LIFE IN THE TRENCHES: Romance, Rebellion and Running Amok

IT IS NOT ABOUT THE DISHWASHER. IT IS NOT ABOUT THE POETRY.

2010-03-04T11:24:29-08:00

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

All

For

Not

Grace. Love. Respect. Fluidity.

And

Laughter?

What

Laughter

For

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.

RED SNAPPER GRANDPA FISH BOY SMOKES SILVERLAKE FROM THEN TO NOW IN OREGON

2010-02-10T13:19:05-08:00

I keep seeing big wheels with blocks on them.

Or big wheels up on blocks.

Or big wheels with blocks for wheels.

The details are hazy. But I see it.

Somewhere. Dressed up in primary

Reds

Yellows.

Blues.

Listening to the cars drive by,

Drinking coffee, eating sausage,

Decompressing privately.

The street is wet.

The tires make a nice sound.

My mind is wet.

And finds comfort in the muted sounds

Of Saturday morning radio

With show folks that mumble with voices

That pop like cream of wheat bubbles

As the tires roar like the seashore

As some kid pulls a flat fish from the pier

But is too disgusted with the slime

To squeal with victory

Because he doesn’t

Want

Touch

It.

The image has changed.

The kid is standing on the deck of a boat.

All dressed up in blue with a puffy jacket.

It is cold. The fish is bright red and blue.

A big wheel on blocks. Or a big wheel with

Blocks for wheels.

But his face is still and the same

And the fish is still and the same;

Slimy.

(As a side note, I am going to call this one, “Making Nice with Happy.”)

My mom and dad are adopted brother and sister.

My dad’s dad was a missionary.

My mom has a brother.

They had great horror upon the conclusion of the Korean War.

The missionary came.

My mother sang in a choir to thank the white folks and brown folks –

All the folks for helping all the little orphans swapping checks for

Snapshots of the kids they fed with rice with black eyes

behind closed doors.

Life was such that they ate it and didn’t know that the way they lived

Was aching.

Until it was much too late and impossible to really notice.

Quite a presentation. Country to country.

None to the less. Orphan to orphan.

Snap shot to fondled.

By the shot that went

Snap.

I digress progressively.

Here comes victory!

Bare with me as I try to reach

current.

I was going to tell you a story about the time

My grandfather told me that if I wanted to eat

The goddamn fish I caught . . . .

(we were at a family reunion in Oregon.

I caught the prize fish.

The night before the ‘activity’ was

Frog Spearing.

He slept in a Silver Gulfstream.

On frog night I caught nothing.

As I stood there with my prize in the bucket

With a big smile on my manly face he said,

“If you want to eat it you are going to have to clean it.”

The smile left.

The fish went splash.

And still swims into this story up from

Some pond in Oregon to this page as I listen

The the tires and contemplate

Victory.

I feel like drawing.

I do not feel like writing Mr. Bainbridge but

This is why I came here to sit all dramatic like

To quiet the mind and bridge the gap between

Combustion-able mechanics and seal-life.

Side note:

Dear Los Angeles,

Be nice to smokers.

There aren’t many places where we are welcome.

If you are someplace and you see ashtrays outside

And there is a whole section with no ashtrays inside

Or out in back shut your fucking imperialist trap

And suck it up or go inside.

Some of us are working it out.

To douche is divine.

God bless you.

Too many people.

My perception of their thoughts

Drown out everything.

So, it is over.

Leave it for later.

If you feel jilted, read the title again.

I’ll be there in a second.

Ball Briskett.

2010-02-07T00:43:46-08:00

Thanks for come again. All hail February. Love, the driver.

STAR CLUSTERS

2010-01-19T07:04:51-08:00

If you are freaking out – and find no

Solace in the horrors of the world

As they unfold in big nasty dollops

Of measurable hell on earth and

Snap in line with all the grown

Ups living outside of themselves

In a diner sitting at the counter

Eating milk and drinking

Sandwiches

I want to help you.

I’m going to blow your mind.

But first: It is important that you settle down

And relax.

Second: Take refuge in the fact that I am

Right here with you and really listen to me

When I say that whatever you are going

Through “it” will pass.

IT:

Not understanding why. Thinking things.

Not understanding why. And shrinking.

Getting upset by thoughts.

That you have.

Especially the ones that know that they are nothing

More than thoughts you’ve been thinking.

But cannot seem to bring to any fruitful conclusion.

Into the rabbit hole we go, sweet Alice.

You know the drill, don’t you.

(What’s happening in Haiti?)

This state:

The other day I tried to explain it because I was acting

Weird as an emotional and mental fun-fest that knows itself

But cannot explain itself with any degree of skill,

Maturity, insight, and/or satisfaction.

I feel like using the word aplomb.

But do not know this word well enough to stand by it

In a street fight.

Yet, I use it.

Here is the epiphany:

This state is not unlike getting Star Clusters flung

Into your eye where once they touch brain they are

Yanked out with a healthy dose of ‘Ouch’ the second

You notice them.

They (The Star Clusters) have a tampon string

Tied to the end of them and are sweet

Like a Thai street fighter’s gloves wrapped

In canvas, dipped in resin then coated with broken glass

Then finished with a high gloss monochromatic spray

Canned frost treatment.

It is fashion forward touch and makes them fire resistant.

As much as they are sharp they are soft and look like rock candy.

The Star Clusters themselves are not so nefarious.

In fact, they are being flung around all the time.

You don’t see them because they are microscopic.

You probably have about 99,000 of them

In your left eye right now.

Harmless really. Unless of course you see

The tampon string.

So don’t.

Please resist the urge to put this theory to test.

Take my word for it. They are there. And

Once you see one for yourself (it is possible

With a balanced diet and ample rest) you

Are screwed.

Because from there you see

Them everywhere.

With great volume and frequency.

This state is loud and can run off with the better parts

Of you.

For want of end you become enchanted.

If you don’t believe me that’s okay but I’m telling

You they are there. In fact, you do not actually have

To see them to know that “it” is there.

Use your other senses. And take proper measures

to forget “it”.

IT: The String.

The string on a star cluster is hot pink

And smells like the 1990s fragrance,

“Obsession for Men” and never stops

Humming the theme song to Back to

The Future.

They can’t help themselves.

I used to think it was because they had bad taste in music

And a poor understanding of personal/sonic space but

That theory was demolished after I actually met and

Spent some time with a Star Cluster’s string.

I was on my way home from Tulare.

It told me that it the whole Back to The Future thing

Was not so much because they loved the song but

Before I could get a coherent explanation it got

This far-away look in its eyes and went someplace

That I didn’t know nor want to know and i stood

There pumping gas until it came

Back to the real world to say, “Humming

Was the way it exorcised it so that it could get

Back to what was important.

I was a little scared so I bit into a piece of beef

Jerky and nodded like I understood and sat there for a second

Because I had a sneaky suspicion that this little fucker

Was bat shit crazy until it looked me in the eyes and

Very sincerely apologized for the way its relationship

To the theme song from Back to The Future was

Plaguing me.

We shook hands and got to talking and became friends after

I learned that this particular string helped form the Naropa

Institute in Colorado with Mr. Howl, Frank

Castle, John Denver, Bob Ross, and

John Candy.

I bought it breakfast because it was hungry

Then gave it a ride to the bus station.

It was on its way to the Florida Keys to go

Windsurfing.

It wasn’t until I was driving back through Tulare

On the way to drink Peppermint Schnapps with

Phil Collins in El Segundo that I realized

My wallet had been lifted.

That son of a bitch. I couldn’t believe it.

I was really in the mood for some fish tacos but now

What?

I was brained. My whole plan was screwed. My world

Was completely subverted by my desire to trust and

Believe and for a while getting rickrolled by a

Star Cluster's tampon string threw a shit brown hue

On things.

Eventually, I got over it when i realized that

It happened. There was no erasing it. The experience

Was mine as I lived it and I was all the wiser

For it.

Now, I know my place in the world. Which is fantastic.

But every once in a while – I find my self getting pelted.

Reaching for why. Thinking thoughts. And shrinking.

Because something like this can be hard to get over

And can really color your worldview if you are not strong

of mind and smart of heart to know when you are

Sliding.

This may be the only blatantly genuine statement of this poem:

I am happy to say that I no longer love anybody.

I am happy to say that I like the one I love.

Fear not. While it is real it is not. And in this state,

Things can start to become pretty dramatic.

But it isn’t.

And it is.

They are and are not thoughts.

More so a state to be explained

With or without aplomb.

Like Star Clusters with tampon strings tied

To the end of them that I bought

Breakfast for then dropped off at

The bus station so that it could

Go windsurfing in the Florida

Keys and told me stories about

The time it spent time at The Naropa

Institute in Colorado with Mr. Howl,

Frank Castle, John Denver, Bob Ross,

and John Candy only to put a real

damper on my day when I realized

that it stole my wallet and screwed up

My plan to eat fish tacos and drink

Peppermint Schnapps with Phil

Collins in El Segundo.

Yes. Its like that.

This State.

Tampon Strings and Star clusters.

Relax.

Everyone who is anyone knows

That nine times out of ten

Nine out of ten experts agree about

Something.

I am some of them.

LEVITY

2009-12-22T23:08:49-08:00

Sometimes you keep company with ghosts.

With ghosts, there is no competition.

Just levity.

Be not offended.

Passenger.

Pigeon.

Mission.

Deluge.

Dove.

None doors will dissipate.

For us - For we - Of story.

If you are honest.

When you are honest.

(To be fair. In these moments.)

You disappear too.

There are those that grow with crush.

There are those that grow with crowbar.

It doesn’t matter how.

We are here.

Sometimes sharing the room with The Living.

Sometimes sharing the room with Christians.

Sometimes sharing the room with The Dead.

Sometimes sharing the room with each other.

But, always sharing the room with someone.

Sometimes eating peanut pie.

Sometimes drinking water.

Sometimes doing nothing.

I am not the star of this picture.