Posts Tagged American Culture
I know it’s
me — the people with
nerves — attacked by carts, wanting
to curl down and die.
I see self,
but this moment, I’m
I know that inside of me
is meaner than they.
We fixed you,
made you modern.
What would the windows do
when you have aluminum?
And lines, old lines, tan split by old,
above-ground lines, split by a
telephone pole, hand-carved sitting
by the door that would not allow you in
unless you showed your whole face
in the tiny box.
Oh but we opened a nice front
on the side and more aluminum
and now there are sadly-ripped papers
glued and taped to that window,
that door and the painting
on the window
look so stale, as if to be dead.
We gave you plenty of spots
but you sit there with
empty slices of bored, and
waiting for action,
the brightness of the energy
we need. And then,
would you watch that concrete
on the front?
Did we fix you, old man, or what?
No more curves or gaps or carvings.
We gave you 50s slab,
and if you don’t like it,
bang your head against that slithery, slimy wall.
until you bleed,
and the aluminum
laughs at you again and again.
from concrete, crumbles
spray grain dust,
crushing spirits that fly, creeps
crimping my dead brain.
Yet another Dystopia Today shot from the amateur Carl in some very small town (somewhere hidden in the midwest) sometime late in the Summer of 2016.
One in front
of the other they
said and no
one would love
me again, tossed I am on
Carl’s dystopia today shot near Gibbon, Nebraska, September 2016
Later, I remem-
ber being stricken
by dread of
what they felt:
How much did they spy rummag-
ing beneath the crust?
I’m here early. Observing
in a disinterested
way, or trying to appear
that way. The students, I want
to be one, and the hippies,
the hippies and a dead nylon
smell. Nothing wrong
with green hair but it bothers
me that it’s a fashion statement
while being anti-fashion, and I’m
anti-, anti-social because
I’m fearful of people I
don’t know, because I’m a
chicken without a mind,
perhaps intriguing on the
inside but flat as a board
in these chatty situations,
and all of this makes me
want to hate myself, especially
won’t have the courtesy
to say hi to me. He is
the weirdo who was happy
to see me unofficially
kicked out of the writing
group. I hate him almost
because I set out
my weakness for
him, he being a similar,
bizarre character, and he
Listening to loud Middle
Class Rut, wishing I
could run away to
their fields of play.
Some things are simple,
blare with clarity,
and they’re impossible.
I declare up
front that this is an essay. Essays appealed to me
during one part of my life when other things were important to me. It’s been weeks
since I wrote a poem and months
since I wrote a good one, and my last
effort at a series secretly unveiled my current world where nothing is important to me.
I thought I couldn’t write
poetry because my depression was in
remission. When the depression becomes most disturbing, the evil
fingers of all of the nerves crawling through me seem
to force me to write. And then after I’ve written, I feel
Is this god’s design for this worthless mortal?
It’s an odd cycle:
hate the writing,
enter remission causing inordinate amounts confidence in my Superman powers in creation of recovery,
inadvertently encounter some minor and inconsequential
but despicable piece of human behavior,
suffer and here
we are back
to the beginning.
One time remission lasted three weeks, and my joy
was overflowing as I thought, “This is why
people might want to live.” I thought, “I knew
this shit would leave me someday! Everybody
gets better some day! All of my recovery
work is paying off! I’m human!”
And right when I start questioning what kind of god it was
that has pushed me into unfathomable joy,
(I have a question for you: do you know what I describe when I say Crash? Let’s pause on Crash.)
Then I feel like a victim, the idiot in a con
game, where the trickster is able
to repeatedly make me feel as though I am progressing, when
really, the spiral only goes right back
to the sick depths of insanity. It
never goes up for
long, and right when it stretches
my credulity, it strikes out
for the bottom,
for the basement,
a shadowy world
than the last one.
So I’ve just had another crash, and I’ve been coaching myself to ignore it. Just think
of the others, any others, even the mean others, and try
to help the others. There will be no pain.
So I zip myself into the trivial. This includes my day
job. It includes raking the leaves, watching the Chiefs lose and thinking
this might bond me with some community out there, and seeing all of the terrible
muckraking of Facebook, or the grandest triviality ever fashioned
by man, Twitter,
but even those Trivialites, who enjoy those
snowflake machines, think I am a worthless
clown looking for my own gravesite.
Then I think, “Why I’ll write like my
heroes did. I’ll write grandly,” but these tiny
insects bite at my brain cells and tell me I’d have more
success flying to India and becoming
a heroin addict.
I’ve been the sickest of addicts before, and I won’t go
back there, so it is death or fool
myself into doing the greatest triviality of all, writing trashy
poems and getting lucky every
hundred or so, and seeing my humanity in a
poem and feeling as though
creating this crap is worth something.
to sit amongst the tans,
the creamy, sandy blurs
that don’t muffle, but seem
to punctuate the sounds of
gossip, soap-operatic gifs,
and cackles that reopen all my
wounds, to sit there,
punching the numeric
keys and alpha, as needed,
to be a steel case, undisturbed
by the chaos of death wearing
down the cubicled, doing my
job, so that I might wander
in a normally-hopeless search
for my life, for my reason.