This Great Society Is Going To Smash (original) (raw)
socks
there are times when
you are very poor
and then
you are very rich,
times when you
are cold inside
and then
very warm,
times when you can
get all that you want
and times when you
cannot have a thing,
times when you are hungry,
and then you feel full,
times when you feel full
and then are hungry again,
there are times when you
are alone and times
when you are loved
times when nobody can
spare you a cigarette
and times when you
have a full pack in your back pocket
times when you feel like
another person and
times when you are truly
yourself.
but mostly there are two distinct periods in life:
there are times when you have socks and
times when you do not.
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for d.b. cooper, september 2011
Then in New Jersey, NJ
I got a black eye
as if the black stain on your toes
were my pajamas.
In this dirty restaurant/bus stop,
I got something to tell you: when
you take it too personally
you just don't speak up enough!
As if the hours you clocked
weren't enough to pay the bills,
like -- as if -- there weren't
a doctor in charge of
your surgery, as if you were
a radio sitting on a window sill
breaking up at dawn like
a piece of cake
and oh for fuck's sake --
check out the priest
who got too friendly,
he can buy you a
warm dinner&drink
anytime you'd like
-- but why should I give a shit
when I know that --
I know
as much as you need the money
you should hold-out!
I know,
you gotta speak up
here in New Jersey, NJ cause
I got something to tell you
by the seashore;
there are ten thousand
scientific advances pushing
the united states to crumble
as if you
were a wife/man or fool
breaking up in the royal blue
morning because
you can get flesh
anytime you like:
In the backseat,
with the driver after
normal business hours
you can take it or
take it but just don't come back.
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I will not write my poem
I have better things to do.
It's Saturday and I need to
wash the clothes (badly)
want to go to the park and
grocery shop, I want to walk
around with Pablo and take
a nap before 6pm: I will not
write my poem.
Why waste my
time with poetry when the
sun is shining?
I do not fish but I could go fishing.
It's a nice day to just
sit around and --
I'd rather listen to music
or walk the dog or
think about the nature of time.
Or hell --
I could make a real fancy
dinner like the kind you see
in cookbooks, you know
how the pictures are always
better than what you end up making?
I could make it today.
I will not write my poem until
I get things done.
I will not write my poem
until I get what I want,
it's rather simple really...
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[[lava sounds that burn so good]]
whenever you are near
you (MacBook sound and )
knock me down,
but i don’t mind cause
i'm also reaching out
in space standing so close
to the bottom of the bathroom
once and awhile thinking about you --
retarded to pieces); waiting to go home
while looking out the apartmentwindows @
you : matted hair and gnarled hands
with cold palms more powerful than traffic on ice --
i've been waiting all night, actually
i've waited most my life.
and meanwhile the game has had
no plot and the amusement snobs they're
oh god they're talking about you on the television
like you aren't significant, precious, meaningful, and beautiful
like oh, we were young and it was beautiful
&with nothing better to do
the pop-culture ensemble
has created
the perfect Banking Favor,
pulling shirts over
their heads to block you from
their sight like you're not there,
but you are
in tons
burning holes
calmly in leaves
sitting next to the river
like a little girl
long enough to know
one afternoon
the steady jobs not enough
paying for what we haven't got
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Oh Gatsby's Great
In our monster house
we all wait
for you to return.
Mosquitoes buzz 'round dirty
outside the screen door.
The sun basically
is setting
like ticking metronomes,
never knowing your
point of return.
But I don't care cause
in many ways everyone is you;
a hero or heroine
entirely in the universe --
grateful for the floating
paper winds in the tropics
-- a circle: nothing special
coming out of my mouth
and working it's way
back to you -- is that scientific?
It doesn't matter cause
replacements lie in all
corners, it doesn't matter
who you meet:
destiny models itself after
your favorite dreams.
It occurs to me now that
I should just open the window wide
and realize the walkway:
life is more than science,
the sun never really sets I just...
I wish I was blind
right now.
It would be so fine
being born blind;
then I'd never have
to take a picture of you
to keep in the frame
by the door
so I can remember
what I'll see
when you come home.
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oh my stupid life
The rain falls soft
in philly, gullies covered
in muck. I've walked
on over to the corner-shop,
bought orange ear plugs wrapped
in plastic, rubber worms to
block out the neighbors fighting.
They're calling each other names;
iron clad bars on their windows
keep intruders locked out and my
neighbors are locked in. I'd like to
break the law sometimes I think,
I'd like to read the books wrapped
up in the houses on the street.
Find out their stupid secrets,
compare them to my own;
read about Ms. Lemm's first
love and understand why
it was she let herself go as
she grew older. Tonight I
think I might keep
the ear plugs for
another time.
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- jeans that stick close to legs
peel off so fast
as you step into
the misty shower
past the curtains and
wet your beard to later dry
in the hot crevasse of a neck
not my neck but a neck
so you dry it there now.
it's what you do.
- jeans that stick
so close to the legs
they infiltrate the mind,
take control of the central
cortex of thought, dictate shallow
inconsistencies liable to be questioned
that will not be questioned
because they will not be noticed
because (A-HA!) nobody cares what
you might say or think, inconsistency does
not matter -- content is not important -- it's all
about who you know,
what they do, how you met
where you're going, how they
will help you get there what you
will do for them later, it's more about
an image
on a face that
was once a person.
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history. nightmare. awake.
One of the main reasons that
fascism appears during
the early 20th century is because
bigots love their
bigot wars,
and having mother
fold their laundry.
And I just cannot believe it
all went down like that
but when I thinks about it --
the ones who write the history,
well it makes a lot of sense.
And what is there to lose
if we all go to war
again this time for the oil?
If I died on some battle field
that would look real heroic
to some niece or nephew
I'll never meet.
And who will know if
I died an atheist
jane or jew?
Well,
the priest would know
he's in my phone you know,
he's in my phone as "the priest".
I thinks I hate the historical implications of the phone.
I know I hate the historical implications of fascism.
Also, dance clubs -- I hate
the historical implications of dance clubs.
And I hate the historical
implications of oil.
But the priest has no historical implications.
The priest's an alright guy really,
you should call him up.
He'll try to ease your burning
historical mind, and if you catch
him on a good night (after he's
had a couple of drinks) you can
have good laughs about
that time when
in the greatest summer you have ever know
he said "may the force be with you" upon
departing and in shock you said
"and also with you"
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Real Quick:
Once I figure out what I'm supposed to do,
then I'm going to do it.
I think that maybe
I'll become a doctor.
It won't be hard, I'll just
exert will power or call
an old friend and say
guess what I'm going to do.
And then I'll do it.
Whatever it is,
it'll be easy as cake.
Sweet as pie.
Real Stupid.
One reason to get out of bed in the morning
just isn't enough.
Life requires many reasons to
get out of bed in the morning.
Maybe I'll open a bakery and
bake cakes for baby showers
and old people and weddings.
Or I could build a skyscraper,
I swear to you I could:
a million little rooms
with a million little windows
for a million little people
to look out everyday.
Shops on the ground floor.
In the morning you could
get out of bed and
work in my skyscraper.
It'd be fun.
In general it is okay to
change your mind
while changing your
mind.
In general it must
be nice to know
you're finished.
It would be nice to know,
real quick,
what it is I'm supposed to do.
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Philadelphia Friday October Halloweekend, 2011
At the Farmer's Cabinet there's a water buffalo's head affixed to the wall across from us and
I doubt this is something that's been in the family for like generations or anything,
it's so useless the owners probably bought out of a catalog or whatever and so I ask
you where you think one could find a catalog like that because a water buffalo's
head affixed to maybe the bathroom ceiling would add a nice touch to that room right about now.
You, lost in the standard Friday Night Jazz Music, say that it would probably be
better in the bedroom above the books, though I think it would scare the dog and also
I am wondering (just because sometimes I wonder) if it ever makes
you smile that between the sun and the earth there are about 90 million miles?
Like, you could travel to Dublin and see Dublin, eat in Dublin and
you could feel Dublin and find nothing in Dublin and it won't change a thing
w/r/t the distance between you me & the sun (and i guess also Dublin).
You think that it's really all about the person you knew for five hours
on the plane ride to Dublin -- that's where the real absurdity of life sits --
she could change your life forever and though you will never meet her again,
you'll always remember the color of her eyes but if I were to ask
you the color of Zach's eyes right now -- Zach who you have known
for at least five years -- well you're not sure the color
of Zach's eyes right now.
And so you want to know now if it ever makes
me laugh that we're all just a huge pile of atoms
no different from an ant or a skyscraper in downtown Manhattan
dancing around according to the rules and laws of the universe...
Here at the Farmer's Cabinet we're having deep thoughts right now,
and there's this really drunk woman who is pushing against me because
she cannot stand up by herself and I'm not sure if I trust the dude she's
with but that's mostly because of his stupid mustache and
you say excuse me and steal a towel from the bathroom which you'll
later hand to me when we get felafels and I'm miserable because as much as
I love felafels they're still not enough to make me feel full.
But I don't know that yet.
I really don't know anything yet.
I think I want to be gentle the way the dog licks your beard.
I want to be soft as your sweaty palm.
In the Farmer's Cabinet a pretty girl who might be the boss keeps on crushing
ice the old fashion way -- with a small hammer I think it is called
a crusher -- her job is stressful, this much I can
tell but doesn't it ever just get to you, just a little?
People you pass on the street or see at a restaurant
could have just lost their mother or father
wife child or job or home or any other kind of loss
we all might endure someday for no good reason and
you'll never know that, all these people just walking
around feeling all of this pain inside of themselves and
you'll never know.
And doesn't it ever get to you the miniscule sacrifices
we make everyday just to get through the day
and get to another day?
Doesn't it ever make
you afraid for all life on earth when
you think of a bunch of apes at the opera dressed up
in tuxedo and gown banging their hands together
after the final crescendo?
Life couldn't be more absurd that that.
Here at the Farmer's Cabinet I'm so sure that when
you are old and all of your bits are sore and they creak from
all of the work you did when you were young and all of
your hair is gone from all the times you pulled it out and
you can't hear the world anymore because you never
listened enough to people when they told you not to listen
to your music so loud then and especially then
I'll give a little more.