IT'S HARD TO REMEMBER

GOOD SENSE DURING INCLEMENT WEATHER

Part II

Fear can penetrate through all natural belief
beyond the tantamount goose bumps from a daily
mishap and its unsettled breeze. Explosion
if you want to get real; overly layered paint
if you want to make believe. Take a look
at the law man beating up
the wrong guy.
Another rebuffed testimony set up to defuse
a furor over skivvies and suffocation. Get this:
a plutocracy pretends that it wears its own
desert fatigues when in fact credibility wears thin.
In this firestorm, I strain to reach for my big toe
and release the tightness
knowing that this is not
what “loosen a guy up for us” aims for. Perhaps,
it is “the treatment” that makes one bend
into a position of resentment and unfathomable rage.
You’re telling me you don’t know what’s going on.
That’s what I’m telling you.
Are you truly unaware
that a preemptive strike against our potential enemies
is nothing but an example that precedes the torture?
“There’s nothing so embarrassing as when things go
wrong in a war.” Or the embarrassing poses
in a picture book meant to decrease
the chatter,
acting out fantasies. The clouds loom and are ready
to touch down amongst the disarray and weep with us.
All we can do is ride the outspoken and utter
words like “incompetent” and “not a leader.”
I often wish I could turn and believe that a year
in the sun is a year in the sun, without
a year in the sand and a year in a cage.
Interrogations suffocate and are redefined
to blow away the air used
to keep the protection
alive. A timely memo indicates to “take gloves off”
and handle the new Reagan greenback, fund
the allowance with a ruler to knuckle approach.
A retrieval and solemn farewell points us
in the opposite direction not to notice the misleading
of mourners.
The rescue mission of seven soldiers
trapped in an ambush where one is a neighbor that you died for.
Now, as a pallbearer at the funeral, it was the least you could do
not knowing the Bay Area connection. Regret remains futile
under the rooftops that rained down all heck breaking loose,
and every type of fluid leaking. While in bad shape,
the tanks arrive.
In loss, there is no secret icing on the cake when Metallica
and Beethoven routinely get played back to back while expounding
the merits of both. Pile me a driver on these roads of discontent,
the barricades add to safety in the city that broadcasts snores.
The voices of where you’re going next. The cautious
yet artful
can become a stigma for the politically driven. I, myself,
don’t trust “the real me,” like you wouldn’t believe it
unless there exists a photo of the drips down
the helmet alive and the forgiven Vietnam flak jacket.
A bird unbeknown at your feet causes a scare:
IED magnitude. Don’t fault me
for my inhibitions over a dead dog.
“We never announced a scorched-earth policy; we never
announced any policy at all, apart from finding
and destroying the enemy, and we proceed
in the most obvious way” (Herr 153). It does not matter
if you are loved, anything will happen. Trust diminished,
truth demolished, gas siphoned. In order for me to realize
the importance of you
must you need to come
to terms with the significance of me? I prefer the public space
only when the private eye does not know privacy.
The civilized world indicted. It appears
that we are being crippled not only by attacks but
by the finances lost to disrupt such attacks,
society prefers if we not tell the truth.
The debt
it takes. Bleed me dry for Christ’s sake or the sake
of the profit. No, that was another moment in time.
Give me your ghost and I’ll make sure it gets
a proper burial, a proper way to favor intelligence reform.
No one wants to call anything preventable
except the dead.
Accept the dead for they travel by wind, in and through
surrounding disapprovals crouching besides the just cause,
the lost cause, and the assets that come from beneath
the grave. Sewage in the streets and enters from underneath
as there are many holes in boots.
To reduce the swagger
in a sun bleached light takes the bait for the recruitment
devices manipulating the walk in a sea of disposition.
Having felt a presence heavy on my torso while I made
my way into sleep, my limbs and sound were halted.
I could not move
pushing the bodies and their detached spirits
off the bed, but somehow their weight descended upon me.
Skin melted away but not from the sun, but from the place
that will disrupt the abeyance, my obeisance to those
who keep me from harm’s way. We’ve got more money than you
says we, says them and we know
how to spend it or lose it.
Let’s make the case that a vote for does not include an endless
price tag, nor a 1,000 milestone. Today there are the grief stricken
fumbling to latch on to the stories that explain why
this stuffed bear is without its own executioner.
I can’t tell you
what color “loss of control” is, only that
it trumps orange. A red capsule on its way to collect
solar wind crashes in the Utah desert and we say so long Genesis,
planet protection makes me nervous. It’s your birthday.
The dying fan belt’s squeak penetrates a head full of spark plugs,
a gas stove like clicking in my ear
that evolution never happened.
A newer walk passes with an accepting glance; I’m humbled
in your pretty gaze, wanting it to stop dead in its tracks.
Wanting to rid this crippled gate that is, if you call gravity
a god, it’s the only thing that pulls things together,
that and a death
can only involve the earth.
I don’t mind closure, but, of course, that closure
is made up, gussied to the point of caked on,
yellow cake from pretty sources becomes ugly in its beckoning.
My philosophies have shrunk to a dismal pea cake, now
my tank is empty and I’ve gotta fill it somehow.
Well, the grief-stricken father grabbed a hamburger,
a propane torch
and a can of gasoline and, in a fit of rage,
demolished the Marines’ van, seriously burning himself
in the process. A steady erosion deeper than the cracks
in your skull, you erupt into a cash pond equipped
with poisoned toads and quieter Siberian crickets,
a snowy egret flapping in fandango
over a new planet.
Far out and looking down on your bald spot and soft patch
of tended lawn that accompanies the dividends in a dived in pool.
So where am I now with all of this? Only a law above
can make us feel a difference in our weights, can calculate
the varying degrees in which we live, and locate
the remote locations from which we fall.

IT'S HARD TO REMEMBER

for mn & sy

It’s hard to remember when I planned to start my new life.

It’s hard to remember the handshake that started this whole thing. Fake spit was involved though.

It’s hard to remember that I used to love the smell of gasoline.

It’s hard to remember that not having an IRA this moment, and thinking about retirement is not the end of the world.

It’s hard to remember the thoughts you have while driving in a car.

It’s hard to remember that a gallon of gasoline hovered around a dollar.

It’s hard to remember that having a child does not complete the human experience. I think that would be death.

It’s hard to remember my license plate number.

It’s hard to remember that I shouldn’t always give out my social security number when asked for it.

It’s hard to remember that I had a crush on two Sarahs in elementary school. Both spelled with an h, and both seemed a bit young for me.

It’s hard to remember the lyrics of the songs I like to sing.

It’s hard to remember the names of faces I see every now and then or on a daily basis.

It’s hard to remember what causes me to wonder, after about 23-26 steps, whether or not I locked my car. After much internal debate, and regardless of whether or not I’m late for something, I usually return to my car to discover that’s it locked.

It’s hard to remember that I can drive my car tiger style if I wanted to, especially if my destination is a bar.

It’s hard to remember the year of my ’88 black chevy truck. It was my first car and it had an extra cab and bucket seats, a red pin stripe, and some extra power when accelerating.

It’s hard to remember that I used to collect gas money from my friends when we drove short distances to various places together.

It’s hard to remember that we used to ride the driers at the local laundromat, and see who could spin and stay in there the longest. I lasted 30 seconds once. We made use of a quarter in strange ways.

It’s hard to remember all the bad things I’ve done, sometimes.

It’s hard to remember that I start a new job pretty soon.

It’s hard to remember all the addresses of the places I used to live.

It’s hard to remember that history often repeats itself.

It’s hard to remember that I wanted to be an undercover cop, and I wanted my cover to be an ice cream truck driver.

The light is changing

Along with the blusters and chill, has come a change in light. Whatever you want to call it 'fall tilt,' 'autumn slant,' it's here and I intend to soak it up. I need a seasonal device. Who's with me?

I've been a bit Flickr mad the past day and a half for various reasons, one being I really get sucked into looking at other people's lives and feeling like I somehow am playing a part. However, I think I've come across some unwritten rule. So, I've been trying to build up my 'favorites' page, and have noticed that there is never more than one person that counts a photo as a favorite, which left/leaves me in a bind, because there are a ton of photos that I want but someone has usually already beaten me to it. Once someone has laid claim, staked their flag, is the photo now off limits? I know I'm a bit late to the game here, but is it a race to get the fave finish. Will we have to trade like baseball cards or postage stamps to get the ones we really want? Start building up the arsenal.