2wenty 7eventeen

Bring in the new year with its brutal, sheer fear,
wring out the old year, beat what’s brought us here.
Bury our weary as we parade our cheer,
“Move along, folks, nothin’ to see here.”

Twenty Seventeen doesn’t mean our hands are clean,
in between the lanes and lines, swerving, we careen
into a class divide as colors collide, tweeted and streamed.
Televised destiny, technology unexpectedly
deciding what things mean. Meme.

Ring in the new year! All is wonderful far and near!
We have most of our limbs and beauty we find dear.
Whether we’re alone in a town or among those in your home,
new years appear to be clear only when we shut our mouths to hear.

Poems.

Advertisements

The Taste of Music

My dad used to sing me Neil Young and Uncle Remus.

Then he showed me David Bromberg, The Rolling Stones and Tchaikovsky.

I was at my neighbor’s house when Black Dog gave my little boy body wide-eyed convulsions.

There was a Tuesday afternoon elective at my school called “Beatles and Drawing.” It was a half hour of listening to the Beatles and drawing whatever you wanted. I was 9 years old. MLC…sigh.

I was a 10 year old when my friend mentioned that his big brother bought Kill ‘Em All and it took me 2 more years of Madonna and New Wave until I finally understood what he said that day.

My first concert was George Thorogood and the Delaware Destroyers at Portland’s Civic Auditorium in 1986. The following year my dad took me to my first indie show, Screaming Trees with The Dwarves at Pine Street Theater. That’s how cool my dad was.

When my family broke up I moved schools and went from being raised among the culture of the city to now having to explore adolescence deep in the Eastside suburbs, my life took a serious turn. My lifelines were License To Ill, Legacy of Brutality, N.W.A. Fresh Fruit For Rotting Vegetables, It Takes A Nation and in the 8th grade my friend brought over G.B.H., Jimi Hendrix, L7 and Slayer records and we played them all until the needle broke and my brain melted like soft ice cream.

I was neck-deep in a suburban white neighborhood and it was then that I realized I could either be a product of my bland environment or make a conscious decision to live and think for myself.

Anything that flaunted the system and mocked the establishment, the music that protested corruption, oppression and used passion and adrenaline to express their discontent was music I subsisted on, endlessly blaring into my Walkman. I was an only child who just lost his mother and was now living an hour-long bus ride away from the comfort of downtown. Music was the only thing I listened to because I certainly wasn’t hearing any of my teachers or relatives.

On those bus rides I understood why some people listen to bubblegum pop and others just…don’t.

I found this and this at the record store while dropping out of college. Twice.

My friend at Tower Records told me to buy Pretty Hate Machine. I bought it on title alone.

I showed my best friend the Marshall Mathers LP when it first came out and we played it continuously in his 88 Mustang GT.

A friend came to my house and she showed me Glass Animals.

I went to my friend’s house and she showed me 21 Pilots.

Though words and pictures are like my harem, it is music that leads my beautiful life from darkness into today.

Kidneys and Sex

Kidneys and sex.

Things that are perfectly legal to give away but strictly illegal to sell for a thousand, Alex.

Americans are so backassward is certain ways yet quite progressive in others that it literally pains my body when I begin to think of how beautiful yet still primitive my beloved country is. Yay, USA. Bummer, America.

Those that say this is the greatest country in the world have rarely lived in other countries to have a proper frame of reference. This is a supreme country no doubt, but the greatest in the world? Only a nation that crowns its best  sports teams  “champions of the world” while solely competing within its own borders should be viewed as suspect at the very least.

Merry Christmas. The only holiday that transcends all others through media, commercialism and culture, 95% of the American population considers it to be a preeminent holiday despite that barely half of us consider it to be actually religious. Happy Winter Solstice, Scroogy McChristianson.

The Super Bowl. The Stock Market. Colonialism. My god.

Our god, bless America and all its voracious ambitions and love of self. Bless us all for merely being born here or have emigrated here, or being guests here, being fortunate enough to enjoy it’s marvels, spoils and quietly widening wage gap.

I got panhandled for a whole dollar yesterday.

If I had given the beggar a kidney or intercourse, I’d be within the bounds of the law. I proffered a cigarette instead.

Americans.

We all got some serious delusions. And gumption.

Bless us all.

Rage

Peaceful Pistol

Let’s have a brief talk about Rage Against The Machine. My absolute adoration with this band goes beyond all things I consider important in terms of musical science or their talent for playing varied styles of rock, punk, funk, metal, soul and hip-hop.

I’ve little idea about how to explicate why this musical band is so fundamentally sound or how each of their songs tremendously evolve from the first intro and hook to the final pounding note. Like a thrown fist through a Molotov cocktail.

Rage rocks so much beautiful, angry violence that when their music plays, I swallow pride and relinquish all possession of physical restraint. Rage’s music makes us want to learn, enlighten and burn things down. We find brutal passion in Rage’s songs, we dig in our bowels and bring our frustration and fury to the surface like smashmouth weapons, seeking to slaughter those who turn blind…

View original post 83 more words

In The Presents Of A Woman

Picnics are the best. Even when it’s a solo venture to eat someplace divine and serene, away from furniture and awash with sunshine.

On the other hand, the sandwich would be even more savory if it were enjoyed in the company of a girl foolish enough to share a moment with such a mental boy.

Bouquet of sharpened pencils, for a teacher or a lover, stuffed in foam on cardboard paper or right in your face, the heat and vapor of this bourbon resting in a snifter burns my face like gasoline and stings like neatly arranged lead.

BFF as opposed to GFE, better to stay calm and let the world turn for the best.

Some woman drove her car through Salmon Street Springs, plowed through the concrete sea wall and plunged into the Willamette river. They decided she did it on purpose.

When people are kicking a hackey-sack around and hula hooping, it’s hard to take their cause seriously. Occupy that.

I’m thankful that when I’m entertaining guests that I’m the one usually acting the most foolish and accidentally knocking things over.

Being rakish is something that should come without effort.

There is something terribly disturbing when a child gets needlessly snapped at.

Bands who do a cover song should deviate from the original in such a way that it takes the listener a moment to actually realize it’s a song they already know.

Sometimes I close my eyes when passing a woman on the street and enjoy their fragrance without any other distractions.

Gender arguments aside, chivalry is losing its art and air of importance and it’s unfortunate. Doors should be opened and ladies should be tended to and protected, monkeys.

The presents of a woman should be her presence to begin with.

Still No Ring

Maquiladoras, malevolent monstrosities of miserable moneymaking

Invites insanity and incumbent inequities involving

Stoical societies succumbing to sadistic symmetry.

Corporate cohorts connive and construct conglomerates

Operating ostensibly, overseers of the oppressed,

Nimbly navigating numbers of new natives,

Churning Chihuahua’s children into cheap chattel.

Enterprising, exploiting, enveloping environments en masse,

Privatizing, procuring, parceling people for production,

This thievery from threadbare third-world throngs

Is insidious, implementing irreverence with investment

Of our country’s ornate opulence, overbearing

Neighbors with NAFTA’s nightmare, todavia no anular.

Rage

Let’s have a brief talk about Rage Against The Machine. My absolute adoration with this band goes beyond all things I consider important in terms of musical science or their talent for playing varied styles of rock, punk, funk, metal, soul and hip-hop.

I’ve little idea about how to explicate why this musical band is so fundamentally sound or how each of their songs tremendously evolve from the first intro and hook to the final pounding note. Like a thrown fist through a Molotov cocktail.

Rage rocks so much beautiful, angry violence that when their music plays, I swallow pride and relinquish all possession of physical restraint. Rage’s music makes us want to learn, enlighten and burn things down. We find brutal passion in Rage’s songs, we dig in our bowels and bring our frustration and fury to the surface like smashmouth weapons, seeking to slaughter those who turn blind eyes to the unspeakable plight of others.

I could write all night about why this band is sick beyond all comprehension and how their sound became a vision of political outrage and musical evolution, but I’m assured that it’s all been done.

All I can introduce is how this band reminded me of how terrible American foreign and domestic policy can be and how sometimes the only way to think is to rock and how the only way to live is to scream.