If all is one,
we are comets,
speeding through sunset and shame,
with a tank of gas / without a penny in our pockets,
hues of pink and blue tickertape clouds
yawn before us like the world beyond and we,
desperately, try to get there:
music pulsing pulsing to the tune
of our quivering quivering hearts.
No one to race but the
coyotes here
and we feel free
to dream under heaven's gaze
and the long-ago light of the stars.
Tuesday, January 31, 2006
Monday, January 30, 2006
Impetuous
The question ~
where do you come from?
seemed harmless. Mr. Lee, the
questioner, Korean, fifty-two years of age,
the GM of the chaebol baseball team,
was the possessor of
showstopper knowledge
(ancestrily):
he was generation
thirty-four, followed
up with this:
"A salesperson on the staff is thirty-two", he said,
ashing his seven o' clock cig, "technically, I
should bow to him."
We laughed heartily and for reasons each our own.
No way would he, Lee, in
reality, trade this corner palace office for a
cramped amped cube,
give up secretary service and
mohagony for serve
yourself and shoulder-width space -
times two.
(Here credit is due since
Lee took the residency for
each desk from three to two).
Mr. Lee's tea was expertly mixed,
"with the drop of milk - something we
never had as a kid", he
smiled, remarking how
kind GIs gave Cokes or
chocolate bars to a boy
whom I imagined never needed them.
Maybe that's why his breast pocket
read KJL, initials sewn in royal blue.
Maybe that's why he knew thirty-four.
Long slender fingers tapped on
long slender filters as he repeated
a question I had long forgotten,
Where do you come from?,
as my eyes noted the perfect muddy consistency
of my coffee.
Telling him he had me beat
34-3 made him laugh,
but the earlier, got-the-world-beat laugh
had been replaced by something more.
He leaned forward, knived his elbows into
the hardwood, and I
told him him how my maternal
great-grandparents had met
under moonlight,
in an area that was Italy one week,
Czechosolvakia the next,
kissing behind trees
or holding hands with only
the hillsides in cahoots while the
village slept.
They stowed away on a steam
ship just as a baby was stowed away
in Nona's belly.
Another cigarette was lit as
the story reached Los Angeles,
the Depression thrust out its paw and
took, and
the Pullman train company relieved
Great- Grandpa of the need to
paint train cars.
Did you know a nickle got you a
crate of bruised fruit in 1932?
My mom's dad came from Portugal:
came to Hawaii,
hacked sugarcane with scythes and immigrant hands,
made it to Oakland, to Oakland!,
realized the shoulder swinging made for a mean fastball,
and hustled his way up to Triple A.
Smoke could not veil Mr. Lee's smile,
the smile that did not hide
could not hide
would not hide
that the Japanese built their occupatory promontory
where King Sejong had simplified the alphabet
and taught farmers to read.
Words at Grandpa's funeral sounded like this:
" . . . he coulda got called up."
" . . . he woulda played pro."
Then I ran out of words,
realizing all Japan hadn't taken from me.
Grandpa instead tried not to get dead,
staff sargeanted twelve,
spent two weeks with malaria,
spent a lifetime with a bullet in his knee,
a second in his eye.
He was a man -
his generosity only matched by
his patience, unless
his television was wheeled from the
rightside of his recliner to the left.
"How did he die?" asked Mr. Lee, and I give him the
mortal story.
"Cancer. A pack a day for thirty-eight years."
Mr. Lee puts out his cigarette.
My paternal history goes unsaid because it is
eight o' clock and we have spent a whole hour
of history discussing history. His story. My
story. Our story. History.
"Korea is very traditional", he says.
"Korea is very rooted", I say. "Thank you."
"America is very young", he says.
"America is very impetuous", I say.
We walk to the door - the sales staff
still sits in sedans - and he thanks me
with a simultaneous shaking of hands
and a pat on the shoulder
then the bus rumbles up to
take me to my real teaching job -
you know, the one you can prepare for -
and,
later that day,
I receive an e-mail,
from the vice-president of the
Lucky Goldstar corporation,
thanking me for the "lesson" and
for teaching him the definition of
impetuous.
where do you come from?
seemed harmless. Mr. Lee, the
questioner, Korean, fifty-two years of age,
the GM of the chaebol baseball team,
was the possessor of
showstopper knowledge
(ancestrily):
he was generation
thirty-four, followed
up with this:
"A salesperson on the staff is thirty-two", he said,
ashing his seven o' clock cig, "technically, I
should bow to him."
We laughed heartily and for reasons each our own.
No way would he, Lee, in
reality, trade this corner palace office for a
cramped amped cube,
give up secretary service and
mohagony for serve
yourself and shoulder-width space -
times two.
(Here credit is due since
Lee took the residency for
each desk from three to two).
Mr. Lee's tea was expertly mixed,
"with the drop of milk - something we
never had as a kid", he
smiled, remarking how
kind GIs gave Cokes or
chocolate bars to a boy
whom I imagined never needed them.
Maybe that's why his breast pocket
read KJL, initials sewn in royal blue.
Maybe that's why he knew thirty-four.
Long slender fingers tapped on
long slender filters as he repeated
a question I had long forgotten,
Where do you come from?,
as my eyes noted the perfect muddy consistency
of my coffee.
Telling him he had me beat
34-3 made him laugh,
but the earlier, got-the-world-beat laugh
had been replaced by something more.
He leaned forward, knived his elbows into
the hardwood, and I
told him him how my maternal
great-grandparents had met
under moonlight,
in an area that was Italy one week,
Czechosolvakia the next,
kissing behind trees
or holding hands with only
the hillsides in cahoots while the
village slept.
They stowed away on a steam
ship just as a baby was stowed away
in Nona's belly.
Another cigarette was lit as
the story reached Los Angeles,
the Depression thrust out its paw and
took, and
the Pullman train company relieved
Great- Grandpa of the need to
paint train cars.
Did you know a nickle got you a
crate of bruised fruit in 1932?
My mom's dad came from Portugal:
came to Hawaii,
hacked sugarcane with scythes and immigrant hands,
made it to Oakland, to Oakland!,
realized the shoulder swinging made for a mean fastball,
and hustled his way up to Triple A.
Smoke could not veil Mr. Lee's smile,
the smile that did not hide
could not hide
would not hide
that the Japanese built their occupatory promontory
where King Sejong had simplified the alphabet
and taught farmers to read.
Words at Grandpa's funeral sounded like this:
" . . . he coulda got called up."
" . . . he woulda played pro."
Then I ran out of words,
realizing all Japan hadn't taken from me.
Grandpa instead tried not to get dead,
staff sargeanted twelve,
spent two weeks with malaria,
spent a lifetime with a bullet in his knee,
a second in his eye.
He was a man -
his generosity only matched by
his patience, unless
his television was wheeled from the
rightside of his recliner to the left.
"How did he die?" asked Mr. Lee, and I give him the
mortal story.
"Cancer. A pack a day for thirty-eight years."
Mr. Lee puts out his cigarette.
My paternal history goes unsaid because it is
eight o' clock and we have spent a whole hour
of history discussing history. His story. My
story. Our story. History.
"Korea is very traditional", he says.
"Korea is very rooted", I say. "Thank you."
"America is very young", he says.
"America is very impetuous", I say.
We walk to the door - the sales staff
still sits in sedans - and he thanks me
with a simultaneous shaking of hands
and a pat on the shoulder
then the bus rumbles up to
take me to my real teaching job -
you know, the one you can prepare for -
and,
later that day,
I receive an e-mail,
from the vice-president of the
Lucky Goldstar corporation,
thanking me for the "lesson" and
for teaching him the definition of
impetuous.
Sunday, January 29, 2006
How I goddamn loved radio
The same eight songs play every two hours like chickens
on rotisseries while deejays stumbling over band names
that are misspelled anyway - don't you
realize how I goddamn loved radio?
A larger malaise is at work here, a
pain, an ache that leads to extra honking,
extra honking, extra honking,
nights spend with your favorite shows,
favorite shows, favorite shows,
topped by watercooler daytimes and
milquetoast love songs spending
six weeks at number one -
even burrowing into your head if
you let 'em.
Whomever wants to know the lyrics of
dizzy chicken songs shall be sentenced
to critiquing some celebrity's new 'do
in relation to their own.
(I'm not saying it's okay but I see how)
it could make you murder
just to get some change,
some strange into a life
as far from life as pigs are to
Spam.
Do something with sincerity:
rhyme a word with orange or
write a ode to heartbreak on pots-
-pans-and-a-piece-of-string or find
a random belly to feed, and fill it.
Give someone something that was
theirs but was taken
away away away . . .
but who can advocate humanity at a
time when Caller 9 could be
a winner so you can win tickets
to an event that
you didn't even know was happening?
on rotisseries while deejays stumbling over band names
that are misspelled anyway - don't you
realize how I goddamn loved radio?
A larger malaise is at work here, a
pain, an ache that leads to extra honking,
extra honking, extra honking,
nights spend with your favorite shows,
favorite shows, favorite shows,
topped by watercooler daytimes and
milquetoast love songs spending
six weeks at number one -
even burrowing into your head if
you let 'em.
Whomever wants to know the lyrics of
dizzy chicken songs shall be sentenced
to critiquing some celebrity's new 'do
in relation to their own.
(I'm not saying it's okay but I see how)
it could make you murder
just to get some change,
some strange into a life
as far from life as pigs are to
Spam.
Do something with sincerity:
rhyme a word with orange or
write a ode to heartbreak on pots-
-pans-and-a-piece-of-string or find
a random belly to feed, and fill it.
Give someone something that was
theirs but was taken
away away away . . .
but who can advocate humanity at a
time when Caller 9 could be
a winner so you can win tickets
to an event that
you didn't even know was happening?
Saturday, January 28, 2006
Jingle Smells
Script your economic demise
and buy half what you see advertised.
Inundated with this crap
the ad execs I'd like slap
or lock them in a darkened room
shout slogans at them 'til they exhume
their souls from under stacks of cash
earned from foisting worthless trash.
Creating need for young and old
not wanted to be left out in the cold.
Don't want to be the only one
relying on yourself for fun
when fun can be bought, useless toys
for idle, cornfed girls and boys
Parents - do you feel maligned?
Buy 'em this so they won't whine!!
Commercials chanting catchwords
which subliminally degrade
while jump cuts make your vision blurred
with funky drumming overlaid.
I know why Dahmer did it,
why Kaczynski went on a spree:
sat at home and went bazerk
from watching too much cable ad TV.
and buy half what you see advertised.
Inundated with this crap
the ad execs I'd like slap
or lock them in a darkened room
shout slogans at them 'til they exhume
their souls from under stacks of cash
earned from foisting worthless trash.
Creating need for young and old
not wanted to be left out in the cold.
Don't want to be the only one
relying on yourself for fun
when fun can be bought, useless toys
for idle, cornfed girls and boys
Parents - do you feel maligned?
Buy 'em this so they won't whine!!
Commercials chanting catchwords
which subliminally degrade
while jump cuts make your vision blurred
with funky drumming overlaid.
I know why Dahmer did it,
why Kaczynski went on a spree:
sat at home and went bazerk
from watching too much cable ad TV.
Tuesday, January 24, 2006
The Thresher.3
One works; the other sweats.
The other comes to Ben,
unraveling shirt and glistening gaze,
and he speaks as the sacks are
shouldered into the hopper.
Each shrug, each nod
comes from hunger.
Each shrug, each nod
dictates dinner come Christmas.
Ben responds,
a Tagalog melody dissolves into diesel and dust,
and both stare at cracks in the earth,
piston-whir and movable metal
playing to a backbeat of moos.
The other comes to Ben,
unraveling shirt and glistening gaze,
and he speaks as the sacks are
shouldered into the hopper.
Each shrug, each nod
comes from hunger.
Each shrug, each nod
dictates dinner come Christmas.
Ben responds,
a Tagalog melody dissolves into diesel and dust,
and both stare at cracks in the earth,
piston-whir and movable metal
playing to a backbeat of moos.
Monday, January 23, 2006
The Thresher.2
Burlap sacks are stacked as countryside currency,
and the thresher roars,
rusting and clackety.
American animals might have taken this
as a cue to scatter, but here
heifers chomp cud, drift toward
shady spots, and eye us glassily.
The operators match in
tattered t-shirts and ballcaps,
and drift as the cows do,
dumping sack after sack into
the hopper, zenlike,
without a care,
without spilling a single grain.
and the thresher roars,
rusting and clackety.
American animals might have taken this
as a cue to scatter, but here
heifers chomp cud, drift toward
shady spots, and eye us glassily.
The operators match in
tattered t-shirts and ballcaps,
and drift as the cows do,
dumping sack after sack into
the hopper, zenlike,
without a care,
without spilling a single grain.
Sunday, January 22, 2006
The Thresher.1
Well-bellied, Ben says, "Letsugo,"
and saunters onto the cracked earth,
as hot as Ben's smile swings wide,
the relative nightcool giving way
even now
at eight a.m.
"The thresher is here", he says,
tongue well short of an interdental "th",
and we watch puffs of dust
announce the event as half
the baranguay watches it
squeak to a stop.
and saunters onto the cracked earth,
as hot as Ben's smile swings wide,
the relative nightcool giving way
even now
at eight a.m.
"The thresher is here", he says,
tongue well short of an interdental "th",
and we watch puffs of dust
announce the event as half
the baranguay watches it
squeak to a stop.
Saturday, January 21, 2006
Quick Note
Quick Note: These aren't one screen poems,
so this can be presented either as a
scroll-a-thon (the evermore post requiring
a reader to go down, down, down, down,
you get the idea) or like taffy, stretched out
among days.
Taffy tastes good. Especially sea taffy - taffy
produced near or on a boardwalk. Yes,
I know that the taffy machine at the
boardwalk is the same machine as the one
in Chico, California. So explain to me how
waterside taffy tastes so much better.
Taffy's the winner; this next poem will
be stretched
over
a few
days . . .
- E
so this can be presented either as a
scroll-a-thon (the evermore post requiring
a reader to go down, down, down, down,
you get the idea) or like taffy, stretched out
among days.
Taffy tastes good. Especially sea taffy - taffy
produced near or on a boardwalk. Yes,
I know that the taffy machine at the
boardwalk is the same machine as the one
in Chico, California. So explain to me how
waterside taffy tastes so much better.
Taffy's the winner; this next poem will
be stretched
over
a few
days . . .
- E
Seven Unusual Sources of Inspiration
1) My uncle, Thomas Moniz. A true master of comedic timing.
2) The comic book "Transmetropolitan"
3) Mitch Hedberg. R.I.P.
4) The work of Robert Anton Wilson
5) The people who wrote all those books for God. No, not those mooks.
The women and men who wrote the outlaw verses - those are the
ones I'm talking about.
6) Gen Ueda
7) The 1996 Korean Star Search runner-up and his subterranean
apartment in downtown Seoul
2) The comic book "Transmetropolitan"
3) Mitch Hedberg. R.I.P.
4) The work of Robert Anton Wilson
5) The people who wrote all those books for God. No, not those mooks.
The women and men who wrote the outlaw verses - those are the
ones I'm talking about.
6) Gen Ueda
7) The 1996 Korean Star Search runner-up and his subterranean
apartment in downtown Seoul
Friday, January 20, 2006
Pinion
Before people had wings time crawled on boneless legs,
mere waterdrops on rocks,
and people watched through windows,
mist veiling sight,
and still they looked.
Even full-grown my wings misplace easily,
a birthright o so elusive,
still - such a pellucid stew of feathers,
deigned by Daedalus,
built for breathtaking and blinding velocity.
Opaqueness is true beauty
and today my head's just not in it,
staggering around a fog-shroud of head-ghosts
looking for my winged self
to find my way up.
mere waterdrops on rocks,
and people watched through windows,
mist veiling sight,
and still they looked.
Even full-grown my wings misplace easily,
a birthright o so elusive,
still - such a pellucid stew of feathers,
deigned by Daedalus,
built for breathtaking and blinding velocity.
Opaqueness is true beauty
and today my head's just not in it,
staggering around a fog-shroud of head-ghosts
looking for my winged self
to find my way up.
Thursday, January 19, 2006
Ode to Fashion / Down with the Porn Mustache
Fashion rotates on a great karmatic wheel:
yesterday's shorn pate is today's stinger,
hip-huggers superseded by bare midriffs.
From Armani to open-throated collars -
just let backissues of magazines guide you through time
with style.
Now all lost luster returns with time -
the cycle always returns home -
but I hope the current porn mustaches
end up burnt like Rome.
yesterday's shorn pate is today's stinger,
hip-huggers superseded by bare midriffs.
From Armani to open-throated collars -
just let backissues of magazines guide you through time
with style.
Now all lost luster returns with time -
the cycle always returns home -
but I hope the current porn mustaches
end up burnt like Rome.
Wednesday, January 18, 2006
Life Game
Tonight I won the Life Game:
spin,
smile,
and
survive
as hope's
dashed against
the rocks like
a baby's head.
I can
scarcely believe
my fingers
and my thoughts.
We all fall down
in some way,
great or small,
but rising up
afterword
makes a life.
spin,
smile,
and
survive
as hope's
dashed against
the rocks like
a baby's head.
I can
scarcely believe
my fingers
and my thoughts.
We all fall down
in some way,
great or small,
but rising up
afterword
makes a life.
Tuesday, January 17, 2006
Some Caesaric Jots
Caesar said,
"Et tu?"
knowing that
Brutus turned on him.
The fact that he hung
with the other
mooks who killed
him in the
first place
is what he
should have known.
Can there be
power without
friction? And will it
work?
"Et tu?"
knowing that
Brutus turned on him.
The fact that he hung
with the other
mooks who killed
him in the
first place
is what he
should have known.
Can there be
power without
friction? And will it
work?
Sunday, January 15, 2006
Operation Follicle
The onset of facial hair
on my formerly fuzzy face
gets play:
metalheads talk to me,
nice girls eye me longer,
and the girls with 'tude
- well,
a bitch is a bitch -
and parents pull their children
closer.
If appearance reflects what's inside
my soul feels well-groomed,
shorn, and a little dark;
that is,
if one can construe
the essence of a human
from a quick
(but not too quick
glance.
on my formerly fuzzy face
gets play:
metalheads talk to me,
nice girls eye me longer,
and the girls with 'tude
- well,
a bitch is a bitch -
and parents pull their children
closer.
If appearance reflects what's inside
my soul feels well-groomed,
shorn, and a little dark;
that is,
if one can construe
the essence of a human
from a quick
(but not too quick
glance.
Wednesday, January 11, 2006
Tuesday, January 10, 2006
Monday, January 09, 2006
Nightdancing
Blow out the lamps; night has fallen.
Cast your kings aside
and underlunacized
we will dance the mystic
all rings & things offed like Death itself.
Indeed, Death is the joke eternal:
one who breathes can know it not
one who breathed has known it thus.
So let it ride on that line of Death,
between breath and less,
the howling of wolves covering
the sounds of souls on air.
If we fail . . . there is no fail
as the elseworld falls to dreams.
Cast your kings aside
and underlunacized
we will dance the mystic
all rings & things offed like Death itself.
Indeed, Death is the joke eternal:
one who breathes can know it not
one who breathed has known it thus.
So let it ride on that line of Death,
between breath and less,
the howling of wolves covering
the sounds of souls on air.
If we fail . . . there is no fail
as the elseworld falls to dreams.
Sunday, January 08, 2006
Thursday, January 05, 2006
The Secret Art of What-You-Do
A leader is nothing but the shadow of your self-
the doubt, the darkness,
those moments when liberation leaves in lieu of law.
Reject this rejection!
Hold your self close as a babe of the world
and - please - spill some red wine on the
ghostly rug.
See the innerness in you always
and smile, mouth agape,
as rain leavens your cracked lips.
the doubt, the darkness,
those moments when liberation leaves in lieu of law.
Reject this rejection!
Hold your self close as a babe of the world
and - please - spill some red wine on the
ghostly rug.
See the innerness in you always
and smile, mouth agape,
as rain leavens your cracked lips.
Wednesday, January 04, 2006
Monday, January 02, 2006
BBQ
Saturday. Bar-bec-que.
Weekends exist because of weekdays.
The weekday grind makes
cooking over an open flame becoming a
good idea.
It's an excuse, really,
because the meat is the sideshow.
The time is your own. Really.
It's about time:
time to laugh,
time to drink, to plot, to dream,
to share and empathize . . .
a little too much of everything
on Saturday - all right.
Weekends exist because of weekdays.
The weekday grind makes
cooking over an open flame becoming a
good idea.
It's an excuse, really,
because the meat is the sideshow.
The time is your own. Really.
It's about time:
time to laugh,
time to drink, to plot, to dream,
to share and empathize . . .
a little too much of everything
on Saturday - all right.
Sunday, January 01, 2006
typical jan one poem
Roll your eyes to the milky whites.
Smooth the edges and inhale.
This year will be like the last, and the next.
Eventually everything evolves.
May this be the year.
Smooth the edges and inhale.
This year will be like the last, and the next.
Eventually everything evolves.
May this be the year.
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