.

Art
Is the activity
Of wresting back for your own
What the world has said
Isn’t yours.

And then, they will tell you that when you
Grow up,
You will find what you want in life
And find success
Which of course presupposes
Everybody not being full of sh**
With smirking faces and deliberate disrespect
The only seeming special of the day
So isn’t it peculiar that
The death of one hated musician,
One hated celebrity
Can make it all seems so small.
.
I just read in a Rumi edition,
Complete,
That the start of humanity was from something like
A vengeful, uncontrolled spasm of
Overly concentrated matter
(Very complete),
And in between we have our births,
We have maybe a little luck,
And we have language,
Which with to do…
What I’m doing now.
At least, this is what I’ve found to do.

Obviously,
This is the last thing you’d ever want to think about —
Preferring beings which actually have a function,
Beings like animals
Brandishing rapid, forceful slaps and noogies
In kindergarten classrooms,
.
So how the rest of us
Will wash up on the shore when
Our time of this miracle is up
And our blood will decay
On the bold, shining sands to
Decompose into another —
We have all won,
Who harbor this impossible light.

I could tell my mom was uneasy when I told her I was looking at a Shel Silverstein book. We were both living with my grandmother at the time. My music collection included The Field’s album From Here We Go Sublime and Throwing Muses’ album Limbo, and my mom’s boyfriend would describe me as “that Socrates-lookin’ dude.”
And yeah, I wouldn’t say I got too much out of Shel Silverstein, at least compared to like Celine, out of whom I got an invincible eye glint which once almost caused my boss to send me home early from work.
But over and over I see it: up pop pop-up books. Children’s books. They were down in Asheville, North Carolina big time, a community of a high prevalence of moms with those baby-carriers in drug and grocery stores. And I’d even peruse them, trying to kill time before going to ABC for a Jalapeno IPA. And there it was: one of them was by e.e. cummings, a favorite poet of mine. I didn’t notice whether any of the other ones were also by poets, but I’m sure some of them were.
In my hometown I read, one time, in a volunteer opportunity, to a class of kindergarteners, and opening up a lot of those books, I got the overwhelming feeling that as a little tot I’d read, and looked at pictures, a lot more than I thought I had. Some of those images, like the “red light green light,” and “Swimmy,” were irreversibly ingrained in my psyche. And it’s just interesting to think about, because little kids can’t go online by themselves, so their literature will always materialize in book form — it’ll always be big and colorful. So it’s possible that, unlike with basically anything else, from food, to music, to basic looks of their surroundings, when it comes to their illustrated, bound publications, they’re actually getting the same exact experience I did when I was young.
As an adult, I find it depressing that oftentimes I want to research a subject, like maybe a mythological figure like Marathon or something, and all of the books available are in the juvenile section. And then I feel stupid going in there, ducking my head down, talking to the overly nice librarians, and making out with this big ol’ goofy thing. But eh, it can be worth it, I guess. As our race continues to precipitate, and we logically quell our own misgivings with intentional, psychosocial baths of light and color, it seems that we have stumbled upon at least one indefatigable industry whose only purpose is diversion, but whose diversion is a wholesome one. I look at the themes still prevalent in kids’ books — animals, and going to the bathroom. Inescapable things of existence. The objectives are simple, and of course all phases of life involve preparation and strategizing, but I guess I can’t help getting jealous when in looking at this particular phase involving the youngsters around, I see that it never changes.

We are more complex than we know what to do with,
And we are more beautiful than we know what to do with —
The only necessary erring,
As we know,
Being the inevitable failure to process
All this beauty,
All this possibility,
All this urge to kill and all this
Urge to find a reason,
Floored into specks once
Again
By the sea shore floor.
.
Music lies in this impossibility,
And as long as its our song
The dandelions see in the sun
And envy,
Then music will ring throughout the land,
And we will all stand in the light.

In the election of new President of the United States of America Donald Trump, we have the first ever American instance of an elect not having any political experience whatsoever. The only even remote comparable would probably be Ronald Reagan, who, although enjoying a measurable career as a Hollywood actor, did at least serve as governor of California. Wikipedia also outlines a sort of vague “political history” tied to Reagan part of which mentions an appearance on stage with Truman, during that presidential candidate’s campaign. He also served in the military.
Indeed, the election of Donald Trump eliminates what would seem to be an unwieldy slew of precedents in the department of values and ideals for politicians, and one would certainly be military experience, or at least acknowledgement of the military. I say that those in power should at least VALUE the military — Trump has gone on the record as comparing his schooling to being in combat, and is also, according to numerous prominently arranged websites, a documented draft dodger. Typically, in recent history, the issue has at least been leveled as a way of judging politicians’ credentials; with Trump, I have not heard it come up at all.
It seems to me, with the almost non-existent ability of people to hold Trump to any moral or professional standard, and the unexplainable support of such a disrespectful person who would refuse to talk to Univision anchor Jorge Ramos, and visibly make fun of a handicapped journalist, that there must still be some all-encompassing strain of perfection people see in this guy. Indeed, he is an American success story. [1] He owns a bunch of stuff, including casinos — the stuff he owns tags with it elements of fun, carelessness and wildness, exactly what everybody wants to do when they get off of a long day at work (along with the whole winning money on doing nothing thing).
So Trump has a lot of money. For this reason, since he didn’t really have to borrow in order to run a campaign, you could in a way make the case that he is less affected by Wall Street than his opponent was, Hillary Clinton, and I guess that is the case to an extent. This is a point one Trump-supporting acquaintance made to me in a discussion: Trump’s plan to penalize outsourcing. Also, to an extent, capitalism still runs our country. Even as I read my favorite article, the New Yorker one about Atlantic City, I’m bombarded with an audible pitch for a car, something that obviously does not have thematically to do with the article’s subject material. Maybe the election of Trump is just a political denouement of an already functioning rule in America: ownership of money is the foundational way to convey messages, and to assume power. Advertisements dominate our consciousness, whether we’re on the subway, watching TV, or reading online, and they have the sole objective of fetching funds.
Troublingly, another theory on why the public has so faithfully befriended Trump has to do in a way with racism, and in a way with just traditionalism — the idea of restoring American power to male whites, as a demographic. So Trump happens to be the TYPICAL, ARCHETYPAL male white, having other people do the dirty work for him, treating others demeaningly and reaping benefits and spotlight? All the better. Maybe we’ll make up for it next election — find an Australian redhead woman with Down’s Syndrome and elect her.
Trump’s continued habit of actually embodying a comedic persona, making unscrupulous comments and lacking defense for his delinquent commentary, should illustrate more than adequately that politics, today, doubles as entertainment. Dating back now for some time, it seems, every candidate we’ve prized has had some STORYLINE behind him, whether it be first-black-president, Texas ranger, pot-smoking sax player, or Hollywood actor. It seems we’re at the point where so furiously do we want to avoid being “boring” as Americans, so deep is the obligation to constantly entertain and assure people that they will not be judged on merits of their intelligence, that now we’ve come to expect the same thing from our president — his attributes are judged as if he were a sit-com character, or a movie star. If he lacks experience on the job, if he acts like a jerk pretty much all the time and respects basically nobody, it’s all overlooked provided that he does so with a sort of bad-boy, charismatic smoothness, and that he’s a success story at large in his own life.
So we hired Salma Hayek as a brain surgeon. We’ll see how this bed feels four years down the road, I guess. We’ve gone from RELIANCE on Wall Street, to all-out COMPETITION with Wall Street — so to the extent that profitable companies embody a praxis anatomy of America’s true identity, we are in a sense now fighting against ourselves. It’s as if one cancer cell has grown prominent and engaged in battle against its peers, with the help of a whole lot of chemical input — voters.
Getting back to these voters, I’d originally intended on depicting them as basically afraid of losing military power (Clinton ran on a platform of diplomatic placidity, and we see where that got her), or just generally afraid of losing a holistic sort of power (many voters likely white males in extolment of the American white male quintessential)… if a country does as its president does, then voters from sea to shining sea are certainly not ready to loosen their vice grip on what they have, and let in some global capital rearrangement. In fact, along with wanting to build the wall, Trump’s tariffs will discourage importing. Remember, one cancer cell is eating its peers.
Ultimately, any discussion like this gets into what’s good, and what’s bad — what’s commendable behavior, and what’s negative, or sultry behavior. Or maybe everything is OUTCOMES based — what are our goals, what do we want to avoid. I personally would have liked to avoid seeing Samuel L. Jackson, once featured in a minor little film called Pulp Fiction as having a “Bad Motherfu**er” wallet, asking us “What’s in your wallet?” for a Cap. One commercial.
What do the election results tell us about the voting public? My home state of Indiana is going to take a hit for this one big time, but surprisingly, so are Ohio, Pennsylvania and Michigan, typical endorsers of the blue collar working man, and social programs to help him. Such a nod in favor of gratuitous wealth, then? This just shows that somehow Trump was able to capture the spirit of the blue collar, maybe a certain antipathetic disposition to the government as we know it, and some purported miserliness on its part.
Or, maybe they’re just a bunch of sexists. I remember reading a recent case about an instance of a policewoman shooting a black person after an altercation, and immediately getting charged, whereas the guys who were in on the killing of Alton Sterling had their episode just “investigated” by the district attorney or whatever. This is despite there actually being video footage of them using excessive force on him, from what I remember. Either way, all signs point to the next four years in America (fingers crossed hoping it will stop at that, maybe we’ll get Chuck Liddell running or something) seeming longer than they are, and I am fostering a severe concern that we will only drift farther from diplomacy, and from harmony with the rest of the world, at this time. Perhaps this entire notion will have to be rediscovered in due time, lest it be extinct entirely.
.
[1] Although as anyone reading The New Yorker will know, even this is now debatable: http://www.newyorker.com/magazine/2015/09/07/the-death-and-life-of-atlantic-city

A drapery of vast gray
Cloaked the late November sky.
The people moved around rapidly,
Without talking,
Edging toward a sterility which
In their minds was the right thing to do.
The goal was to avoid noteworthiness —
To avoid disaster,
To avoid a news story,
Avoid anything that would be memorable,
Because being at work should not be memorable.
The man was dressed in nice, expensive clothes,
But had a tattoo on his neck,
And seemed wary of interaction,
Seemed wary of truth.
Wealthy men
Filed in and out,
Enjoying lunch on days off,
Making the usual humorous,
Desultory mention of their particular situation.
I’d stopped in to indulge in my religion,
College basketball,
And to get lunch.
The lunch was better than average,
The staff less interested than average in this fact.
Very urbane.
Come enjoy our un-famous buffalo chicken sandwich.
The Irish bar overlooked the town’s minor league baseball stadium.
This was where the neon signs and lights precipitated the smiles,
And amidst the bevy of empty fields
And stomping transients,
That,
In a sense,
Is the true miracle.
Rolling back up home,
Where I would eventually sleep 12 hours a night
And then leave from,
We glided back through the crack head towns,
Where every little
Person peers as if
Into the American Eiffel Tower
Out of a systematized quagmire
To which they’re born in,
Splaying animal intuitions
Onto endless school days
Before entering careers of
Third grade arithmetic.
You ride past these towns
Looking down at your wrists
Thinking,
I hope to God,
By God,
I didn’t just see that,
And then you see it in your wrists too,
Which of course explains why rich people are never happy,
Just a little special…
I had to get out of there again,
But I wondered at the perfection of that little
Christmas Carol juke box,
One allotted,
Compartmentalized section of the calendar year,
Just like everything else,
When you think about it.

There,
Every day,
We’re faced with ourselves —
The limitations of our bodies,
The excessive aspects of our bodies,
And over and over
We can choose to shun the ordeal
And to accept light and faith —
.
To let
Go
Of
.
The self and accept love
If the love is truly there
And now you know that it is
The next time you sparkle chartreuse

I came back home
Again
Like a diseased,
Leather-made urchin
Pining for the crows
And knowing only the next
Skin waste depot
For his shameful transcendence
Opening up any shout spot,
Turning any key
To view the euphoria
Of yesteryear,
Things people were willing to give away
In sludge wells,
Dark, smoky rooms where
Pigeons fly as eagles…
I waited for night,
Falling in love with the new green paint and
Chipping it off every molecule of time.

My sister, when I went out and visited her, used to drive to 7/11 every morning and get me a Big Brew, the 24 oz. cup of coffee they vend at that fine merchant. I never got why she did this, and I also never knew how she was so aware that I was deathly addicted to caffeine, even at 19. She just did, but sometimes I’d catch her taking sips out of it before she gave it to me. That’s only 23 oz. left.
I find myself doing things like this, and not minding — like I’ll walk into our department building and go see the chair, and if he’s not in there and I have to come back later, or if I just wasted a trip, it’s no big deal. The campus where I go to school is beautiful, lined with plenty of trees and intricate, unique architecture, and within the building there there’s scraps of multitudinous book covers, one of which is Raymond Carver, which I discovered that very way.
I always, in this way, feel like I’m working toward an idea — but hopefully life in general is like this, anyway. There’s a natural, gushing enthusiasm informing the things we do, and it’s not even explainable, it’s like a butane fire has been lit under our chins, pushing our faces into smiles and our bodies into motion, and we don’t even think twice of it. This can happen on the job, I think, like how I happen to genuinely enjoy my cooking job regardless of pay, but it can also just be part of living life — part of walking, reflecting, bit**ing about the weather, hungering, painting on the outside, painting on the inside. This is the opposite of anxiety — this is the blackboard mortar on which we hew out our visions of the world, and our opinions on who we are, like a deep, blazing inferno, taking anxiety and replacing it with constant, endless, miasmic reflection, and always knowing you just a little bit better than you think it will.