At the time, their world was not my world and I thought the
process
Stupid.
Catalogues.
Upholstery. Wall-art.
(Not to be confused with art-art),
Color schemes.
Building materials.
As they played, Let’s Production Design Our Life,
My oh my - how they fought.
Dear god, I thought.
This is the prize when worlds collide?
I said to myself,
Fuck this. If
this is how it is.
When I grow up.
I want to be Charles Bukowski.
+
The most honest thing I ever saw slip out of Charles
Bukowski is the monster that got caught on film when
He lost his shit on Linda while sitting on a couch
During an interview.
I do not want to be that man. I have the potential.
But am not. And
much of what I do these days is
To dispel the myth.
And claim my right.
No matter how well his words have flirted with me.
+
I live in a small home. Or a big home with strange
Angles. I think
it was built in a time where things
Were built quick and cheap for warmth and
Shelter.
The kitchen is very small.
At some point it was decided for the greater
Good of man that we should buy a dishwasher.
We found one for 175 bucks or something like
That.
And life has become better. Because much happens
In the mind in between the need to do and done of
Did.
Dirty dishes.
Everybody gets drunk on narrative.
Trauma is dehabilitating. The word
Itself is worse.
Constant chatter.
Stubborn rebelliousness
I am Not You God Damn Son of a Bitch.
My, oh my. The
cycle is enlightening.
First you fall in love with how they were made.
Then you get a chance to see what they are made of.
Deep love is sprung from this.
In this I am alive and learning.
+
The other day I found myself thinking about my parents
While watching Youtube. There is this video of this Korean
Boy singing, “Hey Jude.”
In the early years I wasn’t shy. I would draw a beard on my
Face to look like my dad and hold a tennis racquet in my
hands
And rock the fuck out.
Dancing.
Then I got very shy and didn’t dance.
Then I would dance on cruise ships.
Then I would watch people dance and ache
As I watched them.
Then I would get drunk and dance alone.
Then there came a time while dancing alone
That people would draw nearer and one could
Say with proximity “we” were dancing.
Now when I dance it is intimate and I do so
Fluently.
It comes in bursts with a lot of chatter in between.
Such is the thing with intimacy.
The other day I
found out that my mom hurt her
Knee real serious and was going need surgery.
A week had gone by.
I was the last to know.
While watching that kid, I felt bad for my family.
They must be confused about who I am and
I wonder.
It has been a long road to dancing.
It makes me sad to be the
Last to know.
But it was necessary.
+
No.
It is not the time to pawn shit.
No.
It is not about the Dishwasher in the kitchen.
It is not about the poetry.
What the hell are they thinking?
The way they are going at it with each other is as if they
were
Trying to re-militarize the Rhineland as a pre-emptive
strike on
The coming of Blitzkrieg or lure Lennon back to
Bed with a blowjob before the pop was shot and his life
went kersplat.
In my head I hear someone say, “Martin, put on some
sunscreen. Draw the
blinds. Come
back inside. Listen to this
song. Quiet your mind.
Settle down.
Leave the fresh air to the dry cleaners and pedestrians.
It is space, people, I said. Settle down. Be
nice to each other.
The jungle will have the last laugh. Stir the milk with the
Spoon. And take
the carbon weight out of dating.
Remember Jerry’s kids and the price of rice?
Sit in the tub.
Displace the Water.
Scream – Eureka.
Create. Make
something. Contribute.
DON’T YOU REALIZE!!
I see dead People!!!
It is murder out there.
In here.
In my head I said I see the game as it is with the ass
And the Suspension of Mis-belief that goes along
With a T-grade Television Tea Party.
I alone
Know the reason why
The hippies who felt smug
With civil rights and the sanctity of their fences
Turned into latter day yuppies who went ape shit
And became Credit Card Freaks who felt
Entitled to their piece of the world and are
Currently breaking their bones while moving
Boxes around and looking shit to sell –
In the year 2010,
It is painful to see them getting ass raped like donkeys.
+
Back then I would say to myself, its furniture, man.
It is a trip to the hardware store. Go.
You need shit tickets and black beans to eat. Wash your
Hands with soap and hot water. Get off your god damn
Blackberry.
This is stupid.
Shut up. Wake
up you big dumb assholes. Be nice
to
Each other. You
are lucky to have your sheets whose
threads count in the hundreds to make your
bodies go ooh-la-la while fucking.
You jerks - I’m not fucking – it’s murder out there. And
You are lucky.
So I said in my head
All high and mighty like a kid who has
Just cracked the dictionary to examine the complexities
Of the word “Normal”.
Like he was the first.
Pumping his fist in the air. Screaming ennui with a lisp.
Putting a smear of crap on the upper lip of the dank fallacy
Of pasture.
The pasture is a waving sea of green with a little poop
moustache
Smeared on its upper lip like Hitler.
Eating apples on the lawn.
Stinking up the air
Playing a flute.
While patting its belly.
Prince.
Princess. Sea Captain. Salted pork.
Malted milk.
Little beast. Purple
psychodrama.
Palace pauper.
Pull it together.
Whatever your ideas about Things were before
And whatever you are fighting to cast in the life
Of Now The Jungle will win and it will be gone.
And then what?
Right?
It was easy to snipe from where I stood.
+
On - To the Other Side of Under.
+
I am absolutely centered while somewhat scrambled.
Sometimes, it is hard to sift through the cacophony of
Emotions throughout the day and know where they come
From and the specifics of their anatomy.
Yes.
It is not about the Dishwasher. It is not about the poetry.
While the jungle will win I had no idea how deep the process
Really was.
Went. Goes. And is.
It is more important than the thing that brings peace
And makes it all pretty in the end.
Tangibly.
There is a fuck ton of life that has come before it.
But get there.
The stainless steel.
Modern sensibilites. Plush
whatever the
Fuck it is on the way to the moment where you are standing
there
with bare feet and Smiling at each other.
Patting yourself on the back for the tangible
resourcefulness and
Bliss of manifest destiny and the skill with which you have
found
Resonance in heart and home is nothing short of poetic.
Be still. And
know it.
The gifts are abundant..
The complexities are astounding.
And it is hard to explain put words to why this is so
With any weight or depth without sounding like a
Douche-bag.
But it is.
How you place – how you cast – how you arrange – and how you
fare
As you build amidst the shit storm of life and the narrative
that
Accompanies it does not stop as you do all and you fight for
what
came naturally because you now know it for what it is and
value it.
It is about the dishwasher. It is about the poetry
It is the stomping ground for everything.
The process will never end.
So, get used to it.
Civilization is just as much a parasite as the jungle
That you found depth in when you were a boy
With the knowledge that it will reclaim it.
The jungle loses weight with nothing to reclaim.
So fucking what.
Big deal.
Yes. Fire is
hot. So is want.
So says the Pasture’s lap dog:
Absolution.
+
What
Is
It
All
For
If
Not
Grace.
Love. Respect. Fluidity.
And
Laughter?
What
Is
Laughter
For
If
Not
The
Beats In Between?
+
Yes.
My dishwasher’s name is grace.
She wears 99 cent towels like
A tunic and anoints the garden
With brandy.
She lights life with pictures.
And she has bullhorns for ears.
She has lips that knit sweaters with two
Threads bled warm from wormholes
She ties cherries into knots with her tongue
And cuts bitches with the fierce
Love of her thwarted rights that
Tows the line between breaking
Bread with bane
And balance.
I am familiar with bane.
+
I am a fan of balance.
The minutes are magnificent.
Lift it up and put it
In its place.
Where it belongs.
And
Sing it.
Because,
There is both complexity and truth in
Your song.
Do so with no defenses,
Bryan.
+
You my sweet are Lovely.
