Book review: "Disappointed Psalms" by Brian Clements

Brian Clements’ book of poetry, “Disappointed Psalms,” is a sort of public service announcement for society to open their eyes to the world around them and realize that we are existing through rose-tinted glasses. It is divided into four sections, or poems, I am not sure which, so I will refer to them as sections. The first section titled “Corpses” begins with a description of corpses being burned and dragged through the streets. The narrator reflects on the scene, and with the lines “Yes, I hear the whispering of many-terror on every side!/ But my tongue is stuck to my jaw” I am reminded of the actions of people during the time of Nazi Germany and Hitler’s reign. While aghast with the horrors of the Nazi Regime, no one dared to speak up, for fear that they would be the next target for extermination. All too often we are beaten down, feeling defeated and almost too exhausted to stand up in opposition to that which we do not agree: “And all my bones are out of joint/ And I can barely stand to speak.” We are “…like a deaf man who doesn’t hear./ …like a dumb man who doesn’t speak.” We are bombarded by the atrocity of death multiple times a day through the media; we do not want to hear of such horrors-we do not speak up because we assume that in doing so no one will hear our lowly dissention over the noise of the world. The narrator in this section shares the sentiments of many: what good can one person do? Instead of speaking up we instead turn away, perhaps hoping that what we see is not real, perhaps even lying to ourselves that everything is fine in the world, “Their mouths chew lies/ And their bellies are filled with lies.”

The end of the “Corpse” section is met with one entitled “Mouth” where the narrator speaks of his/her disappointment in God and His followers. Those that produce the corpses that were spoken of in the previous section are not struck down by the hand of God. It seems as if God (and the moral teachings of Christianity) is nonexistent, insubstantial, and purposeless. “But we’re all still waiting” for God to punish these transgressors, yet he does not. “You are become many deaths, Lord,/ And you do nothing but/ Sit in ambush in villages/ And murder the innocent./ Even your enemies shall be ashamed.” However, the narrator does not wish for the word of God to be stifled: “I will allow your name to be shouted/ Over the rooftops and over the gunshots” so that maybe someone will take heed to His teachings and stop the atrocities of war, famine, disease, and suffering. “Mouth” ends with the line “Be moved by this prayer for action.” The narrator feels that perhaps not all hope is lost, and perhaps speaking up first to God will produce the necessary results.

The following section “The Word” is the shortest of the four. The narrator questions God about the validity of His word, His teachings. It ends with the narrator telling God that he/she does not believe in Him. The final section titled “Without End” is a list of daily concerns of a member of our society, such as: “You start heroin, television, gin, wearing black, jerking off, running,/ playing cards, and there is no end./ …You start lending money and there is no end./ …You start blonde and turn red and brown and ash and there is no end.” We are too caught up in our lives and routines to concern ourselves with issues that matter, such as those the narrator speaks of in the previous sections. The end result is a Nation of Complacence: a world that lacks empathy for its fellow man, lies to itself about the atrocities before its very eyes, and continues its routine as if nothing is amiss.

Writing Inspiration: Erik Peterson

My favorite lyricist, Erik Peterson, is the front man for folk punk band Mischief Brew from Philly. I have always loved his lyrics because they're not asinine "we hate the government but can't really put into words why so we're going to get drunk and break shit" type of punk. This is my favorite song from Peterson's solo work.

Listen to the song here

"Olde Tyme Mem'ry" by Erik Peterson

When father bought the farm we sold the farm
Stick his blood for rustic charms
Sold his ghost as an antique
To the city

Kids today can’t hold a spade
Rest in peace your weary trades
In this world there is no place
Such a pity

Well the barman shakes his head and fills my glass
Says we’re livin’ in the past
Why preserve a dying craft
And its misery?

We sigh and say another modern man
One of property not land
So I hold out this battered hand
Will you listen?

CHORUS
Come sit down we’re lamenting
About yesterday, sad ending
‘Bout the water in me whiskey
The brass passed off as gold
Another round we’re descending
Into olde tyme mem’ry
Of a day when wood was wooden,
Silver - silver, gold was gold
Sweet home was home

So you say you got a wood stove
And your second home runs on gas
But looks like oak
Hell, it even gives off smoke and glowing embers

There’s a quilt hung on the wall,
Reads “home sweet home”
The lonesome wise words of Thoreau
And they call me throwback
When I cry “Remember!”

CHORUS

Son, these tools are artifacts
Endangered species left its tracks
So lock me up behind plastic glass
In the city

There’s no going back for me
This antique’s rustic eulogy
Shall be sold as folk art histr’y
Such a pity

But I’ll never understand
Why they all only use those hands
To build a stead that will always stand
In old time country

But settle for white rooms and hollow doors
Paper ceilings, padded floors
Luxury boxes where your stored
In what was country

CHORUS

Book review: "The Scripture of the Golden Eternity" by Jack Kerouac

The Golden Eternity: Religious Dogma for the Practical Agnostic
“When you’ve understood this scripture, throw it/ away. If you can’t understand this scripture,/ throw it away. I insist on your freedom.” -Scripture 45


In reading “The Scripture of the Golden Eternity” by Jack Kerouac, this is the first time I have been exposed to any of Kerouac’s poetry. Until now I have only read his prose, so I did not know what to expect. As his book “On the Road” was highly influential to so many readers, I half expected “The Scripture” to be a disappointing flop. However, his poetry, at least in reference to this book, is completely different from his prose. “On the Road” is an autobiographical work describing his trip across America, whereas “The Scripture” is a deep look at a certain philosophy of thought: that of Nihilism.

This book consists of one long poem broken up into numbered stanzas, or “Scriptures.” Kerouac’s tone throughout the piece is a play on seriousness, an ironic sort of mocking of religious dogma by creating his own dogma through “The Scripture of the Golden Eternity.” The first two Scriptures sets the stage for the voice of the poem as a personal message to the reader: “There are not two of us here,/ reader and writer, but one, one golden eternity” (Scripture [Scr.] 1). A tone of irony is also present: “I am Mortal Golden Eternity” (Scr. 2), though being mortal does not equal being eternal-or does it?

It is as if the speaker is the “chosen Messiah to die in the degradation of sentience,” chosen to release the word of the Golden Eternity in an attempt to thwart conventional religious dogma. The Golden Eternity is portrayed as the embodiment of everything religious, supernatural, and dogmatic. Therefore, I find it interesting that the speaker, which is actually the Golden Eternity, states that “there is no me, because all is/ emptiness. I am empty, I am non-existent” (Scr. 6).

The Scripture’s main purpose is to allow the reader to question reality and perception, especially the ‘reality’ of religious belief. An attempt at changing how the reader views religion is made by switching from calling “the Golden Eternity” to other names such as “God” (Scr. 12) and “universal Thisness” (Scr. 20), among others. It is also stated that everything, even the self and your own perception of reality and the universe, are empty and nonexistent. The Golden Eternity suggests that we must “Discard such definite imaginations of phenomena” (Scr. 27).

The Golden Eternity speaks of religion as a human conception that is subjective: “I call it the golden eternity-what do you/ call it, brother?” (Scr. 29). This piece’s focus on religion is also subjective, as such religious innuendo can be interpreted as a metaphor for anything and everything.

This poem lead me to question many philosophies on an existential level, especially in the development of religion and religious scriptures. Who is to say that one day in the far-off future that someone may not find this book and deem it worthy of an actual religious movement? Such would be the final irony, as the narrator states that the scripture “is easily false” (Scr. 42) and that “your mind caused the world” (Scr. 62)- not a God, a Golden Eternity, or an Eternal Thisness.

The ZenAlarm

Written 2/2/2010. Writing this poem thoroughly creeped me out more than expected. I don't get creeped out by much. Enjoy.
I opened to a random page in my book "The Writer's Block" by Jason Rekulak and this is what I came to:

Alarm Clock Openings

"It's a common starting point for many of the stories in a creative writing workshop: An alarm clock sounds. The narrator drags himself to the bathroom and scrutinizes his weary face in the mirror. Then he showers, dresses, grabs the newspaper, and sits down to breakfast. Perhaps he watches television, or has an anxious thought about an important meeting in the afternoon. Meanwhile, the reader of the story is halfway through page four or five, wondering when something interesting is going to happen.

""Alarm Clock Openings" are appealing because they convey a wealth of information about a character's home, lifestyle, and social standing. Richard Wright's Native Son begins with an alarm clock ringing, and we discover that Bigger Thomas lives in a cramped one-room apartment with his mother, brother, and sister. But no less than a minute later, Bigger is bludgeoning a giant rat with a skillet, demonstrating the pent-up aggression that will surface again later in the novel. This scene works because it defies the conventions of a typical morning routine; write your own Alarm Clock Opening that does the same."

The ZenAlarm


incessant blaring from a small [rectangular box]
BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP
glowing red with lament
a covering of ears, a startled shriek
high-pitched turned low drawn out moan
of desperationEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP
she has been awake for a spell
awoken for days-awoken four days
with each new bombardment
(of how many dB does an alarm clock make?)
comes a revived panic
BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP
it tempts her with its Siren
songEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP
petrified to draw near, its face holds a menacing glow
its mouth emanating with the crimson of blood
emanating with the cry of the banshee
"But do you attempt stabbing out your eardrums because you fear getting near the box to turn it off?"
two days prior she searched for the box's manual
rummaged in drawers, in backs of closets
for any semblance of how to stop it from continuing
her search was futile
BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP
and now she sits in a far corner
eyes wide open, mouth agape, hands over ears
unable to stop the sou-
unable to stop the
unable to stop
unable to
unaBEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP
she seizes her face
scratches with nails, flaked black fingernails,
drawing blood with red light blEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEP..........
--

She was found in a disheveled room;
mattress, clothes, and furniture thrown asunder.
Dried blood and DNA caked under nails, flake black,
some remnants remaining in open wounds
framing her frozen expression.
Her eyes open tight, hands as claws,
muscles rigid. Rigor mortis had yet to set in.
Alone in a room of white.
BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP
a corpse's only company.
It cut through the stillness,
leaving a bizarre ringing in the ears...
BEEP BEEP BEEEEEEEEP.

Writing Inspiration: Tom Leonard

Tom Leonard was a creative writing professor at University of Glasgow until September 2009. I found this out through e-mailing him some of my work and saying I'd love to work with him. The response? The poet that has revolutionalized poetry in the last 40 years said he would have loved to work with me.

the case for lower case

by Tom Leonard

lower case posits in-the-presence-of
lower case is presence
lower case is company

lower case can jump from one proposition to another
across the page

lower case does not spurn its friends in the typesetting office
lower case may yet lean on a semi-colon for breath; on its way up the stairs

lower case listens to the voice of the people
lower case is not Edict
lower case is the kinesis of democracy

CAPITAL is stasis
Capital is closure of the business in hand
CAPITAL is the cumulation of reified density
CAPITAL has no being at its centre
CAPITAL is without breath

the CAPITALIST SENTENCE begins by setting out its Stall
the CAPITALIST SENTENCE has the subject as line-manager of the verb
the CAPITALIST SENTENCE has no room in which to move
at the end of a CAPITALIST SENTENCE the world comes to a full stop.

THE CAPITALIST SENTENCE IS A DEATH SENTENCE.

lower case gives you space to live
lower case makes peace with the living
lower case does not hide behind the toga of the Roman Empire
lower case is the swish of the skirt

hmm
always here
as natural as breathing

lower space…..lower space,…. lower space……lower space



FIN

----------------------------

Being a Human Being

by Tom Leonard

(for Mordechai Vanunu)

not to be complicit
not to accept everyone else is silent it must be alright

not to keep one's mouth shut to hold onto one's job
not to accept public language as cover and decoy

not to put friends and family before the rest of the world
not to say I am wrong when you know the government is wrong

not to be just a bought behaviour pattern
to accept the moment and fact of choice

I am a human being
and I exist

a human being
and a citizen of the world

responsible to that world
—and responsible for that world

s p a c e

Written on 1/22/2010. I don't know why but this blog never formats anything like I want it to be formatted. The title is supposed to have way more space between each letter. This poem was inspired by Tom Leonard's "the case for lower case" and an AIM conversation with a drunk friend.

s p a c e

spaceisoverrated
itwastestimeandplace
thereismuchwastedtimeinspace
spaceisthatstrangeronthebusnotinyourface
spaceisthenegativeinyourpictureframe
spaceisbetweenAandB
spaceisthetimeittakesthesecondbeforethecrash
thetimebeforeyoustealthatstash
spaceintheairbagthatstingsyourface
ashockingreminderthatspaceisgrace
spacecouldbeyouorevenme
spaceisapoetscreedamanifestoagiven
spaceisanautomaticsavinggrace
forwecanneverseemtosaveourselveswithoutspace

Writing Inspiration: Tim Minchin

I'm going to start keeping track of things that inspire me to write. This is the first of the series of such notes. The poem "Mitsubishi Colt" by Tim Minchin. See his performance of this poem here.

Tim Minchin

Mitsubishi Colt by Tim Minchin

He looks at me intensely
Eyes sparkle contact green with artificial envy
Cocks his head and fixes me with a condescending stare
Flicks his bleached, blond tipped hair
And theorizes thus

“You know what I reckon?”
Pause for effect
Adjusts his tackle as if it’s semi-erect
I feel I’d better give him what I know he expects
“What do you reckon?”

A hand on the shoulder
An avuncular wink
Sips his lemon drink
Spits out the pips
Hands on hips
Licks his lips
Like a wolf near a flock
Yet again adjusting this fantasy cock
He delivers his philosophy

“I reckon it don’t matter
It don’t mean squat
What you earn or what you got
Or the style of your hair
Or what you wear
It matters not

I mean what do you care
That I live on a hill with views of the beach
That my chick and my dogs have an en-suite bathroom each
That I’ve already reached my first million and I’m only 36

You’re as thick as two bricks
If you think you can fix
What is broke in your life with money
And the funny thing is
And I shit you not
That I would give it all up like that”

He leaves me to ponder his wisdom for a bit
And with a click of his fingers
He Beckons the blondest, bimbo-est barmaid
And grinning ridiculously
Orders a G and T
And a beer, for me
And before I can escape
He’s back saying

‘Cos mate, the thing is
All of that crap
It’s all superficial
It’s all just a front
Anyone can be a rich cunt
But the thing we all want
Can’t be bought with dosh
You know what I mean boss?
Cos you don’t give a toss
That when I want to get slim
I’ve got my own private gym
And a personal trainer called…Danielle or…fuckin Darlene
She’s got tits like those chicks in Playboy magazines

And it’s not like you care
That I own a controlling share
Of an overseas company
That builds accounting software
It matters not one bit
I mean who gives a shit
If I earn six hundred grand
And drive a brand new Land Rover
You know I would hand it all over like that’

He pauses for a beat
Long enough for me to retreat to a seat
And sit, elbow on the bar
And contemplate this guru
With his white teeth and his big car
And ponder silently my belief
That genius comes in many forms
And that this postulating, peroxided porn-star prick ain’t one of em

My speculation cut short
As he reforms
Like Terminator II
And before I have time to abort
He descends upon me and snorts

“I guess what I’m trying to say
In my own little way
Is that I reckon that musos and artists and that
Well I reckon they’re great
I know some people reckon you guys just sit on your bums
And don’t get out of bed til the pizza man comes
And smoke cones
And take crack
And wack-off all day
But I don’t care what they say
And I don’t listen to people
Who say that all actors are gay
Not that I don’t think that’s OK
As far as I’m concerned
Although it’s not my bag
If you wanna be a fag
Be a fag y’know?
I mean who am I to say
Where you come
And where you go
In the privacy of your own homo
Ha ha
Homo
Ha ha
Homo
Ha ha

He’s shitting me now
And my eyes start to glaze
And through the haze of my anger
I notice his G and T is gone
And he’s starting to dribble
As he dribbles on and fucking on
“But you musos are alright
I don’t know much about music
But I know what I like
And I reckon I’d give it all in
To be like you Jim (Tim)
I mean you might be poor in monetary terms
But what you earn spiritually
What makes you what you are
Just means so much more
Than what you earn from a really nice car
Or a tennis court
Or holidays in Greece
Or a house on the beach
Or stock market shares
Or thirty-one pairs
Of Calvin Klein underwear
Do you understand you are a wealthy, wealthy man
And mate I don’t want to piss in your pocket
But I’ve gotta say
Before I get on my way
That honestly, and I’m not having you on
I reckon on day you could play the piano as good as Elton John

The cops are still mingling
Though the crowd’s shuffled out
I’ve got ice on my hand
Where my fist met his mouth
And although I explained
That it wasn’t my fault
I’ve an eight hundred buck fine
For aggravated assault
So before it gets worse
I reckon I’ll bolt
A wealthy, wealthy man
In a 1981 Mitsubishi Colt
__________________________

Also by Tim Minchin that inspires me is his song "If I Didn't Have You." I want to attempt to use a wider range of difficult vocabulary and have it make sense like he does in this song. His performance can be seen here.

If I Didn't Have You by Tim Minchin

Yeah. Yeah.
If I didn't have you.
If I didn't have you to hold me tight,
If I didn't have you to lie with at night.
If I didn't have you to share my side,
and to kiss me and dry my tears when I cry.
Well I... really think that I would
have somebody else.

If I didn''t have you someone else would do.
Your love is one in a million.
You couldn't buy it at any price.
But of the 9.999 hundred thousand other possible loves
Statistically some of these would be equally nice.
Or maybe not as nice, but say, smarter than you
Or dumber but better at sport...or tracing.
I'm just saying.
I really think that I would.
Probably. Have somebody else.
Yeah.

If I didn't have you someone else would do.
And look; I'm not undervaluing what we have when I say
that given the role that chaos inevitably plays
In the inherently flawed notion of "fate"
It's abstruced to deduce
that I found my soul-mate at the age of 17
It's just mathematical unlikely that at a university at Perth
I happened to stumble on the one girl on Earth
specifically designed for me.

And if I may conjecture any further objections
Love has nothing to do with destined "perfection",
The connection is strengthened
The affection only grows over time.
Like a flower.
Or a mushroom.
Or a Guinea pig.
Or a vine.
Or a sponge.
Or bigotry.
...
Or a banana.

And love is made more powerful
By the ongoing drama of shared experience
And the synergy of a kind of symbolic empathy.
Or Something.

So I trust that it goes without saying
That I would feel really very sad
If tomorrow you were to fall off something high
Or catch something bad
But Im just saying
I don't think you're special.

I mean, I think you're special,
But you fall within a bell curve.
I mean. I-I'm just saying.
I think that I would probably.
Have somebody else.

I mean I reckon it's pretty likely
that if for example my first girlfriend Jacky
hadn't dumped me
after I kissed Winston's ex girlfriend Nia back
at Steffs party back in 1993.

Enough variables would probably
have been altered by the absence of that event
to have meant the advent of a
tangential narrative in which we don't meet.

Which is to say there exists a
theoretical hypothetical parallel life
where what is is not is
and I am not your husband and your not my wife.

And I am a stuntman living in LA
Married to a small blonde Portuguese skier
who when she's not training
does abstract painting,
practices yoga and brews her own beer.
And really likes making home movies
and suffers neck-down alopecia.

But with all my heart and all my mind
I know one thing is true;
I have just one life and just one love
and my love that love is you.

And if it wasn't for you baby
I really think that I would
Probably.
Have somebody else.
Yeah.
If I didnt have you doo do doo do doo someone else would surely do oo oo oo