everything was beautiful and nothing hurt

When a Tralfamadorian sees a corpse, all he thinks is that the dead person is in bad condition at that particular moment, but that the same person is just fine in plenty of other moments. Now, when I myself hear that somebody is dead, I simply shrug and say what the Tralfamadorians say about dead people, which is 'So it goes.'"

When I read too much, or three or more books at a time, the stories all blend together. when I'm reading, the words go directly from the page to my brain, skipping my eyes altogether. I'm skipping along, tumbling, drowning in this stream of consciousness. I can't pause, can't take a breath. But what happens next, when the word life-raft runs out and I can't remember a single phrase to keep myself afloat with?

There are some books I just can't make myself read. Everyone keeps telling me how great Catch-22 is. You just have to read it. But here I am, page 33, and I'm choking. I don't think I'm going to make it. Some books I just read. I left off Catch22 for Slaughterhouse Five, a book I never wanted to read because I was afraid of the title. But as I'm reading along, enjoying the ride (even though i know i'm going to drown in all this war stuff) there's someone else there too. This reader. As I'm reading along, suddenly it's not only Billy Pilgrim's and Kurt Vonnegut's voice in my head. There's this other person, some nameless tyrant with a pencil, who has found the need to comment in the margins.

I appreciate that it's in pencil. I love to make notes. That's active reading. But all the same, keep your comments in your own damn copy and get out of my head. I thought the reader was humorous at first, but now he's just smug. He feels the need to comment on tiny inconsistencies. There is about one spelling error in the book, but this reader finds it, questioning whether the song shouldn't say, "BARN?" instead of bar. "AN I.Q. OF 103 IS ACTUALLY ABOVE AVERAGE." The reader informs me, smugly. Hello, would it ever cross your mind that that might be the point? When the childhood Billy Pilgrim wets his pants, the reader says, contemptuously, "AT TWELVE YEARS OLD?"
So he wet his pants. He's not exactly the heroic protagonist anyway. How funny, the reader doesn't seem to comment when, later, it's much worse.
"HOW MUCH OF THIS IS STOLEN FROM CATCH22?" The reader asks.
Well, I wouldn't know, would I? I'm reading this one first. I'd like to write back.
And finally, "HA,HA KURT." The reader says, taking on a gratingly familiar tone with the author. Mind-jolting or thought provoking comments in the margins I can accept. Even corrections about grammar or punctuation or style (no one's perfect, maybe they'll get it right in the next edition.) But what purpose do these comments serve?
Gah. I'm going to get an eraser.
Maybe later I'll force myself to struggle on with Catch 22.

wednesday

it's one of those days when everything sweats
the toilet tank, the refrigerator, the windows-- but mostly the sky
everything soupy, like gray cabbage water.
A gray cabbage cloud leaks weepily above the gray cabbage pond, gray cabbage pots and pans on the countertop.
A beetle has turned himself over in the bathtub
and struggles against the droplet.
He struggles, feet in the air.
The lights flicker when the dry pumpernickel toast pops
Neither coffee nor string quartet, sallying forth from the radio
serves to cheer me.
The cats clambor inside just before a gray cabbagewater drizzle
a bumblebee trying to follow.
The drops, fat and dull, hit the cracked porch wood
when i go to close the windows, a grinding shriek
everything smells metallic
and i am all alone in this gray cabbage tower.

when you ask a question

The arts are not a way to make a living. They are a very human way of making life more bearable.

We are dancing animals. How beautiful it is to get up and go and do something."
Kurt Vonnegut, A Man Without a Country. p. 68.

Does being educated make us more genuine human beings?

it's easier to scoff;
you feel vindicated, uplifted, hearing
the "ain'ts" and "nowheres,"
the running commentary idolizing pickup-drivers and pitbull owners.
it's easier to say
"she's never had an original thought in her life,"
tobacco smoke curling around the curlers
like beehives of pink in the over-processed straw.
You must feel tall, a poor sickly pity pulsing
in the brain stem
a poor sickly superiority--
you know "nuclear" doesn't rhyme with "tubular"
and you've never used duct tape
to patch the holes in your hand-me-down sneakers
or cover cracks in your car window.
Is that meth-mouth, dangling slack-jawed above the golden cruifix?
It's ponderous, this gaudy symbol, worn on the outside;
this gory representation, reminiscant of a 16th century Grunewald Altarpiece.
Religion is the opiate of the masses, a last breath of a dying beast.
Her man-hands folding flabbily over the diamond ring her first husband bought
as she snatches the groceries
skinny logs of greasy maple-sugar sausage, (on sale this week, buy one get one)
cheese-doodles crackling in their plastic next to cap'n'crunch,
hamburger-helper,
Five packs of diet pepsi.
she uses her last WIC check
The baby formula, synthetic Similac with Iron
$16.50 for 12 oz.

What's more genuine than that?

tapping on the inside of the box

tap. tap.
time is--full STOP.
I'm suspicious
of this box.
Who was I STOP
before summer?
Leaving STOP
is beginning
and beginning
becomes the box. STOP.

if i am not my khakis, what am i?

you lost me yesterday
while you were stumbling
over preposterous words used poorly
malapropisms- i couldn't help but smirk
your ipod plugged in
carelessly feeding away into your brain
you lost me yesterday, I'm not sure you noticed
the world was too crisp
for any words at all.
i'd rather speak simply than appear foolish,
can my minimalistic mumblings convey anything at all?
no; the buzzing of the electronic seashell is in your ear
Like Montag, alone with a robot
i lost you yesterday
your flesh turned to vinyl
head filled with circuits and wires
the grass smelled like hunter green
the heavy sun on my back
reminded me that i'm alive
and i stood and walked away.

summer = cottleston pie

I know it's summer
when the muted hum of the mowers wakes me
the heavy scent of manure slipping through the insulation
on cold, wet breeze
to coat my eyelashes and the back of my throat
A call like chanticlear echoing in the empty dawn, silly guinea-fowl scatter
The road-roller rattling the windows as dust kicks up around the lilac trees
they're trying to flatten the potholes that only reappear
when the rainwater washes into ill-formed ditches
Summer is the smell of horses sweating in their pasture
blinking, sleepy-eyed, too hot to nudge the flies from their fetlocks
Summer is the sting of warm, ripe tomato juice in my mouth
An angry whine of 4-wheelers, like frustrated mechanical hornets gathering.
With summer comes the squealing of chlorine-coated children
splashing in the campsite pool
and the incessant prickle of mosquitoes, swarming
Each one, a greedy proboscus probing -
It doesn't hurt if you let them gather like leaf-mold on your skin
each droplet of blood glistening inside their bloated bellies

Out, damned spot

oh, tenacious weed
your bitter stalk and spangled leaves
thrusting upward through adversity--
we can't escape you.

empty tables

so i was wondering, "since when is it culturally unacceptable to sit with a stranger?" Going through the dining hall, we weave around tables, groan, and move away, daunted because there's a backpack sitting on that chair. More than half of the chairs remain empty, but yet we can't find a seat because it's impossible to ask some stranger, "May i sit here?" What an intrusion! I feel that this is a symptom of our times; we stick together with those that we know, ears plugged with our ipods to keep us safely in our isolation when we might run the risk of being alone among the sea of "others."
Granted, I don't want some random person interrupting my peaceful meal -- but there are times when I sit alone and wonder - are those other solitary diners wishing for company too? Meals are an important social function, a time to share, talk, and laugh with friends, but maybe some day we'll be brave enough to break the barriers of "occupied seat syndrome."

Is there a pill for that? (Of course, silly grasshopper. There's a pill for everything that might ail you. You have insurance; it'll only cost 1/4 your weekly paycheck.) You need to ask your doctor, NOW! Side-effects may include: nausea, dry mouth, constipation, dizzyness, vomiting, night sweats, abdominal pain, fatigue, headache, chills, sweaty palms, hallucinations, muscle spasms, anxiety, sudden death, swollen glands, an itchy rash, coma, runny nose, and dry eyes.
to be continued...

summer shadows

all we are while waking; shadows of our own reality