Thirteen ways to look at St. Paul
I
Twenty snowy street lamps
Had only to make
the glistening shadow more impervious.
II
We could only watch
the way that ice melts
when there is salt on it.
III
She pulled the pages out of the--
Autumn winds.
And sm-iled
Pl-a-ease
Smile with her.
IV
She was spinning.
In the winter
in the spring
in the cold
all alone.
V
First.
We laughed and smiled, as a man and a woman.
Then.
We looked at the sun
VI
Did you see,
the way
ice cream,
drips into her lap?
VII
Wat-ch-ch-ch-ch-ch
him.
Try to play
piano.
VIII
It is dark.
And we are driving.
IX
The wind
that blows the leaves
is blowing
through their hair.
X
The sages
realized their prophecies.
The children
licked their pop-sickles.
And we
could only sit in each others rooms,
could only sit in each others minds,
could only go to the same theater,
could only eat at the same restaurant,
and could only journey
to our final fulfillment.
XI
I
CEcold
asleep, but not
breathing, from
the functi, functi-, functions
of our lungs.
Warmth of
the rugggggggggg of the rain-ne-ne-ne-ne-ne.
spread the
ow
!
l- f -er
!
s
only to die
and
s
p
r
o
u
t
again
in a new
location.
XII
I live in a bubble
of glass and water.
XIII
Some days
we looked at the river.
Some days
we watched the traffic.
Some days
we played in buildings.
Some days
we shined a light.
Some days
we drew further into the cave.
And some days, we watched
as the life we worked so hard
to create, vanished like the
snow from the streets in spring.
Thursday, September 17, 2009
Tuesday, June 9, 2009
Explain me, Emily.
“There is a sort of beauty in the chaos. Don’t you think so, Sarah?”
Emily wiped her nose with the fresh linen run out by a frantic young waiter who wasn’t used to catering to young women, so he carried his shoulders too high, and too tight, and then his arms started to hurt, so he shuffled his feet (to compensate for a lack of upper body mobility) and this caused the soup that he was carrying to slosh around in its fine china bowl, and the sloshing let the now free soup crawl up her chin onto her nose, so the new, young, shuffling waiter had to bring fresh linen to Emily, and, my God, she was a fan of determinism.
“Yes, I suppose there is.” Sarah tapped her cigarette lightly, brushing the ashes off of the table. She spoke again: “But somehow I always lose sight of the beauty, and become enthralled by the mistakes.”
“Mistakes?”
“Yes.”
Emily held her breath, hoping for further explanation, but none came. To end Sarah’s thought she sipped her soup, and blew out exhaustively—to push the cigarette smoke away.
“Like what?” She asked, after wiping her mouth.
“Oh, I don’t know.” Sarah thought for a moment, letting the silence of the conversation cling to the air so that neither her nor Emily could escape its brooding passion. ‘Take the waiter, for instance.” She continued.
“What about him?”
“Well I was here last week, staring in through the window, and I saw him slip and crash a bus load of dishes into that wall.”
“So?”
“Well, that was a mistake.”
Emily coolly raised her glass, being careful to avoid the lemon slice, and gently coaxed a piece of ice into her mouth. “There are many mistakes in the world, Sarah.”
“Yes, but this one is important.”
A curious eyebrow raised from behind Sarah’s smoke bequeathed Emily’s response:
“Important?”
“I wouldn’t have chosen this restaurant if he hadn’t crashed.”
“Now, Sarah, what is the importance of that?”
Sarah leaned back gracefully, emerging out of the clouds of smoke that surrounded their table, into the rest of the restaurant—leaving the bubble of their conversation. She lifted her hair from the back of her neck lightly bouncing her dark curls so that they fell slightly farther down her back. She re-entered the bubble: “ Well, Emily, what if that waiter makes another mistake. Like spilling soup on my dress”—it was a nice dress, a day dreaming flowery affair that clung to her hips and thighs—“and then he would apologize profusely and we would fall in love.”
“I don’t know, Sarah. Maybe we should find a new restaurant—check please.”
The waiter rushed over, check in hand.
“Everything all right today?”
“Yes, quite fine thank you. You can expect a large tip.”
“Glad to hear it, here you go.” He dropped the check on the table leaving a resounding thud, and an indifferent customer.
“Sarah.”
“Yes”.
“Why can’t mistakes be beautiful too?”
Emily wiped her nose with the fresh linen run out by a frantic young waiter who wasn’t used to catering to young women, so he carried his shoulders too high, and too tight, and then his arms started to hurt, so he shuffled his feet (to compensate for a lack of upper body mobility) and this caused the soup that he was carrying to slosh around in its fine china bowl, and the sloshing let the now free soup crawl up her chin onto her nose, so the new, young, shuffling waiter had to bring fresh linen to Emily, and, my God, she was a fan of determinism.
“Yes, I suppose there is.” Sarah tapped her cigarette lightly, brushing the ashes off of the table. She spoke again: “But somehow I always lose sight of the beauty, and become enthralled by the mistakes.”
“Mistakes?”
“Yes.”
Emily held her breath, hoping for further explanation, but none came. To end Sarah’s thought she sipped her soup, and blew out exhaustively—to push the cigarette smoke away.
“Like what?” She asked, after wiping her mouth.
“Oh, I don’t know.” Sarah thought for a moment, letting the silence of the conversation cling to the air so that neither her nor Emily could escape its brooding passion. ‘Take the waiter, for instance.” She continued.
“What about him?”
“Well I was here last week, staring in through the window, and I saw him slip and crash a bus load of dishes into that wall.”
“So?”
“Well, that was a mistake.”
Emily coolly raised her glass, being careful to avoid the lemon slice, and gently coaxed a piece of ice into her mouth. “There are many mistakes in the world, Sarah.”
“Yes, but this one is important.”
A curious eyebrow raised from behind Sarah’s smoke bequeathed Emily’s response:
“Important?”
“I wouldn’t have chosen this restaurant if he hadn’t crashed.”
“Now, Sarah, what is the importance of that?”
Sarah leaned back gracefully, emerging out of the clouds of smoke that surrounded their table, into the rest of the restaurant—leaving the bubble of their conversation. She lifted her hair from the back of her neck lightly bouncing her dark curls so that they fell slightly farther down her back. She re-entered the bubble: “ Well, Emily, what if that waiter makes another mistake. Like spilling soup on my dress”—it was a nice dress, a day dreaming flowery affair that clung to her hips and thighs—“and then he would apologize profusely and we would fall in love.”
“I don’t know, Sarah. Maybe we should find a new restaurant—check please.”
The waiter rushed over, check in hand.
“Everything all right today?”
“Yes, quite fine thank you. You can expect a large tip.”
“Glad to hear it, here you go.” He dropped the check on the table leaving a resounding thud, and an indifferent customer.
“Sarah.”
“Yes”.
“Why can’t mistakes be beautiful too?”
Friday, May 15, 2009
Monday, May 4, 2009
For Nikki (3)
For Nikki.
The first time I ever painted I was 4 years old. I used watercolor. I had a pretty damn good set Nik’s. Red, Blue, Green, Brown, I had it all. My Mom wanted me to paint our house. I wanted to paint a cat. I took the black and swirled it around on the cream colored paper; finessing gentle curves, little paws, and scattered whiskers. It was one fucking gorgeous cat. My little Mona Lisa. Mom wanted me to paint a house. I painted the cat. The first time I touched a brush after the coma I couldn’t feel it, couldn’t twist it right, couldn’t contort the fibers on the brush head couldn’t sweep long arcs or dot small specks, I couldn’t feel the serendipitous wood or the artisans etched name on the handle, it’s harder to feel when you don’t have nerve endings in your fingertips. So that first time after the coma I put down the brush and flung my hands into a whole fucking-pool of paint, drenched my whole arms in it, took the plunge, covered myself in Red, and Blue, and Green, and Brown, I looked like a sunset that fought a tree and came up on the losing end. Then I just started hitting the canvass. Smashing color on different corners, sweeping my hands in co centric circles, spiraling outwards to reach the edge of the taut white paper I guess I just wailed on that fucker, just smashed it. I remember coating it like seven or eight times, and in the end it didn’t look like anything but a tortured soul and some broken hands.
I have never equated painting to freedom Nik’s. Are you free if you sling your being onto a canvass to sell to some uptown hipster who just looks at it for a minute, hands in his pockets, swaying back and forth pretending to see the meaning behind the color, nervously twitching his thumbs hoping that the girls he wants to fuck with are looking at his countenance, a twisted intrigued face, so that they think he’s deep, so that they think he has some genes worth spreading, so that he can maybe stop coming to these fucking art gallery’s every Saturday night. Is it free if you have to serve coffee to that exact some fucker the very next morning after he somehow managed to fuck that girl who is now sitting right across from him, eating a strawberry Danish, laughing at his shit jokes while he keeps telling them hoping that she’ll just leave and forget all about him and his needle dick. Tell me Nik’s is it free if you eat off welfare, scrape the fucking peanut butter out of jars at work, then blow all your money on paint, hoping that maybe this art thing will catch on eventually. No Nik’s, painting isn’t freedom, it is a cage, and I am fucking trapped in it.
Have you seen any of my artwork Nik’s? I suppose not, I’m not particularly famous, yet. Most of the time I start by staring at the canvass for a while, visualizing the feeling I want to recreate. But once, I decided I wanted mountains. Big, fuck-off huge mountains. Cascades, Rockies, Himalayas, every range you can think off. So I dipped in the red, and made huge points, protruding into and above the paper, giant’s peaks. Then I dipped in black, and orange and kept layering the peaks, saturating the canvass with the majesty of the range. But as I kept painting, I started to look at my mountains and I saw a face. I saw the sad drawn out features of an old man, the sunken eyes, and drooping cheeks. The floppy wrinkles and elongated chin of a despondent old, old, man. I saw the tired, coal colored eyes of a miner who dug too deep and blew the tunnel. I saw the broken, displaced, sharp tinted eyebrows of a man who has felt too much pain in too little time. I saw my father, balding, bawling, dying slowly in my care. I looked up at the ceiling, and saw the sky, and saw the red windbreaker blowing softly in the frigid air. Clouds look colder in the winter Nikki, and tears freeze faster in my apartment when I close the shade. In a moment of lucidity I stared at the portrait, fell backwards and cried as my father did when he stared at me serenely slipping into my coma. Nikki I have never painted a landscape, I have only painted me.
Someday Nikki, maybe I will come out west. Travel the lakes in streams of America, put some trust in God and hope a train out there. If I’m lucky I might wake up on one of those ecclesiastical mornings. But Nikki, the tortured artist sells the paintings, and makes the money. The commercial ones have their own T.V. shows. You know me; I’m no good for T.V. Your dog sounds nice, Nikki. Sounds like my kind of dog, fucking up in the oddest ways. Nikki, I can’t breath the air here, how is it out there?
The first time I ever painted I was 4 years old. I used watercolor. I had a pretty damn good set Nik’s. Red, Blue, Green, Brown, I had it all. My Mom wanted me to paint our house. I wanted to paint a cat. I took the black and swirled it around on the cream colored paper; finessing gentle curves, little paws, and scattered whiskers. It was one fucking gorgeous cat. My little Mona Lisa. Mom wanted me to paint a house. I painted the cat. The first time I touched a brush after the coma I couldn’t feel it, couldn’t twist it right, couldn’t contort the fibers on the brush head couldn’t sweep long arcs or dot small specks, I couldn’t feel the serendipitous wood or the artisans etched name on the handle, it’s harder to feel when you don’t have nerve endings in your fingertips. So that first time after the coma I put down the brush and flung my hands into a whole fucking-pool of paint, drenched my whole arms in it, took the plunge, covered myself in Red, and Blue, and Green, and Brown, I looked like a sunset that fought a tree and came up on the losing end. Then I just started hitting the canvass. Smashing color on different corners, sweeping my hands in co centric circles, spiraling outwards to reach the edge of the taut white paper I guess I just wailed on that fucker, just smashed it. I remember coating it like seven or eight times, and in the end it didn’t look like anything but a tortured soul and some broken hands.
I have never equated painting to freedom Nik’s. Are you free if you sling your being onto a canvass to sell to some uptown hipster who just looks at it for a minute, hands in his pockets, swaying back and forth pretending to see the meaning behind the color, nervously twitching his thumbs hoping that the girls he wants to fuck with are looking at his countenance, a twisted intrigued face, so that they think he’s deep, so that they think he has some genes worth spreading, so that he can maybe stop coming to these fucking art gallery’s every Saturday night. Is it free if you have to serve coffee to that exact some fucker the very next morning after he somehow managed to fuck that girl who is now sitting right across from him, eating a strawberry Danish, laughing at his shit jokes while he keeps telling them hoping that she’ll just leave and forget all about him and his needle dick. Tell me Nik’s is it free if you eat off welfare, scrape the fucking peanut butter out of jars at work, then blow all your money on paint, hoping that maybe this art thing will catch on eventually. No Nik’s, painting isn’t freedom, it is a cage, and I am fucking trapped in it.
Have you seen any of my artwork Nik’s? I suppose not, I’m not particularly famous, yet. Most of the time I start by staring at the canvass for a while, visualizing the feeling I want to recreate. But once, I decided I wanted mountains. Big, fuck-off huge mountains. Cascades, Rockies, Himalayas, every range you can think off. So I dipped in the red, and made huge points, protruding into and above the paper, giant’s peaks. Then I dipped in black, and orange and kept layering the peaks, saturating the canvass with the majesty of the range. But as I kept painting, I started to look at my mountains and I saw a face. I saw the sad drawn out features of an old man, the sunken eyes, and drooping cheeks. The floppy wrinkles and elongated chin of a despondent old, old, man. I saw the tired, coal colored eyes of a miner who dug too deep and blew the tunnel. I saw the broken, displaced, sharp tinted eyebrows of a man who has felt too much pain in too little time. I saw my father, balding, bawling, dying slowly in my care. I looked up at the ceiling, and saw the sky, and saw the red windbreaker blowing softly in the frigid air. Clouds look colder in the winter Nikki, and tears freeze faster in my apartment when I close the shade. In a moment of lucidity I stared at the portrait, fell backwards and cried as my father did when he stared at me serenely slipping into my coma. Nikki I have never painted a landscape, I have only painted me.
Someday Nikki, maybe I will come out west. Travel the lakes in streams of America, put some trust in God and hope a train out there. If I’m lucky I might wake up on one of those ecclesiastical mornings. But Nikki, the tortured artist sells the paintings, and makes the money. The commercial ones have their own T.V. shows. You know me; I’m no good for T.V. Your dog sounds nice, Nikki. Sounds like my kind of dog, fucking up in the oddest ways. Nikki, I can’t breath the air here, how is it out there?
Wednesday, April 15, 2009
For Nikki (2)
For Nikki.
You know your life is going down the shitter when you can’t remember why you like doing the things you do. I mean, that’s when you know you are absolutely fucked, when you don’t remember why you like pissin outdoors, or watching the ballgame, that’s the crowning moment in the kingdom of “you're fucked” land. I hear psychologist call it a “mid-life crisis”. Shit, I had it when I was 20.
I remember it. I was standing, just waiting for the light rail to get in from uptown, watching the punk rock kids silently bob their heads to blink-182, or some other shit on their ipods ( the fucking posers wouldn’t know good punk if it slapped’em in the face, give them some Sex-Pistols, Ramones and the Clash, and those fucks will call them oldies) and it was hot and irate, and I was winded and sweaty from dodging traffic, and it just hit me like a ton-a-bricks, I hated this shit. I hated standing at that station every Goddamn day, I hated walking two and half-miles from it to work at some fuck-tard coffee shop, and I especially hated watching those punk-rock wannabe dip-shits, bobbing their heads to absolute petulance. I hated my friends, I hated listening to them, I hated watching them, I hated the way Susan did her hair, I hated the way Jamie played his bass lines, I hated Eric, I hated his cat (a little puff-ball, it always tripped over itself, and never landed on all four feet) I hated my shoes, I hated the bus, I hated just about everything, and finally I just stopped. I watched the light rail whiz by while I held my ticket stub, and then threw my backpack down beside me as I melted into a hard metallic bench.
You ever sit on a bench Nik’s. Like, really just sit on it. I don’t mean slouch on a bench, or lie on a bench, or sit cross-legged on a bench, or even casually sprawl on a bench, I mean sit, rigid, focused, and completely awake on a bench. Ah, shit Nik’s I know you haven’t. It’s a difficult concept to explain anyway, don’t worry your paste eating head over it. Anyway, that night I just sat. I sat and listened to street rats, and lovers, and drunk-frat boys, and tight-legged hipsters, and coffee shop perusers; I even listened to the fucking PA, make its stupid ticket announcements. And I stayed that whole night, just listening. And let me tell you some weird shit goes through your head when you’re sitting silent, listening to a city while your life falls apart. But, do you know what I was really thinking about that whole night Nik’s? Do you know what concept was burning the back of my retinas, and tattooing my brain? Color. Yeah, big fucking epiphany, right? Color. Let me explain.
When you're in a coma, they close your eyes every once in a while so you can sleep, and usually right before that, they shine a bright-as-fuck-light right in your eyes, probably to check for damage or some shit like that, but I always liked to think it was because they thought my eyes were pretty. I have some pretty fucking beautiful eyes. I’m serious, don’t you laugh Nik’s, lets not forget, you at paste. Seriously, next time I see you look at my eyes, they're two huge fucking orbs of smoky gray-green clairvoyance. Deep, I know. Whatever the reason, they shine this bright-as-fuck-light into your eyes, and it burns a bit, and then they close your eyelids down real tight to get’em all watery and shit, and do you know what you see when they close your eyes real tight? Color. You are lost in a deep fucking ocean of color. Your whole world becomes color, your toe is a color, your nose is a color, your Mom is a color, your favorite toy is a color, the last light that got left on at your house is a color, even the black and white reels of Young Frankenstein is a color, the nurses bra is a color, the black T.V. screen is a color, all of it, everything is a color. Do you know what the best part is Nik’s? It only lasts like half-a-second. For just the briefest of moments, your head fucking explodes, and then everything just fades to black, and it is the most heartbreaking thing you’ll ever see. Fuck, Nik’s paste or not, you gotta tell me that you’ve done that at least once. Anyway, every night-when I had my eyes closed for me, and the firework display began- the color I always saw first was purple. Big fucking coincidence right? Wrong again, paste-fuck. I remembered that pencil, that drawing, that class, that face you always made when I looked at you funny. And I remembered all of that again that night at the light-rail station, when I thought about the color-explosions and why I hated my life. And as I sat on that bench, covered in purple, I realized who I was -and what I needed to be. That was the moment I decided to become an artist.
You know your life is going down the shitter when you can’t remember why you like doing the things you do. I mean, that’s when you know you are absolutely fucked, when you don’t remember why you like pissin outdoors, or watching the ballgame, that’s the crowning moment in the kingdom of “you're fucked” land. I hear psychologist call it a “mid-life crisis”. Shit, I had it when I was 20.
I remember it. I was standing, just waiting for the light rail to get in from uptown, watching the punk rock kids silently bob their heads to blink-182, or some other shit on their ipods ( the fucking posers wouldn’t know good punk if it slapped’em in the face, give them some Sex-Pistols, Ramones and the Clash, and those fucks will call them oldies) and it was hot and irate, and I was winded and sweaty from dodging traffic, and it just hit me like a ton-a-bricks, I hated this shit. I hated standing at that station every Goddamn day, I hated walking two and half-miles from it to work at some fuck-tard coffee shop, and I especially hated watching those punk-rock wannabe dip-shits, bobbing their heads to absolute petulance. I hated my friends, I hated listening to them, I hated watching them, I hated the way Susan did her hair, I hated the way Jamie played his bass lines, I hated Eric, I hated his cat (a little puff-ball, it always tripped over itself, and never landed on all four feet) I hated my shoes, I hated the bus, I hated just about everything, and finally I just stopped. I watched the light rail whiz by while I held my ticket stub, and then threw my backpack down beside me as I melted into a hard metallic bench.
You ever sit on a bench Nik’s. Like, really just sit on it. I don’t mean slouch on a bench, or lie on a bench, or sit cross-legged on a bench, or even casually sprawl on a bench, I mean sit, rigid, focused, and completely awake on a bench. Ah, shit Nik’s I know you haven’t. It’s a difficult concept to explain anyway, don’t worry your paste eating head over it. Anyway, that night I just sat. I sat and listened to street rats, and lovers, and drunk-frat boys, and tight-legged hipsters, and coffee shop perusers; I even listened to the fucking PA, make its stupid ticket announcements. And I stayed that whole night, just listening. And let me tell you some weird shit goes through your head when you’re sitting silent, listening to a city while your life falls apart. But, do you know what I was really thinking about that whole night Nik’s? Do you know what concept was burning the back of my retinas, and tattooing my brain? Color. Yeah, big fucking epiphany, right? Color. Let me explain.
When you're in a coma, they close your eyes every once in a while so you can sleep, and usually right before that, they shine a bright-as-fuck-light right in your eyes, probably to check for damage or some shit like that, but I always liked to think it was because they thought my eyes were pretty. I have some pretty fucking beautiful eyes. I’m serious, don’t you laugh Nik’s, lets not forget, you at paste. Seriously, next time I see you look at my eyes, they're two huge fucking orbs of smoky gray-green clairvoyance. Deep, I know. Whatever the reason, they shine this bright-as-fuck-light into your eyes, and it burns a bit, and then they close your eyelids down real tight to get’em all watery and shit, and do you know what you see when they close your eyes real tight? Color. You are lost in a deep fucking ocean of color. Your whole world becomes color, your toe is a color, your nose is a color, your Mom is a color, your favorite toy is a color, the last light that got left on at your house is a color, even the black and white reels of Young Frankenstein is a color, the nurses bra is a color, the black T.V. screen is a color, all of it, everything is a color. Do you know what the best part is Nik’s? It only lasts like half-a-second. For just the briefest of moments, your head fucking explodes, and then everything just fades to black, and it is the most heartbreaking thing you’ll ever see. Fuck, Nik’s paste or not, you gotta tell me that you’ve done that at least once. Anyway, every night-when I had my eyes closed for me, and the firework display began- the color I always saw first was purple. Big fucking coincidence right? Wrong again, paste-fuck. I remembered that pencil, that drawing, that class, that face you always made when I looked at you funny. And I remembered all of that again that night at the light-rail station, when I thought about the color-explosions and why I hated my life. And as I sat on that bench, covered in purple, I realized who I was -and what I needed to be. That was the moment I decided to become an artist.
Saturday, April 11, 2009
For Nikki
For Nikki.
They used to write me bad poetry and sing me stupid songs, while we looked out at dusty red sunsets, over musty red train-cars, sitting on rusty red train-tracks. They sounded nice sometimes. Before the songs, we just stared. They stared at me, I stared at them, we stared at the hospital wall. They didn’t care, I didn’t care, so we just sat together, in one big cluster-fuck of not caring.
Do you remember your first day of school? No, that’s OK, probably not important, probably not worth remembering, you [probably] just ate paste in the back of the classroom anyway. I was a fucking genius though. I stacked those pretty pink blocks, so fucking high. The blocks were sized according to their number value: ten was real big; one was real small, fucking obvious, right? That’s Montessori for you. Pointing out obvious shit, and pretending it wasn’t. I mean you and I both knew ten was fucking bigger than one, we didn’t need no Goddamn pink blocks to tell us that. Shit, I was reading at a third grade level. You were {probably} off eating paste though, don’t worry about it, happens to the best of us.
In first grade I stole some books from the library, I know, I’m a rebel, right? I remember looking at the glossy covers, and the little numbers on the spine, and the bright fluorescent letters on the cover. So I just grabbed a book, and ran, ran through the stupid “sharing circle” ran through the front door, and out to recess. I was making my way across the Minnesota Wisconsin border when they finally caught me. I did hard time, five days, cleaning up the lunchroom instead of going out to recess. Fuckers. They must have known about the foursquare tournament going on that week.
Have you ever been cold? Like, really, absolutely, fucking-freezing. Yeah? Doubt it, you ate paste, remember? You don’t know what cold is. I sure do. In the 5th grade, my family went to Glacier Park, going back to nature’n’shit, and my dad, brilliant as he was, decided we should camp on a glacier. Yeah, a fucking glacier. That takes balls, and I was eleven, so fuck that, puberty was still three years off. Any way, dad is pitching the tent, and I’m off taking a piss, and I slip off a fucking rock, and tumble into a crevice. I’m fucked, right? Nah, you’re forgettin, I’m a genius, you ate paste, go fuck yourself, I’m gonna crawl out of this ice canyon. So for like, three, six, eighteen hours, I try to haul myself out of this huge, fuck-off ice hole, while wearing a windbreaker that’s two sizes too small [hand-me-downs, they’re a bitch]. By the time dad found me I was shivering my ass-off, laying down in a pile of snow trying to remember how the fuck I got down there in the first place. Three helicopter rides, and a short ambulance trip later; I’m lying face up in some sterilized, heated, pansy-ass hospital, counting ceiling tiles. Least, they could have done was turned on the T.V., I hadn’t watched pokemon for three days, and Ash was in the middle of fighting Sabrina, this creepy-ass chick who used psychic pokemon to fuck with pikachu. Who the fuck wants to miss that for a camping trip, I sure as hell didn’t. So there I was stuck in this hospital, staring at the ceiling, vaguely hearing the adults talk about amputations, and severe frostbite, and life-altering head traumas. All I wanted was for them to take the IV out of my fucking arm, and the tube out of my nose, so that I could sit up a little and maybe watch a little television. Is that so fucking hard? Long story short, I finally decide to tell them this little jewel of wisdom, and Lo and behold, I lose my ability to speak. I then tried to tell my caretakers about this life-altering change by waving my arms and etc, only to discover that I couldn’t move shit, and that several fingertips were missing. Well fuck-adoodle-doo, no pokemon for me.
You ever write some bad poetry? I mean real bad, like soppy bullshit love poems that you write to yourself after your first girlfriend breaks up with you? Ah, fuck it I know you do, you ate fucking paste as a kid. Point is, when you can’t move, and can’t talk, all the sudden people decide that what you could really use-instead of some T.V., or maybe a little peace and quiet-is a shitty poem, or-even worse- a shitty poem sung to a shitty little tune. You hear about four or five of those, and you start wanting them to pull the plug. There was this one lady though, I think she was a nun, who came kinda often, and used to read me love poems by some dead old guy: and man, oh man, that shit was so beautiful it could knock you off your ass, and make you think that love was nothing but flowers, and heartbreak. Fuck, maybe it is.
This other guy, think he was doctor, used to come in and just start talking. He would ramble on and on about who-fucked-who, why his wife was leaving him, baseball, the current arrangement of his golf clubs, the weather, my vital signs, and any other shit that popped into his head and God it was so Goddamn boring that I thought that if I willed it hard it enough I might just spontaneously combust and end it all. After a while though, I got pretty good at blocking out the boring conversations, and letting in the good ones. For whatever reason that nun, I think Alice was her name, decided that I still needed an education, despite the fact that I couldn’t talk or move. If I had been able to, I probably would have told her that I was a fucking genius that could stack blocks, read at a third grade level, and swipe books from the library, and maybe then she would have said: “fuck it, lets watch pokemon”, but no. I had to learn. So day in and day out she sat down and read shit to me, Poe, T.S. Eliot, Walt Whitman, and Orwell to name a few, and some of it was pretty good, but really I just wanted her to leave so that I could look at the specks on the wall in silence.
You ever been bored? I mean maybe it’s summer, and your sitting there, and it’s like sixty, seventy-thousand degrees outside, and your mom just stopped you from burning ants on the sidewalk, and now your stuck inside, and you can’t watch T.V. ‘cause mom just shot that one down too, and your just sitting, in your cotton polo, and elastic dress shorts; just covered in boredom, absolutely saturated in it, smothered in a delicious marinade of boredom, drenched by the torpid odor of it. Now imagine that, every day, for three years. Yeah, fuck Glacier Park, and the coma it gave me. So after like a year and a half of listening, I just said fuck it, and stopped. I didn’t hear shit, for a while, I thought that I wouldn’t be able to ever listen again. Like when you haven’t ridden your bike all winter, and you take it out, and your just not sure that you can ride it anymore, that was me, with listening. So I spent a lot of time thinking. Thinking about fingertips, and gloves, and grabbing baseballs, and wearing baseball gloves, and after another year and a half of that, I finally just snapped, and realized that I couldn’t take the boredom any more and that was the day I woke up.
If you ever wake up from a coma, do it at like four in the morning, when no one is there, that way your family doesn’t hug you, and people don’t give you flowers, or prayers. If you wake up at four in the morning chances are you can do what you want, maybe finally turn on the T.V., or scratch your balls or something. But me, I was stupid and woke up at like three in the afternoon on Easter Sunday, what the fuck was I thinking. Anyway, the whole family was there and they were crying, and I was crying, and we were all just crying in a cluster-fuck of required happiness, and God, it would’ve made for a beautiful hallmark card. Then we went home, and never talked about it again. And I remember thinking: Damn, it’s good thing I’m a genius, otherwise I would have been so bored in that coma. Moral of the story: don’t eat paste when you’re a kid. Oh yeah, I forgot, looks like you already fucked that one up.
-Cedric
They used to write me bad poetry and sing me stupid songs, while we looked out at dusty red sunsets, over musty red train-cars, sitting on rusty red train-tracks. They sounded nice sometimes. Before the songs, we just stared. They stared at me, I stared at them, we stared at the hospital wall. They didn’t care, I didn’t care, so we just sat together, in one big cluster-fuck of not caring.
Do you remember your first day of school? No, that’s OK, probably not important, probably not worth remembering, you [probably] just ate paste in the back of the classroom anyway. I was a fucking genius though. I stacked those pretty pink blocks, so fucking high. The blocks were sized according to their number value: ten was real big; one was real small, fucking obvious, right? That’s Montessori for you. Pointing out obvious shit, and pretending it wasn’t. I mean you and I both knew ten was fucking bigger than one, we didn’t need no Goddamn pink blocks to tell us that. Shit, I was reading at a third grade level. You were {probably} off eating paste though, don’t worry about it, happens to the best of us.
In first grade I stole some books from the library, I know, I’m a rebel, right? I remember looking at the glossy covers, and the little numbers on the spine, and the bright fluorescent letters on the cover. So I just grabbed a book, and ran, ran through the stupid “sharing circle” ran through the front door, and out to recess. I was making my way across the Minnesota Wisconsin border when they finally caught me. I did hard time, five days, cleaning up the lunchroom instead of going out to recess. Fuckers. They must have known about the foursquare tournament going on that week.
Have you ever been cold? Like, really, absolutely, fucking-freezing. Yeah? Doubt it, you ate paste, remember? You don’t know what cold is. I sure do. In the 5th grade, my family went to Glacier Park, going back to nature’n’shit, and my dad, brilliant as he was, decided we should camp on a glacier. Yeah, a fucking glacier. That takes balls, and I was eleven, so fuck that, puberty was still three years off. Any way, dad is pitching the tent, and I’m off taking a piss, and I slip off a fucking rock, and tumble into a crevice. I’m fucked, right? Nah, you’re forgettin, I’m a genius, you ate paste, go fuck yourself, I’m gonna crawl out of this ice canyon. So for like, three, six, eighteen hours, I try to haul myself out of this huge, fuck-off ice hole, while wearing a windbreaker that’s two sizes too small [hand-me-downs, they’re a bitch]. By the time dad found me I was shivering my ass-off, laying down in a pile of snow trying to remember how the fuck I got down there in the first place. Three helicopter rides, and a short ambulance trip later; I’m lying face up in some sterilized, heated, pansy-ass hospital, counting ceiling tiles. Least, they could have done was turned on the T.V., I hadn’t watched pokemon for three days, and Ash was in the middle of fighting Sabrina, this creepy-ass chick who used psychic pokemon to fuck with pikachu. Who the fuck wants to miss that for a camping trip, I sure as hell didn’t. So there I was stuck in this hospital, staring at the ceiling, vaguely hearing the adults talk about amputations, and severe frostbite, and life-altering head traumas. All I wanted was for them to take the IV out of my fucking arm, and the tube out of my nose, so that I could sit up a little and maybe watch a little television. Is that so fucking hard? Long story short, I finally decide to tell them this little jewel of wisdom, and Lo and behold, I lose my ability to speak. I then tried to tell my caretakers about this life-altering change by waving my arms and etc, only to discover that I couldn’t move shit, and that several fingertips were missing. Well fuck-adoodle-doo, no pokemon for me.
You ever write some bad poetry? I mean real bad, like soppy bullshit love poems that you write to yourself after your first girlfriend breaks up with you? Ah, fuck it I know you do, you ate fucking paste as a kid. Point is, when you can’t move, and can’t talk, all the sudden people decide that what you could really use-instead of some T.V., or maybe a little peace and quiet-is a shitty poem, or-even worse- a shitty poem sung to a shitty little tune. You hear about four or five of those, and you start wanting them to pull the plug. There was this one lady though, I think she was a nun, who came kinda often, and used to read me love poems by some dead old guy: and man, oh man, that shit was so beautiful it could knock you off your ass, and make you think that love was nothing but flowers, and heartbreak. Fuck, maybe it is.
This other guy, think he was doctor, used to come in and just start talking. He would ramble on and on about who-fucked-who, why his wife was leaving him, baseball, the current arrangement of his golf clubs, the weather, my vital signs, and any other shit that popped into his head and God it was so Goddamn boring that I thought that if I willed it hard it enough I might just spontaneously combust and end it all. After a while though, I got pretty good at blocking out the boring conversations, and letting in the good ones. For whatever reason that nun, I think Alice was her name, decided that I still needed an education, despite the fact that I couldn’t talk or move. If I had been able to, I probably would have told her that I was a fucking genius that could stack blocks, read at a third grade level, and swipe books from the library, and maybe then she would have said: “fuck it, lets watch pokemon”, but no. I had to learn. So day in and day out she sat down and read shit to me, Poe, T.S. Eliot, Walt Whitman, and Orwell to name a few, and some of it was pretty good, but really I just wanted her to leave so that I could look at the specks on the wall in silence.
You ever been bored? I mean maybe it’s summer, and your sitting there, and it’s like sixty, seventy-thousand degrees outside, and your mom just stopped you from burning ants on the sidewalk, and now your stuck inside, and you can’t watch T.V. ‘cause mom just shot that one down too, and your just sitting, in your cotton polo, and elastic dress shorts; just covered in boredom, absolutely saturated in it, smothered in a delicious marinade of boredom, drenched by the torpid odor of it. Now imagine that, every day, for three years. Yeah, fuck Glacier Park, and the coma it gave me. So after like a year and a half of listening, I just said fuck it, and stopped. I didn’t hear shit, for a while, I thought that I wouldn’t be able to ever listen again. Like when you haven’t ridden your bike all winter, and you take it out, and your just not sure that you can ride it anymore, that was me, with listening. So I spent a lot of time thinking. Thinking about fingertips, and gloves, and grabbing baseballs, and wearing baseball gloves, and after another year and a half of that, I finally just snapped, and realized that I couldn’t take the boredom any more and that was the day I woke up.
If you ever wake up from a coma, do it at like four in the morning, when no one is there, that way your family doesn’t hug you, and people don’t give you flowers, or prayers. If you wake up at four in the morning chances are you can do what you want, maybe finally turn on the T.V., or scratch your balls or something. But me, I was stupid and woke up at like three in the afternoon on Easter Sunday, what the fuck was I thinking. Anyway, the whole family was there and they were crying, and I was crying, and we were all just crying in a cluster-fuck of required happiness, and God, it would’ve made for a beautiful hallmark card. Then we went home, and never talked about it again. And I remember thinking: Damn, it’s good thing I’m a genius, otherwise I would have been so bored in that coma. Moral of the story: don’t eat paste when you’re a kid. Oh yeah, I forgot, looks like you already fucked that one up.
-Cedric
Thursday, March 19, 2009
Haiku's and Tonka's
*Bar Stool Love
All I can see here,
In the clouds of withered smoke,
Is your eyes, gray, green
Soft piano melodies float across
A room, divided, by love.
LIBBY
Swinging back and forth,
The wind ripples through your hair.
But, flowers are Stooopid
And die in the cold winter.
So, pick a better image. Libby.
Lonely Mountain
Wasted on a poem,
The mountain crumbles with shame.
Please, remember it.
Burial.
I saw your likeness,
it will bind us, forever.
I lead, you follow.
*Not actually a Tonka, but written in the same style.
All I can see here,
In the clouds of withered smoke,
Is your eyes, gray, green
Soft piano melodies float across
A room, divided, by love.
LIBBY
Swinging back and forth,
The wind ripples through your hair.
But, flowers are Stooopid
And die in the cold winter.
So, pick a better image. Libby.
Lonely Mountain
Wasted on a poem,
The mountain crumbles with shame.
Please, remember it.
Burial.
I saw your likeness,
it will bind us, forever.
I lead, you follow.
*Not actually a Tonka, but written in the same style.
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