subtle juxtapositions
the disinclined toward gratitude blues
Wednesday, November 24th, 2010 | news&Events, subtle juxtapositions | No Comments
*disinclined toward
gratitude blues*
cartoon angels all around,
fire & brimstone under ground
…how do I love life& not be afraid to die?
…i know i ought to be thankful
but i can’t remember why
…mardi gras devil under my bed,
dalai lama melody stuck in my head
…how do I love life & not believe the lie?
…i know i’m supposed to be grateful,
& just go along for the ride
…all these good people all over the scene,
they’re all pretty sure they know what it means,
but is it a cold dark nothing, or a castle in the sky?
…well, i know i ought to be grateful,
but i’m damned if i know why
new poem: ‘went looking for ‘ink alley’
Saturday, October 2nd, 2010 | news&Events, subtle juxtapositions | No Comments
recently i attended a salon put on by my friends at ‘wordSpace’ , a writer’s studio here in L.A., that was centered around the 100th anniversary of the bombing of the L.A. Times bldg., as part of the ‘direct action’ dynamiting campaign waged by members of the iron workers union in 1910
…i presented this piece that evening, which was written after my research on the subject both in books & on the street
…i rarely write ‘on assignment’ as it were, but i found the subject intriguing & inspiring
*went looking for ink alley*
went looking for ‘ink alley’,
in los angeles under the midday sun,
on the corner of 1st & broadway,
squinting at a digital snap shot laser paper print-out of a map from 1910
…looking for ink alley,
& realizing that after 100yrs,
some streets had grown longer, or gotten shorter,
or wider or thinner, or moved uptown,
or disappeared completely,
re-shaped or swallowed up by time,
& notions of progress
…here in the city of angels,
so much of the past cannot be visited;
only exhumed,
& then sometimes,
only at the library
…looking for ink alley,
& conjured up from the research & intent
a vague apparition;
in ink stained coveralls & a square hat
made of folded paper,
ashen & covered in brick dust,
it’s mouth falls open
& the sound of roiling war drums
& a building collapsing in an inferno
issues forth
…the message is clear:
ink alley is beyond reach
…nothing on this corner now but a fenced-in empty lot;
an overgrown foundation on the inside,
w/ a ramp leading to an underground parking facility
built many years after the ‘old chief’, ‘general’ otis’s,
open shop blew up & burned down
…rebar now welded in a grid over the car park entrance,
all bombed out w/ graffiti,
the mouth of a man made cave,
leading to some indistinct hades
…on the outside of the fence,
set at an incline off the sidewalk;
some low-maintenance desert landscaping
…behind the trespass warnings,
in the meager shade of low brick walls,
sickly stray cats nap in the cool breeze
wafting from a vent of the underground car park
…passing thru the fence like smoke,
the phantom linotype press operator pauses,
scratches the belly of a cat,
it wakes & stretches
…press operator surveys the corner lot,
the years passed erode away in his steady, sad gaze
…one can’t comb the ground here for arrowheads,
spent brass, or belt buckles,
the way one can when visiting other battlefields
of north america
…no evidence here of the struggle,
no marker, no sign, no plaque
…the current news paper building across the way,
an architectural patchwork of decades between disasters,
faces the empty space once occupied by its ancestor;
says nothing
…100yrs ago, somewhere behind the fence off broadway,
a narrow passageway once crooked
round the bindery & storage bldg;
this was ink alley,
where barrels of the liquid ammunition waited to be pressed to service
…make no mistake;
the Times bldg. was a fortress in a warzone
from which salvos were fired at the enemy,
& here at the end of Ink Alley was it’s munitions dump
…a war being fought
in this town for ½ a century by 1910,
in the newspapers, in the back rooms,
in the meeting halls,
on the sidewalks ’round the factories
…a war fought
w/police truncheons, picket sign sticks & axe handles
…a war fought
w/ sleazy injunctions & firm resolve,
righteous anger & desperation,
mere pawns & battling belligerents,
freedom fighters & terrorists,
hired goons & crusading lawyers
…the press operator comes to the end of the alley,
stares inward at the magic lantern flicker
unfolding forever in his brain,
dull eyes weary w/ his100yr old sorrow,
he watches the interloper’s entrance
…into the fortress sneaks the sapper,
the saboteur, an ironworker, a laborer, a union man,
an agent behind the lines
…& when he leaves again, unnoticed,
16 sweating sticks of 80% are resting in a suitcase
among the barrels of ink,
whose usual inflammatory intention
would be subverted to a new & terrible purpose
in ‘direct action’,
when the alarm clock accidently goes off at 1am,
instead of 4 in the morning,
when the crew & the paper
would’ve been put to bed
…barrels of ink, vaporized into flame,
borne on gas fumes from the broken basement main,
roar throughout the shattered building
…half a dozen explosions,
& the firelight dances on the cobblestones,
& the south wall collapses,
the 2nd floor falls down to the 1st,
all of it crashes into the basement,
trapped souls scream from the roof top
…back out on broadway,
the press operator points
across the last century to the place
where the bodies piled on the sidewalk,
after making their last desperate decision,
between flame & blunt trauma,
between slim & none
…the sort of choice oft made necessary
for soldiers & civilians backed into a corner of hell
by the tactic of terrorism
& the rule of fear
…then the specter vanishes
like embers swept up into a night sky
in the heat above a blaze
…now ink alley is unreachable,
buried by the slow avalanche of time
…now, a searing breeze cuts thru the sunshine
& animates the weeds that break thru the cement
of the crumbling foundation,
in the otherwise vacant corner lot
…they wave in the heat
like the arms of those buried so long ago,
reaching skyward thru the rubble
for answers to questions;
champion of labor? or cowardly murderer?
working class hero? or midnight assassin?
good soldier? or anarchist scum?
…& does the whole damn world
believe in dynamite?
last poem for july 2010
Saturday, July 31st, 2010 | subtle juxtapositions | No Comments
*late july*
she rolls the window up
…the car pulls away
into the dark
…draw a deep breath,
feel the night air, feel that
caged bird rush,
in the chest, that choke
…the pain will let you know
how alive you are
…it will let you know how
alive you want to be
poem for late july
Friday, July 30th, 2010 | subtle juxtapositions | No Comments
*ghost of my love*
as the morning sun
burns away the night sea fog,
somehow, we put our
dreams aside, where we
will not stumble over them;
-it’s better this way
new poem
Wednesday, July 21st, 2010 | subtle juxtapositions | No Comments
*lucky me*
watching you in the surf at el matador,
black bikini, skin glistening w/ salt water,
lei of sea weed round your neck,
smile wide as the sky,
all of the magic of the sea in your eyes,
it occurred to me that if this happened to be
the last thing i ever saw, i didn’t care
if i ever saw anything again,
& i looked straight up into the sun over the cliffs,
but it had ducked behind a cloud,
& would not burn out my eyes for me, & i had
no means w/ which to bribe it, so i turned
back & watched you some more
poem for early july
Wednesday, July 7th, 2010 | subtle juxtapositions | No Comments
like a stray cat finding an open door, i have
wandered into the periphery of the lives
of a few women lately
…they all seem to have acquired
early on, ideas & attitudes
that i have also managed to stumble upon,
although a bit too late to do me much good
…of course they are all varying degrees of crazy,
w/ more energy, ambition, & lust for life
than i may ever have again
…they burn like lighthouses
on the shores of my own insanity
…& i get treated by them
w/ a kind of benevolent indifference,
like leaving a bowl of kibble
out on the porch for the stray,
tho not being overly concerned
if or when
it gets eaten
poem for the middle of may
Sunday, May 16th, 2010 | subtle juxtapositions | No Comments
*burial*
…here, at this time,
is where we’ll dig the hole,
here among the poppies
…no bitterness,
just an accession of
that which must be
…no dreaming here,
pick up the rough spade,
& break the earth
…throw the half-snake in,
still wriggling,
cover it quickly,
say no more about it
…later,
watch the pretty blonde
from across the room,
sip your lucky ale
theMuseHasBeenKickingMeAroundA bitLately
Wednesday, May 5th, 2010 | subtle juxtapositions | No Comments
*cursed w/ a granted wish*
bob looked like jesus in a cowboy hat
he lived his life cursed w/ a granted wish
madame wiped the blood off her lips,
like every loving picture of sorrow
…he lived his life cursed w/ a granted wish
the ammo ran out long ago
like every loving picture of sorrow,
we scavenge from the dead
…the ammo ran out long ago
stroking the high, high end of a wound steel string
we scavenge from the dead, breaking guitar taboos
…stroking the high, high end of a wound steel string
get on your knees & worship the burger
breaking guitar taboos
you know you want it,
get on your knees
& worship
the burger
…cleaned the dust bunnies off the floor you know
you want it left
the flower petals & dead bees where they were
cleaned the dust bunnies off the floor
…madame wiped the blood off her lips
left the flower petals & dead bees
where they were
…bob looked like jesus in a cowboy hat
badger poem
Wednesday, May 5th, 2010 | subtle juxtapositions | No Comments
*tanuki-bozu*
no longer able to fight off wolf or bear,
tanuki, the badger, had lived so long
he had begun to lose his teeth;
teeth that had once been
strong enough
to crack bone …feeling his destiny
narrowing down
to becoming a meal,
& perhaps a paint brush,
or a bit of trim on
the hem of a robe,
he turned to consuming
the rotten fruit of the forest,
staying drunk,
& growing fat
…the local folk told stories
of his shape-shifting magic,
tho he would have readily admitted
that it was really more a matter of
reinvention
…the local folk swore
that they had seen him
as a one-eyed hag, or a teapot,
or most often as a fat buddhist monk
…’yes, yes’, he says;
‘i know exactly what i am,
& what i am not’
–teketen-taketen-taketen
dokodondokodondokodon–
he plays his belly like a drum & sings
‘pom-pokopom pom-pokosho’
new poem -5.3.2010
Monday, May 3rd, 2010 | subtle juxtapositions | No Comments
*musing*
gentle goddess to idle dreamers,
stern mistress to those toiling
…accommodating, yet unapologetic,
she moves thru the music w/ a wise smile,
& no concern for the chaos in her wake
…true unto herself,
she will not lie to you
to make you feel better
…she is sunshine & life force,
she is darkness & uncertainty
…she will lure you to the precipice,
seduce you w/ the view, &
push you into the abyss
