Day Twenty One: Another not cop-out

Working on a story, not sure where it’s going, but it’s going.

Anyway, the days go on. Nine left. I’ll try to post some poetry tonight.

Day Twenty: Untitled

She watches him at the bus stop,

And he doesn’t know her name.

She smiles at him when he looks past her,

And hates herself for trying.

These moments, they won’t stop passing,

Like the busses, day after day.

A player in the oldest story, she

Wishes the bus would take her

Where she really wanted to go:

Across the uncharted seas between

What we are, and what we do.

———————————————-

We aren’t what we pretend to be until we stop pretending.

 

I missed the post yesterday, that’s two for thirty, but I’m still doing thirty over all. I know it’s a bit of a cheat, but, eh, so sue me.

 

In other news, I sent off my first story a few days ago. I’ll expect the rejection letter in a couple of weeks.

Day Nineteen: Poetry Rewrite

The television starts to sing again,

A haughty unchallenged little tune again:

Such beauty from a human mind

Could only by dull unowned fingers be refined

To such a haunting din. And the magic left

Within us is taken only to be sold back,

What was taken being all we lack.

 

So then be all my credit cards and cigarettes

Left with anarchists and malcontents:

With smeared hope on every hard-earned dime,

Sweat and bled from nine to five—

God, it’s all just dirt and dust and grime,

To be reminted and imbibed

By starred men in striped bow tie.

 

The din and dust dims this light in us,

Banished by a single fashioned match–

But the darkness is old and deeper than it looks,

Full of mirrors and shameless crooks.

Once, the only thing to fear was fear itself,

Now excepting terrorists, embarrassment or ill-health.

 

And what I love and what I don’t,

Sold to me by bits of smoke,

Echoing hollowly through the T.V. screen.

And the television starts to sing again,

A haughty unchallenged little tune again…

————————————————

I don’t know how I feel about this. It took a bit of an overhaul, for better or for worse. I’ll think about it.

Day Eighteen: We Love, Dear (poetry that sucks)

I am happy in the moment

that you touched me.

And this skin you made me love, dear,

Has stopped hurting.

We are something so much greater

Than the sum of our parts–

A part of an idea, dear, and though

The moments pass,

As long as I remember, this touch

Will last forever.

Though we may fall apart, though we

May have our own ideas, dear,

Though this skin may start to hurt again,

Nothing will change, dear, what has been,

And in this moment we are free.

So we, loving mortals mortally loving,

Are left to lovingly see, dear.

Day Seventeen: The Flea Circus

What a wondrous thing the flea circus is!

Little babes in hand of the impressioned man

And lovers of the country, adorned in fineries

To the spring time fair. They pray for a lovely

Weathered day, they pray for a Holy care.

The crowd approaches, so brightly refined, under

An enormous tent of red and gold,

to watch the marvelous drama unfold!

A little one cries out: Oh tentman, will you show us

Your marvelous things?

Little one, he replies, this show will be fit for kings!

Come one, come all, lovely ladies and courageous gents!

‘Tis a fine day, ‘tis a kind way, that so many of you

Turned out to see my humble show. Without further ado,

My little wonders I show to you!

And the silken veil was lifted,

And the little wheels squeaked

And the littlest of babes craned their necks to peek…

 

Golden bars striped a tiny red tent

That upon a tiny three-ring circus lent,

And a crowd of fleas gathered

On a cloudless day to watch an

Invisible attraction start to play.

And the gossamer mechanisms

And tiny instruments were left unspent.

 

And a hush fell over the crowd, shocked,

For they were not afraid to die.

Someone comforted the children, and took them far away

And they all went to their homes that night,

To await the return of day.

—————————————————————–

I know the rhythm’s a little off, but this still made me a little sad to write it… And now I’m quite sad to post it. Anyway.

 

Life goes on.

Day Sixteen: An Excerpt

“This isn’t your typical military operation, Benter.” The Captain leans forward on his desk, a smaller, hotter facsimile of the Colonel’s. “Honestly, I don’t know what the brass thinks you’re going to be able to accomplish here. I’ve got a dozen intel guys working on this, three on loan from the CIA, and I still feel like a asshole just picking up the pieces afterwards.”

            “So what exactly do you want me to do?” Benter asks. He’d managed cold shower and a whiskey on ice at the hotel, and felt a hell of a lot better.

            “Fucked if I know,” the Captain said. “But like I said, the brass wanted you in on this. I can’t say I don’t appreciate the man-power, but to me you’re just another set of hands for carrying out the pieces.”

            “I keep hearing that kind of crap,” Benter snaps. “I’m bored of it. Are you going to fill me in or not?”

            The Captain sizes him up.

            “I’m sure you’ve heard that military service being offered as an alternative punishment for some crimes. You know, good strong kids who are given a second change and all that crap? Send ‘em to the war. We’ll straighten ‘em out or kill ‘em off. Either way, they’ll earn their keep or stop costing money. Hell, we’ve been doing it for years.”

            “I’m familiar with the process.” Benter frowns.

            “Seems natural, then, for a different kind of war to accept a different kind of criminal.”

            The Captain gazes at him expectantly.

            “I don’t understand.”

            He stands up suddenly, without looking at Benter, and walks to the window.

            “It is a different kind of war,” he repeats. “We’re not fighting in nice even lines like my granddaddy. Hell, we’re not even trudging around and looking for ‘em like my pop did. All those people out there…” he gestures expansively across the city. “they’re the jungle. They’re the battlefield. If we’re not hunting down the bastards we’re fighting for hearts and minds, trying to make the jungle a little less hospitable for those that’d hide in it. Do you see what I’m saying?”

            “No. Sir.”

            “It’s not fair, Benter, that they can move with impunity. It’s not fair that the trees in this jungle can attack us and just turn back into trees. It’s not fair that we can’t tell the bastards from the cattle.”

            “It’s a rigged game, sir, but in the words of Canada Bill: it’s the only game in town.”

            “Not anymore, Benter. I brought my own ace. Here.”

            He passes a binder across the desk.

            Benter opens it, turns the first page.

Day Fifteen: Rain Under a Clear Sky

To live one’s life in the rain

Under a clear sky: a sun that

Shines so brightly as the night sets.

Deep blues, tinctures of purples

Behind the cloud-burgeoning horizon.

And then the rain falls, unwanted but

Secretly needed, feeding the grasses

And embracing all things. Underfoot

And over head, we are surrounded

By the warm fall,

With the brightest of skies arcing a path

To the night.

————————————————————–

Holy crap, halfway mark already? Jeezy Chreezy!

Day Fourteen: Poetry and Stereotypes

I’ve been white for all my life,

And you’ve been alive for all of yours.

Though when I’ve been to other places,

I never take the tours:

 

Africa is currently starving,

And the air is thick as smoke,

It could be fixed with money,

But I’m sorry, man, I’m broke.

 

Europe has all the history,

Except for the stuff it doesn’t;

Though there are castles on every corner,

They go a dime a dozen.

 

Australia isn’t England,

Or at least, I think it’s not.

The animals are all really dangerous,

And the air is far too hot.

 

Asia is full of Asians,

I’m sure they could nail Yale if they tried,

To be fair, on the relative worth of life,

I don’t think they’d notice if one of me died.

 

Americans are scum, I can say that because I am one. Your rules are not

Ours, that’s why we get more lines,

Just do what we say and don’t get in our

Way. I don’t understand what the fuss is all about:

If you don’t love this country, then you can just GET OUT.

 

South America: drugs and jungles,

And women who know their way around.

Though—the rainforest can fetch a bundle,

But only once you cut it down.

 

There’s truth in everything,

But then, that might not be true…

The world is just so fucking fucked up,

And I don’t know what to do.

—————————————————

You know, I’m always worried when I write stuff like this that some humorless bugger is going to throw a hissy fit some later day in the future. But then, it’d probably be good for a laugh.

 

I’m going to start writing another story. Wish me luck.

Day Thirteen: The Days Were Prettier Once

The pretty days are over, little girl,

And Summer’s just begun. The rains

Will come to call, sure as the leaves

Rain down in Fall—only the Spring

Was made for lovers. We two were so

Attractive together, though we never

Knew what we were doing.

Oh, dearest, there’s something hot

And dark brewing, like the Summer

Storms, angry and hungry and

Lustful: my bones are getting older,

And my neck won’t seem to crick.

It takes one to know one, kid,

And I think you might be sick.

You’ve clung to pretty days, little girl,

But you knew they couldn’t stay.

And I was frightened for the future

But you told me it would be okay.

Together now, we are something older,

And though you still ask me to hold you

Together we are colder. Some things are

Too careless, too heartless to say, but when I was

Still young and hot-blooded you promised me

That we would never end up this way.

————————————————————–

Yes, it’s more thirty-minute poetry!

 

Also, more importantly, picked up a guitar again today. I still suck at it. Will keep everyone updated.

Kisses.

Day Twelve: This My Clipboard

Missed a day, but don’t care that much. I just honestly could not fit anything in.

But we’re back on form now, with a bit o’ prose about my first day of work. Or rather, ‘observation day.’ I still haven’t decided if I’m going to take it. Anyway, read this all ready. Christ.

 

I clutch the flimsy plane to my chest, repeating “This is my clipboard. There are many like it, but this one is mine.” Honestly, I had a lot of expectations coming into my job, but this was not one of them.

            This is my clipboard. There are many like it but this one is mine.

            “Don’t hold it like that,” Melanie scolds. “You’ll look defensive. And no hands in your pockets either,” she says, cutting me off at the pass. “People might think you’re hiding something. And stand to the other side of the door. That’s right, the way it opens to. That way it doesn’t look like you’re hiding. Big smiles,” she whispers again.

            Defeated, hands at my side, with a big shit-eating grin gracing my features, the door opens and Melanie, with her own friendly eyes and white hair, calmly but certainly opens her mouth and lets the magic flow.

            Afterwards, twenty-five dollars richer, she gingerly descends the stairs and says to me by way of explanation, “I’ve got to go down this way. Bad knees.”

            This is my first day working as a canvasser. You may have met me or my compatriots at the door, after we invaded your life, took your time and maybe, if we were lucky or if you were feeling particularly generous, took some cash as well.

            “Your Rap,” Melanie says suddenly. “Show me.”

            I pause.

            “Hi,” I begin, my face twisting quickly into a gleeful smile. “My name is Andrew and I’m here with the RDA. We’re out here in Fakestown fighting for jobs.” That last sentence rubbed me wrong at first; I’M not looking for a job. I’ve got a job. Otherwise I wouldn’t be standing on your doorstep, interrupting your dinner.

            “I’m sure you’ve noticed that jobs are disappearing,” I continue. Melanie raises her eyebrows. “… And the jobs that are replacing them are service industry jobs that don’t have benefits and don’t pay enough to raise a family on.” That last bit was hers, but I’d noticed she’d adapted her own to steal a few of my turns-of-phrase. Anyway, the point isn’t competition. The point, as always, is hard, cold cash.

            “Do you think that the legislation is doing enough to address these concerns?”

            She grins. “No, of course not.”

            Of course not. It’s a stupid question. Legislation is never doing enough to address whatever concerns you may have. That’s the point: it’s a gimme. They answer the same way every time, and thus the illusion of a dialogue begins. They told us, if they answer that question wrong, it’s done. Just thank them, apologize for their time, and exit.

            That’s the “check-in”, she’d said in training. And that’s how important it is.

            “Well,” I continue, “what would you think an independent candidate, really working to reinvigorate the job market in Fakestown?”

            “What do you think of the idea of an independent candidate?” Melanie corrects me.

            It’s all in the wrist, it seems. That is, it’s all in the spin. I don’t know whether I feel like a member of a secret fraternity or just very, very dirty.

            “We’re here in the neighborhood, introducing people to Cesar Broker, born and raised in Fakestown, thirty-three years as a fireman, two terms on the Council—”

            “Two things,” Melanie interrupts me. “Just two.”

            The Rap: this is our real cause, our most vicious weapon. It’s hungry in all the right places, bred big, streamlined, and set right for the throat. It is our spiky shield and decoy behind it. It is our self-immolation.

            “We’re out here today circulating this petition,” I say, preparing for the big finale. I can never remember the last bit. “People who sign are backing up their signature with a contribution.” Smooth now. It’s the gunshot to the face of this little Western. “Checks are preferred—for your safety and for ours—my goal tonight is twenty five dollars a house.”

            “How do you feel about that?” Melanie says.

            “I feel like I’ve got to do it better that that,” I say.

            “No, I mean, repeat after me, ‘How do you feel about that?’”

            God, can you feel it, tugging at you in its innocuousness? Can you see the strength in it, the pull? The Rap sounds so innocent, but I wouldn’t let it wear white on its wedding day.    

            It’s still a wrench for me: I just wish I could sit down with everyone, talk to them about this stuff. Make sure they’re okay with it, reassure them about what they’re signature would mean, what a few bucks from them would mean. I wish I could level with each and every bemused face behind a metal screen door.

            But I can’t, otherwise the Rap wouldn’t exist. I understand that. But it just feels… wrong. Jarring.

            It might be that the words that go into the Rap are all empty. Odd, grammatically, and unreal. From the awkward joke-question of the check in to the fractured grammar of the pitch: “People who sign the petition are also backing up their signature…” Hammered into the place! The sentences jamb brokenly together over a dark pit of meaning.

            Did you know that swears aren’t words? Yes, they’re made up of letters and they have meanings independent to them, but on the EEG machine? Not so much. They engage a different part of the brain than the language centers, and they too employ bizarre grammatical rules that favor meaning over semantics.

 Only the Rap is the exact opposite, the metaphorical rhino camouflaged in the grass. The phrases, after I repeat them enough cease to become meaningful. They’re not real words. Not to me, anyway. Like I’ve been taught a few sentences in another language and repeat them, ad nauseum, while people I’ve never met and only partly understand take the time to toss coins into my hat. Or just spit on to my clipboard.

This is my clipboard. There are many like it, but this one is mine.

Answer the door. To me, you are a quota and a few moments of interesting conversation, the breadth of one severely impacted by the other. From the moment I open my mouth, we are just two monkeys, and it is your turn to jump through the hoop.

This is my clipboard. There are many like it, but this one is mine.

“You’re doing much better,” Melanie says, and laboriously begins another set of steps. “How about you try the next one?”