Captains log, star date 5/31/17… Hello Diane, it’s agent Cooper… extra extra, read all about… ladies and gentlemen of the court… in the red corner… hold onto your butts… LET’S GET READY TO RUMBLE. I don’t post to social media much anymore, here’s some of my thoughts to explain why.
This blog has existed for three years now, and to celebrate, here are three previously unpublished works from my most recent collection of poetry. The title of this collection is The Digging Hymns, and much like my first collection (Slump) it is unpublished, unfinished, and really just a snapshot of my writing from the age of 22 forward. If either my bodies of unloved work had to have themes, Slump is all about melodrama, angst, and being a fucking wanker. The Digging Hymns is, if anything, just more pretentious. Enjoy, and thanks for spending time with us.
The Great American Butt Tumor
I suppose a fair warning is in order. This is an entirely true story, being told in its entirety, with the purpose of a sort of political catharsis. It involves a lot of swearing and talk about sweaty, hairy ass cracks.
“I’ll take an extra large serving of nihilism, reality checks, and that good good music, por favor.”
“And write a joke on the box too.”
I recommend you don’t read this, it’s just the beginning of seasonal depression setting in.
“As democracy is perfected, the office of president represents, more and more closely, the inner soul of the people. On some great and glorious day the plain folks of the land will reach their heart’s desire at last and the White House will be adorned by a downright moron.” ― H.L. Mencken
“America is the wealthiest nation on Earth, but its people are mainly poor, and poor Americans are urged to hate themselves. To quote the American humorist Kin Hubbard, ‘It ain’t no disgrace to be poor, but it might as well be.’ It is in fact a crime for an American to be poor, even though America is a nation of poor. Every other nation has folk traditions of men who were poor but extremely wise and virtuous, and therefore more estimable than anyone with power and gold. No such tales are told by the American poor. They mock themselves and glorify their betters. The meanest eating or drinking establishment, owned by a man who is himself poor, is very likely to have a sign on its wall asking this cruel question: ‘if you’re so smart, why ain’t you rich?’ There will also be an American flag no larger than a child’s hand – glued to a lollipop stick and flying from the cash register.
Americans, like human beings everywhere, believe many things that are obviously untrue. Their most destructive untruth is that it is very easy for any American to make money. They will not acknowledge how in fact hard money is to come by, and, therefore, those who have no money blame and blame and blame themselves. This inward blame has been a treasure for the rich and powerful, who have had to do less for their poor, publicly and privately, than any other ruling class since, say Napoleonic times. Many novelties have come from America. The most startling of these, a thing without precedent, is a mass of undignified poor. They do not love one another because they do not love themselves.”
― Kurt Vonnegut,
“It’s time to rise, it’s time to walk the road of freedom, It’s time to throw off the yoke of oppression, Break free the chains n regain control of our destinies. It’s time 4 REVOLUTION”- Huey Freeman from The Boondocks
I’ve been writing a lot the past two days. I promise to be original soon. While I compartmentalize, enjoy my hero’s writing on what is going on. Sorry America. Sorry Women. I love you all.
I don’t know what you text to a girlfriend this morning and I sure don’t want to find out through trial and error. Last night, she never came over because an hour into the election, at the sight of the first numbers, she stopped knowing how to interact with the world and couldn’t get out of bed. I share that deeply private fact without fear of embarrassing her, not because embarrassing women was legalized in last night’s referendum, but because she’s numb. If I texted her for permission to share her numbness, I’d get the same response as if I asked her to eat a submarine. “Okay,” she’d reply. “I’m going to try to sleep. I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”
Dear morning newscaster,
Police in riot gear shooting people with rubber bullets and throwing tear gas and “flash bang things” at them is not the same as police trying to calm people down. Your emphasis on how calm the police wanted people to be can’t exist in the same sentence as, again, “flash bang things”.
I have this journal that I neglect to keep. The greatest thing written in it simply reads as follows,
“Fight seasonal depression”
It appears to have been immediately crossed out. It is the only thing written on a whole page.
Socialist Jew writing about a socialist Jew mayor who is now running for president. Sharing because sharing is caring. That is all. #FeelTheBern
Socialist snow on the streets
Socialist talk in the Maverick bookstore
Socialist kids sucking socialist lollipops
Socialist poetry in socialist mouths
—aren’t the birds frozen socialists?
Aren’t the snowclouds blocking the airfield
Social Democratic Appeasement?
Isn’t the socialist sky owned by
the socialist sun?
Earth itself socialist, forests, rivers, lakes
furry mountains, socialist salt
Isn’t this poem socialist? It doesn’t
belong to me anymore.
Allan Ginsberg, 1986