plastic utopia: thoughts on the
deification of pop culture icons; what
happens when push button salvation does
not work—written the night prior to
princesS dianA’s internment
i
(i might as
well be walking
on the sun)
it was started
yet nothing
ever really
happened
we looked for
heroes & we realized
that we didn’t have any
so we made
our own celluloid
deities
we looked
to the one-
eyed-picture-
box for our hollow
push-button
salvation
(all the while
giving praises
to the altars of
the peacock &
the eye)
we were given
flawed philosophies
that we lapped up
like mongrel
stray dogs
which we rebroadcast
as if we were self-appointed
stool pigeon demagogues
we needed leaders
we got harlequins &
lawyers
we need a messiah
we got cheers
we needed knowledge
we go fragglE rock
we needed heroes
we got williS & arnolD
we needed comfort (&what
the hell) it came through—
i miss johN boY & ol’ half pint
we sat in its ominous glow
playing paC-maN sucking down
carbonated beverages
& devouring greasy
reprocessed bovine carcass
we read the tabloids &
let our collective minds become saturated
with nothing-information
& new fangled
yellow journalism
our eyes were filled with pictures of
beautiful people with platinum hair
artificially sculpted bodies with no visible scaring
small noses & perfect caffeine stained teeth
(man, we got took)
ii
our knowledge was
doled out in
thirty second sound bites cleverly
spun by those in charge except
we never figured out who that was
iii
it was their fault
it was your fault
it was his fault
it was mom’s fault
it was dad’s fault
it was falwelL’s fault
it was jiM & tammY fayE’s fault
it was the see-eye-aee’s fault
it was the effa-bee-eye’s fault
it was coL. nortH’s fault
it was some conglomerate-that-took-our-souls-in-the-middle-of-the-night’s fault
it was reagaN’s fault
it was nobody’s fault
it was somebody’s fault
it most certainly was NOT my fault
maybe hensoN had something to with it
i always said that damn frog was going
to be the end of us all
that blasted rubiX cubE certainly didn’t
help matters either
we were doomed
(we were more worried
about ring-around-the-collar
then our preservation)
why didn’t we see this coming
we were too busy worrying about
where the beef was
we gratefully took what
they fed us & drank it
up through prefabricated
plastic straws
iv
our minds rotted & decayed
we still “don’t know diddley”
BUT! we’re in charge now
(haha) move over let us through
to hell with them
fight ‘em
knock ‘em down from
their overbearing righteous
high horses
let ‘em know who’s boss
(ah… a fantasy)
v
(a reality)
instead we just drift
looking searching
but finding nothing
looking
searching
nothing
vi
what does our plastic-cyclops
god say ask it!
turn it on!
hurry! hurry!
maybe the answers
can be found there
(i have a sudden need for
push-button salvation)
why the sudden silence
push the button
PUSH THE BUTTON
nothing! silence!
it can’t be!
the godboX is dead
the godboX is dead
the godboX is dead
!la godboX es morte!
no salvation?
no hope?
no…
nothing?
copyright 2007 DWC
Friday, June 22, 2007
Thursday, June 21, 2007
the last eggshells here in this place 6/21
last day at my job, longest day of the
year, and almost six years at
this place.
I am waisting time.
it is the longest day of the year, the sun will
shine forever on today. this is
a little longer than on most
days.
I could talk about horrible and things I've
had to do at this job, I could fill poems of
it. I have filled poems of it. but that would make
it seem like I learned something.
no. I'm going to do something very similar at
somewhere else. I learn nothing.
different but the same. and
they didn't even throw me a party. almost
six years and no party. there was a
Dr. that was here for like 2 years and she got a
party. I came in at the end of the day and
ate some of her pizza. shit.
everything is off the walls.
in my mind, a party could have
redeemed this place and me in
my head. I think I will drink a whole
bottle of champagne tonight and
have a giant cigar. I will have a good
dinner. the stars will
whirl around and land
on some new fortune for me
after the sun returns to the
short days.
ds
year, and almost six years at
this place.
I am waisting time.
it is the longest day of the year, the sun will
shine forever on today. this is
a little longer than on most
days.
I could talk about horrible and things I've
had to do at this job, I could fill poems of
it. I have filled poems of it. but that would make
it seem like I learned something.
no. I'm going to do something very similar at
somewhere else. I learn nothing.
different but the same. and
they didn't even throw me a party. almost
six years and no party. there was a
Dr. that was here for like 2 years and she got a
party. I came in at the end of the day and
ate some of her pizza. shit.
everything is off the walls.
in my mind, a party could have
redeemed this place and me in
my head. I think I will drink a whole
bottle of champagne tonight and
have a giant cigar. I will have a good
dinner. the stars will
whirl around and land
on some new fortune for me
after the sun returns to the
short days.
ds
Saturday, June 9, 2007
spont
this is the eggshells (just have drank)
And now, no more family members to
Exploit - I have created everyone I can
Imagine. A family tree hangs in our office. The
Immediate mother is dead. There is no
Reason to invent aunts. One uncle
Hangs. But he is fleshed out, and I have finished a
Bottle of scotch with this thought in my head...
All the family is over.
All the family is over. Now we invent new.
You - you invent new.
This place is beyond cousins. Invent
Fish. Invent lines. Invent elk.
Invent looking up from the marshes with a
Mouth full of reeds and wet
Food. See that I am chasing you.
I look for you and future that is
In your gut. I am thirst, hungry.
You beautiful. I can eat you for a week.
Tomorrow morning I am to
Fish - with human on the edge of
Water. The world gets small.
I jig and spin.
I reel and jerk.
I accurate.
(we don't catch what we eat I'm drunk it's past late
night looks in the window no more wind I no good
at fishing this is the long day tomorrow I work six days
of work one of rest I rest much longer than one
day) forever.
The family
Rests.
The family
Rests beneath us.
Dust settling on country. Gravestones and
Windowsills. Blow in the spring. Go in the
Fall. Our back is acres.
Please remember
I have no future and know only what I
Remember. The night is
Just outside.
Everything else is
Under and under. Leaves
Grass
Compost
Happy
Worms.
ds - from the bottom of scotch.
And now, no more family members to
Exploit - I have created everyone I can
Imagine. A family tree hangs in our office. The
Immediate mother is dead. There is no
Reason to invent aunts. One uncle
Hangs. But he is fleshed out, and I have finished a
Bottle of scotch with this thought in my head...
All the family is over.
All the family is over. Now we invent new.
You - you invent new.
This place is beyond cousins. Invent
Fish. Invent lines. Invent elk.
Invent looking up from the marshes with a
Mouth full of reeds and wet
Food. See that I am chasing you.
I look for you and future that is
In your gut. I am thirst, hungry.
You beautiful. I can eat you for a week.
Tomorrow morning I am to
Fish - with human on the edge of
Water. The world gets small.
I jig and spin.
I reel and jerk.
I accurate.
(we don't catch what we eat I'm drunk it's past late
night looks in the window no more wind I no good
at fishing this is the long day tomorrow I work six days
of work one of rest I rest much longer than one
day) forever.
The family
Rests.
The family
Rests beneath us.
Dust settling on country. Gravestones and
Windowsills. Blow in the spring. Go in the
Fall. Our back is acres.
Please remember
I have no future and know only what I
Remember. The night is
Just outside.
Everything else is
Under and under. Leaves
Grass
Compost
Happy
Worms.
ds - from the bottom of scotch.
Monday, June 4, 2007
Rant Gone Bad
(an apology) I have posted this three other places. I'm feeling manic right now. So, well...
So, you want to learn to write. You want to get to the marrow of it all? You want get that voice on paper and out of your head? I understand, completely. I do, too. But I think I've gotten pretty close to giving up. That doesn't mean that I can't help teach writing. Matter of fact, that is a simmering dream of mine: to teach writing, but there's a problem with that: "you can't teach some how to write." You either got it, or you don't. I know that was bad grammar, maybe even cliched, but it was effective. See, that's writing.
I have a voice in my head. Loud, high pitched and slightly inebriated. The kind of slurred voice one has after three or four vodka tonics, or high balls, or maybe some screwdrivers. Its an elfin voice, my particular bug-a-boo of a voice is Capote. I don't know why that elfin, good-time boy took residence in my head. I wish he would leave. Whenever I write about writing while typing I hear Capote blearily say"that's not writing, that's typing." Oh, I'm sorry, my fault, I used an adverb: "blearily." Sign of bad writing. Stay away from adverbs, says so in Stunk and White, the bible for writers. (An aside: it is my opinion that "the little grey book" aka The Elements of Style by William Strunk and E.B. White is the only book you need to be a writer and pages 70-85 are the fifteen most important pages you'll ever need to read. Those 21 rules are gospel and commandment all rolled into one.) He's right, Capote is, it really isn't writing, it is indeed typing. I can't write by hand. The words tumble out too quickly. My hand can't keep up, so my fingers do what they can.
Where ever I go I have paper and pen: in my blue bag I take to work, in my desk (an oblong green sketch pad that I have written in intermittently since Houston, I had high hopes for that one, but alas it didn't pan out), I have small moleskin notebook, too. Today, I was nippin and tuckin the writing journals and I found one that I liked, I almost bought it with the intention of "writing in it," wouldn't of worked. I'd of written something, but then that pour journal would end up in a corner somewhere dusty. The start of the last sentence "I'd of" is left over from my time in the Appalachians. That's straight Appalachian right there. "I'd of..." bad writing? I don't know. What do I know about good or bad writing.
I work in a bookstore. So, I guess I might know good writing when I see it. I don't. I know what I like and what I don't. I don't know if what I like is good writing. How can I make that decision? Who am I?
You know who started this thought in my head? These thoughts, I should say, and no, it wasn't Capote. It was Tim O'Brien. His book The Things They Carried always beats me over the head. What amazing stuff. I wish I had a thimble of his talent, I don't not even close. I'm a wack job next to him. His book would be my textbook in my writing class, well that and the "little grey book." There would be no tests, but there would be writing. My how there would be writing. My students write until their hands bled. They would hate me. I would make them go deep. Deep into places they wouldn't talk about. I break them. They'd hate me. But they'd survive. They'd write it. They'd have no choice.
I freely give my opinion when I'm reading someone's work. I'm not sure they appreciate it. I should probably stop giving my opinion. My opinion doesn't count for much any way. I'm no critic, I'm an unfulfilled writer. There are shelves and shelves of books that tell me how to write, how to put a word, a thought, an idea on paper. Write that novel THIS year. Here is the proper way to write a poem (oh, please, tell me). I zoned through that section today I should never zone through the how-to write section at 0600, because I brood. Just like I shouldn't zone in the cookbooks after 1600, I dwell on the covers and get hungry and disappointed that I can't cook like that.
So, you want to write? You want to be a writer? Why? What is it that you want? You want to be a writer? Fine, go write. Go ahead. I'll be here, waiting. I'll just go read the master Tim O'Brien. I'll go read my writing class textbook.
DWC
So, you want to learn to write. You want to get to the marrow of it all? You want get that voice on paper and out of your head? I understand, completely. I do, too. But I think I've gotten pretty close to giving up. That doesn't mean that I can't help teach writing. Matter of fact, that is a simmering dream of mine: to teach writing, but there's a problem with that: "you can't teach some how to write." You either got it, or you don't. I know that was bad grammar, maybe even cliched, but it was effective. See, that's writing.
I have a voice in my head. Loud, high pitched and slightly inebriated. The kind of slurred voice one has after three or four vodka tonics, or high balls, or maybe some screwdrivers. Its an elfin voice, my particular bug-a-boo of a voice is Capote. I don't know why that elfin, good-time boy took residence in my head. I wish he would leave. Whenever I write about writing while typing I hear Capote blearily say"that's not writing, that's typing." Oh, I'm sorry, my fault, I used an adverb: "blearily." Sign of bad writing. Stay away from adverbs, says so in Stunk and White, the bible for writers. (An aside: it is my opinion that "the little grey book" aka The Elements of Style by William Strunk and E.B. White is the only book you need to be a writer and pages 70-85 are the fifteen most important pages you'll ever need to read. Those 21 rules are gospel and commandment all rolled into one.) He's right, Capote is, it really isn't writing, it is indeed typing. I can't write by hand. The words tumble out too quickly. My hand can't keep up, so my fingers do what they can.
Where ever I go I have paper and pen: in my blue bag I take to work, in my desk (an oblong green sketch pad that I have written in intermittently since Houston, I had high hopes for that one, but alas it didn't pan out), I have small moleskin notebook, too. Today, I was nippin and tuckin the writing journals and I found one that I liked, I almost bought it with the intention of "writing in it," wouldn't of worked. I'd of written something, but then that pour journal would end up in a corner somewhere dusty. The start of the last sentence "I'd of" is left over from my time in the Appalachians. That's straight Appalachian right there. "I'd of..." bad writing? I don't know. What do I know about good or bad writing.
I work in a bookstore. So, I guess I might know good writing when I see it. I don't. I know what I like and what I don't. I don't know if what I like is good writing. How can I make that decision? Who am I?
You know who started this thought in my head? These thoughts, I should say, and no, it wasn't Capote. It was Tim O'Brien. His book The Things They Carried always beats me over the head. What amazing stuff. I wish I had a thimble of his talent, I don't not even close. I'm a wack job next to him. His book would be my textbook in my writing class, well that and the "little grey book." There would be no tests, but there would be writing. My how there would be writing. My students write until their hands bled. They would hate me. I would make them go deep. Deep into places they wouldn't talk about. I break them. They'd hate me. But they'd survive. They'd write it. They'd have no choice.
I freely give my opinion when I'm reading someone's work. I'm not sure they appreciate it. I should probably stop giving my opinion. My opinion doesn't count for much any way. I'm no critic, I'm an unfulfilled writer. There are shelves and shelves of books that tell me how to write, how to put a word, a thought, an idea on paper. Write that novel THIS year. Here is the proper way to write a poem (oh, please, tell me). I zoned through that section today I should never zone through the how-to write section at 0600, because I brood. Just like I shouldn't zone in the cookbooks after 1600, I dwell on the covers and get hungry and disappointed that I can't cook like that.
So, you want to write? You want to be a writer? Why? What is it that you want? You want to be a writer? Fine, go write. Go ahead. I'll be here, waiting. I'll just go read the master Tim O'Brien. I'll go read my writing class textbook.
DWC
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