Idiot Poet

Quasimodo poet, humping words to bludgeon

the inert hordes electroelocuting themselves,

that need to be put out of their ecstasy, that need

a good run away truck in their faces, since it seems

senseless slaughter is not strong enough media

medicine to jar these jar heads into the truth.

What makes me the boss? I'll tell you, sonny:

because I didn't even believe my brain poached

dad, a very good man, who believed in America

when America was already on the path of 

manifest manipulation destiny enslavement that

you don't even need to scratch the surface now

to see! Common Core? Biggest oxymoron! 

Orwell was prescient like an old testament 

prophet! No one believes in God anymore, 

because His promise is trumped by the triumph 

of Facebook! Apocalypse of Apple! Moloch of 

Macintosh!  Twittering mobs from Hell sucking 

souls senseless! People afraid of trees, a walk 

in nature without headphones, a moment of 

silent stillness sitting park benched! I remember 

New York hitchhikers fearful of driving through 

a forest at night! They'd never seen a cow! 

In Mexico, when I had to renew my lease for my

house. the landlord came over with a translator, 

his wife, his two sons, another cousin and two 

dogs. They drank beer, we ate guacamole, we

talked for three hours. When I brought up the 

lease, they said they weren't raising the rent 

because now I was part of their family, and they

were glad to have me there! Simon 

Legreelessness! Why would I ever want to move

back to my Lost America? I don't! I won't!

Sauve qui peut!

Nothing Doing

When nothing's doing, nothing

has to be done.

When nothing's doing, you can

bet something's going on.

Where do you think all this came

from anyway?

It had to be nothing in the first place. 

or, why bother the big bang?

"Don't bother me, I'll big bang later,

I'm busy doing nothing."

It had to be a smart alec nothing,

an intelligence without form that

started this whole misunderstanding

in the first place.

That nothing wants you to try to 

give it a name, a definition, some

solid sense of something, because

the only reason for all this is so that

it can have a good laugh.

Why do you think humans, the 

"higher intelligence",

have a sense of humor anyway?

Because someone had to get the joke.

Why I Didn't Get Into Harvard

For most people in the world, not

getting into Harvard meant that finding

meaning in their lives was going to be

almost impossible. Even recently discovered

primitive peoples of the Amazon and the

South Seas, when informed that they hadn't

gotten into Harvard, gave up their traditions

and built crude replicas of Harvard Yard,

weeping at feasts for days on end. For the

men of these tribes, knowing they had not 

gotten into Harvard, meant that they could

not walk down the forest lanes any longer with

their heads held high, noses stuck in the air.

In Australia, many prospective crocodile hunters,

not having gotten into Harvard, just allowed 

themselves to be eaten. Many conspiracy 

theorists felt that not getting into Harvard 

would soon have catastrophic effects for 

humanity.

I did well in high school and wanted to attend 

Harvard like everyone else. My family drove

me to Cambridge to meet with administrators

in hopes that that would have a positive effect. 

I had an interview with a Harvard alumnist who

lived near my town, which I anticipated with a 

mixture of starry eyed hope and dread. 

The interview, took place in the perfect Harvard

grad's book lined, wooden walled study. The

first question this man asked me was "What do

you want to do with your life?" 

I had never though of this question before. My 

life? My whole life? Was I expected to know, to

get into Harvard, everything I wanted to get done

in my life, when I was just still a teenager, 

concerned mainly with pimples and the rest of it?

Was I suddenly in some kind of surreal Catcher-in

the-rye-22 situation?

I stammered: "I don't know." There were no other

questions, really, and soon the interview came to

a politely abrupt end.

I have spent the rest of my life, as we all that didn't

get into Harvard do, analyzing what went wrong,

while we serve burgers at McDonalds, perform

second tier jobs in offices, change the oil on race

cars at the Indy 500, all the tasks that had been

gladly left for those that didn't get into Harvard.

I have come up with many possible options
of things I should have said in the interview,
at that one, crucial moment. Some are:

"I want to be the dictator, or even duly elected
despot, of a small country."

"I want to have more money than anyone else
and use it to control people."

"I want to develop weapons that will scare the
shit out of everybody."

I rejected: "I want to get lots of money and give
all to Harvard." It seemed too cloying.

I could go on and on and on with the list. It's
all most  us, that didn't get into Harvard, do in
our spare time.

Of course, there is a certain portion of humanity
too stupid to realize they didn't get into Harvard
and live (to them) happy, simple lives with work
that satisfies, surrounded by loving family and
friends. They'll never know what they're missing.

Sketch #1

I was at the Friday organic market

in Tepoztlan, having coffee with

 some new friends...Yon, a Polish man,

and his traveling companion, Sera, a 

young French woman. They brought some

fish cooked in lime juice from a stand, 

which was delicious. We were having a 

splendid, light hearted conversation. An 

oldish woman woman drew near, nicely

dressed, with a hat on that had...poofs on

it that looked as if they had been fashioned

from metallic silver and gold crumpled 

balloons.  I remarked on it, and the woman

said, "It's not a hat, it's a turban." I said 

something in an aside to Yon, and he 

doubled over with laughter so hard, that 

I too started to laugh tears.

The woman stayed near our table, chatting

with Charley, the "Cosmic Mechanic" old

hippie that came to Tepoztlan forty years

ago and never left. She was staying with 

him. Yon and Sera went off, and I started 

talking with this woman. It turned out that 

she was quite interesting, had met my 

teacher, Chogyam Trungpa, in Scotland just

before he headed to the States, was a 

student of Osho in Poona for years, had lived 

in Japan with a man for some more years and

had a child by him...and interesting life, all 

in all.

i asked her why she had come to Tepoztlan.

She told me it was a spur of the moment 

decision, that she had left abruptly from 

England, and that it was  a part of her spiritual

journey. She said she was into healing woman

psychic trauma. I asked her if she could explain
a  bit what she meant.

"I like cunt."

I was taken aback at first, but soon stammered:

"I like cunt too, but I don't use it normally in 

conversation. Isn't there a different word that

most woman prefer to use?"

She said no, and said, just before she left England,

her friends had thrown a party for her and had 

given her a necklace as a present. She showed it

to me...it had a silver bauble on it. 

"is that a vagina?"

"No, it's a cunt."  And she went on to talk a bit about

desensitizing language, and liberating minds...she

talked for a while, but, I'm afraid I didn't hear much

of what she said.

My mind was stuck on cunt.

Today's "Trope You Can Use"

SHUT UP....because

it's the next best thing to listening.

Warrior Rant

In the Shambhala tradition of Tibetan

Buddhism, the word "Pawo" means

"warrior, or, literally, "one who is brave."

A brave person is not just some one

who enters combat fearlessly. A brave

person, particularly these days, in the

context of Western society and American

culture specifically, is one who tells the truth.

It has become not only commonplace, but

standard operating procedure, for the US

government to lie to its citizens. The laundry

list of lies...and, let's just start with Vietnam,

"my" war, is astoundingly long, and covers

most major historic events from then until now.

Details here are not necessary to the purpose

of this rant: if you are an American and don't 

realize the truth of what i'm pointing to, you 

might as well pull up the covers now and go

back to sleep. America was never the image

of the happy daddy family, driving down vast

highways with gleaming smiles. Read 

"Manufacturing Consent", for just one book.

"Keeping up with the Joneses" was a common

meme in the Fifties, and it meant that most

Americans were trying to outdo each other in

an imposed consumer conformity. Think: 

"consumer fascism", as an alternative meme.

This engineered American dream is not just

showing rust at the edges. It is on the brink of

falling completely apart. People, (not politicians),

Like Trump and Sanders are vilified by a media

that is part and parcel of the dream machine. The

only way to find the truth is to sift through the 

internet, which has both truth and lies in 

abundance. That's why the government wants

control of the internet. And the government wants 

to take away guns, in case enough people wake

up to what's really going on. Japan, America Corp's

clone, has already passed laws prohibiting criticism

of the government. The Japanese citizenry doesn't

possess many guns. This is not a coincidence.

I'm just another loyal American citizen, living in a 

foreign country because I cannot afford to retire in 

my own. And, the government wants to take

Social Security, which I paid for, away too. Do I

think this next election will affect change in America?

Possibly, but not likely. Poor Bernie and Donald...

walking around with smart bombs likely already 

pointed at them. They are the only two people (not

politicians!) That seems to be brave enough to tell

the truth, or, at least, what they actually think! There

are many people that see things as I do...from the

militia in Oregon, to Anonymous, the whistle blowers...

even many military people!  I don't know if there's

still time for Americans to wake up. This is not the

Fifties. This is not the America I grew up in.

The LSD Revolution

"I'm tired of this shit." Frank worked

as the superintendent of the water

works plant of greater Washington

D.C. His employees loved him 

because he was fair and listened to 

them. It didn't matter if some politician

tried to get a retarded or criminal

relative a job there. If they weren't 

going to work out, Frank made it 

uncomfortable for them, or, they had 

an accident. The latter possibility might

seem cruel, but, Frank knew the 

populace depended on water, so, he 

wasn't about to fuck around with his

responsibility. 

His employees were aware of this, and

had a respect for him close to worship.

If it was a cult, it was a benevolent one.

George was an old college friend of Frank.

George was an artist and musician. They

had reconnected after many years of 

having lost touch, but, took up where they

had left off with their friendship. Frank and

George had been in college in the Sixties,

the same school. George jumped into the 

Sixties, head first, as it were. Frank was too

much into the sciences at the time, but was

an aficionado of Marx and Leary. He thought

"Howl" by Ginsberg was one of the greatest

poems, in English, of the second half of the

preceeding century. Long story short, they had 

many intense discussions about what was 

wrong with the USA, and what needed to be 

done. Frank would drink wine, occasionally

take a toke. There was no telling what George

was on at any given time.

They were at the last point of the productive

period of their lives. (In George's case, make

that semi-productive.) Frank was a couple of 

years short of retirement. George had taken

up his usual temporary residence in Frank's

basement. They jumped right back into their

serious discussions where they had left off,

but each with an acquired world wise life 

perspective. 

They had been on a marathon discussion

this weekend, because George had brought

up somehting that Frank could no longer, in

his life, ignore. 

"You're right," Frank continued. "I thought that

if I worked in the system to make things better...

or, at least, support the good things about it, that

there would inevitably be a positive change in 

society. It sure seemed like it for a while. I feel 

good about maintaining the water quality in D.C.,

but it sure falls short of my old ambitions."

"We are closer to each other's way of thinking

than we've ever been. I guess life experience

has a way of clarifying concept." said George.

"You're making a lot of good points. I always felt

art wasn't enough to actually effect change...I 

always felt put the right people in the right 

situations, and the right change would happen."

"You know that's what we've been talking about,"

said George, "and you know that's exactly what 

we have right now!"  

"Yeah," Frank shook his head, "but, isn't dosing

the entire water supply of D.C. with LSD an act of 

terrorism? Or, even, war?"

"We've been over this point already," George said.

"Let me characterize it a different way: it's an act

of enforced anarchy." 

"What about people's freedom of choice?" Frank

wasn't yet convinced. "What about their free will?"

George: "Look, you know as well as I that most people

have lost those things already...or, never knew they 

had them in the first place, or, given the system,

are in the process of loosing them even more."

"What about practical considerations? How will the

people handle a population of crazies on LSD?"

"Well, we'll need a ton of straight jackets...mostly

for the straight people...(sorry, bad joke) and, the

politicians. The medical profession will handle it

rather easily, I think. After all, most of them are 

already on something. And the military, who have 

their own water supplies can be brought in to help. 

Some cover story will have to be made up. I think 

media will be up for something like this, since, for

once, their lying can be for the good. And, it will

be a killer story."

"Wouldn't other nations see this as an opportunity 

to attack?"

"I doubt it," George put out a cigarette and opened 

a fresh pack. "They long so much for the USA to

be different than it has been since Vietnam that I

think they would be fascinated and want to see

what will happen."

"Well," Frank drained the last of his glass of 

chardonney, "when do we do this?"

"How's about Valentines Day next year? My 

supplies of the new LSD that won't break down in

water so quickly should be ample by then. It's

a perfect symbol for this revolution."

"OK, I'm in." Frank wasn't sure how much of

him and how much of the wine was talking. But,

the logic was pretty water proof. And, the times 

desperate for direct action. "Time for bed."

Tour De Farce

The debates...

Oh, the debates!

Lying liars dressed with smiles

'cause no one dares say the truth!

Trump trumpets and Bernie boils!

Roach politicians scurry in conniptions,

at the light of honesty, no matter how

much of it is true!

At least two are saying 

what they actually think!

At least that much humanity is observable

in that "reality show" of orchestrated

entertainment spectacle!

I like Trump! His name calling, playground

bullying, calling out the politicians' bubbling

blathering! Might as well point out the robotic

children of robots rather than bring up the 

real issue; that the American system hates

it's own citizens and uses them solely as

fodder for its machine!

Hey! You swaggering bastards that run 

the place! I'm old, and I'm in the way!

Why Poems

I write because I can't help myself,

certainly not for something to eat:

poets don't sell poems on the street.

I traded plumbing work for food...

plumber/poet being as oxymoronic

as I could live.  Many poets don't make

it out of their families alive; thriving in

a nest of convoluted over intelligence

of intellect makes the sensitive, arty

types run from the corral screaming

for air, like flowers for sun. Many don't

make it and are unknown, refused by

fellow humans 'til they become human 

refuse, dying with an armed needle on

a lonely, sheet less mattress to dissolve.

Political poets write with a bulls eye on

their back: few people are really ready

to hear the truth...even if it's just about

beauty and love, not war and hate...

"Can't have no commies, hippies, free

lovers and thinkers on our blockheads.

It's a conspiracy against fluoridation."

Lorca's being taken out and shot was

a clear signal that trying to escape from

the primitive brain would not be tolerated,

and never has been by straight arrow

lying, cheating criminals we elect, or,

simply seize power because they can.

But, poets, or, poetry has always been

transcendent of reason based on fear.

Poetry is the unknown known and shown,

which makes it so hard, so shocking, so

unnerving, so inciting, so ecstatic, so

chaotic, so confusing, so magnetic, so

soul thirst quenching to read. It's why we

remember songs and poems; because 

words and or sounds grip us by the roots

of our beings and won't ever, ever let us

let go of being human.

Stay Busy

Stay busy...

don't look around.

Stay busy...

eyes to the ground.

Stay busy...

don't smell the flowers.

Stay busy...

count all the hours.

Stay busy...

I was never wrong.

Stay busy...

I knew it all along.

Stay busy...

planting all that corn.

Stay busy...

watching all that porn.

Stay busy...

work is so much fun.

Stay busy...

never ever done.

Stay busy...

little time to sleep.

Stay busy...

no time to weep.

Stay busy...

all I have to say.

Stay busy...

tomorrow is today.
Why try to keep up
with something that's
going nowhere?

"To try to be happy is to try to build a machine with 

no other specification than that it shall run noiselessly." 

Robert Oppenheimer

The Interview

Frank was excited..this was going to

be his big break. A man had died and

gone to Heaven, but was revived by his

doctor, and wanted to tell his story.

So far, Franks biggest story had been 

George Clooney forgetting his cell phone 

in the toilet of an Arby's. He happened 

to be in the hospital when this guy came 

to. His first words were: "Get me a 

newspaper man! I've got a story!"  

The guy passed out for  a while soon 

after, but, when he woke again, he was 

more rational. Frank was waiting in the 

hall, and when he had the chance, he 

stuck his head into the room and told the 

man he was a reporter, and the paper he 

worked for was the Enquirer.  "Perfect," the

man said, "wait 'till I get home and I'll call

you and tell you the story."

Frank was ushered into Joe's living room.

When Joe told him he had been to Heaven,

Frank couldn't believe his luck. He urged

Joe to tell him all about it.

Joe began. "Listen, this is a very important

story...everybody...I mean EVERYBODY

needs to hear what I have to say!"

"Take it easy!" Frank said, "My paper is the 

right place for your story....millions will read it."

"OK...here goes. I knew `I was dead, was 

going through the tunnel of light like I'd read

about. When I got to the end, I found myself

in an enormous room....beautiful tapestries

on the walls of the lives of all the saints from

every religion. I had a white robe on of some

beautiful cloth that felt wonderful on my skin.

There were others there, dressed like I was.

One guy had a clip board. I walked over to him.

He smiled: "Hi, Joe, welcome to heaven!"

I couldn't believe it..."You mean, I made it?"

"Yes, Joe, you made it to heaven. We've been

expecting you."

"Wow...cool...but is this place all there is?"

"No, Joe, heavens not! (excuse the joke).

Heaven is vast and full of wonders!"

"Great!  Uh...so...what's next?"

"Well, let's go outside and I'll show you...by the 

way, my name is Arthur."

"Like the king?"

Arthur chuckled. "No, Joe, not like the king."

He took Joe to a big door and opened it. 

They went outside, and Joe looked around.

"Wow, it sure is big. Is it all this white?"

"Yes, Joe, it's all white. That's Heaven for you!"

"OK. So, what can I do here?"

"Well, Joe, you can sing, praise the Lord, have

an epiphany whenever you want. You can float

around, sit on clouds, talk to others about

celestial things. You'll always feel great and never

worry."

"Well, that sounds pretty good. Tell me, can I play

pool or ping pong?"

"No, Joe, sorry...we don't have any place to put

a table."

"Can I have a drink, smoke a cigarette, have 

something good to eat?"

"No, Joe, Heaven is strictly non-smoking. You

won't need food, and you'll always be in a state

of bliss, so, there's no need to drink, is there?"

"Huh. So, what do you guys do? How do you 

spend your time?"

"I already told you, Joe, we just float around 

in a state of bliss. We don't have the things 

you mentioned: no entertainment, no distractions,

no serious discussions, no philosophy. And all

the poetry and music here is Heaven related. 

Think Enya...think Gerard Manly Hopkins. Those

things you mentioned....well, you can't find them

here. They're in the....other place."

"You mean," and Joe started to tremble, "you

mean...ALL THE GOOD SHIT IS IN HELL?"

"Now, now, Joe."

"But then," (Joe was talking to me now) "things

went dark, and I woke up back in the hospital!

We've got to tell people! WE HAVE TO TELL

PEOPLE ABOUT HEAVEN!!"

I told Joe to take it easy. After such an ordeal,

that he probably needed some more rest. I was

able to calm him down a bit...assured him I would 

be back the next day. I left, but had no intention

of ever coming back. His story was too crazy,

even for the Enquirer.

Bathing Suits And Bowling Balls

I've been taking stock lately...

I may not have much time left,

but I'm still not in a hurry.

I sit in the Zocalo drinking coffee.

People pass by and I don't know them.

Sometimes a friend sits next to me

quivering with excitement...

quivering with anger...

quivering with fear.

I say: "there, there..."

and light another cigarette.

I've got a good thing going

ever since my conscience

gave up on me and moved

to Florida.

Death lives next door, he's 

my neighbor. I greet him every

morning, but he needs a shave.

A doggie amigo I know gets

petulant when I don't buy him 

chicken. But, still, he's the best

doggie I've ever known.

There are so many people now,

being "uniquely human" is kind

of a joke.

Luckily, there are many more

comedians.

Will the world end?

What will happen in the stock 

market?

I notice these questions only when

I'm not staring into the sun.

I just start a poem, when, it seems,

I've gotten to the end... oh, yes,

and, balloons.

The Aldi (for J.Z.)

James was an internist with a private

practice on the south side of Chicago,

before the HMOs made that impossible.

He had just seen his last patient for the

day. He washed up. He spoke with his 

secretary about the next days appoint-

ments. He took off his doctor's smock

and put on a sports coat, went outside

and got into his Prius, and drove down

Kedzie. About ten blocks from his office,

he pulled into the parking lot of an Aldi

supermarket. At seven P.M., the parking

lot was not full. He parked away from the 

store, away from the other cars, in a spot

where he wouldn't be noticed at that time 

of night. He turned off the motor and sat

in his car not moving, just staring out the

windshield. He took out a cigarette, lit it,

took a deep drag, and exhaled.

in a little while he'd be heading home to his

house, to the other half of his life. He had a

routine after work: he took a shower, 

changed clothes, and went out to a bar, or a 

restaurant, or one after the other. He had an 

assortment of friends that he would hang out 

with at these places every night. Most of 

them were professionals of some ilk that he 

had known for some time. They all were 

alcoholics and/or drug addicts to varying

degrees. They all had achieved some success

in their fields, but were all doomed to ultimate

failure. This was his other world, the one he

had his other foot in.

His siblings were all either doctors or lawyers,

except for the black sheep of the family, who

had married a successful mechanic that had 

his own shop. She wanted nothing to do with

her family, nor they her.

James had a stable medical practice, and he 

made plenty of money, not that either of those

facts gave him any satisfaction. They were 

necessary only to enable and justify his 

existence, an existence molded by the 

psychological torture and soul washing he'd

received from his parents that made it virtually

impossible to lead anything close to a normal

life.

He needed to be a doctor. He needed people 

to see him as one...to see in their eyes that he

had succeeded in his parents ambitions for him,

which were nothing more nor less than their own

ambitions.

James knew this. He knew he wasn't living his 

life, but rather a simulacrum that he had been 

scared into that he could not escape from. So he

contrived to have another side to his life, a side

that neither his parents nor his doctor self would 

approve of.  He chose friends that would play up

to his persona, but were also real enough, in 

their drunken, addled ways, to be genuine, to 

have a certain measure of awareness and self 

knowledge, knowing that their grand schemes

and accomplishments were only preludes to their

inevitable train wrecks. It was a delicate balancing 

act that they played with themselves and that 

James played with them. In a way, it was a jovial,

good fellow war of attrition.

James had his practice that he would always go

back to in the morning, pull himself together, 

create that world anew each day, 'till each 

evening, start with pretense, gradually fall apart,

relax a bit, and be whatever-it-was at the time, in

his induced other world, which he longed to show

to his parents, but which he couldn't dare let 

happen. He wanted to scream at them: "See what 

you've done to me!!" But all he could muster was

discussion with his friends about how crazy the 

world was. Neither world he was in gave him any

peace. Both worlds were unrelenting in their 

disparate purposes. They were utilitarian worlds 

he needed in order to continue the life he did not

know how he had gotten himself into, but saw no 

alternative to.

So, for a brief time each day after work, he would 

drive to the parking lot of the Aldi, turn off the motor

and smoke a couple of cigarettes. This was his 

moment of nirvana, what others went to church for,

hopeful for solace. This was the only time he was 

not in either world. This was his monastery, his 

church, his moment of clarity...not that he prayed or

supplicated...not that he hoped for anything better

for his life. At this moment, he was Sisyphus, 

watching the rock rolling back down the hill, waiting

for it to stop rolling, so he could start his downward 

journey to the beginning once again.