Tag Archives: jobs

selections from In the Sierra: Mountain Writings by Kenneth Rexroth

The question is not
Does being have meaning,
But does meaning have being. Continue reading

Posted in poetry of the universe | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

selections from Nickel and Dimed: On (Not) Getting By in America by Barbara Ehrenreich

No one ever said that you could work hard—harder even than you ever thought possible—and still find yourself sinking ever deeper into poverty and debt. Continue reading

Posted in poetry of the universe | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

do we have a Neal Cassady?

the physicist hates pizza but loves lengua.

the geologist hates donuts but loves Jesus.

the producer hates waste but loves wasting.

the writer hates pretentiousness but loves idealism.

the hustler hates ownership but loves to own.

the farmer hates impurities but loves anomalies.

the assistant hates guns but loves the darkness. Continue reading

Posted in dear diary, poetry of the mind | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

omit everything superfluous

oh, Hank Williams, you’re neither disco nor techno but you sure the hell have soul. i love you like i always did. today is monday, but it hasn’t always been this way. on thursday, i got a new job. on … Continue reading

Posted in dear diary, poetry of the mind | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

words sound; or, celery [archive]

dedicated from Surfer Girl to Kitchen Hips, who wrote half this poem though she only half realizes it.

i am facing the sun and sit on my hams, hair in my face, pen in my hand. tongue in my mouth. i take my shoes off and my toes touch the grass, cold and ready. i don’t want the circle to go just yet but it’s dipping, blinking out of sight, and i decide:

i’m going to say things
just for the sake of saying them. i have
a deadline and so do you, to
chomp and say
cut and say
splice and say
carve and say
slice and say
chunk and say
chink and say
order, box, ship, and save.

sipping on a Neil Young island ice tea, i
chat with myself: “the universe
is such
a HUGE PERFECT INFINITE
FRACTAL FALLING INTO ITSELF
AHHH
7:11 PM
words fail
haha
for once, i totally agree
once and for all
i mean
it just IS”
our fundamental lack of understanding

For the Kingdom! And the Power! And the Glory! Are Yours! Now! And For Ever!
hey man,
you sound like the sun. . .

For the Kingdom! And the Power! And the Glory! Are Yours! Now! And For Ever!
hey man,
you taste like Zeus. . .

For the Kingdom! And the Power! And the Glory! Are Yours! Now! And For Ever!
hey man,
you look like the Buddha. . .

For the Kingdom! And the Power! And the Glory! Are Yours! Now! And For Ever!
hey man,
you kind of resemble tom cruise. . .

There is also an interesting observation that a resentful elephant would abort its fetus if it fed on the young shoots of bamboo, one of the earliest references to a plant toxin.

just kidding, i’m incredibly
forgetful,

ADICTIONARY
theory: words that word what words can word
theorem: what you have when you have more than one theory
law: an excuse to kill
fact: a place to build things
hypothesis: an illness preserved for the weak, skeptics

though i doubted the validity

the other day a friend told me that this professor had professed how an historian of old related the tale of an ancient and wise philosopher-king who once sang,

like when taking a bite out of an orange expecting milk
like when pressing play on a record player expecting the Renaissance

the cold vinyl Earth vibrates everything
but heat, singing the same
lyric: uh!
let me see you shake in your boots
going back to the old school
back to your roots

before an apartment
it was a museum, religious science
it was a church
it was temple
it was a minaret
it was a church
a minaret, a pantheon of trinities trinities
trinities

the first magic trick
i ever learned:
defining the number 3:
everything that comes before now,
now, and everything that comes after
now. a greybeard
in the audience heckles me,
silently says, “hogwash,”
like an H-bomb.

ok, i’m flipping through the deck, tell me if you see your card:

. . .loser psychologists, nerdy psychiatrists, punk professors, jock surgeons, intellectual dentists, artist writers, alternative reporters, hipster consultants, geeky technicians, bro lawyers, gangsta programmers, kandi kid designers, stoner djs, pusher cooks, hippie gardeners, dissenting carpenters, bum farmers, yuppy biologists, goth chemists, suits physicists, biker astronauts, athlete librarians, tripping athletes, clubbing architects, slutty natural resource managers, nudist shoreline planners, mountaineer geologists, hedonist politicians, filthy rich nymphomaniac thief poets, drunk jewelers, savage dealers, popper artists, skating musicians, surfing actors, dancing talk show hosts, baller rangers, high-rolling cops, star firemen, lurks fashion designers, leeches teachers, creepers physicians, straight arrows, slob bouncers, go-getting bartenders, prankster secretaries, stealing salespeople, thinkers drivers, activist models, juicers investors, bitches bakers, animal business owners, god baristas, being plumbers. . .

. . .niet . . .niet

Turkish kiss
man/fish

. . .niet . . .niet

dancing trains, contagious
singing trains, contagious
trains in motion, contagious
people in motion, contagious
sand dunes, contagious
static tanks, contagious
shadows in motion, contagious
tanks in motion, contagious
water in motion, contagious
writing is motion, contagious

. . .niet . . .niet

the next part of my lecture is called, “be perfect and don’t give a damn:”

. . .niet . . .niet

i have time.
to kill.
now.
vs
i have.
time to kill.
now.

. . .niet . . .niet

singer soldiers
vs
soldier singers

. . .niet . . .niet

sing to a mirror, mirror to a dance

. . .niet . . .niet

a gash, a cake, a fire, a bugle
a gash, a cake, a fire, a bugle
a gash, a cake, a fire, a bugle
a gash, a cake, a fire, a bugle

. . .niet . . .niet

fornication and blood,
iron and blood,
burning in water,
drowning in flame!
putting faith in appearances
rock, the epitome
trash can deep within
found in a stairwell

no, that’s not it,
not the one i’m looking for,

realizing rainbows may not
have anything in common with homosexuality
is like
realizing that a dirty black vagabond
named Lead Belly
can slice you to
your knees as quickly as
Johannes Chrysostomus Wolfgangus Theophilus Mozart

gurgle gurgle gurgle–the sound of me
choking on coffee

enough theory, let’s go downtown!

once the Dean of students took so much laughing gas that he exploded, and for 13.73 (+/- 0.12) billion years he expanded on the nature of nature, but, too distracted by swirling, burning bowls and discs, i missed the most of it, but caught the

end:

“and there just is infinity! and that’s all the universe is! acting out this one point in time. . . that’s what it feels like. . . i’m still fucking. . .”
even now?
“yo! it’s what fucking happens. and i really do believe. . . i can’t control me not saying that shit. that’s what occurs to me.”
well that’s what laughing gas is supposed to do, right?
make you laugh?
choking gas?
make you choke!
tear gas?
make you cry!
natural gas?
everything i say is
only natural,
forgive me,

lazy crickets, two hours forty-five minutes and you.

you, i pissed off your balcony without even asking,
and you, i didn’t even call when i flew to your Europe,
and you, i pretended i didn’t even speak ni una palabra,
and you, i couldn’t read bass clef even with your basement keys,
and you, even i haven’t lied to you once, San Francisco frantic,
or you,

Dr. Seuss, never
let me drink again:
“i sane am.
i am sane.
am i sane.
am sane i.
sane am i.
sane i am.”

dare i speak?

double dog scared,
Rexroth rockets haunt me,
Kitchen Hip hollers hold me,
no, no,
this isn’t
more of that beat bullshit,
i’m kraken-inspired, nothing-induced,

i’m an oxycontin-picking moron,
“i cannot speak,”
but i get by. i’m a Venture Capitalist,
all in CTRL.

it’s a long way to the moon, i know
it’s a long way to the sun, i know

but

concerning conversing distance:

howl to commune with the one,
scream to commune with the other. Continue reading

Posted in poetry of the mind | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment