Made of Gold and Soaps and Beams of Light

Being poetic is all about being esoteric.

Being: Poetic is.
All about Being,
Esoteric.

That's punctuation through poetry, not esotericism. If we take deep meaning in titles, find referential material in the words used, and assign significance to them we've created poetry. It's some canonical perambulation of basic structures of nerd-nationalism.

Create a subgroup to create your meaningful community.

That's literature, poetry. It's a sort of formula for creativity, the value assigned later is entirely socially constructed. There is no more meaning in some Dub-Yeats than in (What if God was) One of Us, the '90s Joan Osbourne hit. Some might argue that song is inherently middle-school tuned.

Ex.

I.e.


Made of Gold and Soaps and Beams of Light
Our lusty evening bittered hard on soft trellis.

Crisp Autumnal Hyphen-words quivered tightly on turned up lips.

The Buildup immense, corruptible.
Thighs sweated with anticipation,

Thoughts permeated the cooped-up dinnerlight dreams of future-meals.

Alphetering Spiders berange quietly now,
Later curing the child-essence.

Go, go, Facial Tattoo.

It's not really in my scone to judge hard on people for their personal choices, but one hot day while eating a burrito by the river a large man with facial tattoos demanded directions to the 'duck-pond.'
Sure, I saw the guy coming down the path and I admittedly thought, "Wow, big 'X' facial tattoos, obese. This guy is all about life-choices."

He was a little gruff, and a bit more upset when I suggested that the "duck pond" as he called it was all the way back a mile up the path. We had a miscommunication, apparently. He wanted a bend in the river, where rocks are piled up and Geese tend to gather. Sorry, man. But we had it straightened out in the end and he ambled off with out a word of thanks.

I like baffling interactions. Why does this guy interact like this? Who is he with his facial tattoos and obesity?

Working one summer at Macy's I ran into a man demanding directions to the mens' socks. I'll never forget the most shrill and worried request for socks; "Where are the mens' socks?"

I think I'm reminded of everyday angermen after seeing a young punk on the streets this evening and overhearing him say, "I should have thrown these through his fucking windshield." It's sort of awesome, misdirected anger. Sure that could probably be explained away by the typical sort of teenage frustration. I know because I, like all young men, was a younger man full of all sorts of unnecessary anger.

Some people I know, in response to my young manedness, say something along the lines of, "Wow, that's some screwed up sort of machismo going on!" But I understand it; Can't be helped at that age. Or at least it's familiar.

So next time we see some angry sort of heliopersona smoldering and popping with boiling grease, let's look at them like facisnating subjects.

Don't believe

I don't believe in conquering mountains.
It's just like some old world holdover
Where you take a picture at the top
Hands above your head
Triumphant smile
I did it.

But it looks like a comparison between big and small.
You had to climb the the one part of the mountain
Where you were bigger.

The pictures don't show your power
They show everything you didn't
and never can conquer.

I thought you climbed it
Because you liked nature,
But then, you slapped yourself
Right in the middle of a pretty scene.

You can see yourself everyday.
Do you really have to remind yourself
That you were there?

I think the Social Experiment

Some people get it. Some people I think, feel threatened.

I made capes; have ridden bicycles a few times with a select group of people and the capes were involved. But, like any good non-normative behavior there is a spectrum of reaction.

To give an example: On bringing home some capes by myself last night, I had left them at a friend's house, I ran into my neighbor who gives a growly "What's with the capes?" My answer was honest an incomplete, I left them across town and had to carry them back.

His disgruntled reaction though, was not surprising. I've found that you have a 3 point spectrum of reaction, typically. At one end is this unsettled anger, disapproving notion. At the other end is bemused enjoyment. In the middle is indifference.

I've often thought that the reaction to something like capes on a bicycle actually tells more about the person, than the cape wearer. Judging the rider as an eccentric, or irresponsible, or unhinged could be done, but it could also be wildly inaccurate.

I think you might be surprised about who can be convinced into riding around with a cape on.

But, angry people especially, it seems have made the mistake of showing their anger at a harmless thing, and exposed themselves as having deeper issues.

I can give two strange corollaries to this.

It's as if you got angry when you saw a cute picture of an animal.

or

It's the same reaction I got with my huge handlebars of yesterday; Either thumbs up or the middle finger.

Imagine you're sitting by a window eating breakfast. You look out the window. You eat breakfast. You sip some coffee, leisurely. The people who walk by the window look in. Some look away, quickly. Some smile. Some scowl and make a face that says, "How dare you intrude on me with your gaze." Of course the irony is that these sad scowlers are the ones peering into your house, and their rage upon being detected feels strangely misplaced.

An oberseravable fact.

But in some ways the counter to the anger for me, has been a mellowing. A smile, a friendly attitude; These can isolate a pile of rage and bones and skin on a little island of anger and problems. Not that these people don't need to address these problems, or that I don't care; but you can't solve the problems of the guy who screams incomprehensibly out his driver's side window.

You can give those who will take them, capes.

Let them out.

I had all these great ideas.
Well, they weren't great ideas, but I had them while walking around.
I was looking at some banks.
There were something that I supposed to be apartments.
In my head one was, "The coolest apartment window in all of the world."
Another I think had some sort of gallery lights.
Now my hands are fat from walk swinging.
But that's what life is.
Your fat hands.

My Crutch

Maybe we've all got crutches.
Mine is esoterisicism.
Too many is-isms in that word?
Probably.
It's my inflammatory
creation-myth of ethos.
Sorry,
I think it's my crutch.

Gird Your Loins

I thought of something really intelligent to say this morning, while I was grinding my breakfast. Fruits in a blender, juices in a blender. Yes juices. There were many juices. There was money-mellon; it's green and tastes like a symphony of secular angels. There was coffee ground too. Something is already making me fart. This is a good morning.

Instead of something smart, all I really wanted to say is: I hope I see a boobs today.
It's asinine, but more honest than most people can be about their lives. Of my hopes and dreams, boobseeing ranks up there with being superman and T-Rexing-it-up.

Let's go hyphen.

The woods

I like where I live
If and when I look out the window
The trees look like a cabin.
It feels like somehow
We tricked the world into
Letting us stay on vacation;
Borrowing a friend's cabin,
forever.
Mostly it's the trees a night,
well, right before
the sun's light goes away
totally.
I kind of feel like the wolves will
come
when I'm walking at night.
The water will always be icy,
when ever you step in a puddle.
I will be dark alot too,
and you get tired from being outside.
And waffles,
Cans,
and ham.

I'll push you gender roll.

I love shoes. Always have; except of course for that time my Mom recently reminded me of, in which she brought home some, undoubtedly super-cool Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle shoes, and I ungratefully put them in the trash. What a little butt-hole I was.

But so now I've got a few choice pairs of shoes at all times. They garner comments and compliments unto themselves. They say you can tell a lot about a person by their shoes; for example, you can tell if they are European or not. You can tell if they don't have shoes also. You can tell if they stepped in mud, or a poop. These aren't deep features, but you can tell.

Shoes, some people think shoe collections are for women. I'll leave you thinkers in the 20th century.

Had I if my had a way I'd shoe a collection worthy of shelves; a prison yard for library check out ladder climbing.

Blather

Blather above,
Blather below

Oh, did I say blather
I meant snow.

P.s. it's Winter.

One excuse

One excuse
for writing something crude is to say
"This is a poem, for you,
written exceptionally crudely,
titled, One Excuse"

One excuse for not looking at you
was that I didn't want to look at your pubes.

One excuse for poem curds
is to say
look at them-
soft turds.

One excuse for rhyming
is to say,
the best part about rhyming
is to say
crude words like
I said
or wrote rather.
Barf a little in your throat rather;
lather with a little soap rather
to wash away the immaturity

Hey at least I'm honest,
and there aren't any puns.

Blather.