Thought you might want to get a look at the family.
Callie, the Evil one…AKA “Kali”, goddess of destruction
Icchus, the 20 pound wonder. AKA “Big Boy”
Josie, world’s greatest cat…mother to the other two.
These were taken on one of their rare, supervised forays to the backyard, where they immediately go hide under cars and hang out till I go get em and bring them in.
It’s about music and poetry, again; something of a personal nature that explores the relationship between my guitar playing and my poetry a little more deeply.
Filled, as well, with my usual cranky asides designed to piss off an open mike aficionado or two.
Go here for a look.
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And while we’re at it — the blurbs aren’t pouring in. Jeez, I even told you you could INSULT my work and I didn’t get many!
I’m hurt. Shocked, and hurt. And hungry, but I think that’s unrelated.
Just in case it was because I didn’t include my e-mail address in the post, here you go:
chrysler.poet@verizon.net
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Finally, because it’s so silly:
I’ve been thinking about the Fenway riot.
I’ve never been in a riot, although I’ve been in two political demonstrations that turned ugly (both in the 70s, one an occupation of the administration building at Umass, the other a demo at Kent State against plans to build a gym on the site of the 1970 killings — got teargassed there).
What I remember is this: that in that atmosphere, I really became clear (not for the first time ) that anyone is capable of anything under the right circumstances.
Elias Canetti, an expert on crowd behavior, has done a lot of research on the way riots begin and end…and he says that while crowd frequently begin riots as a response to the actions of a few, in full bloom people in a mob will do things they would never do in a normal situation.
Which makes it so hard to truly assign blame, in my eyes…or perhaps, it needs to be equally distributed.
OK: a small change in plans.
Looking for people to respond who want to provide a two sentence blurb for the new chapbook.
E-mail the quote back channel to my e-mail.
Two requirements:
1. You actually have to know my work.
2. You actually have to be coherent.
Note well that I didn’t say anything about the level of complimentary prose you needed to provide. Well written contumely will be considered.
The winners (?) get a copy free, or something of equal value, like a quarter.
in the wake of the Red Sox celebration was the babysitter for one of my co-workers’ twins.
Fortunately for all concerned, the mayor has assured us she was killed by a “non-lethal weapon.”
Also important: the riot cops are getting counseling.
Good to know.
What’s in the new chapbook (not in this order):
Revisiting Roses and Violets
Chrysler
Why I Left Home
Mission Statement
Punk
Seafoam Green
In America
Political Art
DIY
Poem Was a Man
Cante Jondo For the Left Side
Radioactive Artist
The Kathy Bag
Conspiracy
Getting Ahead
I know I left a lot of stuff out that people had suggested, but decided to keep it relatively small, and go for more range by including stuff from all my various chapbooks instead. There will likely be a volume 2 (which technically will be a new chapbook, and I had planned this to be the last; but I will not do another collection of new stuff, so I think this is ok) later on.
With the exception of “Cante Jondo”, this pretty much covers the bulk of my basic slam repertoire, too — so that demon is exorcised.
“Revisiting…” is also a brand new, never released anywhere else poem. Although all the regulars know it.
Some of you may be receiving e-mails shortly about possibly contributing a blurb. Stay tuned, and thank you in advance…
Just sent the text of my next chapbook off to Sou for layout.
It’s a collection of “greatest hits” as it were — poems from the last twenty years of writing.
Not a huge collection — decided to stick with a handful of pieces versus a larger collection (there will have to be a volume 2, I think).
I’ll print the list tomorrow.
Now then: gonna choose a few folks to blurb me for the acknowledgement page…
absolutely nothing of interest to say today.
Sox win? Not interested…the only person in MA, I think, who doesn’t care about this stuff.
Election? Trying not to think about it.
Work? Sucks.
Poetry? Not much happening.
Not feeling particularly up and happy, not at all.
Anything else?
No.
Discovering Fire
we will all
spend half our lives
in some darkness or another.
some of us become so used to it —
sleeping, dying, sobbing alone behind
drawn curtains — that we
fail to recognize light.
from time to time
we pack up our cigarettes, our worrisome
habits and addictions, and go outside.
there, we pretend to understand the sudden
moonlight. we do not know that
we know nothing, that
everything we can see
is silhouette, shadow puppet, stick figure.
the streetlamps do little for us.
walls, roads, sidewalks, lawns seem grey and
smooth, a blur of sameness,
the contrast turned down.
we’ve got a long time to wait before we get used to this.
listen:
if you get to the edge of the neighborhood
before the rest of us, send some sort of signal back:
a sound maybe, or a scent; better yet,
something brighter than twilight,
something that will let us know
you’ve gotten there,
that will let us know
how far we’ve got to go
before we get to where
we can see what you can.
holler back if you don’t get lost,
or even if you do.
A short history of religion
it is not entirely unexpected, this
long night. it is a constant
in this world that we will
spend half our life
in some darkness or another:
sleeping, dying, sobbing alone behind
drawn curtains.
nevertheless, we pack up our cigarettes, our worrisome
habits and addictions, and go outside
where we pretend to understand the sudden
moonlight, but we know nothing: everything we can see
is silhouette, shadow puppet, stick figure.
the streetlamps do little for us. the walls seem grey and
smooth, a blur of plastered stone.
we’ve got a long way to go before we get used to this.
if you get to the edge of the neighborhood before the
rest of us, send some sort of soft signal back:
a sound, a scent; something that we might see without
smoked glass in front of us. let us know how far we’ve got to go
before we get used to the idea that there are colors out there.
wave if you don’t get lost, or even if you do.
migrate to XP here at the Big House, better known as corporate headquarters.
That’s right: Fortune 500 company on NT.
On Wednesday, we get our new PCs…if we have one that needs to be upgraded.
So I got down on my knees and checked out my beast…which I’ve never done before because I made some assumptions…
and it’s a PENTIUM II. No, that’s not a misprint.
I’m assuming that means I’m due.
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
Hey Texas — the Supreme Court just ordered a review of your redistricting plan because they’re not sure it’s constitutional.
Not surprisingly, it doesn’t touch it for this election.
Convenient, eh?
Driving
cars
we wish were
bedrooms
we can drive and
stay in bed
all day
with their hot hoods and
their back seats
their leather and their
horsepower
in dawn just past sleep
or in dark of morning
we drive
in daylight or at
dusk these
cars scented with
romance where
love is secondary
and warm steel
on bare skin
seems
a wedding of form
and function and
rutting with
pumping gas then brakes
then gas
again
until
baby
I can sleep
while you
drive
1. Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind
This reminded me of stoned conversations in college that seemed deep at the time but were, in fact, pretty stupid.
2. Waking Life
See above, and muliply it by two.
3. American Beauty
How a rich pothead pedophile works out to Everyman, I’ll never know. Despicable characters, vile plot, lame social commentary.
4. The Star Wars movies
I found the first one (Lucas’ inane numbering sequence aside, the first released) mildly entertaining, the rest predictable. Can’t even recall the plots of most of them.
5. Farenheit 9/11
I’ve weighed in on this before — nothing new and some borderline racist bits made me furious.
Go for it.
we’re looking for someone to be
the right killer for the job with
arms that will hold and squeeze
the wrong ones till they’re blue and small
we’re looking for
the right killer for the job
someone who can make it all seem
inevitable
someone who can nod his head
and shake our hands while claiming it’s cool enough
to start a fire on a distant hearth
someone who will not smell the flesh roasting
we’re looking for our kind of killer
with anguished eyes and a do-right hand
with a steady aim and a crestfallen lip
with a cowboy’s heart and a minister’s voice
our kind of killer says he
doesn’t play favorites
our kind of killer says we
mean well and will be well
all will be well on the other side
of our kind of killing
with the flag as tricolor nightvision scope
with the anthem as bombastic silencer
we’re looking for our kind of killer
to make us feel better about the way we smell
when our red white and blue turns
to blown brain grey and dry blood brown
give us the kind of killer we deserve
someone who understands how we want to be loved
with malice toward none
and charity toward all
Dark Matter 