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“The Salesman”

I walk into the Verizon store where my mom is waiting for me. We’re set to get a new phone for me. I’m on her plan that she’s not even on, if that gives you any idea of how fu**ed up this whole situation is.

When I walk into the store, I notice the salesman’s eyes cemented onto me with the utmost intensity, face braced in a stone posture and bulbous blue eyes filling up the room. I quickly look down and avoid eye contact with him. And I think, ok, that was pretty bad. Obviously things are going to get better from here.

We’ve been told the phone were going to be free but then he’s saying things like “$100 gets you out the door,” or, if I buy an excess of unconscionable, unneeded sh**, then “$200 gets you out the door.” It’s mostly my mom talking to him and eventually we settle on the $100 package. She offers to pay so I feel a little better but I say I can pay for it. My blood pressure has been up around 150 lately so I’m extra happy for the good mirth from her.

The time comes to get my new phone. It comes out and the salesman explains that it’s smaller than my old one, which was an LG. So my old case won’t fit around it. I have to buy a new case. My mom keeps telling me I need a new case. I decline. I forget the price but it’s completely ludicrous.

Then comes the charger, which is incompatible with my laptop, on which Ive been charging my old phone and then going about my merry way. The new one has totally different hookups and the guy tells me I can get a “block,” with the female charger hookup and male wall hookup, for $30.

I stand up and say, “I don’t need it. I don’t need a phone today.” I don’t know what the He** I’m going to do but anything seems better than getting fu**ed over for this stupid government spying instrument by this golden boy who has the nerve to say something like the customer service itself cost $100, and say it with a straight face, what’s more.

The salesman’s manager hears my ire and dismissal and comes over, calms me down and lowers my eventual total to $50, on what is supposed to be a free phone. I whiz a mile up the street to Radio Shack and snag a $7 charger that works just fine. And I still have no ability to apply on Doordash or Instacart. Some things never change. But I think of that salesman there, sitting with those boisterous blue eyes that strangle you with faux-vulnerable indignation as you try to monitor your precious money going down the toilet. I think how he’s been tailor-made for this world: he’ll believe any lie, walk any walk, do any dance for anyone as long as the shining, faceless, metallic and cancerous void tells him it’s “right.”

“Untitled 357”

They got the kid

For pacing up and down the sideline

When the ball was nowhere near —

Technical foul, one shot for the other team.

.

The kid was in a long-sleeve t-shirt

And it was his first time being

On cable TV in his entire life.

.

I thought of the man in uniform,

How it might be a slug-like metamorphosis

Into the impetus to cage,

To trap heat and light,

To kill it,

And my mind filled with rage.

.

Then they showed the kid sitting on the bench

With his teammates,

Face plastered in a 16-tooth smile

And loud, quick chatter all around

As the ball

On the other side of the court

Graced front iron,

Then back iron,

Then ejected out the front of the cylinder

To bounce on the floor.

.

And the phone companies

And departments of treasury

And skin machine

Might still win

But that was pretty fu**ing cool.

“Like Black Ice”

Talking to the Canadian woman,

27 or so,

In the Walgreens in North Carolina,

.

I am observing how she stands

Patiently and easily, making

Voluminous eye contact with

Dark, non-expressive but

.

Softly inviting eyes.

.

She is alarmingly marked by

The fact that she is not frightened,

Not acting like I am a rapist

Or a degraded individual

Or like she is in any danger

.

And she sees this surprise in me

And she is taking in

The great, bleeding experiment

.

That is America,

An opaque bath of darkness,

A liquid nitrogen tank

.

Of pain and desperation.

“An Analysis of the ‘Non-Sequitur Red Bull Commercial’”

Anybody who’s been watching TV in the last five years knows that these animated Red Bull commercials are pretty much the pinnacle of existence. They feature droll, unique little characters, all drawn in soothing, pastel tones, and range from cute, to bizarre, to downright mind-blowing, as is the case with one of the most recent installments. In the spot I’m discussing, a group of parrots sits on a tree branch, all expressing the same plaint, in rapid clamoring, of “It’s not like the good ol’ days.”

The first thing I’d like to mention about this particular moment is the sharp element of human vice that’s offered. The writer, in fact, is appealing to our emotions, in the sense that anybody watching this segment would feel an active disdain for these plaintive oafs and their lazy, selfish din. This is important because, ultimately, this commercial is to act as a snapshot of the lowest of human mentality — one that would be associated with the complete lack of vision and ideal and which would tailor in the firm tendency to resist change, like a society adhering obstinately to antiquated ideals.

Anyway, the grieving parrots are met, ultimately, by an older parrot. The older bird comes bequeathing Red Bull drinks to them, in a move that’s ultimately inconsequential but humorous for its tongue-in-cheek attachment of Red Bull with innovation and with heightened human cognition. The commercial is essentially responding to a straw man figure, that is — one that doesn’t really exist but perhaps represents something adjacent to a person’s prideful unwillingness to take advice or to go against the grain of general thinking. These maladies are represented by the five identical birds who were on the tree brach initially.

Upon giving them the drinks, the older parrot declares that they “Stop parroting (sic) everything… instead, drink a Red Bull, and think for yourselves.” One irony here, of course, is that the older parrot does not take exception to the fact that they’re complaining and doing so in such a ridiculous fashion, but rather just the fact that they’re all mimicking each other. So he’s not even burdening them with the obligation of optimism and maximization of resources, but rather, just, an initiative toward original thought and away from issuing ideas which are identical to those of others. This is important, again, because it serves to stir up more ire in the viewer, as the identical birds are only insolent and cross with his request. Their abhorrent responses then come in the forms of, respectively, “Since when do you dictate what we do?”; “Exactly… you’re not the boss of us!” and “Power to the people!”

By the end of this exchange, then, the viewer has beheld a level of discursive human baseness and mental atrophy that’s almost unprecedented in the history of television or cinema. The effect, of course, is comedic, or tragicomic, perhaps, as if representing a significant annihilation of human society by way of these obfuscatory, prideful tendencies to herd mentality and resistance to change. The identical birds on the initial branch have taken the advice to gain individuality and shamed it, ultimately adhering to uniform mental assimilation to each other and, hence, a complete lack of a self, or individual identity. Of course, in the fact that the older guru’s request was to think for themselves and stop following the path of others, lies the overarching irony of the commercial — even the impetus toward free thought and away from assimilation can be accepted as an act of coercion, given a prideful and obstinate enough mind in the given member of society. It may very well be a reaction to those who would take offense to “non-conformists” (for a while I think there was a shirt that said “All you non-conformists are all the same”): this type of person likely is incapable of forging their own path in life and is highly inclined to belikening themselves to others when it comes to things like dress, behavior and attitudes. But their very antipathy toward the concept of individuality obviates a certain lowered mental element, like fear or insecurity, and so they go on existing in the quagmire of uniformity, of course, at the same time, lacking happiness and inclined toward lazy, oafish statements like “It’s not like the good ol’ days.”

“On a Highway to He**”

I am bathing in a quagmire of atrocity. Day by day, I just try to stay calm and not do anything stupid. To the greatest extent possible, I try to evade humanity. When I spend two consecutive days in my room, blogging, listening to music, writing poetry, staring out the window and watching college basketball, my roommate starts going all ballistic. He starts crying and screaming at the top of his lungs about things like murder and murderers. He’s like a big, dumb, loud version of Dennis the Menace and he is in no way capable of turning off the bathroom light when he’s done using it, repelling me from any delusion of his ability to empty the lint trap in the dryer after use and ergo avoid fire hazard.

In the last four weeks I’ve seen a person open a locked door of a bathroom in which someone was crapping and not express any remorse and I’ve also had my landlord walk out onto the roof and look in at my while I was showering. My entire body was visible to him and there is no shower curtain in the shower area.

I never wanted it to be like this.

I’ve always been a nice person. My personality is azure, which means, with all my ducks in a row, I get the natural impetus to help other people. I’m a former aspiring teacher who has been disallowed a teaching license because of my criminal background, which, at the time, consisted exclusively of victimless crimes.

I am worried about myself but I feel a little bit better than I did two hours ago. I am continually wondering how I am going to go on existing, particularly in a mental sense. I am in a state of inquiry as to what types of things I will be able to think, of how I will think, and to what it might lead. I start thinking of art, of artists, people who create. I have a current fixation on Diego Rivera and I’ve just today discovered a great poet named Michael Torres whose work is incredibly clear and gritty. It was not my intention to fixate on Hispanics but it seems it’s happened anyway.

I begin, I find myself, focusing on the exact fabric, the exact essence, of artistic expression. Today, I am taking the day off of work for reasons related to my mental health. I am in the library, which is probably my favorite place in town. I have no plans, and, aside from reading about four poems by Michael Torres, I’m pretty much just thinking, ruminating. Next to me, a lady is relating a tale about a guy driving his car into the river accidentally and drowning. I’m in a furious rush of stress, frenzy, and, I’d imagine, hypertension. Currently, as I’m writing this, I’m trying to get back to my former state of mind, which regarded the exact essence an artist is feeling when he wants to create. It’s not I want to create art. In fact, I’d much rather get back to a point of sanity. The reason why I’m fixating on the phenomenological requisite for the creation of art is that, in my current state, this is the only entity of which I am capable of wielding respect. Humanity has become repugnant to me, like a reprehensible waste species offering nothing of any value and simply undergoing quantifiable processes that are essentially meaningless.

Through art, however, I evade this mind state and observe that art, at its essence, is a storm in a teacup. Artists can identify other artists because they know exactly what needs to be expressed and what doesn’t. It’s always a storm in a teacup that will acknowledge an intense, broad landscape of humanity and imbue therein a sort of renewing paradigm. Rivera’s art is a little hard to understand and describe but I like it for its color clarity and its misanthropic avoidance of human forms, save for his excellent self-portrait, which may be his most famous work (and which, noteworthily, predated his Cubist phase in conspicuous fashion). The creation of rock and roll, too, is hard to describe, but possesses this transformative quality I mention earlier, necessarily, upon its materialization. The frequency, upon encountering of atrocity, is lowered, and this aspect of artistic creation becomes the sole component of one’s reality. This is why art must be the last thing to leave human society upon the race’s eventual demise.

“Entropic Foreground”

Walking around the jail cafeteria

I glance over

And see my reflection in the glass

Behind which

People I don’t know can see me

And I weave through

An abundance of men

Who have been caught beating their wives

Composing two-thirds of the individuals being held.

.

The TV relates a story of an “improper relationship”

Conducted by a football coach.

.

I sit down

And stare at the TV in disbelief and

Wonder when they’ll wake the fu** up.

“South Bend: an Expose”

I’m walking into the Hilton Double Tree in downtown South Bend, which stands across from the lot that used to hold the College Football Hall of Fame. The Hall of Fame building still sits, completely empty for the past 11 or so years, on a 30,000-square-foot lot that also features a concrete football field painted with green turf and white lines.

I try to open the doors of the Double Tree, in order to enter and apply for a kitchen job. It’s three or so in the afternoon on a Monday. The doors stick together as I’m trying to open them and it takes about 30 pounds of force to get them open. I walk into the giant, lavish lobby, in which the ceiling is like 10 stories high or so and adorned with copious windows, and make my way over to the bar, which flanks the kitchen and serves fare cooked there. I pass a couple of cheerful or innocuous people, get up to the bar and notice there’s no one there. I start making my way toward the kitchen, still not seeing or hearing a single person. There’s a bathroom there and I do in to relieve myself. One of the dispensers is out of soap. I walk out, still not seeing or hearing anybody, and I start to walk into the kitchen. South Bend is very violent, so I decide not to go all the way in (actually I once heard a story about the manager of this very kitchen trying to lance this dude I worked with with a pizza cutter, right on the job). I walk back out toward the bar, gaze at a bunch of bottled beer in a little cooler, and think, this could probably all be mine, if I wanted.

It’s been another year in South Bend: of skimpier-than-ever uniforms at Hooters, of greater and greater prevalence and even intricacy of yoga pants (they now make bell bottom yoga pants, for your viewing pleasure), of homicidal glares from random dudes and of spending a lot of time alone, on my computer, blogging and listening to music, two of my typical practices. Car washes and fitness centers are spreading like wild fires, disabling any scabs who would attempt to say there’s completely no commerce here.

The commerce at the downtown hotels, though, seems perhaps a little slow, which is ironic since the Marriott just built a new multi-story hotel right next to the Hilton (which is especially weird since the Hilton used to be a Marriott in itself). In one quest for night life over the summer on a Saturday night I walked past McCormick’s and Cool Runnings on Michigan St., right across from the Hilton’s back side, a block which is supposed to be unmistakably the epicenter for local music, these days. There was not a single performance going on in either one and on my way there I’d passed the Howard Park Public House, where a band was packing up its gear at 10 o’clock at night.

Before Mayor Pete Buttigieg’s initiative of doling funding to establishments to set up downtown, there stood a bar called Blarney Stone, which was a sports bar which also made a regular practice of housing live music. I also remember hearing of DJ sets at the State Theater, something that hasn’t transpired since Buttigieg initially took office.

Since 2016, when downtown was fused with a bunch of government-funded businesses, places like Blarney Stone and Finnie’s sports bar have gone under, leaving a drove of new-fangled, faceless bars and restaurants whose only purpose seems to be to cater to the pretentious wannabe-Bohemians who are dense enough to consider South Bend a “cool city,” or whatever. The Morris Performing Arts Center still stands one block from McCormick’s, a staggering and almost unbelievable bastion of proof that, even in a city this size, it’s possible to forge a staunch, defiantly cataclysmic separation between socioeconomic classes. Tickets for these events typically sell for over $40 and the shows they hold are galaxies away from anything the average working-class or blue-collar individual would want to view — musicals and other Broadway-minded events, typically. I mean, I have a liberal arts degree and I can’t even stand that dross. South Bend Brew Werks has been known to house live music here and there but it’s nothing on a consistent basis. (Please let me add that their nauseating shtick of “donating to local charities” smacks of pecuniary subterfuge, to put it very lightly.) The most consistent venue for live music in South Bend is probably Simeri’s Old Town Tap, which sits about a mile and a half southwest of downtown.

As far as the public schools go, there was a stabbing incident at my old school, John Adams, recently, an event the likes of which I remember nothing from when I was there. In one case, during Mayor Pete’s tenure, a certain school ran out of food for the day, and the mayor did not even issue a single statement to the public regarding the incident, let alone issue an apology. That’s a matter of fund allocation, right? How is that not the mayor’s responsibiity. Buttigieg went to St. Joseph High for his adolescent schooling and certainly behaved, while mayor, like somebody with no interest in the public schools. I heard another tale, from my boss at Bob’s 19th Hole, about a student transferring out of South Bend public schools and seeing his self-esteem pretty much skyrocket, as a result.

We’ve just had a festival where metal detectors were required for entry, the two-day “Fusion Fest.” I would have gone but I don’t have any camouflaged clothing. Violence, spite and antipathy are through the roof downtown, as was corroborated by this local  comedian I used to be friends with on Facebook, who gave a tale of a homeless dude decapitating a goose in Howard Park. (Now our comedy club, The Drop, is closed, by the way, so I’m not sure where or if she’s still doing her routine, which included, I have to say, wanting to date an epileptic because “The sex would be incredible”).

Mayor Pete did oversee the addition of the South Bend Cubs, which I suppose is a positive in a certain sense. But South Bend has always had a minor league baseball team, in that same spot, since my parents moved me here in 1990, and there are no sports bars surrounding the stadium or establishments which seem in any way to get clientele runoff from the games, which is certainly troubling. Here is hoping that in the coming years we can place a greater emphasis on the schools and in giving locals a voice in what transpires in the realms of downtown nightlife. As it stands, in this downtown revampment project, South Bend is trying to attract people to what is basically a phantom entity.

“Astrological Shift”

This is one crazy zodiac we’re entering here,

As if the sun’s fire has become semantic

In its molten, all-encompassing rage to

Drive our shadows to precipice

And our shadows will dance and sing

In careless, timeless zeal, with

Faces glued in burning identity,

A 90-mile-per-hour

Omniscience factory.

“Military Curmudgeon”

His car is smeared heavily

With bumper stickers of aggression —

Armed Forces,

All gave some some gave all,

And then

A curious permutation, you might say,

In “Bite me,”

The words juxtaposed next to the

“Don’t tread on me” snake,

.

The question then, perhaps,

Being

Begged

As to why we fight wars

And attempt to gain victory

To

.

Reconvene on the

Homeland and administer,

Simply,

“Bite me.”

“Mocking Replica Fire Eye”

Stevie Wonder is laying down the truths

On the mic

But in your mind

Is the carnage,

Is Sandra Bullock speeding

Through a city of retractable roof stadiums

And so the truth hits your mind

And dies like old leftovers

With the mocking fire eye of America

Berating down on you,

Its poison running through your veins

As you hoist carnivorous eyes to the world.