Via Mangle - Ugly Random Web Pages

So today I decided to go back to Mangle and check out random personal webpages. I haven't done this in years, I used to do random sampling all the time, to try and come up with interesting links. But now I remember why I stopped random sampling. Yeeech! The number of crappy webpages out there is beyond belief! Here are a few of them:

Vishal03 -- You're killing my eyeballs with the green textured background that looks like a blizzard of puke. Yes, from the picture, I can imagine you're having a raging time with your pals.

Bocefuss! All I can say is, wow, I hope you get the site constructed, any change is better than what's up there now. Actually, now that I look at it, it is kind of like Zen meeting Taoism.

jmr08860 -- Ahhhhhhh! A ROOSTER PAGE!! No, it is not "KOOL". My brain slid off it's chassis when I saw the blue and green stripes.

Heartland/3682 -- I wasn't going to rip on the Barker Family, and I'm still not going to rip on the Barker Family. But when the music started playing, I wanted to rip on the Barker Family.

Palms/9420 -- I like your site. Simple. Completely broken. I could stare at it all day.

Vienna/1591 -- Starting out with, "This page will never be completed. It experiences what one would call a continuum of existence..." suckers me into hanging out 5 minutes longer than I normally would in your sucky, angst-ridden, narcissistic webpage extravaganza. Keep up the good work!

That's all for now. I hope you enjoyed this post as much as I did.

if you really/ do it

darling i'll
love you
madly
absolutely
if i love you
at all

which is bad
i know
very bad to love
this way
experience shows

i'd write more
& try to put
the obligatory
twist at the end
of the poem

but love is
a bitch of a
proposition

never simple
or safe

if you really
do it

vatchel

vatchel lindsay
lindsay lindsay
you were a liar
and a drunkard
and above all
a poet

people paid
to watch you
in theaters your
higher vaudville
as you called it
BOOM BOOM
BOOM

treking across
the wastes
of middle america
with no money
paying with spoken
words

and then after
hitting your zenith
years of slowly
going down down
a star like lucifer
now just a tin plated
phony

america dumbed
further and further
by the depression
you grappled
with children and
family debts

vatchel lindsay
on one afternoon
drank lysol
"those bastards wanted
to get me --
but i got them first!"

but i will always
remember you
by that one photograph
arm out head back
hips cocked
wracked in
poetic ecstasy

vatchel lindsay
i could be
like that

vatchel lindsay
lindsay lindsay
i have been
like that

Chung Tzu & I vs The Librarian

I see Chung Tzu in the "quiet reading" section of the Oak Park Library.
"Hello, Chopped Stick!" he says.
"Hello, Dirty Old Man!" I reply.
"Shhhhhhhhhhh!" says the Librarian.

We wait until the Librarian is gone.
"So what's news?" asks Chung Tzu.
"It's raining. There's water in my garage. I can't stop the water from getting in." I reply.
"There's garage in your water." says Chung Tzu, thinking this statement is very funny.

I look to see if the Librarian can hear us.
"I can't get everything done, at my house. There's too much to do." I say.
"There's a dirty sock on your stairs." admits Chung Tzu.
We wait a bit, as the Librarian walks by.

"Hey, Dumbass!" says Chung Tzu, this time loudly.
"Hey, what, Shitwit!" says I, as the Librarian calls Security.
"I wouldn't want to be a Librarian in a world with us in it." says Chung Tzu, standing up.
"I know what you mean." I say, as we get going.

Being Here

In the morning, Chung Tzu comes into the house, unannounced, of course. He finds me in the kitchen.
"What are you doing?" asks Chung Tzu.
"I am upset." I reply.
"Don't be upset." says Chung Tzu, and he leaves.

Later, at noon, Chung Tzu comes into the house, unannounced, as always. He finds me in the basement office.
"What are you doing?" asks Chung Tzu.
"I am thinking." I reply.
"Don't think" says Chung Tzu, and he leaves.

Chung Tzu returns at sunset. I am back in the kitchen, by the stove.
"What are you doing?" asks Chung Tzu.
"Being a goat." I reply.
Chung Tzu this time smiles, and he leaves.

Late at night, I am in the kitchen again. It is quiet, everyone else is sleeping. Chung Tzu quietly lets himself into the house.
"What are you doing?" whispers Chung Tzu to me, as if we are forming a conspiracy.
"I am being here!" I whisper back, handing him a cup of tea.
"Good!" he whispers back.

One Morning, Not So Long Ago

One morning, not so long ago, I was walking though the woods. To my surprise, I saw a young man at a fork in the path, standing on a dunghill. He was wearing a sharp looking business suit, and looked very out of place.
"Hello." I said to the young man.
"Good morning!" he exclaimed.
"What are you doing here in the middle of the woods, dressed in a business suit?" I asked (because I couldn't help wanting to know).
"Oh!" the young man said "Well, I am glad you asked! I am trying to be the most Important Person on this dunghill!"
"Gracious!" was my reply.
"Yes. Yes. I made my plans, chose my action, and here I am DOING it." He took in the wide blue sky, the bare trees, everything around him. He was greatly satisfied. Then he looked at me. "Do you have any suggestions, or advice so that I may achieve my goal more swiftly and efficiently?"
I though about it for a moment. "Know your limitations." I said.

Historical Facts - William Tell's Practice Shot

I was sad today to find out that William Tell had a few kids, besides his eldest son, Walter. He was so scared at shooting Walt in the noggin, he practiced on Hundertwasser first, and missed. I guess he felt so bad about this shooting accident, in 1354, W.T. died while trying to save a child from drowning in the Schachenbach, an alpine river in Uri. His favorite crossbow, Wolfenstein, is now in Das Wichtige Historische Supermuseum der Völker die Crossbows Schossen und Kampieren Mögen, in the little hamlet of Schnell, by the 14th century Schloss Nein-Ausgang. God rest his troubled soul.

Music - Easy Star All-Stars - Dub Side of the Moon

Needed some music to kick me up to the next level. So I got out "Dub Side of the Moon", by Easy Star, and playing it loud, it rocks...takes me back to the past & forward to the future. Imagine Pink Floyd's "Dark Side of the Moon" redone into brain-busting reggae, no-holds barred & you got it. Very few CDs I've purchased over the last few years have such a place in my mind -- in terms of creating raw astonishment, and listening pleasure.

We Demolished the Wrong Building

We demolished the wrong building. Okay, I'll say it again, we demolished the wrong building. It wasn't 3342 Barnham Way, it was 3324 Barnham Way. That aside, the job was a snap. But the problem is, we demolished the wrong building. And it was a church. You can't fire me, we're partners. You said you wanted to run the office, and I'd go out and do the jobs.

Poem - i want to mope

i want to mope

i want to mope
but the kids are up

i can't brood until
they go to bed

one kid works
on her homework

the other has a bottle
& walks all over the house

dripping dots of formula
shrieking room to room

so i drink cup after cup of tea
smoke cigarettes

standing by the stove vent
set on the highest setting

i watch it snow in
a nocturnal backyard

then i think of chung tzu
& all his great advice

are you thinking too much?
then don't think!

are you wanting something?
then don't want it!

i pick up my son i tell him
"you look tired!" he laughs

so i laugh

homework doing daughter
laughs too

Poem - with the heart of a child

by chance today
i look in the mirror

i realize i look like
a dangerous madman

hair all wild
eyes piercing

how is this possible
with the heart of a child?

Dear Diary

February 11, 2008
21:33

Dear Diary,

Today we attached the 14 ton science lab module to the International Space Station. It was technically very challenging, but we did it. No pressure, I mean, it only cost 2 billion dollars. And right at the end, some nameless breathless idiot in Mission Control goes, "BEAUTIFUL JOB!" into Leopold's ear, so he almost crushes the brushings.

So, later we all got high on some hash brownies. You can't even faintly imagine how fantastic the Earth looks from space, when you're stoned. Even Schlegel felt better, and said Africa talked to him. NASA will never know.

My Battle with the Ice

In the cold night, when I fall on my ass really hard, I know I'm back. Ice and dress shoes don't work. Ice and formal shoes, with a backpack and a suitcase in tow does not make a happy ending. You won't even be walking upright very long. So I fall more on the way home. I fall backwards onto my back, full on the backpack, my legs shooting out towards the street. I fall like I am drunk, or like I was shot in the chest by a stream of machine gun bullets. When I'm not falling, I am almost falling, skidding, slipping, doing a funny little dance here and there. And I can't help but cursing as traffic flys by on the dry road. Why can't these m***er f*****rs keep their sidewalks shoveled? There's at least one bastard on every section of a block I have to walk through. Whoops. There's another one. When at last I get home, the last stretch of pernicious hateful ice is on my section of sidewalk, in front of the house. Bastard that I am, I die one last time, going down, as if hit with a rock. This time, I fall in silence. I feel like throwing my suitcase into the bushes, but I can't get enough traction. Later, after I have gotten in out of the cold, I can laugh about it. And look, the laptop still works. Victory!

PIG SWAT LAKE & Seeing Jesus Christ on a Bicycle

Before crossing the street, I look at the electronic sign for the San Jose Performing Arts Center. The instant I look at it, it says "PIG" for several seconds. Then it changes to "SWAT LAKE" for a few more seconds. By that time, I realize some light bulbs have burned out...there is no PIG SWAT LAKE performance, which I would have to go and see, if it did exist that way. What caps it is, walking across the street, I then see a man who looks exactly like Jesus Christ...with a bicycle. I try not to stare. Nothing to see here folks, just move along.

Bell Tower

I am waiting for the bell tower to ring. I swear it half-rang a second ago. So now I am waiting for the bell tower to ring. My ears are not playing games on me, I swear. The problem is, I have been waiting for the bell tower to ring, and I am now waiting too long in expectation for it to, in fact, ring. A watched pot of water never boils, wanting to get laid badly means you'll die a virgin, and the bell tower listened to will never ring. I take out a pair of binoculars and look at the goddamn bell tower, look closer, is it stopped? Are the hands moving? Should I be able to see that from here? Look, see -- the hands ARE moving. The minute hand is half way from 4.45, headed to 5.00. I wait. I wait. Then, when the minute hand crosses the ornate 12, nothing happens. Who do I call? The fire department? The mayor? Then the bell tower goes DONG DONG DONG DONG DONG.

A Ghost

In San Jose, the sun is shining strongly though a gap in the clouds. The sun shines over a wall of mist, then it is gone. I think about being a ghost, and what it would be like to haunt this building. I've worked here a long time, and now I am just visiting, like a ghost. Virtually a ghost, I go to the 9th floor, in the West Tower and see how things have changed, and how other things will always be the same. Like a ghost, it is good to be back. Like a ghost, I am now outside of normal time, free in my own limited scope. Memory is my structure, I am thought now, beyond decay or corruption.

Eating Skripes

Me, I'm good at naming things, see? Even renaming things! Cats, dogs, furniture, houses, trees, squirrels -- even people. Especially people. I got a gift -- it's a gift, I swear. Now, if you had amnesia, and you didn't know your name & you came over to my house, I could name you in a jiffy and it would fit you perfectly. I named my daughter JuJu, and my son....he's a Skeeter if you ever saw one! Look at him. I see you agree with me. I named my granddaughter Petals, and my grand nieces Pepper-Reee-Aw and Keerlee Lee-Branches. This here sofa ain't no SOFA, who came up with that name? Makes no sense. You agree, don't you? Yes? Good. This here SOFA is what I call a Boo-Wa-Large. Sit yourself down on the Boo-Wa-Large while I gets us a few Mooches from the Piner. THEN WE CAN EAT US THEM SKRIPES OVER THERE ON THE STOVE.

Poem - living in the land of leech

for Crystal Reghetti

do you recall
the land of leech
and how everybody there
big & small
spoke that strange
nonsensical language
that you made up
as we ate home-
made sausages at
the kitchen table
for breakfast?
i even joked
i'd like to go
to that place
the land of leech

it has been many
years now
but you know
more than ever
i feel like going
to the land of leech

then i realized
i am already
living there

4/96

Two Ladies

I was sleeping at the hotel. Two ladies, they were talking all night, almost to 4 AM, in a foreign language. It sounded like Russian or Polish. They weren't too loud, nor were they trying to keep the noise down, so the volume rose and fell as they sounded amused and lyrical. If I could have understood what they were saying, it would have been hell. Sometimes I head a male voice interjecting, but he was unimportant to the overall discussion. All night, sleeping and slightly waking up when he spoke, I was surprised to hear anyone else other than the babbling ladies, but I forgave him. We all put up with his interjections with good humor, he was comfortable with his ironic position as permanently being on the side-lines to the real action. Then at 5 AM, I head two kinds of snoring, one for each lady. The snoring sounded like it was in English. Sleepily, not even half out of dreams, I thought, "Amazing! They talk all night in Russian, or Polish, but then they snore in English. So sublimely strange. And even more lyrical."

Me and My Rap Song

I have this horrible rap song stuck in my head. It loops around and around certain lyrics. "Don't you want a girlfriend that is fly like me? Don't you want a girlfriend that is free like me? Don't you? Don't you?" Meanwhile, I have been writing great poetry, all of it extremely depressing, and this bothers some of my readers. I think I can find some happy poems from my notes, written about ten years ago -- they can be fixed, I think. And the rap song rolls on, the sultry fly female voice sings, "I know you want me, I know you do...I know you like me...something something something..." More music. Now I think the song is making me happy, because it won't stop.

Poem - Kepler

DESCRIBING ASTRONOMICAL STEPS
IN A GENERAL EDUCATION PHYSICS CLASS
WITH BITS OF MATHEMATICAL ABSTRACTION
ALL OVER SIMPLIFIED AND CORRECT
IN ONLY A FEW SITUATIONS

BUT MOST THINGS ARE LIKE THAT ANYWAYS

Notes: May 12:

Kepler: A true giant (non-smoker), living at the time of
Galileo, that other giant of a guy (non-smoker).
Wrote various laws on napkins/ luggage & ticket
stubs & hotel stationary:

1. Planets move in elliptical paths
around the Sun without any
pit stops, or laying eggs*

*The Mileage
Law.

2. A line drawn from the Sun to a
planet sweeps, waxes, washes,
dusts, vacuums, or
calls a maid...asks for a janitor,
or otherwise asks for the Army
to clear equal areas in equal units
of time*

*Principal of
the Cleaning Lady.

3. Harmonic Law

P² = a³

P= Pomp/ a= Average/

Amount of pomp gathered
(in astronomical units)
of consternation
or level of annoyance
by a galactic
body revolving
'round Sun of other planets
once using this formula

Philosophical idea, getting all these P' s & a's
blended together, for instance:

P² = a³

11² = 5³

(Jupiter) = (Jupiter)

121 = 125

(Grave annoyance,
a cosmic falling out;

Jupiter, far from
the Sun is a little less
annoying than Neptune

but Pluto is the worst
a virtual black-sheep
of the family)

Kepler: Oh, what a Mensch. His predictions,
not just a magical thinker, propelling us
into modern thought with his modernity

Kepler: Father, Mother, Originator, Co-conspirator,
Manager, Idealist, Thinker ---

Oh hell --

Stated with pride and simplicity, virtually
the Georgewashington of Astronomy

(P² = a³)

Kepler: Friend of Tycho Brahe and Galileo Galilei
(they took names and kicked asses), known by
Newton -- surpassing Euclid, Plato, and the fat guy
in all the restaurants with the mustachio

Kepler: The Boy-Hero, Crime Fighter, Mathematician &
Adventurer & Private-Eye

Kepler, the Unsung Poet of the Mind:

Planets
sweep out
pie-shaped
wedges
of area
during their
orbits

taking no
more than
giving in
motion

so we shade
in that area
that is
swept
out

and soon
the Planet
is a bead
on the
edge
of a black
disk

Poetry - poems written on the road

#1 boston

calls out to home
but no calls returned

people come & go
on planes alone

they leave each other
without saying goodbye

as if it was understood
how we are connected

but we do not understand
alas we do not

#2 the place

when you go to the
place and sit at
a table for two
but you hang your
coat on the other
chair

everyone in the joint
knows you're dining
alone

as far as they know
it is like that
every night

even if it isn't true

#3 sales talk

sales talk sales
jargon

i've overheard it a hundred
times or more

"she's a real worker bee"
"i gotta step up to the plate"

"love it or leave it"
"how do they treat their people -- bad."

salesmen talk this way
but they could be doing anything

eating dinner or
waiting for a flight

butchering cattle
or digging graves

#4 comfort

she sits alone in the
sushi restaurant
she looks unhappy

i am alone also
i hope i do not look
as unhappy as she does

i grab a few red napkins
write this poem and when
i look up she has her meal

though she is still alone
she feels better with her dinner
and i find comfort with my poem

Poem - this night

this night
i am in a restaurant
outside it is raining
other than that
i do not know myself
or where i am

logic dictates i
must be someone but
realistically i could be
silverware or
that glass of wine

but through thinking
i will myself to be
from the point of view
of the person sitting in
the chair enjoying a meal
arbitrary as that is

precious strangeness
remains
one thing as real as it is
unreal
meal concluded like a
life ended

table cleared and reset
with just a few
crumbs
from the last
underneath the next
diner's feet

My American Airlines Horror Story

Air travel is not what it used to be, you hear that all the time from people who have to travel frequently. Here is my airline travel horror story.

It started with an American Airline ticket for travel on Sunday, January 6, from Orange County to Chicago O'Hare, with a stopover in San Francisco. The flight was due to depart at 2.40 PM, so I called at about 10 AM to verify the flight would be on time. Mysteriously, American Airlines thought my daughter and infant son would still be traveling with me, even though I had changed the ticket & their flights for a different time a few days ago. I recorrected the information for the flight, it would just be me.

When I got to the airport at a bit before 1 PM, I saw that the line for American Airlines stretched the entire length of Terminal 1. There must have been about 300+ people waiting to check in at the American Airlines counter. Every other airline there at John Wayne Airport had a few people checking in, but American Airlines was the only carrier with a stupendously long line. I reached a ticketing agent by 2.20 PM. I explained to the agent that I could have made my flight, if not for starting at the far end of the terminal. She said that I could go on a non-stop flight to Chicago at 4.00 PM.

Ticket in hand, and luggage checked, I processed myself through security -- the line there was negligible. At the gate, when the plane arrived, we were told there was a mechanical problem with the plane. The American Airlines employee at the gate said that a part had to be sent from Los Angeles. Then, the attendant said they were not sure when the plane would be ready. Then, we were told to stand by for more information. At about 4.00 PM, we were informed our flight was completely canceled. Hotel vouchers would be provided for people who did not live in Orange County.

Another long line formed at the gate counter. Only one American Airlines employees was there to process us, so the progress was slow. Soon, three Orange County sheriffs showed up, and stood there staring at the crowd. One was on a Seqway, and as we stood there barely moving, he'd twirl around on it, showing us, I guess, how skilled & important he was. For a short time, there was another American Airline employee helping, but then after about 20 minutes she left. We'd have traded three cops and an idiotic Seqway demonstration for one extra American Airlines employee, but it was not to be.

While we stood there, because the line was moving so slowly, several people (including me) asked the woman at the gate politely if more American Airline employees could help hand out vouchers. We were all told that there were no other employees available. Absolutely no help would be coming. After about two and a half hours of standing in line, I got a hotel voucher, and a "dinner voucher" for 10 dollars. We were told that everyone on the canceled flight had been booked for a non-stop 7 AM flight the next day at the same gate, and we should keep our boarding passes. American Airlines said in the morning, there would be a special place for us to drop our luggage off, and to keep the tags on the luggage. When I checked into the hotel, I discovered the meal voucher was not redeemable at the hotel, only at the airport.

So I woke up at 4.20 AM the next day, got to the airport a bit before 5 AM and there was no one there who knew where we should be handing our luggage to. People from the canceled flight stood in the international departures line, and so American Airlines processed us there. When I got to the ticket counter, I was told that there was no 7 AM flight to Chicago. I was scheduled to depart at a 9 AM flight. The agent switched me to the earliest flight, which was a 6.45 AM. My luggage was retagged.

At the gate, waiting, at 6.20 the agent said that the plane waiting at the gate was the wrong plane, and needed to be switched with another plane. It seems that American Airlines forgot to move the broken plane from yesterday & it sat there all night. We were able to board the new plane by about 6.50 AM. Once aboard, we were informed that we would have to sit on the tarmac at John Wayne Airport for about an hour, due to President Bush landing at Chicago O'Hare. After about 30 minutes, we did take off.

Basically, the take from all of this is my time (or any other traveler's time) is not important, or valuable, in any way to American Airlines. American Airlines demonstrated quite clearly customers are trivial, treated with no more concern or feeling you'd expend on bags of luggage. Having the longest line for checking in, forcing people to stand in lines for hours for vouchers with the police in the background, denying us extra personnel to speed things up, it shows the airline doesn't give a damn how much time they waste. American Airlines could care less if you make it home on time -- and when things go wrong at the airport, there is no customer service when the public interfaces with actual airline employees.

I know there are worse travel related airline stories out there...it shows how off the mark and arrogant, or just indifferent carriers are today, post 9/11. Once they get a traveler into that controlled airport environment, they can do anything they want with you.

P.S.

A special thanks goes out to Chicago O'Hare....when I asked, there were no door-to-door shuttles to take me home. I ended up renting a Lincoln town car for $67 bucks to get me to my front door.

Poem - from HOME - a meeting

there is a
beautiful girl
walking along
cloumbus street
in north beach

by chance she
looks through
the long windows
of the cafe puccini

our eyes meet

we both almost
look away past
that polite
customary second

but we don't

and she looks
into my eyes
as she walks by
all the way

and like that
she is gone

From HOME, a collection of Poetry, Writing, Illustrations and Photographs
By CM Spaghetti

News - Fourth Collection Finished - HOME

I have completed my fourth collection of poems, short stories, and illustrations, titled "HOME" -- above is the cover. You can go to my store at CafePress and order a copy. This edition will most likely be edited a bit, but the bones are solid and the meat on the bones is good strong flesh. Pardon my bad writing. From HOME, here is a poem, titled "Weeding". I hope you enjoy it.

---------------

weeding

because i was
fired i payed rent
through weeding

grubbed pulled out
the grass and the
spiked weeds
growing in bunches
weed growing sparsely
interspaced
nestled between the
rocks and white gravel

wanted to use gloves
got gloves used gloves
handled the
soft rotting rose-heads
fallen in the shade
of the path that
ran behind the house

weeded took off
the right-hand glove
weeding thinking
about things took off
the left glove and
got a drink of water

filled the cart
full of weeds
the sun dipped down
where i thought
it would be shady
all day long but
no longer cool
at 11 o'clock

weeding along
cleared a great mess
of fallen vines with
a pitchfork twirling
them up like spaghetti

took them on the
tip of the fork
into the field
balancing the wood
shaft on my
shoulder as i
walked

i could feel
the weight of the
vines digging
into my shoulder
as the shaft bobbed
hurled them all down
in bright sunshine

vegetable matter
on top of more
vegetable matter
in the place where
we burned trash
and dead cats or
other rodents

and still
there from previous
burnings

ash
flew up with a sigh

-----------

Look in 2008, in the summer, for a "micro-book" titled "LUNA", poems to the moon, written in 1993. I need to find a publisher for it, the book being 3x3 or 4x4 inches in size.

Merry Christmas!

Getting ready for the big day, one of the elves comes to me -- he has his hat in his hand. And I haven't ever seen an elf with his hat off, so this can't be good. He says they can't find the list. I'm so goddamn busy I'm ready to shit bricks and mail them to Timbuktu. What list? I ask. THE LIST. Says the elf. Jesus Jumping Christ in Red Plaid! I exclaim. Did you ask Mrs. Clause? Yes! says the elf. So after that, we tear up the workshops, warehouses, storage & lofts, we rifle through the stables, look under every tree, present, box, trunk, hay pile & bail, turn over every wreath, look in every nook and cupboard, to no effect. Cookies and Cockeyed Crumpets, we're F--d! No List. Who had the List, last? They name the elf, Fonterloughighoblo, and he's not here, so we all go to his house. And lo, there he is, passed out dead drunk, the list is in shambles, all over the place. I can't make head or tail of it, the pages all mottled, crumpled and smudged. I see he used some of it to start a fire. So there it is, with no list we had to improvise. Because of Fonterloughighoblo, 2007 was the year everyone got a crate of Spam.

Remember Me?

Hi there. Remember me? We met a few weeks ago at a bar when we both were getting drunk. I can't remember the name of the bar, but it was the one with the huge patio with colored electric lights. I pretended to smoke, because you'd go out to the patio and light up ever 20 minutes, even though it was about 25 degrees & freezing ass cold. One time I loaned you my jacket, you looked cute in it with the sleeves hanging down 5 sizes too big. I noticed your hair was light, but not blond, and your eyes were hazel with fine gold flecks. You also had a cut on your chin, you said a motorist opened his car door when you were riding your bike and you crashed into it. The guy didn't even check to see if you were okay, he drove away and people stared at you laying in the street. You seemed to like me because I didn't try to come on too strong or say the typical guy things you hear all the time, but you said I shouldn't be too interested, because you have a boyfriend. But later I overheard you saying your boyfriend is an asshole and you think he's sleeping with his ex-wife. I want to say I'm nice on the outside, and if you get to know me better, you'll find I'm nice all the way down to some dark unpleasant secrets. And if you get to know me to that point, my behavior could do a subtitle change. But I think everyone is like this, to be honest. I think you are experienced enough to know that. I am not looking for someone experienced enough to know that we all have dirty secrets, deep down. But I think it is unavoidable.

Scrapping the Universe

In Heaven, there are mixed reactions to the proposal of shutting Creation, the "Universe", down. Hell, on the other hand, is delighted. Satan and his band of merry rebels think they will be getting all the scrap if external phenomenon is retooled or unmade, just like last time, which happened so long ago you couldn't quite imagine it...and it really isn't any of your business. Hell goes through quite a growth spurt each time interdependencies are all unmade. There is a sort of silent agreement between Heaven and Hell, regarding the size of Hell. Hell shouldn't be too big, and certainly not too small. And the requirements for a bigger Hell goes with the creation of a new universe as two peas in a pod. God isn't slimming things down, you see. He's trying to get it right after many excruciating attempts. He almost has it down, the Genesis thing. Now Heaven will convene for about 45 million years and talk it through. That is equivalent to about 2 weeks our time.

Train and Teredactyl

A few days before Christmas, little curly haired Julian, who is almost 3, mugged Santa. But it didn’t start out that way. Paul and Molly took Julian to the Mall, stood in line so Julian could sit on Santas lap. For small children this can be a harrowing, horrifying experience -- it usually ends up being good -- but sometimes the wheels come off and a small child has a complete mental breakdown. When his time came, with some trepidation, small Julian looked at the funny guy with the beard in red. And right there and then, Julian made the blessed & magnificent mental connection between TOYS and SANTA. "TRAIN!" exclaimed Julian. "TRAAAAIN!!" He yelled again, almost jumping up and down. All was well. Santa acquiesced, and so Julian left the interview very satisfied. But then a bit later in the toy store, Julian saw the best rubber teredactyl in the entire universe. On the way out of the Mall, passing near where Santa was set up, Julian launched into action. When his parents were within striking distance, he broke from his Mom and Dad, running as fast has he could for the fat guy in red. He barreled to the front of the line between kids and parents, jumped onto Santa's lap, screaming, "No TRAIN! NO TRAIN!!! Ter-DACTL!!! TER DACTL!!!!" So this Christmas, I do believe Julian got a Train and a Teredactyl. Never get between a 3 year old's Christmas gift idea and Santa!

Poem - winter/ snow

winter
snow

i stand
outside

i listen
to the

crackling
trees

their limbs
covered

in a fine
layer of ice

CM Evans - 4 Poems Live Over @ Opium Magazine

Four of my poems are live over at Opium Magazine. Opium is online, and also goes out to print. Issue number 5 is the latest off line offering, featuring writing, poetry, illustrations and more. David Barringer designed the cover & Todd Zuniga edits it, along with an army of tireless lit volunteers. Please do pick up a copy.

Poem - nevermind

carrying an
over under
shotgun
cold to the touch

see
moisture beads
on the steel
as i look around

i thought
i was real but
there is nothing
in this moment
but here and this rain

falling soft rain
in a wide field
of just stubble
rising gently that way

soon i
nevermind
shift the gun
walk on past a fence
walk on


From POETRY from the CITY of BRASS
by CM CHICAGO

Christy's Mom

When you were an infant, your mother decided she had to leave. It could have been even in mid-sentence, when she was talking to your father. She literally walked out of the house one day, with the clothes she happened to be wearing -- not a scrap of luggage, not even a toothbrush or a comb. She never came back. You told me your father was stoic about your mom going, he hardly ever talked about it. If you ever asked him about your mother, he said he wasn't sure why she left or where she was. At first you asked because your dad kept all of your mothers things, he never cleaned or cleared them away. It was like someone was on vacation, or away on business and they'd be coming back any day now. As you grew up, you saw over time how her perfume bottles and erring holders, coils of necklaces, small crystals on her side of the bureau got old and dusty. The jewelery tarnished. When you dad wasn't around, you looked at her dresses, and other clothes still in plastic dry-cleaning bags hung in the closet, with her shoes. Over time the articles of clothing got dead, and deader, which is impossible for inanimate things, but it was still true. Later, when you were 25 and had a little girl of your own and dropped out of college, your sister said mother was married again. Your mom was living in a big expensive house in Burlingame. One afternoon you drove to the house, and spied on her when she parked on the driveway. You watched her walk into the house. She wasn't smiling, she seemed very serious with frown lines on her cheeks, cold. You didn't feel like meeting mother after you saw her face, so you drove away. You never hated her, either, until then.

Me and Bobby

One evening out riding, I clipped a side-mirror on an expensive sedan. When I crashed, I bent the front wheel of my bicycle and smashed down on my shoulder, ribs, and hip. I remember laying for a few seconds in the street, a truck narrowly missing me. I jogged away, dragging the bicycle. I was more afraid at being caught by the angry owner, than if I was seriously hurt. Eventually I was home where I found one of my roommates, Bobby, cooking a late dinner. I examined the bicycle in the kitchen while he cooked a big meal. It was fucked. My ribs hurt. My roommate was happy & ate and there was nothing to do. I had to do something, anything to not be alone like this. I decided to walk to a little cafe, but when I sat down and had coffee, the cafe was closing. I picked up my cup and put it into a grey overflowing plastic bin on the way out. Alone again, I walked back to the small flat. My other roommates had come home. Silent disapproval was in the air. I had left the broken bike in the kitchen and Bobby, who hated the other roommates, was blitheringly drunk. I watched Bobby play a guitar, drink more beer, and howl songs about love, while the other set of roommates watched television in the back of the flat.

Ten Ways to Cheat Playing Monopoly

10. Roll for other people. If they aren't attentive, under or over count the roll for your benefit

9. If you're playing with kids who can't count money quickly, short change them

8. Tell people Boardwalk and Park Place aren't worth buying

7. Swap out the game dice for fixed dice for important rolls

6. Ply your opponents with alcohol, help them make the right decisions

5. Throw away, or hide the game rules, and make up rules beneficial for yourself, when needed. For example: establish an informal rule that all monetary penalties from Community Chest and Chance not payed out directly to a player, get put into Free Parking.

4. With #5 in place, if you take a break and nobody is looking, skim money off of Free Parking

3. Hide Monopoly money from another game set all over your person for those must needed purchases -- do this also with an assortment of good Community Chest and Chance cards hidden to replace any bad ones you get

2. Be the Banker

1. If you are going to lose the game, right before you are bankrupt, kick the whole board over, Say, "Oops!"

Fucking the Man

My parents wanted me to learn about being responsible, and learn the value of positive work ethics, so that summer they were done with my ways and insisted that I work at a Real Job in the Real World. It was important that I get a dose of reality, rather than spending 6 weeks out of the summer being a camp counselor at a boy's summer camp far away in Leggit, California. So that summer I got a job packing in a mail order warehouse. The job was for a small catalog company. I was a good packer, the pay was okay -- far more than I earned working at the summer camp, and I broke down old cardboard boxes with my boots by kicking the boxes so hard they exploded. My co-workers were, for the most part, friendly, affable kids. They were also dishonest, lazy, and contemptible of the hard work they had us doing, day in and day out.

I discovered this was the only way to beat the system that we were collectively up against. What mattered more, above honesty and positive ethics, was the appearance that you were fully engaged with something and always willing to do any task. And while you did any work, you always should be on the lookout to take a secret break, have a beer, take a smoke, go somewhere you were not supposed to be, or amuse yourself in innumerable ways bored employees amuse themselves to run out the punch-clock. Occasionally, if it was safe, you could pilfer unimportant things that wouldn't be missed. It was important not to be fired, it was important to get paid for any kind of overtime, it was essential not to give in to the man. It was a mark of distinction to have a contempt for the Boss, a sly knowing contempt, to never be caught with the accusation or perception of having a "bad attitude". Being found contemptuous was not playing the game with the correct mindset. This showed a certain lack of skill.

I must admit, through all of this I learned quite a bit about the Real World, working my Real Job. I also understood what we were up against, I sympathized with the other packers. I was also surprised the one afternoon when Rick was fired, Rick being about 25 and the King of the warehouse. He was at the top of the packing hierarchy because, for starters, Rick was the only person qualified & mature enough to drive the electric fork-lift and pull palettes down from the huge shelves. We all understood how impressive and dangerous this skill was. I was surprised, because Rick was the best of all of us at Fucking the Man. The managers never seemed to catch on when Rick Fucked the Man. But I guess one day he pushed it a bit too far, but I am not sure how. As the King, it wasn't for Rick to screw up, he had it set up too good to throw it all away.

Discharged, I remember him walking out with a placid expression, escorted by the top manager. Though the manager was furious, Rick's face was calm, even blank, as if he was looking at a serene scene a thousand miles away. His final check in hand, he got into his spit shined red Trans-Am, the kind of a Trans-Am that was all souped up & cherry, meticulously taken care of with a bit of faded paint. As we kept working, he drove out of the parking lot.

Here is another short story.

Here is another short story. But I will call it a vignette, because it is hard and true, even though it ridicules. Because in the last moments of your life, what will you be thinking? For instance, I am sitting on the edge of this hard cold bed, minutes to dawn, with part of a Brady Bunch rerun stuck in my skull. My mind has been co-opted. It is the episode where one of the Brady boys has his voice changing, so when they sing the song he makes a funny sound when they get to "...it's time for a change." The scene was supposed to be ironic and cute and funny, but it is corny now and stupid. Now it is inane to be stuck with this, I wanted to have a dignified death, a kind of a martyrs death with the right thoughts, not puerile disturbed mental flotsam. The cute stupid singing part of the episode is lodged firmly in my minds eye, an idiotic mantra. The mantra reveals my vanity for a "heroic end" -- not just the result of a bunch of commonplace, run-of-the-mill series of trivialities.

Now I see it is dawn and I hear the squad turning out in the yard with their rifles. They are pissed off that they couldn't sleep in, some of them are hung over. One blows his nose repeatedly, loudly without a handkerchief. I hear them talking: Why can't the fucking officer just shoot me in the head with a pistol? Can't we get this over with as quickly as possible? Then when they settle down, because Pleše arrived, a kid shows up with a slip of paper. Is it a reprieve? And for a second I am free of the stupid skit. But then when Pleše sends the kid away and he orders the men to unsling their rifles, but one last overriding question interrupts all other thoughts in my head. And I don't care anymore about the whole thing, just get the answer now as the cell door opens. One last question must be answered. I look at a drunk cold frowsy soldier with a cow-lick, his belt loose, cigarette stuffed in between his lips. What the hell was that Brady kids name? Peter Brady. A smirking, sniggling Peter Brady. Time to put the pen down. Goodbye.

beware of dog

in alleys
the sign it says
BEWARE OF DOG
but most times
there is no dog
dog long long gone

but every once
and awhile
admiring in solitude
the yellow trees
when i'd want no dog

then there is a dog
snarling bouncing
barking
tail waging
with no BEWARE sign at all

Happily Ever After - Award Winning Film Short

Super news! I just found out two friends of mine (Gary Cohen from Adobe, San Diego and Lidia Sheinen from St. Petersburg, Russia) just got first place in the experimental film category at the Rhode Island International Film Festival for their film short "Happily Ever After". It was their first attempt at film. Here is a link to an interview of Gary and Lidia, at the film festival.

Click on the "Play in Popup" link under "Lidia Sheinin and Gary Cohen - Happily Ever After [29:00m]" link to hear the interview -- and here is a tip -- at about 20 minutes into the interview you get to hear who created the logo for Scared Mouse Productions.

Click here to see the award winning short they made. Here is their blog.

Book Read - Treasure Island

I just finished Robert Louis Stevenson's "Treasure Island". It took me about 3 days, I took my time. I never managed to read the story cover-to-cover before, but I always liked the map*, plus other assorted illustrations. With memorable characters & action, and many clever twists in the plot, Stevenson penned a first rate adventure story, while also defining a whole genre of how Piracy and Pirates are portrayed with this small book. For a start, the majority of historical pirates didn't bury treasure -- mercantile in nature, most pirates would have found that plainly insane. Crews wanted their spoils as soon as possible, shared out amongst the crew. Pirates didn't talk the way Stevenson's pirates talked, or use the expressions they use so vividly in the book. The Jolly Roger, parrots, maps with "X marks the spot", and one legged Long John Silvers were props from Stevenson's own fertile literary imagination. An interesting note is the person & personality of Long John Silver is modeled after a friend of Stevenson's, William Henley, writer and editor. The only thing that tripped me up (or made me read more carefully) is the language usage can be arcane -- but the lexicon has not shifted as far as, say Shakespeare. For the influence this book has had on our images of swash buckling men-of-fortune, a heroic mythic mien still very much with us, it is a worthy and enjoyable read. To think this tale all started out with a simple hand drawn watercolored map -- drawn on a rainy afternoon by Stevenson's stepson Lloyd Osbourne, plainly marked with "Skeleton Island" and "Spyglass Hill".

* Note, there are many versions of this famous map. Most of lesser detail or quality. This is the best example I have been able to locate.

Poem - nancy you shot

nancy you shot
the .22 from the porch
the light was right
we could see sunshine
on the bullet
as it flew from the barrel
to the fence-post 60 yards away
like an electric bee
or the fastest fly that ever was
autumn afternoon
time for wine and a cigarette
it is funny the things you remember
we don't know what we forget

Rejected by the New Yorker

Three of my poems were rejected by the New Yorker. Yay! I'm waiting to hear back from Poetry Magazine, I have four poems off to them. Getting a poem published in either, for me, would be like a squirrel from my backyard getting a gold in weightlifting at the next Olympics.

Trying to Locate a Scary Book, Recognize this Symbol?

This has been driving me nuts. See the above symbol? It comes from a book I read back in elementary school, juvenile fiction. I can't remember the name of the book! Hopefully somebody can tell me the name or author of the book if I describe the story. Main characters are an older brother, younger sister. I think they are pre-teenagers, but just barely. Brother gets a job mowing the small town cemetery's grass. Sister tags along, because the graveyard is cool and creepy. The brother makes wisecracks about the various people buried there and makes up a series of satirical rhymes using names on tombstones. Then we are introduced to a mystery -- there is a mausoleum, or large gravestone with an angel on the top of it. The angle points towards a part, or corner of the graveyard, where a certain plot is. This plot is where a family is buried, reputed to be witches. The person who put up the angle blamed this family for the untimely death of their son. The kids examine the cursed plot tombstones, but there is not much of interest. Then, before Halloween, the kids notice that someone has drawn a symbol on one of the gravestones. In red paint, I think. This (above) is the symbol. Then some stuff happens, the kids have their eye on the last living member of the "witchy" family -- an old woman who they are naturally very afraid of. The girl ends up getting kidnapped by the old woman, who turns out to be a witch. The old lady tries to bargain the girl's soul away to a demon the witch invokes, but instead the demon tricks her and turns the old witch into a Douglass Fir. Ring any bells? Book had some illustrations in black ink.

every time you think back

for my father

now i am away from there

separated by not only distance

but time

i write about this and that

and i see that even my worst

wasn't that bad

i find i miss people

not the places

and also by remembering

i am forgetting

it is some kind of rule

every time you think back

a part of the past fades away

slowly slowly fades away

oh it isn't so bad

this melting away of facts

of details or faces

otherwise it would be

like having to hold

a red hot iron in your hand forever

yes all things subside

they must settle

and be gone

A Ride for the Abbot

You were a fraud monk. The abbot of Sera Mei monastery knew this, but he ordained a few young men who were studying with you. The abbot never outwardly criticized you for being a phony, for having no faith, but later after the ordinations he wouldn't come into your house. He stood by the curb, outside on the sidewalk in the cold San Jose night. After the ordination you giggled, sitting in your snug little house. You giggled and giggled at how successful things were going. You laughed because you had asked the abbot to come in out of the cold and the abbot had refused. I think you were the only person there who truly understood what that meant, the abbot not coming in to your house. The abbot waited and waited for his ride while you didn't give a goddamn, because he wouldn't come in. June and I asked the abbot if he was okay. He stood there for about 40 minutes while I tried the phone number to the place he was staying, it was wrong. June and I drove him home. When we got to the place, he invited us in. We sat in the living room and then he started to laugh. We drank tea and he asked us many questions and told us his stories. We got the correct phone number for the house he was staying at. When I called to see how the abbot was few weeks later it was hard to hear the person on the other end of the line, and besides they couldn't understand english that well and said I must have the wrong number.

poem/ behind

poem
going
going
going
gone

what a
waste
&
i call
myself
a writer

i have
to keep a
pad on
me at all
times

because
after
you
leave a
poem
behind
on the
side of the
road

you never
see it
again

(and i wish i/ brought my gloves)

we head into chicago
riding the cta

i look out as we
go along
soon it will be rainy
and dark all
the time cold
then the predictions
will come true

they all say we'll
find the winter here
depressing
we'll yearn for
that "extravagant
california lifestyle"
we left behind

but i don't
tell them i disagree
with how terrible
the weather will be
i let them
opine

chicago rises
buildings higher
and higher as if
the skyline was
growing

we get off
at adams
when we exit to
the street i
can see the art
institute and
get a blast of wind
from the lake

you recoil and
so do i brrrrrrr
we recover
winter will be fun
i say to you

(and i wish i
brought my gloves)

Cigarette Butt

One day, not long ago, a cigarette butt was looking up at the wide blue sky. For some reason, cigarette butt had very good eyesight. It watched the clouds going on their way east, and it thought about life.

Being smoked, cigarette but had every reason to feel morose, but for some reason it didn't feel depressed. It thought back idly to the proud day it was a whole cigarette, with all its friends in the cigarette pack. They were fresh and new, packed in by a machine that made hundreds and thousands of them, all day long. It was so exciting at the factory. Many of cigarette butt's associates thought that they were like soldiers, bound for exotic places far away, over the globe. But cigarette butt's pack ended up at a White Hen liquor store in a suburb of Chicago.

"How I would have liked to have seen the world!" thought cigarette butt, when a cloud wandered by that looked like the Eiffel Tower.

A robin landed near cigarette butt. "Hello, what are you?" asked the bird.

"I was a Camel Light filtered cigarette." said cigarette butt, mater-of-factly.

"Are you good to eat?" asked the robin, looking at cigarette butt with one bird eye closely.

"Not really. All that is left of me is the filter." admitted cigarette butt.

The bird pecked at cigarette butt to make sure this was true.

"Ouch!" said the cigarette butt.

"Okay, well, take care of yourself!" said the robin, and it flew off into the next yard.

After the robin was gone, it was quite for a long time. Cigarette butt was comfortable, because after the robin had pecked, cigarette butt had become wedged & almost completely hidden in a deep crack between two paving stones. Down there was a complicated fascinating fluff from tree leaves, twigs, bits of bark, and below this mixing in was loamy earth flecked with bits of decayed granite.

Cigarette butt became drowsy down there in that secret place, and it decided for all time that life was good. The earth was interesting, and cigarette butt knew it was now becoming a part of it.

Leaves, Twig, Bark

One day, two yellow leaves had a meeting.
"Let's go back to the tree." suggests the first leaf.
"I think that idea is acceptable." says the second leaf.
"I don't think that is possible." says a twig.
"Who let the twig in?" says leaf one.
"Twigs! Just ignore it." says leaf two. "Let us continue with our plans. Now, the tree must be nearby somewhere around here."
"Absolutely." agreed the first leaf.
"Precisely!" added the second leaf, needlessly.
"Hello." said a fleck of bark to no one in particular.
"Hello." said the twig. "Where did you come from?"
"The tree."
"Is it very far away?" asked the leaves.
"Once you get dropped, there will be no going back to it, ever." replied the fleck of bark.
"You said it, brother." said the twig.
Then a small gust of wind kicked up. The leaves, the twig, and the fleck of bark were hurled wide and far and never spoke to one another again.

a poet/ has no patience

i.

poet
has no patience
for poetry

going out
most of it is
words words
phrases complicated
convoluted
so involved!

(written for
other poets
who dare not
leave their
ivory towers

or written
for the dead
that he
thinks were
greater than
himself)

ii.

poet!
a fresh
wind blows
through the
small backyard
bringing some
leaves down
by a rabbit

yellow leaves

oak park
october 2007

Dentist Printer

At 6.30 AM this morning, as soon as I am awake, I am unhappy. I have a dental appointment today. I go to the dental office, the Dentist tells me all about "The Da Vinci Code" as he drills and drills and drills and drills and drills and then he gets a bigger drill and drills so it feels like I have a malfunctioning 2 stroke motorcycle engine strapped to my head. More drilling, water splashing, suction, air please, stuffing, pushing, scraping, packing, drying, open as wide as you can, drill, drill, done. Signing the bill on the way out, the dental assistant cannot get the printer to work. It alternately won't print, or it prints the wrong document, shreds the pages it is outputting, jams, or takes forever to print. I watch her try to produce the bill for over 15 minutes. She unplugs the printer from the network, reconnects the printer, partially disassembles the printer, disconnects, reconnects printer, and so on and so forth. She expects me to get impatient at this, but I reassure her I am not impatient. Gradually though, while I am waiting, I start to hear a small child in the back of the dental office crying as the Dentist works on him. I watch the assistant work with the printer as the child's moans and cries evolve to delirious shrieks and screams. The printer being jammed forever doesn't bother me, but the agony of the small child begins to get on my nerves. The assistant pretends she doesn't hear anything, or possibly she is so used to little kids crying at the office -- the sounds do not register. I tell her to fax me a copy of the bill and leave the office. For the next few hours I have a soundtrack lodged in my brain of a small child yelling at the dentist's office. I try to drown this out with heavy metal music, but this phenominon unfortunately has to wear out so slowly on it's own...and eventually it does.

Everything I Say is Meant to Frighten You

Everything I say is meant to frighten you. Are you scared? I've been talking for awhile and you've been listening, but you don't look scared. This you not being scared and my attempts to frighten is starting to annoy me. What the hell is wrong with you? Kids these days! No appreciation of subtlety, no knowledge, brains full like a hopper stuffed with disjointed images. Should I just swear and scream like a blithering idiot? Then you say we should just make love now, and I agree. We walk to your flat, and as we go in, you say your older brother spent your whole childhood terrifying you with his stories and you believed every one of them. As a yellow moon comes up over the rooftops, as seen from your window, you relate to me his litanies of horror.

and it needs/ to be known

and it needs
to be known

it wants
to be known

it is asking
to be known

begging
to be known

please

before it
is too late

there is no
time to waste

To Walk a Mile in Your Shoes

To test out the saying, "...to walk a mile in your shoes", I really do -- it turns out walking a mile in your shoes is hard, but not impossible, you fucking asshole.

Life/ God Tried to Eat Me

I. Life

"Life is a roller-coaster." I say to Lao Tzu.
"Get on the ferris-wheel." he replies.
"Life is a ferris-wheel!" I exclaim.
"Get on the bumper-cars." murmurs Lao Tzu.
"LIFE is a BUMPER-CAR!" I yell.
"Go to the shooting-gallery." says Lao Tzu.
"LIFE IS A CARNIVAL!!" I shout happily.
After a short pause, Lao Tzu blows on his cup of tea, and he says, "Great! Now leave the Carnival."

II. God Tried to Eat Me

"God tried to eat me." I confess to Lao Tzu.
"Everybody, even God, has to eat something." responds Lao Tzu.

He Smokes

He smokes and has all kinds of smoking related accidents. He accidentally burned his jeep down -- I'm not joking. The fire department filled the jeep with a foot of water, and the good news was it was still drivable after the fire. Just a bit melted in some places. He burns his fingers on the tips of cigarettes, he lights them on the wrong end -- one time we were sharing a cigar and he took it and put the lit end in his mouth. He realized that mistake at the very last microsecond and spit the cigar and ashes violently into the air. The still lit cigar landed on my hand. So my pal says, "What can I do? I'm constantly burning things, my clothes, me, you." I said, "Quit smoking." He said, "I don't think I can." So I said, "Then smoke more for the practice." Last week I heard he decided to quit smoking after he accidentally lit his bed on fire. But then later I heard he changed his mind.

Big Fat Liar Dream

I have a dream last night we are talking on the phone, and like in real life, you are still a big fat liar who keeps getting tripped up in the tangled webs you weave. And you know I know this, but I listen to you continue to go on like I'd watch someone surfing a giant wave, knowing eventually the surfer is going to get smashed to death on the shallow reef.

i am/ none of my business

i am
none of my business

when will
i learn to stop looking

at myself
commenting on my

thoughts
like a frivolous idiot

but sometimes/ they should

i have seeds
you don't
like seeds

i have water
you drink
wine

i make noise
you'd prefer
silence

i am company
you like
tv

no no that
is okay i'm
not mad

i realize i
am dead to
you

deader than
dead i never
existed

rubbed away
like a mark
or stain

replaced by
wine

replaced by
tv

they say
you can't make
someone love you

but
sometimes
they should

Angry

Man, am I angry. I am so angry. Why am I angry? I am angry now because I was angry about something for good reason, but I forgot what that subject was -- I just plum forgot about what I was righteously, indignantly enraged over. Forgetting what I was angry about makes me angry. What was it? Was it over gnawing telephone line squirrels? Was it about the failed socialistic building experiments of the 1950s & 60s? Was I mad over the resurgence of American fascists? No, I see now why I was so upset. I lost my left flip-flop under the couch and the cat pissed on it.

I Blew the Interview

Thanks for letting me borrow that sharp suit, but unfortunately I blew the interview. I had my new resume, my contacts, I studied up on the company. For starters, they didn't like the fact that I came into the room wearing on the top of my head a paper bag, so it covered my eyes, but the rest of my face was visible. I pretended that I was blind. (I had gotten this idea of coming in with the paper bag over my head when I got a bagel in the subway and after I had eaten the bagel I had the paper bag left. And you know there are no trash cans in NYC anymore because of 9/11, so I was stuck with the paper bag. Plus I like to recycle. In the lobby I decided then & there to wear it as a hat.) When I sat down, I only irritated them more by issuing out a stream of continuous farts -- a fullisade of farting that lasted at least 40 seconds. I hadn't planned on the farting. It happened on its own. As the flatulence was going on and on, I alternated on left and right ass cheeks, almost like I was sledding down mountainside at high speed in an Olympic luge event. While I was luging my paper hat fell off. When my hat hit the floor, the interview was over.

5,000,000,000 cowboys go riding

5,000,000,000 cowboys go riding
out of the same western town at the same time
on the same crookedly trail to the same whorehouse
discreetly tucked away behind the graveyard

not surprisingly
there is a terrible traffic jam

in the middle/of the night

in the middle
of the night god
whispered to me
the truth i
ignored it

the sound of sweet disappointment

more here of
the science of movement

more here of
the sound of sweet disappointment

combined together
in the recording's part of a single violin

holding wavering note
sustained on the warped old LP

i./4512454

i.

4512454
28686

8.


ii.

18198 818 288 272
109109 19

181
109929929?


iii.

4512454
28686

8.

Musing on the Future 1.4

August 17

I met with him, Maalc1 st33 today. I wonder if I should be offended or angry.

I was escorted into a white interrogation room with three chairs. A white nanotech table was between me and Maalc1. There were two police with us, though st33 wore slim nano cuffs that leashed him to the chair.

What was the actual meeting like? He was and he wasn't what I had expected. His hair was on the long side, and he let it fall down straight over his eyes, so I could barely see them. There was a bruise on the side of his face, and his lip was split. There was truant bad boy sullenness and anger, yes -- in my mind a typical reaction to just about any situation when a thuggy kid gets caught -- a defense mechanism. But I also detected a hidden intelligence, quite beyond any of the scores in his transcripts in labor school -- I thought, if you are so smart, why did you do this to me?

And then st33 looked at me, and he knew what I was thinking, and he jumped up and bellowed as the police dragged him back down, Because I'm down here, and you're up there. Winning the lottery just makes it worse!

He had gotten within a hairs breadth of me, but I hadn't flinched. I didn't move, because I knew he wasn't going to hurt me. Alice was watching on the other side of the two way wall, and I heard later when Maalc1 st33 had jumped at me, she had screamed and almost fell over her own chair.

When we were leaving the station, I told Alice I wanted to adopt him. He still has three years before he was reconsidered as an adult and he was also an orphan. Nobody around here will work with him because of the incident and he'd have to be relocated anyways.

Alice was not happy. No no no. We already have two teenagers, and they are *this close* to being kicked out of the house as it is.

Musing on the Future 1.3

In my opinion, one of the great paradoxes of my wife Alice, for all her natural born and sensible aversion to things "throwback" old fashioned, is her adoration of some of the reconstructed audio CDs I have managed to decipher. When we were dating, I was very much into this process, and I had many complete songs from certain prominent artists cataloged and playable. I had hit the jackpot with an artist called Frank Sinatra.

So after I am awake and we have talked, Alice leaves the room for a moment and them comes back with the Sinatra song "Let's Take it Nice n Easy." and we are together for a long happy moment while it plays.

Pater and Ani hear this, when they come into the room I can see they are both happy and relieved that I am awake, but I can tell that something else is concerning Pater. Alice has started another song, and I don't want to interrupt it.

I listen to the song and as I watch Pater, Ani and Alice, I feel an emotional wave. I suppose it was all coming back to me, lottery, bond fires, etc. But this passed, and when the song was over & a decent iinterval of silence had passed, Pater gave me the news.

I have been cleared of any wrongdoing whatsoever -- in fact, a security CAM a few miles away happened to be at the right angle and with two satellites the whole incident was carefully analyzed. Maalc1 st33, a youth from the neighboring work combine BAT22 was the offender, not even of the village was the attacker which was to everyones immense relief. Maalc1 was subsequently rounded up when he checked in for a morning work detail. The knife was found in a hedge.

The downside was the news of the assault on a T1 by a T5 after winning the WWMML was almost as big as the news of the village winning the WWMML. There were waves of negative editorializing, some of it quite scathing in the UK. But for the Media, the combo was irresistible, and nothing like this had happened for quite a long time. The stops were being pulled out. while I was unconscious all kinds of commentary (some of it shockingly conversationalist/ semi-sympathetic) was coupled with news of spontaneous protests and counter protests that were springing up all over the greater Reconstructed Western Hemisphere --people were debating and talking about MicroMacro economic issues, discussions of economic realignments and job assignments, scoio-generational livelihood structure debates...with all this news, I felt almost embarrassed, like I had somehow broken the camel's back.

Pater, Ani, and Alice all say, don't worry about this -- it will blow over, and I know it will...

August 15

The village has surprise us with several things this morning. Firstly, they have given us a hundred hours of energy. Also, an apology from the mayor for the attack, even though the perp was from BAT22. Alice and I demurred, when it came to assignations of fault, saying that we were just visitors, and that everyone we had been in contact with in the UK and especially Wales were friendly and hospitable to a fault. That pleased the UK media.

I, in turn, surprised the Media, and the village (but not really Pater and Ani, nor Alice) by stating that I would not be pursuing charges against Maalc1 st33, partially because he was 15 years old, but more for "personal ethical reasons". That took some of the wind out of the local constabulary's forces a bit, but it did win me a grudging respect with the T5-3s and the local magistrate who was anti-lockup punishment. I then surprised everyone, including Alice, when I said I would like to meet Maalc1 st33 in person, as soon as it was possible, and the magistrate agreed.

I hope this isn't one of your "saintly experiments" said Alice when we were alone. These country T5 bumpkins can be quite dangerous.

I told her, I didn't know what I was doing, but for some reason I felt compelled to meet Maalc1. I might ask him why he did it, I said.

And what if he doesn't feel like sharing the answer to why, asked Alice. People just do things. Sometimes these people do terrible things. Sometimes.

Hmm. Sometimes.

Musing on the Future 1.2

After that, things went white, and stayed white and silent for what seemed a long time. White white white. No feeling.

Then, I was me again, I don't know how, but I knew I was. But more that this, I seemed to be flying over a fantastic landscape...menacing crags and peaks of numberless mountains and gorges that had no roads, mag lifts, skytracks nor even weather stations, rugged untouched terrain sprinkled with snows and tall trees. Clouds were racing and over the horizon a thunderstorm lumbered, cracking now and again with lightening. I raced towards the broiling storm, and then I saw ahead of me on a crag the impossible spire of a fortress, with one lone burning light in the highest tower.

The scene changed and I felt extremely claustrophobic and uncomfortable. The air was close, stuffy, smelling of dust and smothering decay. I saw a pallid young man who wore elegant clothes from the 19th century, but these were now ragged and soiled. He wore his hair long and had just rinsed his hands and forearms of something in a wide basin, drying them on a towel. Unknowing of me, he turned towards a low burning lamp, working intently, and I could see books, big ones and small ones, of all descriptions--books books! Some where opened, some closed, books carelessly spilling all around him on all surfaces. Amongst the books were curious jars, knives, saws, pincers and specimens. And while I watched, he worked on the project on the bench, and though I could not see what he was about, I felt a crawling loathsomeness in my gut -- the hair raised on my arms. Tension and claustrophobia surged when he stood away from the surface, and I screamed at the impossible sad perverted thing that he had begun just then constructed. He was looking up at me, we looked squarely in each others eyes. I heard rattling chains and a giant grinding noise and the sound BOOM!

I woke up and found myself in bed with a bubble of nano on the side I was stabbed. It was all just an incredible dream -- a melodramatic nightmare straight out of Shelly's book. When she saw I was awake, Alice reflexively grabbed my hand scaring the bejesus out of me. I had to laugh. We both did. And it hurt.

Musing on the Future 1.1

August 6

A few days have gone by in a flash -- with the incredible news & implications overriding everything. In the making of history, a first for the whole of the UK, as a economic unit the small village of Carmarthen has won the World Wide MEGA MEGA Lottery. The WWMML being pulled randomly once every 9 years with over 120 million groups participating, including over 3 billion people chipping in dollars, euros, dinari to chickens. Carmarthen had elected to play the WWMML as a virtual one person unit as a demonstration of economic harmony and unit, and if the village won, all 5 economic categorizations would get equal payouts. With the news legally confirmed & certified everyone is rich, from the top to the bottom.

Winning the WWMML is just too hard to fully take in, as the enormity sinks in the fact feels devastating rather than edifying. Pater and Ani are still stunned. Hell, Alice and I are stunned as well. Carmarthen had to hire phalanxes of renta-cops, robo-sweepers, extra drums of sprayable repair nano, erect temporary traffic controllers and even put up a few polymeric structures for all the reporters, well wishers, gawkers, and shysters trying to get our money. But the funds are safely under lock and key in the village accounts split as encrypted thirds in Bern Greater Switzeland. Palo Alto Republic of California, and Gary Indiana GUSA, just in case through any trick clever malware tries to siphon of a few million before being detected.

August 11

It is quiet tonight, for the first time in many many days. No helocopters, sailjets, train lifts or gliders speckling the sky, rising up and down. With all the funds the village has, and the increased credit rating, there is talk of having built a train lift linking up with the nearest magnetic bullet train station. But just as many other people in the 5 classes are saying let it alone, let it be.

Shotsky 6ertion calls, late as always, but the sprinkling of congratulations and well wishing calls have tapered off.

We hear that there will be a bonfire in the fields tonight on Bryn Myrddin, a sort of ersatz "May Day/We Won the Bleeding Buggery Big Lottery" celebration, and so have decided to check it out. Being T1, we stayed respectfully on the periphery, watching the fires roar, hearing a majority of T5 - T3's mingling and laughing-- then rushing in were throngs of jumping dancers wearing fantastic straw masks. They looked like teenagers. With the arrival of the wild and acrobatic dancers in masks, we found ourselves being enthusiastically greeted and grabbed by many hands, villagers were slapping us on the backs and the general atmosphere was friendly and rowdy with the smell of illicit alcholo.

No longer on the outside, looking in, I was having a Peter Bruegel moment looking at the bright fires contrasted with huge shadows and the dark openings between mingling and ever changing groups of people, light shining through doors and windows and marching alternating silhouettes...swearing, song, some music and laugher, and then screaming.

The crowd turned and was trying to see what was happening. As the crowd was looking, asking, one of the figures in a leering straw mask broke away from the group doing tricks, and came up to me, and before I knew it he stabbed me. After that awful surprise, I don't really remember what happened. I think i heard more screaming, felt violent buffiting as I somehow stayed on my feet -- then many bright lights, like searchlights swinging over the crowd cleaving through smoke as the police arrived. In the meanwhile I had lost sense of me, who I was, there was no Ani, Pater, or Alice/

Musing on the Future 1.0

August 1

In the future, by about OC 2143*, due to rapidly advancing technological progress, in theory there should have been plenty of jobs for everyone, but paradoxically there were less jobs than ever. This then necessitated the marginalization of millions and millions of people by way of criminalization and other types of categorization, reducing whole groups that previously were well-to-do and advanced in technology to hand-to-mouth third-world subsistence levels. This in turn necessitated the creation low tech labor-intensive employment systems based on agriculture, so whole areas of the countryside began to look like medieval Europe. At first, in a way it was as horrifying as it was charming, to see economically realigned "peasants" bringing a harvest in by hand with scythes and horse drawn wagons under a blue sky..something almost out of the Limbourg brother's "Tres Riches Heures"...but the carts are drawn by robots.

I assure you that these new "working classes" are not realigned in a fixed economic model. Adopted world-wide 28 years ago is the most egalitarian socio-economic model progress has ever devised, a sort of rotating 5 tier level of generational occupational functioning model, where cascades of zones, clans, or groups occupy 5 job level or occupational categories, then a generation later, these graded clan or soci-economic group will be graded up to the semi-technological niches, then so on, per generation, until in 5 iterations any one of a series of groups will be "top teir", like us now. The top echelon today is then next-generationaly allocated down one eco socioeconomic occupational tier, as other go up, and so on. I apologize if I am confusing here, it is complicated to try to explain and I did not major in the New Science of Realigned & NEO\\calibrated MicroMacroWorldEconomics.

Now don't worry reader, as I know you are wondering, through all these painful and devastating economic adjustments in western economies and economies all over the world, southern India kept all their jobs, and added more.

If you want to know who is writing this, I'll tell you. My name is Giles Mc17, from Oak Park, and I am on vacation in Wales, England. It is probably not the Wales you remember in the past, weatherly and full of stony somber heaths. No, due to the lingering effects of 21st century global warming (some effects of which were frankly quite pleasant & never totally corrected by Automatic Weather Control Stations), Wales is today a balmy subtropical paradise of Palmento, Date, and King and Queen Palms -- the terrain studded here and there on the westerly coast with lagoons of an azure blue so strong it almost hurts to look into them at mid-day. Alice 5anderi_22 is my common-law wife, she is with me on this trip -- though she does not like to go on extended vacations, which she feel can be sentimental and old-fashioned. I can hear her saying to me, "Going somewhere for a vacation?"

But she and I have been happy on this trip, particularly in the subtropical paradise of Wales, and I am privately thankful and glad. This morning, with the curious antique brass spy-glass mounted on a tripod, I can see her now, down by the beach, she is looking at the fine sea-fruits they are cultivating here -- like Cucumbers, GrapeApples, and NappofruitTM mingled with sea urchins, starfish, anemones and other chordates, echinoderms, and cnidarians in the tide pools.

Later, the owners of this plantation, Pater Ga88mis and his wife Ani 3eripsion-- old SAIC school chums of mine, will show us an interesting cooking technique called "Langry", or "Laangerly", where one cooks a feast on slabs of stone. The stones we will be using tonight are at the main lagoon, not far from the main house that has stood since the mid OC 1400s, a home that once was undoubtedly forbidding and haunted looking under threatening skies. Now I must say, the architecture is completely transformed-- every stone bathed and rejuvenated by strong tropical light, the formerly closed spaces open to soft air and the exciting atmosphere of the sea.

Now back to "Langry", or as Pater says, how the French call it, "La Piere Tombale de Mes Jaques de Frere Graves"**, an expression that Pater finds to be extremely funny, but he won't say why. Laid side by side in a boat, and two people need to move a stone at a time to the beach, though these stones do semi-float in the water. Pater tells me as we move the stones, that the pubs here cook a modified version of Laangerly, where the stones are dark, stained, well seasoned from many uses. The pub stones are a square 2x2 and .5 thick. The banqueting stones we have are new and are 2x7 and .5 thick.

August 2

Pater and I have been secretly "slumming it" a bit -- which means we have been reading old fashioned bound material, called books -- some even being the originals. Pater has a small library of them, saved from the original house, before the legally required nanotech cleaned out and resurfaced every crevice and surface. He keeps these rare publications that have somehow survived the last 100 years of adjustments & catastrophic social, economic, and biological changes in a custom built humadore, set exactly to the appropriate temperature and humidity so these surviving examples of old style literature do not crackle and turn into dust.

We have here the "crown jewel" of the whole collection, what you would call a small trade paperback from the OC 1960s, Mary Shelly's Frankenstein. Menaced by the barbarity of the images and dialog, we try to imagine a time where people were physically isolated, had extended families, lived in the dark, ate animals, and had unnumbered names. Ani and Alice, being scientists, would not approve of our fascination with the time nor be even faintly amused with the concept of distopic technology. Pater and I are secretly amused by all of the above.

With Pater and I both being archaeologists, specializing in late 20th century ephemera, we keep things under wraps by pretending Pater and I are spending all our resources referencing three 17.5x2.3 core samples of trash from Site 42, section 12.22.1 -- these drillings from an interesting area of the San Marcos California Landfill that was rediscovered two years ago by P8gly Gannerl8 and his bumbling sidekick Favin Ve11 from the SocioRecronstruction AnalyisiGrupo at UCSD. They consist 98% of old National Geographic magazines mailed to Escondido circa OC 1980s, most of them fragmented and warped, now set in a suspension grid where we can scan them in any direction to catalog the color images and text. Adding plausibility of the time we spend in the humadore is the fact that several have oceanic themes. We know ere not going to discover anything new, just fill in the gaps, because Favin V11 did the initial data snapshots and they were good enough.

August 3

Working out two times a day, together to recharge 7 top off power for the house certainly blows away the cobwebs. The house is a marvel, transferring energy passively to the cells when we walk on the floors, move in the house, but we're also using extra energy at night and we agree at selling some as surplus to finance some daytrips to Canterbury and even New London.

Later in the day when we think Ani and Alice are in the village, picking up some small converters for the main branch, we are proverbially caught with our hand in the cookie jar...Ani calls & looks at the humadorCAM -- gets the CAM to shake off the sweatshirt we have casually hung on it and says that they have known for a couple of days what we are up to with that romantic novel, the first tip-off being that a quick anylisis of the core samples indicate we'd have about three days of work tops to completely categorize the cores. So that is it for our clandestine fun with Mary Shelly and her monster. We swear it has been only to do some infoTopo, coordinated with the incomplete NewAmerc Encyclopedia, but the game is up.

Then things get really interesting after dinner, when we have finished dinner and the candles are being lit and hung in the magnifying lanterns. Pater gets a top-rated call and goes out of the room. When he comes back, he looks ashen, yet elated. I pour him a glass of wine. Then he drops the bomb on us.

* Old Count or "Anno Domini" -- by 2044 AD, due to a number of cataclysmic & unforeseen economic, social, and biological catastrophes that began in 2012 AD, the main computer at MSCOm_Corp suggested to the United Nations that the historical epoch be realigned to a version of counting time related to the Mayan "Long Count" calendar, because it was more accurate than the Gregorian calendar. Some hundred years later we have since reverted to using a classic version of the Mayan Calender cycle. The true date is/was N13.6.12.10.1 C9 Mx21 (Normal Year, Chen, Imix)

** Translation from French, "La Piere Tombale de Mes Jaques de Frere Graves" literally means, "The Long Tall Headstone for my Late Brother Jaques' Grave" -- I apologize for the French -- I may have the expression not precise, having Pater say it only twice

The Story of Paul Bunyan

I understand from my research the Paul Bunyan was a mythical gun fighter of the Wild West period of American history. Not only did he Steal from the Rich and Give to the Poor, he also planted thousands of apple trees while on his tireless journey of fighting crime and injustice in the wide open spaces. Paul Bunyan was the inventor of the Franklin Stove, the Telegraph, Tesla Coils, the hated Dewy Decimal System, and Brasso. He pioneered a a system of electrical transmission over twisted wire that later became know as Alternating Current and also perfected a technique for vulcanizing rubber. After falling asleep under a juniper tree in El Paso, Texas in the spring of 1877, Paul Bunyan slept in a sort of suspended animation until he woke up in June 1918 just in time to teleport himself magically to France, where he single handedly defeated the Germans at the battle of Amiens on 8 August 1918. After being congratulated by Douglas Haig, and the grateful soldiers of the 4th army, Paul Bunyan jumped to the dark side of the moon, disgusted with the mechanized slaughter of the modern battlefield and generally doubting the whole concept of modern progress. He then wrote 4,000 best selling novels, but gave no interviews and no one knew exactly where he was. However, in 2001, aliens begged Paul Bunyan to uncover their cryptic Monolith for the People of Earth to find on the surface of the moon, which he did uncover for the advancement of his fellow man.

looking back/ when

looking back

when

i wanted to write poems
like supermodels on runways
strutting their stuff

or write poems like
battleships full speed ahead
through ominous curtails of smoke

i wrote poems
that were barbie dolls
with no genitalia

and wrote poems
like a wooden toy boat in a
tepid bath

drash off this one

dash off this one
like a stone over ice

tossed on
a winter day

scared up small
cold birds

out of boredom
out of spite

dad i/ dream this time we are happy

dad i
dream this time we are happy

i don't
know why we are happy

it just
is a fact and so i don't question it

i wake
up still with that feeling convinced

to be
happy all you have to do

is know
you are happy and end questions there

one day

one day
i run out of gas
i run out of peanut butter
i run out of clean socks
i run out of xerox white copy paper

and
i run out of bismark type battleships
i run out out ancient egyptian monuments
i run out of continents of africa, asia, and america
i run out of the assorted planets of the solar system, including pluto, asshole
i run out of massive black holes or gravity wells that can devour whole galaxies
i run out of brahmanian gods dreaming eons of creation and ultimate destruction of endless muliverses

so today
i run out of love
i run out of fate
i run out of happiness
i run out of everything

no juicy fruit gum
no pope ratzinger
no doornobs
no fake poop
no you
no me

i hope tomorrow
everything
comes
back

The Pin Shower

This morning, when I go outside, a pin falls out of the sky and it lands next to my foot on the front doorstep. Then a fine full shower of pins began to fall, so many of them they look and sound like rain, sweeping down in sheets, pouring over the roof tiles, swirling down the rain gutters, pooling in the street. After the deluge lets up, I search amongst the pins, and there is not a needle to be found.

The next day medium sized paperclips will fall. Then the day after that, a spectacular blizzard of multi-colored acrylic thumb-tacks. How do I know these things? I just do.

A Few of my Nightmares

I have a few nightmares last night -- in one I dream of arguing with my father about how he talks to me. In the dream my dad is dismissive, I am angry, even shrill. In the dream, I tell him I noticed how warm, personal, and engaging he is when he talks to my cousin Bill -- but with me he asks a few polite questions and lets me do all the talking -- essentially rambling like a fool while he sits back. The whole scene in the dream is unpleasant, with no resolution or catharsis, leaving me with the worst feeling. I wake up and I feel as if I have chopped off a finger. But I am so tired, I have to get more rest. When I dream again, I slide into a panic where furniture has to be moved and the movers and packers are gone, and it is too late do do anything about it. Then the baby cries and I give him a new bottle, back to bed, back to sleep where the dreams are monochrome monotonous and boring.