Far Cry

A ten-pack of Chicken McNuggets
Washed down with a Miller Lite
While listening to Pandora
Blasting Jessie’s Girl
Is an appropriate loser scenario
For a Saturday night
When exes dominate the neighborhood.

Loser, that’s a tough label to carry.
Yet, it might be better to change it to stubborn,
Pig-headed, or proud.
When ghosts come back
They seem more like demons than Casper.
Truth is, I don’t have the time
To socialize on that level of “poltergeistness.”

For the worse, I suspect,
I’m not one to forgive or forget.
Cheerful folks will say I should let things go,
But I’m a line guy. Those who cross the line get written off.
So tonight, when the house on the hill acts as a crenelated condominium,
I’m enjoying my rubbery chicken, watery beer, and 80s pop
Secure in the choice to be alone and true to what I think is right.

The End

“Who” knows in this state
Trying to watch Tarantino and his Bastards
Make sense of propaganda and
War.

“What” gives in this state
Trying to understand USA versus itself
When institutions of protection and health battle,
Life.

“When” disappears, an irritant
As the learned try to explain
The difference between celluloid and life, a
Soul.

Yet they know nothing
Except in the Quentin way of directorial drama,
Playing the expected against the shocking,
Hollywood.

So it goes,
Reading the subtitles.
Although, I have not a real stamina for this,
Distractions….

Subtraction

This poem will have too many words
For the subject it considers.
This poem will be a gross exaggeration
Of what is necessary.
Maybe here is where the bottom of the well
Begins.

Friday is my gift of persistence,
A day off after many years on the job.
Somehow it doesn’t seem like much
As my brain is geared less on relaxing
And more on the calendar
With only two weeks of school left.

Tonight I’ve hunkered down in the basement
Binging from My List on Netflix.
I’ve eschewed the foreign television series
For I don’t feel like reading my entertainment tonight.
Instead, it’s about New York City cops
Who were unable to say no to having more.
Their story of consumption is sad on so many levels,
My story is nowhere near theirs
Since there’s no gangster in me.

I was taken by the sadness and regret
Of guys who thought they had everything,
But lost the material stuff when their honor
Was shown to be worth nothing.
In their lives as criminals that gave them riches
The men sworn to preserve and protect
Could not cultivate a bit of happiness.

The binge continued with two more guys
Who were going in the opposite direction as the blue bloods.
The next documentary told the story of minimalists,
People who pare their lives down to create great metaphorical space
In an effort to live simply, happily.
I was struck by the message
As there is something in me lately that wants to cut things out,
No organs or tongues, but stuff, all the bloated things collecting dust
In my unfinished basement.

How much do I need?
What is giving me value?

Before me is a large screen television hooked to a Roku, no cable, no antenna.
It gets me to Netflix, YouTube, Pandora, and Radio Paradise.
The tv rests on an over priced hutch with shelves
Which holds cases of CDs, DVD players, art supplies, and other random shit.
To my left is a plastic shelf with two tripods, a lamp, and five board games.
There’s a boxed Christmas tree holding a rolled up Japanese mattress,
Both sitting on top of leftover flooring and brand new golf clubs still in the box,
Six years later…
There are random space heaters, Christmas decorations, used golf clubs, tools,
Random bins full of bills, transcripts, writing projects, photographs, and …….

I haven’t even gotten to my desk
Or the indoor cycling bike that I’ve recently started using again
Or the three tables,
Or the section of the sectional I took from upstairs,
Or the weights,
Or the vacuum cleaner,
Or…the shoes…about thirteen pairs…(two feet???)

The movie goes on and I think about my closet.
How much on the hangers is necessary?
My dresser?
How many pairs of socks do I need?
What of all those static generating sweat pants that I hate?

I’ve got too much stuff.
Yet, I hardly keep anything and
Find myself wanting less.

So tomorrow is truly a gift from all these years.
I’m cleansing.
Clothes that I don’t wear are finding a new home.
Shoes, too.
Saturday the holiday continues
When I tackle the bins before clearing out
A basement full of egotistical clutter I’ve carried for too long,
Time to put out some smoldering embers.

Hopefully, all this subtraction, the purging of stuff
Will have a positive effect
Because I’m ready to see what less feels like.

Eh…

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“I don’t know anything,”
“I don’t know anything,”
“I don’t know anything…”

The haunting voice summing up his day
When the entanglement converged
To suffocate independence to
A point where security clearances should be rechecked.

This business of who knows whom,
Who told who what,
What was the timeline of introductions, and
All that other mess that makes for consternation
Has got to go away.

“I don’t know anything,”
“I don’t know anything,”
“I don’t know anything…”

Concept maps can’t explain
Tarot cards fail to see,
Horoscopes only tickle the imagination,
While lives of deceit and wanton behavior
Go on with public secrets not kept so well.

Mad Season has ignorance in its proper place
For failure to know is the most blissful state.
To those with intimate details
Life can be too much and
More than a little surprising.

“I don’t know anything,”
“I don’t know anything,”
“I don’t know anything…”

 

Photo Credit: tr.robinson via Google Images

Of Richard, Orenthal, and the Present Day

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There was an article of Nixon
Describing his thoughts
In the days before his resignation.
He thought of using his power to pardon
To let off all of the guys who paid the price
For his sinister ambition.

The wiser ones suggested
He also pardon those who dodged Vietnam,
Which Tricky Dick refused,
Suggesting that some crimes against the nation
Cannot be forgiven,
So his boys went to the pokey.

There was also something amiss with Richard’s taxes,
Rumors of off-shore accounts, and
A general dismay in his running of the country.
The story ran on May 23, 1977,
A mere forty years ago,
Very little has changed.

The edition of the New York Times
Also featured an advertisement for Hertz Rental Cars
With The Juice running through an airport in
A business suit instead of pads,
A briefcase instead of a football, and
That smile hiding him from us all.

Celebrity was his gift
As OJ made fame his legacy.
Perhaps football fame would have been better
For this summer he comes up for parole.
If all works out
He’ll soon be running the streets again.

Perhaps all of this is coincidence,
A president with legal issues to consider,
Celebrity, at least in the political arena,
Is running for cover, some of his guys probably
Hoping to make their next flight
Free of the shadow cast by their boss.

Crimes?
Taxes?
Hubris?
Celebrity.
Ego.
History.

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Photo Credits: Google Images