Saturday, 22 April 2017

22/30: Notes En Route Alongisde the March For Science

Darth Vaders with Han Solo signs.
Elbows to elbows to knees to smalls of backs.
Snide asides from the "justtryingtogettowork"
crowd about "finally a march I'm on board with."

Plenty of jokes. Plenty of quotes. Plenty of
white folks with dreadlocks. No sign of hacky sack
in the rain.

A bullhorn in the rapidly filling park.
Cheers. A switching tide of people,
toward and away from less clogged routes,
toward and away from shorter lines for coffee.

Plenty of portraits of obscure physicists next to
"It's Motherfucking SCIENCE BITCH" next to
grey haired ladies in rumpled gortex talking about
priests of nonviolence and the 70s and the
documentary their lone young companion should watch.

Storm troopers with anti-fa arm bands.
A chance to dress up in a casual town.
A swarming sea of blacks and blues and greens
and the thought that Science will continue
whether we recognize it or not,

much to the terror of the man pulling a radio
flyer with two brown haired children,
thumbsucking and curled up on eachother
like puppies.

Friday, 21 April 2017

21/30: #Targets

A poem about Class in Seattle,
Class in myself, the idea of Taste as
Class signifier, of Class as Taste
signifier, of Education as Class
and Taste signifier, as how despite my
love for both the band and radio station,
I couldn't help but define the
New Pornographers as
KEXP the band.

this is not a compliment.

A poem about Subarus.
A poem about people who
pay so much money for durable
flip flops  and then eat such expensive food
in those durable flip flops and
a poem about people, these
same ones, who think that
we relate to eachother because
we've both read Bolano.

A poem about self-isolation
and a poem about self immolation
in the need to fit in. The gatekeepers
still exist, despite the thinkpieces
gatekeepers share on their facebook
about how the internet
has rid us
of gatekeepers.

This is not a complaint.

A poem about what sorts of
buildings the suburbs meant
growing up, and what they mean
now, and a poem about

the assholes who live in my building
who let their friends steal flat
screened TVs and a poem about
the whole of recorded history
as seen through subsidized housing.

I am also an asshole in my building
but none of my friends have done the sort of damage
that leads to long term policy or rental changes.

A poem about "mindfulness."
A poem about "following your dreams" or about "hard work" or about Nice Things and why we can have them, actually, if we change our attitudes.
A poem about your favorite yoga place.
A poem about my favorite sandwich shop.
A poem about the way the moderately wealthy
do more to shame to poor than the extremely wealthy do
90% of the time, their smirks and their aphorisms.

A poem about the friends I used to have,
who hover like vultures in comment sections and
wider gatherings, whose lives of relative wit
and misanthropy sour like milk and burn like
spilt coffee.

This is not a high ground, but it's the only ground I've got.

Thursday, 20 April 2017

20/30: Well Whiskey and a Rainier

for Natalie

A neutral bar-- enough; one might quarrel with the bartender's tattoos
but who can argue with pizza? Don't know exactly what I was expecting
one year ago over pepperoni slices, except that you were
hotter in person and your voice warmer than any bio-interests belied.

Those sparkler moments when interest went from idle to active--
your "because if you can, why not?" over a trip to Scotland to watch
a band with a sentence long name, the romance lighting, the way
when we decamped to the last and only journalist dive in town

you said "yah, I'm not fancy, give me a well whiskey and a rainier."
The well at the Streamline is Old Crow. We learn, in time, this is our
low-end threshold, that it's worth a dollar or two more for
Beam or Jack when facing down Potters or McCormicks.

The Rainier remains steady, sometimes even without the whiskey.
Those first-date bars are out of our way, but haven't disappeared.
Pizza remains steady, sometimes even without pepperoni.
This morning I kissed you half sleeping, made breakfast,
left the last egg for you.

Wednesday, 19 April 2017

19/30: In Which I Summon the Ghosts of Still Living Scribes

Ten oil paint woodland water scenes
in this room where two men in
turbans compare data over a
laptop and the guy who works at
the gyro place where they recognize
my nephew sits in a chair with
an embroidered cushion while
songs with echo-ey lady vocals
drift over the sound of espresso
machines, and I believe that if
there is a problem in this room
I am part of it.

This is the second poem I've written
in A Muddy Cup in my life time and the
more-than-second poem I've written
during this arbitrary daily-poem-calendar
-time about the coffee shop that I'm writing
in and if every poem is a little bit
about poetry, then all of mine are a lot
about poetry, but this is the second one
that I consciously chose to write this month
and I will finish my taxes a little  later
than I planned.

Now this is like a Shane Guthrie poem
or Ryan Johnson poem, they are also both
writing poems every day or almost
every day, because it is important and we
know we are important because we
choose to do this, and they also both
have written about the act of writing and
I'm not sure if they'll be flattered or offended

that I sat in a room with it's own library
that is in the business of giving people a
place to sit and not be terrified of the world
but ostensibly it's just coffee and now
this piece is much much longer than either
Ryan or Shane usually write, even longer
than a poem by Jake Tucker, who was the
most enthused about the 30/30s, but has
written the least, so I assume he has broken
fingers by a Moose in Canada, but yes,
mush longer of a poem than any
of theirs, unless
it's an epic diatribe,
surrealist or
political, respectively,
God
I could use
one of those

right now.

Tuesday, 18 April 2017

18/30: TFW: TBT/FBF

Never underestimate your capacity for:
                                           creative cosplay
                                           the duckface you mock in others
                                           hair so bad you swore never again until today,
                                           then, the mirror, the howcomenoonetoldme?

Never overestimate the social market for:

                                          creative duckface
                                          the cosplay you mock in others
                                          eyehangs so bad you swear next time will be sun
                                          glasses, or more water, or sleep, or no allergies.

Okay, fine.

It was the summer of pastel sweaters, went so
far to flirt with polos, didn't like yacht rock but
wanted invites to the parties. didn't have a 401K
but could agree about Murakami and headfake through
a conversation about Rose. far less responses to 
this post from when, but you were less connected then/

whatever

happened to that scarf?

Never underestimate your capacity for:

                                               nostalgia for coping-benders
                                               nostalgia for drunk poetry readings and the afterlaughs
                                               nostalgia for inadequate grocery stores
                                               nostalgia for the people with the droning speech and 
                                               single college anecdote 
soyoungthen.

Never overestimate your tendency to:

                                              overfilter photographs of milk/ cookies.
                                              self-congratulate for reality television
                                              idle judgement on a brew of coffee as your frozen
                                              pizza burns.

but at least I--

It was the winter of mixed drinks. like most winters,
punctuated by January's forced moderation and the 
half-week of snowball fights. the best thing about it,
even then, were the pictures of friends, best ones,
collapsed in banks outside rest areas. action shots
snowballs quick and in-frame. that was a time ago,
now, algorithm calculated for nostalgia,
for when it snowed,
when we were
there, naming our adventures

when that was even a frame
we'd all be in.
 
               .                                

Monday, 17 April 2017

17/30: Speculative Derision On the Fourth Edge of Defensive Estate Sales

The word that
                        floats in and out of
common lexicon
                                                        and in and out
                                                        and in and out
                                                        of my repertoire

Things I just want to say, will
write whole paragraphs to justify
"gloaming" or "majestic" or "crustacean justice."
Efficacious and loquacious.

Feels
on my
tongue                               (ears, how it sounds)

Claiming a theory, a deep, academic knowledge
of the trips my tongue falls over, takes happy
hours of brain space to

justify
these lullabies on the spastic
twitch of finger jitter keyboard
molasses
these
not-jokes but
strictly, strychnine, sounds like hounds ate
clowns while dime-turned on a sentence
on a retrial caught on tapeworm by
innocent venison
(meat)
                                                 can't possibly
                                                 can't possibly
                                                 can't possibly

be seriousness. Furiousness. Curiousness.
Stopped rhyming my poems sometime
in High School, but the
urge
(somewhere in the brain near
where the puns are kept, but
both more vulgar and refined)
                                                never leaves,
just pops up                             like a bubble in soup

waiting to get popped, hammered, slammered,
betwixt the fortnight and the afterthought,
the punch-fought dirigible on the edge of bedside
morale, just ratcheting, ratcheting, ratcheting.

Sunday, 16 April 2017

16/30: Hour Hand Stuck

A clerkship at a faceless company.
Sitting in the long grey two p.m.

A bus you miss for lack of sprinting.
Left waiting in the long grey two p.m.

A knuckle rash, an elbow sting.
Aching in the long grey two p.m.

Caffiene drops out, demands more caffeine.
To jolt you through the long grey two p.m.

A stack of tasks, collated and stamped.
Filing through the long grey two p.m.

The three p.m. and one p.m. are ghosts.
Grinning at the long grey two p.m.

A bus you catch that jolts and starts.
Staying in the long grey two p.m.

A sleep that waits like cats on roofs.
Waking through the long grey two p.m.

A stapler that breaks with three files left.
Mocks you in the long grey two p.m.

Neighbor dogs bark every time.
Unknown in the long grey two p.m.

Neighbor cats go run and yowl.
Hiding in the long grey two p.m.

A clerkship with transparency.
Promised by the long grey two p.m.

Processed cheese and cardboard bread
Demand repeats in the long grey two p.m.

A grind of tasks, and guts, and dust.
Crunched out of the long grey two p.m.

Til five p.m. til five p.m. til five p.m.
Whispered in the long grey two p.m.