudden ledge
directly onto a pile of writhing legs
and thoraxes glinting lightly,
muttering it couldn't be true.

I climbed out, clawed to the main shaft,
scissored my six legs like fury,
and breathlessly heaving myself
over the lip of the hole
I knew that I was on display
in a glass box,
in a room of glass boxes
in a planetarium exhibit
where the ceiling was lined with stars
and colors I didn't know,
with nebulas and galaxies I would never touch,
and only a faint mirage of a window
to outside in the distance,
shimmering green trees and grass forever beyond.

To Live

It was safest to sit
in the wet cement
when I was fleeing the ants
that had it out with me.
I watched them sink
trying to cross the grey sea,
and they fell into the holes
my shoes had gouged;
but then the sea began hardening,
and the ants climbed over
their brothers like boulders
and I couldn't get up.
But instead of eating me,
they swarmed, crawled me...
only when the queen got hungry
would I be devoured.

Wednesday, September 5, 2012

I Slight of Hand

It was a coin,
a coin I had--
before I stole it.
I was convinced that I
knew the size and shape of it.
The coin sat weighted
in my hand, and the face
on it looked baleful,
as the tails side was scratched off.

I flipped the coin,
nothing and a face,
blending as in an illusion,
nothing and a face,
the bird was in the cage.
It spun, and I couldn't tell
one side from the other.
Two dimensions were three there
in the air, free falling
into my expectant hand.
Then it was certain
to be one or the other.
Imagine then, to my surprise,
and chagrin,
when I opened my hand,
and there was no coin at all.

Night On Mind

I can't sleep, so here I am.
I'm afraid
when I lay back
I'll keep falling
through the bed
through the floor
and the earth,
that I'll disappear
like Bilbo with the ring.
What I am be eaten,
shredded, burned, gone
where nobody really knows,
like a tree falling
in the forest when no one
is around to hear,
please let there be
a sound regardless.
This I beg for.

Saturday, August 18, 2012

Off the Rail (inspired by Kurt Vonnegut Jr.)

Throw for off the rail
the water below is deep, and frail
so tasked with holding me-
in rigor mortis, the bodies are
buoyant even for lack of presence
within them

Throw for off the rail
and the straight lines built,
still there is control
floating on one current of water
or another to another.
    So it goes.

His will not saved

Tree staring ambrosia. The sleek clutter of words--
words that follow lines,
and ones that don't, calm, cunning-
-ly blooming aloof the wide boughs just beyond sight,
all stalking the writer,
and he doesn't even know where they come from.
Words, jungle cats, lurking under the leaves,
working unseen until the pounce,
and the blood that seeps from him
feeds the ground all around his depart-
-ure and entrance. He is an atom,
each broken analysis for social amusement
precious electrons stuck to him in orbit
for now and the time being,
as he slowly leaves himself behind.

Depth

I enshrined a glass onion,
in front of my sunrise window
and every morning the light
diverges into prisms, I fall
through the bound layers
into the center that I
can never quite see.

Thursday, July 26, 2012

The Wall of the Cabin

A traveler in a large tan trench coat
whipped his black-grey beard over his shoulder
and foraged through the dark pine forest.
Circling a tree-covered knoll
he heard a harsh, unnatural sound,
a knocking sound. Then suddenly
his blue eyes fell on a cabin, perfect
in its surrounding firs.
It had no doors, no windows, and no chimney.

The traveler went round for a better look,
and on the far side was a burly man,
dressed in corduroy overalls, and bare chest:
he was red-faced, colliding his forehead
against the rough Southerly planks,
leaving small white marks behind.
His elbows, knuckles, and knees, and forehead
all bore bruises, yet he repeatedly smashed them
against the unyielding wall.

Sensing the stranger, the man whipped about,
his long sweaty hair sticking to his face.
A deep bellow preceded bleary dark eyes.
"Who comes near my cabin? I found it
FIRST!! Me, me, me!"
"I'm sorry, I don't want a cabin," the traveler replied,
"What's your name?"
"Greg. And yorn?"
"Samuel. I'm just a wanderer. Why are you
hitting this hard wall?"
"Why? WHY? Because it's not harder than me.
I lost my group to the cold last year,
and my tools. The clues led me here,
from this old map I bought years ago."
"How long have you been here?"
"Around ten days. I'll whither a hole
and peek in first. I'll do it yet."

"Could you use some help?"
"NO, I started with me and I'll end with me,
god damn it! Whatever's inside is mine."
"What about a do..."
"...a DOOR? I've looked, there's no way in
save the skin of my bones! I will
get in.
I will
get in.
Now leave."

The traveler shrugged, and turned woodward.
The knocking continued.


***

It was a month past,
and the snows had fallen heavily,
when the traveler donned his backpack
and made the trudge to the cabin
to check on Greg and his progress.
It was cold about, but the temperature
went even further down on the far side
of the knoll near the cabin.

At the base of the structure
was a curled form, black with frostbite.
The snow built a canyon the width
of the cabin's immaculate eaves--one wall
of wood, another of white.

The traveler furrowed his heavy grey brows
like lover moths dying together,
for the fool who had died trying
to break into a prison.


Thursday, July 19, 2012

Bangles

Smoke and Ash

A great cloud billowed through a hundred degrees
over the tops of the dry shrub mountains
round like moles of the earth,
but instead of rain, ashes.
Ashes fell on the plastic manicured dolls
doe-like observing from the front yards
of plastic houses new
as planes resting on shelves over an impossibly deep crevice,
to take off and never land, but fall
forever.  Ashes fell,
and stained upturned blue eyes grey,
and covered the mint green lawns,
and covered the sports cars
and the cosmetic shops
and hid the awnings even
as the owners feverishly pitched more
so that nothing could be seen
     that was made beautiful.
We are the people,
        and I am the cloud.

Wednesday, July 4, 2012

"A More Internal View of the Fourth" by Victoria Santamorena



Fire balloons of the sky

unfold like lilies blossoming

and burst like blinking devil's eyes

colors fading, brightening

Consume the blackness and assuage

the quietness of the fading stars

cascading down from a freckled sky

dust flecks falling, sparkling

from the heavens like tears of gods



The cracking of some Titan's whip

ringing boldly in the air,

like the cry of a bitter eagle

the deep, dark void converging with the

sunbursts of liberty

swallowed by screams and sirens

swallowed by the wonder of men in awe

nestled in the comfort of tattered lawn chairs

and smiling



Pink-lobster bodies sprawled on the grass

feeling the way America feels,

tickling the generations with

Exposed skin and canisters full of the sweet

foam and froth of taverns

the ale of freedom and the quench of alcoholic smog

that was the Whiskey Rebellion



All is ablaze with a neon glow

all is alight with the rain of fire

eyes wide and rustic with the taste

of Americana

Crimson, indigo, and purity

woven into bands

signs waving against the sky.

Give me liberty or give me death.

The Fourth

The spring jet of sparks blew forth
on the Fourth in the heat and haze.
The sun popped bashfully behind
their whitish blaze, and laughter
boiled briefly in the air for safe digestion,
drew coarse and livid smoke clouds into existence.

The clouds were whitish, hinting distractions,
and all eyes watched the searing flames rise,
never fingering a bucket of water even,


they were so pretty

The winds' warm arms
clutched the smoke, and rushed it
into my iris', dirtying them yellow,
rushed it to all of us standing beside the parade,
an enormous Return To Sender stamp on the package,
yet it seems only I am complaining.

Wednesday, June 20, 2012

Conquer Monster: By The Wayside




This is my Math teacher's band.  He's performed music ranging from folk to techno to metal, and he's fond of inventing his own custom synthesizer sounds.  Enjoy!

Tuesday, June 5, 2012

In Horror, The New World

The bird stood still on his peggish legs
on the branch of a pine on Center Street.

Two college girls, laughing blue eyes and hair
bright blonde flowing in the air wakes as cars pass,
carrying white sun ripples in the expensive jell
they used to tailor every curve,
strolled the white whitened sidewalk, 
talking about Brad Pitt's penis
and licking an ice cream cone, from the Creamery on Ninth.
Their nails were painted sparkly crimson,
their shirts were identical pink, and their short shorts
black and tight. Their legs gleamed clean shaven,
exposed for the temporary delight of driving men
before they rear-end the cars in front of them.

The girl nearest the road gave a sudden cry,
a peal of raw Soprano cadence, and pointed
to the tree: "Look! It's an owl! I've never seen one
this far in town!"
The owl's brown peppered feathers were drawn 
in a cloak about its body,
and its eyes peered wide, unblinking
down the road, the cars coming, going.
"It's big," remarked the other. "Let's get 
a closer look."

The two drew slowly nearer to the tree,
and the owl didn't move. It didn't seem
to notice the women at all.
Eventually they stood directly before it,
and could look directly into its sharp eyes
and sloping oaken beak.
And still the owl did not move.
"He's beautiful." "How are you sure
it's a 'he?'" "Something in the way
he stands, I guess." "Yeah."
Their approach hadn't startled him       (nothing could startle him anymore, for the beetles were of steel)
and neither their whispers, his gaze 
was ever trained on the street
and its population of metallic beetles.

As they watched, a single feather fell 
from his right wing, and another from
the left, floating gently to the hard ground
at their feet. The Soprano carefully inserted
one feather in her hair, while giving the other
to her identical friend.
"Thank you, Mister Owl," she said,
and after they'd taken a dozen pictures 
of the frozen owl from all angles,
they departed, and still,
the owl didn't move, and the feathers
fell like ashes from the burning Tabernacle.

He had been dead for quite some time.

Fire Inside


Wednesday, May 30, 2012

The Last Ride

Onto a lush green mire the train rushes,
hitching and jumping on the track
marred by uneven patches of rusted steel.
The train, it jumps, the passengers pitch
forward and back, their stomachs heaving.

One man is pulled violently--slide
         weightlessness
                                       tumble
  spiral     forward, the world is in a black hole as he is,
              smack
                            crack and the spiderwebs start
                            growing, and the man is caught
in that web, deliriously moaning, undetermined of
the direction the train is moving, and strung
a paraplegic before the lurking, pinching, invisible spider
as it ejects its stiffening venom so steadily
into him...

he fears, he stabs, he rolls, he turns
so that his head is beneath his feet, he flies
screaming down the length of the train head first,
feet following loosely behind,
he sits, he stares through the window on the moor
again at rest, he realizes that he can't call for help,
a new tumble comes... through the cracks,
the webs softly glistening over the stretch of the green
evergreen bog, the deep mosses that hang low
from the branches of each conifer,
like so many beards on old men, tall and quiet,
the man smells something--the fine grasses,
wet with winter and the trees in their hunched stature,
       and he smiles.  He's in his seat.
He can't trade his seat with anyone else:
he'll never get off, but he'll be ill, motion sick,
and only imagine that he ever moved.
He smells the mire, and no longer knows
where the train is going,
through the peat lying dead upon the track.

Friday, May 18, 2012

IDEAS THAT ENTERTAINED A SOUL: Magnitude of Multitude

Here's a pretty piece I found out there cruising the interwebs for poetry.

IDEAS THAT ENTERTAINED A SOUL: Magnitude of Multitude: Silence is full of it – a magnitude of multitude. Particles parting on tangents in any direction, their fractals colliding at some funky ...

Monday, May 14, 2012

Migration

Two swans, long of neck, white feathered,
a male and a female,
their maiden voyage yet to be complete,
the air steadily rising on a warm swell,
rise along those molecules,
the curve carries them smoothly.
Crimson fire from the horizon as the celestial traveler
toes the line between earth and sky,
bathes the birds as they pave a path for each other
the dictates of symmetry require, the vibration
of a string drawn between them the tool for flying far.
In one breath, the wings flap together, disturb equally
the air steadily rising--what do they flee from?
Their lands made arid, perhaps, the reason, or
they tore the atmosphere in such hope as
to cleave open their abdomens for one another,
a cavern sharply reflective to lie in
among the mirrors each in turn had swallowed;
open their mouths wide enough to consume
the sunset and keep it forever, the largest rock
in their gizzards, eyes wide with acquisition,
swift the wing flap cleaves air again and again.
Burn, the two birds sing, burn brightly asunder,
ring around again, the wings lacerate air softly yielding,
the energy, oh robustly moving itself, hot in seeking
the largest mirror's edge,
as it draws ever further away.






Tuesday, May 1, 2012

Tick


Cotton and Roses

Wait

Grass, short and dense,
trimmed by the lawn mower,
watered by the mountain runoff,
in the park where few play.
Cool, the feel under my feet
softly folding down under me,
a swift look up from my phone,
no one there to catch me leaving
my dog's droppings around-I
had no bag.  Couldn't clean up.

Endless music, new phone
provides all I ask for, the
screen my field to walk and
capture the radiation in my eyes.
I in the park as one stands
before an immense wall
marking the places where he can't
climb.  My getaway is a fortress
that I haven't the keys for
nor the will to infiltrate
and so I sit, cool under feet
now loosely folded, and wait.  

Fealty

Fealty, pray, to the cells of my feet
for they carry me between the green and the red
mountains.  Fealty, pray, to the cells
of my hand, for they lay the symbols
for what I feel when crossing the road
and catching the windshield glare;
what I feel when the glare doesn't fade
even as I continue strolling for miles,
winding my way home alone in the heat;
what I feel when standing too swiftly
and the earth is rushing into my brain;
what I the snake feel when I slip
from my skin, and into the next.

Fealty, pray, to the drive of living,
to the grip of the steering wheel and excitement
of my destination, because I'm not there yet,
and thank God that there is better than here.
And thank God, fealty, pray, to swearing
no oaths of fealty when there becomes here.

Friday, April 27, 2012

The Cliff Bird

Red cliffside sing in the bronze morning light
where the small black bird nests calmly
in a crack meandering the stone,
picking through his feathers for a morsel
or two
that previously escaped his beak.

Far up the cliffside, where nothing can touch him
except for the lonely rock climber enjoying red rock blaze,
fire for himself to burn brightly.
The bird, secluded, notes the rising sun
on its lilting path over the sky.
No company save the warmth of red stone
and cool blue distance.
The bird thought he would stay in that crack
picking himself clean, clean
in the red face womb forever.


Thursday, April 26, 2012

"A Poison Tree," by William Blake


I was angry with my friend.
I told my wrath, my wrath did end.
I was angry with my foe.
I told it not, my wrath did grow;

And I water'd it in fears,
Night and morning with my tears;
And I sunned it with smiles,
And with soft deceitful wiles;

And it grew both day and night
Till it bore an apple bright,
And my foe beheld it shine,
And he knew that it was mine,

And into my garden stole
When the night had veil'd the pole.
In the morning glad I see
My foe outstretched beneath the tree.