Unnoticed in Clever Worlds

The clearest description I have managed so far about my blog is that it is not about cats. In general, I find predators pretty predictable while prey on the other-hand, because they live in universes of anxiety, develop more textured personalities. I also have as a writer a deft hand when it comes to making matters worse, so of course , the already panicky are ready made for me. I will try to grow this blog into an assortment of laughs, because that is what my life has mostly taught me to do. I will use the famous people I have known to get your attention and then tell you small but many times wonderful things about them. I will never name the ones I say ugly things about but I hope you will guess who they are.

Month: December, 2015

Poem: Unintended Selfies

I will last
after I die
in iPhotos,
that will keep me as I was.
Nearly.
It is the modern privilege,
Of sorts.
To hang around awhile longer,
after trillions of my ancestors,
are now only pieces
of dug-up skulls,
Or hand prints
on French cave walls.
Those are the unintended selfies.
We keep them in the drawers of museums.
In my iPhone camera.
I hold Archangels in my hands.
And snap myself
into permanence.
I can even take,
what I have eaten.

Poem: He is Pleased with me

 

He knew
I wasn’t going to tell.
I wrapped him in brown paper
and went home
and hid him,
after he raped me.
He was pleased.
He climbs on me at night.
I dream of him doing bug things.
“Remember our first time?”
he whispers in the mean humming pitch
of warm August  night locusts
and I am confused.
“Of course,” I whimper.
He is pleased,
and I feel safe.
He sits in the quiet old chair.
Next to my bed.
I dream, that he is not there.
At breakfast, across the table from me,
he asks, “So what shall we do today?
So casually. I am confused.
My life with him is beginning.
He touches my hand,
He is pleased.
My deceit holds no estate in him.
I have vanished into what has hurt me.
Life forbids that I feel nothing at all.
And my  life might be long.

Wondering About Wisdom

I have come to wonder about wisdom. I doubt now that such a thing does or even could exist.
The philosophers think, and the novelists describe. But do they offer anything outside of their small moments of cleverness?
The short sayings, platitudes, and proverbs that commonly billboard FaceBook highways and our Bibles coax corrective behaviors that barely last a morning.
The priests offer certainty and hope in return for death. If that is wisdom, what is foolishness?
Is wisdom ever a tool?
Name me one knowing man who has ever served as a contagion for all of us to believe together. One who eventually would not divide us. All the famous ones are still killing us today.
It disappoints me that wisdom did not come to me with age. I was raised to think that it would. I was always searching and at times, I felt some mouths spoke truth into my ears. But it was never true.
Wealth and prestige come with age, and  those are the sexy petticoats of envy, and they confuse you, especially when you are young.
But the old are always too stubborn and ashamed come clean, so they whisper ” come hither for I am wise.”
And the young and foolish come.
At least for a while.

Poem: Little Lifetimes of First love

The little lifetimes of first love
All whirling and crashing.
About your heart
like snowflakes
all different
all the same
till one does not melt
away.

Chapter #1 The First Thing to Explain

If there was a signature of constancy in my childhood, it was my mother bringing men into my orbit, so I could observe her hurt them. Loving her as I did, I wanted her suitors to suffer, and she obliged me by dropping these men’s hearts into me, like worms into a hungry baby bird’s jealous beak.
One day after meeting my aunt for the first time at mother’s funeral, I arrived at her hotel room intending to kill her. Her sister, my mother, had made me peculiar.

 

Art begins with a second glance

But it takes a thousand years to prove itself.

The Children Binge

I treat my children as entertainment. I hadn’t clarified this realization until Netflix. Raising them was strenuous and poured life from me like Morton salt but without them, I might as well have been wearing plaid in Miami and eating dinner at three-thirty in the afternoon all these twenty years.
I thought at first parenting would be like any other task with a perceivable career trajectory. Acquire skills then build on them to buttress against whatever to climb the project throws at you.
The hoped for product; it reasonably followed, was a lubricated and happy relationship with your child
This algorithm does not apply to children. The simplest example of this phenomenon was the changing of diapers. At one point I considered touring my skill, playing in small venues across the country. I was so crackerjack that I could toss my daughter in the air, and a fresh diaper would be on her before she hit the ground.
Then she stopped needing diapers. I had her down for her nap like she was a rock band taking the stage. Then she gave up naps. I build fences out off empty beer cases for her to safely crawl around in while I rested and watched. Then she learned to walk. This tail chasing has continued to this day.
Nobody is good at being a parent. It is not a skill. It is like Netflix, a binge.

Wet poem: “And So Was Gertie”

Mr. and Mrs. Stotnum Powder,
renown for synchronized postures
ran their noses around glass.
“ That cat has been staring at me,” said Stotnum
“At us, you mean ?” Gertie shot back,
much annoyed by the exclusion.
“It’s those big eyes;
they follow me, us, around,” Stotnum issued,
“Like it hates us.”
“It just sits there,” agreed Gertie,
“Doesn’t he have cat friends?”
“He might want company.”
Gertrude was thoughtful.
“It must be hard to be alone,” Gertrude bubbled,
brushing against Stotnum,
her back arched suggestively.
“ What would you do without me?”
He worried she was siding with the cat.
The splashing from above,
waved them apart.
The ceiling cracked open.
Sounds are tricky underwater,
He had never heard a scream.
Stotnum saw the face above them,
and then it’s paw.
Then the claws.
Quick as it came, it was gone again,
and so was Gertie.

In Times of Vinyl

There was a time children, when we bought vinyl albums and we expected to find every song in them to be great. These brilliant albums gave rise to what were called album-oriented radio stations which not only played individual songs that were longer than three minutes but at times played entire albums, cover to cover, without commercials. Even more remarkable was that these albums were written and performed by the artists who wrote them. This was a very big deal in the sixties and early seventies. Many people like me began to realize what one person could do artistically within an art form. We had never really experienced this before because most times the writers of the songs would be completely unknown to us. It was the performing artist who would became famous. We just assumed and associated the performer with the words in the song increasing his or her seductiveness. I don’t exactly remember the first album of this kind I was exposed to but I know my immediate reaction was to do drugs, grow my hair long, and dress in outfits that resulted in the grateful early onset of my parent’s Alzheimer’s.

Poem: Love

Love is what the battlefield presents to you

after you have vanquished all the imposters.

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