Out of the Ashes XXIV: A Poem

he experienced
the whole thing
in a dim room, and--
as always--it starts with a dame.

in the shadows, the most curvaceous
temptress whispered lasciviously,
reclining like a Titian
in the bowl . . .
"eat me,"
and, oh,
she was
juicy to the core.

planting the remains
by moonlight
seemed almost a sacrament
to mark that sweetness
forever in the small rites
that made up
his life.

in later years
in that city, lovers
would--when departing
temporarily from
one another's company--
exchange the word
"pear"
like a wet kiss.

Alchemy 101: A Poem

Alchemy 101
***
can i use alchemy to enhance my poetry?
or is that a faux-pas? is it a Freudian slip when i let my pheromones
combine with oils of white musk, sandalwood,
patchouli, and mango
to achieve some substantial subliminal impact,
and reach an even deeper level
in the trenches of your mind?
and how about those "energy drinks"
that turn me rabid, jitter my nerves and jive my senses
until i'm keyed up like a piano
tuned 2 octaves higher
than the rest of the orchestra?
oh, i see.
you thought i was talking about
metaphorical alchemy. we ALL do that.
this whole poetic quest is reaching for some Philosopher's Stone,
but i got a C in my Philosophy 101
for telling the professor that 90% of all philosophy
was just convoluted excuses people came up with
for doing what they would have done anyway.
i guess my philosophy of poetry is that it is alchemy,
a sort of neverending journey into Mystery
seeking the Sublime.
i didn't have to contrive a philosophy for this,
it's something that's encoded into my DNA
by the Master Alchemist . . .archived in the tomes of the Most High.
He teaches me as i go along . . .my alchemical skill is still
that of an apprentice, but Who better to teach
than the One by whose Word Void became Light,
and Death became Life
when the stone rolled away
to reveal the true Rock to a desperate world?

Shadows of a Twilight Empire: Chapter One

Reading over the blogs of two of my friends, Jeff Crook and Browning Keister, i'm realizing that my style and format are somewhat lacking. I'm not really discussing anything of radical importance to any "scene," and most of the work i do in this blog is dealing with the convolutions of my own twisted psyche. Outside of a couple of halfway-decent poems, most of this is just rambling, and probably incredibly boring to the people who persuse it (assuming that anyone does). I'm experiencing a sort of mental version of writer's cramp . . . the mental muscles i've used for so long to write poetry have been focused primarily on what i might call "slammetry," i.e., poetry specifically written to be performed. It's ironic that, while living in one of the spoken word capitals of the United States, i took very little advantage of the opportunities that surrounded me at the time. I've also wondered why i haven't "blogged" about my adventures and misadventures while living in NJ and then in NYC.

Okay.

I lost most of my material wealth thanks to a housefire. I had books, CD's, and all of my papers certifying that, yes, in fact, i AM Robert Todd Pack, a legal resident of the United States, not a terrorist--well, an ART TERRORIST, maybe. Also most of my clothes and some knick-knacks that, while not exactly precious, certainly had some sentimental value. Part of this was that, apparently, a large box of my stuff i'd packed up was either mistaken for trash or simply purloined by the people who came in to fix the house. I was lucky to rescue my cat, my computer, certain books, and a couple of tomes of hard copy of my poetry. Pretty much everything else was toasted, smoked, or soaked. (Even this small scattering of stuff was later partially destroyed when the basement of the house i had lived in in the Bronx--where a lot of my stuff was stored until i returned to Roanoke--was flooded). As far as my job in NJ was concerned, that was the least of my worries . . . my district manager was happy to transfer me to a store in the Bronx . . . and my friend there was giving me a rent-free room for 6 months. I thought, "6 months, cool, i can accomplish a lot in that time, and will surely find some other place to live by that time." Some of my earlier journaling in my blog reveals that optimistic state of mind. I was getting good hours at my job, but i ended up spending a lot of what i gained as simple "mad money." I've never been very good with finances . . . an understatement, to be sure.

About a month after i'd moved into my furnished room in the Bronx, i was sitting on my bed, writing poetry, listening to some music, just pretty much chilling out. Outside, i heard 3 loud sounds that i immediatedly identified as gunfire. I'd never heard gunshots outside of a few adolescent hunting trips (and, partly because i couldn't keep my big mouth shut even when hunting, there weren't many of those either, because i succeeded in scaring off anything living that didn't require a hearing aid). I turned off my music, and outside heard a loud crowd of people . . . it sounded to me like a mob. One voice shouted out over the other voices, "We're number one! We're number one! We're STILL number one!" Then, as the other voices died out, i heard a car, and the same voice in a lower tone say, "Come on, let's get out of here." The car drove off . . . not speeding, but not taking it easy either. At that moment, my brain kinda vapor-locked, and i thought, "Oh, shit, i'm living in the Bronx." I was the whitest cracker on the block. Later on that night, some detectives came around, asking questions. I simply told them what i'd heard. When asked by one cop if i'd looked out the window when i heard the crowd, i said, "No, sir, i did NOT look out. I distinctly heard three shots, which meant that even if the shots were fired from a revolver, there were three bullets out there, and i didn't want my name on any of them." The cops took it easy on me, they could see i was shaken up a bit. That was an understatement. The next day, i saw a shrine up by the bodega, for a kid--he couldn't have been older than 16, if that--called "Li'l Bit." I stopped and lit a stick of nag champa incense that i carried around in my backpack, and said a brief prayer for the kid's family and friends. Three Black guys who were standing nearby watched me carefully while i did this, and as i stood up to leave, one of them stepped closer to me and said, "Good lookin' out." I looked in the newspapers the next day, but not one mention of the kid. NOT ONE. No, instead, the front pages were plastered with the latest Hollywood scandal. THIS KID HAD BEEN SHOT AND NOBODY GAVE A SHIT. When people hear my ranting or pronouncements about the media, the "system," etc., they call my paranoid or cynical. My parents have even said that. FUCK that, that was REALITY that night, and my idealistic visions were shattered as sure as if it was the gunshots that hit them. Crack, crack, crack! I also realized at that time the simple reality that a lot of New Yorkers seem to accept without a qualm: this stuff goes on all the time. The people i hung out with at the park--"Park Rats," some of them even took that moniker on themselves--could just as easily have been that boy. I think of how i'd felt if it had been Spider or Smoke or Shadow or Papo or Pharaoh or one of the other guys i now called friends, who'd been shot. I mean, Pharaoh even had scars where he'd been shot before--i'd seen 'em. I knew that a lot of those guys were what the "norms" would call "criminals," "hoods," or "degenerates." Almost all of them drank, and several of them used cocaine. Almost everyone at the Park smoked pot--even i did (yes, i smoked pot, okay, fucking deal with it), but almost everyone in NYC either smokes it or has smoked it at one time or another (wonder what my Grandmother with her "when in Rome, do as the Romans do" philosophy would have thought about that, ha ha). Mostly, when i went up to the park, i was either involved in playing Magic the Gathering, or talking poetry, philosophy, and theology. It always amazed me how many of these streetwise kats were actually intellectuals in wolves' clothing. Or maybe just intellectual wolves. And there i was, a sheep in wolves' clothing, not dangerous, not a fighter, a whitebread guy from the South, and yet i was accepted. It took a while . . . and not everyone there trusted me, i found out later--in fact, the ones that didn't trust me were the least trustworthy themselves, and seemed to regard my honesty and lack of "hood-pretense" with suspicion.

It was Spring and Summer, and i spent most of my days well into twilight and evening there, associating with riff-raff . . . or so some would say. There are no limits to friendship, and quite a few of them came to regard me almost as a go-to guy when it came to the Christian faith. I encountered some opposition because of it, but not as much as you might think. I was always willing to talk to someone who had questions, and didn't pretend to have all the answers, and i didn't try to cram my beliefs down people's throats. I felt like a Lone Ranger for a while, until Conscience and i met up and started to hang around. Jesus didn't get a corporate job or hang around with the high and mighty . . . He spent His time with the people who were lost, the "losers," the "outsiders." People knew that what i had, i shared. I'd buy energy drinks, candy, whatever, and just share them around. Smoke particularly started respecting me early on, because i brought him a matching hat, scarf, and a pair of gloves back when i was living in Jersey, after i'd started making a regular weekly trip to the park to hang out. Pharaoh and i had spent hours of time together at his place in Jersey, staying up all night playing "Soulcalibur 2." These guys weren't BAD people. Yes, they engaged in illegal activities. Yes, they did a lot of things that i wouldn't do, and i could have gotten "bagged" by association by cops who--in New York--are just as happy to harrass two for the price of one. I didn't have "respectable" friends. But i had friends who, at the very least, didn't pretend to be things that they weren't. Sure, they had flashy names, and some of the typical macho bragging went on, but everybody knew when it was real and when it was bullshit.

Whereto tends all this? Other than trying to give people a sort of play-by-play of my experiences, and how they've impacted me, i'm simply saying i'm fed up. I'm tired of the way these so-called "criminals" and "outcasts" are regarded by society. Even people who are close to me in every other way seem to look down on my friends. These are people who shared what little they had with me, and who helped me out in whatever way they could when i was down-and-out . . . i'll go into details about this in later posts (this has already turned into a rather wordy chapter). IF YOU CANNOT WALK AMONG THEM, YOU CANNOT HELP THEM. No amount of political action, ratification, "charity dinners," or other elitist posturings are going to do them any good. YOU DON'T KNOW THEM. And when one of them gets shot, you just label them "thugs," and think "good riddance." When you think like that, i want you to remember what the Ghost of Christmas Present said to Scrooge: "It may be that in the sight of Heaven, you are no more fit to live than this poor man's child."

Morning Mourning

Last night, i had a dream about performing a poem. It was a new poem, one i haven't written. And when i woke up, i could actually remember a whole section of the poem . . . and, like an idiot, i didn't immediately transcribe it. And now it's GONE!!! I can't even remember a single LINE from that poem, and i'm really frustrated and angry and pissed off and several other words i won't mention even in a blog.

It has been a busy morning. My parents and i did a major cleaning of the kitchen . . . we've been going room by room, cleaning the house, washing the curtains, even putting new carpet in the TV room. Today, new blinds in the kitchen, and it was also a cooking day. Mom started out making her ginger-snaps (i had the first one hot out of the oven!) Then, it was my turn, baking up homemade party mix (Dad's recipe), and later today Dad's making homemade bread. At some point, we'll mix the mulling spices with the cider and put that on in the crock pot. And all day long i was mourning the loss of my dream. I've got to stay on target with that.

Right now, i feel very blah. So i'm going to wait until later and try to post something meaningful in this blog.

F'WAH!

Fwah, also spelled "F'wah," is a cosmic sound made by the Universe. Sort of like, "Om," but less dignified. It can also be used as a sort of enthusiastic greeting, usually immediately following the person's name. Also known as an emotion of impending disaster.
"Galactus! F'wah!"
"This cosmic notion fills me with a great sense of fwah."
"Tony! If you don't turn off that Gravonic Blaster, this whole neighborhood is gonna go f'wah!"

http://www.urbandictionary.com/

Drive-By Ranting

There's a hurricane driving by
in an old Hudson Terraplane, screaming
about some future fusion of YouTube, the New World Order,
and something that some people call Utopia
and a state of mind some people call Bliss
and a fear that not enough people are Pissed Off enough
to whistle up a wind of change.

Obama's promising change, but it hasn't added
any loose change in my pockets, and isn't apt to.
Cheney hasn't changed, his eyes still like two
rabid animals in their sockets, gibbering about
terrorists that may be roaming the streets
while he earns money every time something blows up.
The overblown drama that ensares so many of my friends
hasn't changed; they've only added new faces to their rosters,
a roll-call of losers and outcasts in which i'm depicted
and captured as well.
"Money Changes Everything," Lauper hiccups, but
money hasn't changed itself. We sell hours of our time
for less of it every day, and exchange it for even less,
and having it has become a set of shackles
that binds us like Marley's ghost.

Take some pills! See a shrink! Watch TV!
Eat some fucking McFood! Go see a movie
the production costs of which
would easily feed an entire third-world nation
for a year! Set that terrorist alert level on Orange
and watch the voters scurry about
like ants when their anthill's been kicked apart
by some giant kid with a squirt pistol!
Take a picture! Post a film of something stupid
on YouTube! It's YOU! It's TV! The lowest
common denominators of reality
screwing each other into senility
while the pharamceutical companies and
insurance companies do a line-dance
to a tune called "We Are The World,
We Cause the Misery, We Reap the Profits!"
The opiate of the masses is . . . .
EVERYTHING! As long as you've got a lot of it,
it keeps you numb!

If you combine Gas-X and xenoestrogens and
toxic chemicals in our dryer sheets and
whatever brainkiller your psychiatrist prescribes
and toothpaste with flouride
and carbon monoxide
and something to curb your erectile dysfunction,
you get Fully Functional Plastic Poseable
Disposable Consumers, just plug them in
and they'll watch QVC and buy stuff
until their brains rot!

And the ones that don't plug in
are terrorists, paranoid, antisocial,
malcontents . . .
they'll make perfect scapegoats
for all the societal side-effects or,
failing that, Soylent Green.

Labels for this post: scooters, vacations, fall,
Humpty Dumpty, dumpster-diving, free-fall,
downsizing, No Skateboarding Allowed in This Park,
computers, and poop.

P.S.--Go watch CSI, so you can figure out what they're using
to prove that you're guilty, and fuck reasonable doubt,
everybody's guilty.

Repost of a Section of a Longer Rant on my Myspace Blog

If you really want to change things, in any way, for the better, it's wise to start investing your time and energies in the upbringing and positive regard for the youth. Seldom do their needs get considered, except in terms of numbers or when some event (such as Columbine) makes the headlines. Even then, they're only used as platforms for various political parties. We had a "Million Mom March," now how about a "Million Youth March?" A lot of kids are disgusted with the moral decay and lack of concern in our nation and in nations abroad, but unfortunately our nation seems to be more concerned with sating or sedating the kids, streamlining them into one political party or the other, and saturating them with "SOL's" that don't provide coping mechanisms. Prayer in Schools: there's another issue that gets bandied about a lot, but it's a contemtible attempt by parents to shuck off the responsibility of their children's spiritual growth on a bureaucracy that is run by out-of-touch politicians and delegated through a bunch of overworked, underpaid teachers. I always felt like the prayers uttered by the various representatives of the school system were "recorded messages," completely devoid of meaning. That didn't stop me from praying on my own . . . silently, or with a group of friends who shared a common Faith. I certainly don't want the spiritual growth of my niece and nephew to be "handed off" to some faceless bureaucracy that claims to care for them while it's strangling the life out of them. From my own standpoint, the Christian Church is partly responsible for moral decay . . . by succumbing to various political views, by extravagant expenditures on funds to improve the buildings that house the body of believers as opposed to doing something constructive with the youth. I'm not talking about shallow indoctrination, either . . . kids AREN'T mass-produced, and have individual concerns and needs that vary greatly depending on their situation. There's that old saw about "you can't fit a square peg into a round hole." Well, then, STOP DRILLING ROUND HOLES! Stop EXPECTING everyone to easily be categorized or pigeonholed . . . to do that is to rob the individuals of the very individuality bestowed on them by their Creator!