One Hundred and Thirty-Third Entry

For those of you not in the know, the IRS sucks big bones.

The mermaid parade was cool this year and I didn't get too badly sunburned. Gina has some pictures of the floats (and I believe one of us, actually) here. Rode the Cyclone for the first time with Scotty. Well, not with him, as we were both "too big" to have anybody else in our car with us. Oppression.
Still working on Bad Vibes, having interesting conversations with literally everyone about evil. Is it merely the absence of good or is it an actual thing? You be the judge. As with other poems of mine, I think that my purpose here is largely to try and avoid the subject, but allow the subject to seep in anyway.

Today's poem has a title that's directly correlative to the Charles Manson story, chiefly the antics of one of his main disciples, Sadie Mae Glutz. I quote Ed Sanders in his reference to a seemingly strange statement made by her parole officer regarding her release from a marijuana charge some months before the occurrence of the murders.

"Sadie managed to pull off a charm job on the deputy probation officer up there, one David Mandel, because he wrote a sympathetic probation report, which might be called the damaged soul document. It concludes, "Your Honor, it is our opinion that incarceration for this defendant would be of little or no use to society or to herself. Even while she was still a minor, she was well on her way to a career of minor confidence-style operations, high styled prostitution and prostitution of herself in a more general sense, as an object of entertainment and vicarious satisfaction for other damaged souls.""

Essentially he was saying that although she was guilty of crimes and would continue to be a lifelong criminal, jailing her would do no good because she was a born reprobate. The thinking behind this is strange, and it intrigues me. But the poem has almost nothing to do with that, as usual.

Here's my poem:

DAMAGED SOUL DOCUMENT

Big hand on the keyboard, diagonal
striped glove, difficult to remember past
christmases, the blur of memory, several
coffee cup stains, row of imperfect circles.

Moron wanted to be the life of parties
unknown. The woods, several years ago.
Annual rememberance of empty box.
I don't want to use the word 'you' anymore.

New and selected strands of hair, mix
myself a poison, call it a potion, endless
nights on the couch, party with wine,
restless clothesline begins to flap.

My glow is not alive. Someone
has spread blankets over ourselves,
morning is sneaking up. Car won't start.
Parties are the in-between, these moments.

One Hundred and Thirty-Second Entry

Working at LVHRD today on their new issue which is coming out surprisingly soon. And maybe I'll even hit my deadline. Anyway.

Here's my poem:

EVIL FUCKFACE

I'm a human radio station, got it?
Swallowing the mortals, vomit as discourse--
I'm Vincent Price no I'm Charlton Heston--
at current elevation I'm neither of those,
my bachelor life proceeds with canned products.
See you in the valley, you'll be dead, a movie
about vampires proceeds with an orgy of neck ripping--
long story, writer disappointed, standing in light
smoke from teeth filling the image, discourse
as discourse--bad actor explaining the political cause.
Cigarettes unpleasant, bees fucking locusts
become topic of discussion, economics effected
by some guy talking, population control, let's
us kill ourselves a human, tribunal against justice,
taste in mouth found to be garbage, homeless envy--
reasoning hampered by cybernetics, here's the book
you're going to write while in the theater.

One Hundred Thirty-First Entry

Working harder on my new manuscript project, BAD VIBES. Though partially inspired by reading about Charles Manson, and partially inspired by a bad mood, these poems are my attempt to address the subject of evil, a "force" in the world that I strongly believe doesn't exist. What I believe is more frightening when witnessing an "evil" act is not what we would believe to be evil, but the absence of it. Therefore, these poems aren't going to be goth or anything, I'll be playing my game of poetic avoidance just like I did with the VS poems, which a fellow poet recently pointed out to me were anti-definition poems, a concept I hadn't really thought of but that is surprisingly apt.

Here's my poem:

MUTINOUS SPIDERS

I have invoked a powerful gin-goddess.
Child exposed under rockslide to undue pressure-
here's the real trouble, intentional meeting by the Founders-
trapped in the malaise of the swamp, cigars alight
in the distance to taunt me as the trappings of men,
pilgrimage all for naught, pariah becomes king-
shirts lifted in lieu of flags, as foretold by Bostradamus.

Digital cracks become worse, face of internet demon.
Intelligent whispers don't sound intelligent, and I lead
my phalanx astray, anxious young braves dying bold
to fill out the color palette. The mythology to come
is a supreme apathy-some success with the college tour.
Celebrity is the mother of invention, each of my cadillacs
has been implanted with a device programmed to hate you-
exposed in your thriftiness, threads like vile little hairs
from your clothing, refreshment is the mother
leaving her children in the trunk dipping towards
the spillway, and this is our spillway, and I intend it
to spill.

One Hundred Thirtieth Entry

Hi there. Taking a few days off from New York in D.C. It's been pretty fun here and the weather is great. Going to hang out with one of my bestest friends, poet Danielle Deulen, a CSF alum like myself. We're going to the Hirshhorn Gallery (sp?) and we both haven't gotten enough sleep. Should be fun.

Here's my poem:

OOH LIGHTNING BUGS

The insects got into the chemicals-
cannibalized by lightning bugs exploding
onto my wallpaper and then sucked
into a singularity-straws are good
for suction-I burnt my hands on that surface-
here's my recollection-a sudden imbecilic
invasion of vapours and there goes our city,
and after we bent ourselves out of shape
in an effort to support it-three jobs, no more
sitcoms. The science is only skin deep.

I never know where to finish when you say it's over-
should I complete the last task of tipping
the garage on its corner so all the dirt falls out,
my safari has been a cover-up: zebra,
wild boars, lemurs with their shiny frightening eyes-
my world ended; you saw it happen while rewinding
the tape. Guess this balcony is more accessible
than I thought but it's time for the terrible ghost-chant;
the mask becomes the primitive god and the dancer
acquiesces his nature to nature. The right thing
to do would be to ask Shuma-Gorath how he
perceives the situation.

One Hundred and Twenty-Ninth Entry

Hey there little poetry blog reader. Bet you thought I forgot all about you? Well, you've never been far from my thoughts little one. I've just been frustrated and trying to get some mo-foing work over the summer. And when I'm down, it's harder to write. Plus I'm pretty active with KA SHEE STEES. Also, two little bunnies named Amy and Alex atarted a blog that has something to do with me. It's over here. Also, big ups to my man Nathan Austin, who has won my heart and also received the most improved blog award from me for constantly have more and more interesting stuff to stay. I struggle with an interesting paragraph. This next poem is hopefully the beginning of a series.

Here's my poem:

BAD VIBES

Soft rock hits the champagne tilt,
drive you up the mountain in the dark.
Sing for your shadow, you keep the things
in me you most want to use, old format TV,
case of smokes, borrowed wooden tool, instructional
book with the first chapter missing. We made
whatever it taught us how to make.

Wallow in the foreground, you are a character.
Popular in the navy. Blue in an iceberg,
but not now. Softened into an action figure,
comatose, movie-watching, place one hand above
head, an obvious gesture. Hugged into the action
figure’s form, ask the office manager, what is action?
Fallen behind the desk from the exhaustion of Chinese characters
in the movie. I know how to plead. I’m getting tough
like whale-skin now, get me out of this office,
thirsty for gas, it’s tumbling time down the narrow
hallway of burnt cubicles, too timid to fall apart.

The desert is boring. Let’s blend with the outer edges,
Becoming what was once thought to be phantoms
as we wiggle inside your house, your rifle pressed
against your sternum up against the wall, sweat
masking your emoting, nobody cares. Quit freaking out
about the cluster of strangers who engineer your death:
you’ll never see em. Who knows how to be dead
anyway, you can’t just coil up and pretend. Noodles
come right out of the bowl, avocado refrigerator memory
plagued with roaches, time spent in childhood nearly
always non-refundable, action isn’t emotion, nobody
wants to be there when you do your “thing.”