John Hospodka

Lone Wolf Poet: Episode 51

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Washing Your Hands of It at Approximately the Same 8:40-Something As Any Other Weekday, Looking Into the Mirror of the Bathroom (a Tad Unkempt Now From the Flurry of Use That Transpires Between 8 and 10 A.M.: Splashes Left As Small Puddles Across the Counter Top; Used and Unused Paper Towels on the Tile BelowEither Fallen During Hurried Pullings, or the Waist-High Trashcan Somehow Miraculously Missed; … Nasal Carbon Filters – Remember, Buy Them, Buy Them) on the Floor of the Building Your Cubicle Is Contained Within, and Noting How the Bags Under Your Bespectacled Blue Eyes Are Neither Ripe nor Wrinkled

I imagine you with your hair.

“Your hair.”

I want it back.

“No chance. Long, long gone.”

[Sigh.] Is there no God?

“There’s coconut oil and onion juice, I hear.”

[Sigh.] I don’t care enough, really. Not even enough for possibly doable miracles.

“Yeah, yeah, Debbie Downer. … Anyhoo, this whole sitting while you wipe your ass is for the birds.”

I know, right?

“I mean, fuck the properness of how to ‘properly’ [Chalice does air quote marks] wipe. You can’t really, fully, get at it like that. I mean, I don’t understand how you could.”

Well, maybe if our diet was better – less beer, more protein. You know, a sometimes kale not always sauerkraut sort of changing up of things. Exercising; stopping the whole sneaking smokes behind the wife’s back. I don’t know. But I’m right there with you: fuck wiping while sitting. Feels like trying instead of just doing.

“Don’t get me wrong, I’ve given it an honest go every now and again, but trying to be refined like that always ends up making me feel like I haven’t gotten at it all, and so I always end up standing to get the real job done with anyways.”

Face the music, kemosabe: we was not properly potty trained.

“Yeah, but we’ve long ago come into that space in time where we are more than capable of training ourselves.”

C’est la vie. … Hey, remember when you discovered your ass has a hole?

“That was terrifying.”

Bending over and looking between your legs at your ass in the mirror. Good God, what prompted that? You were so fucking scared. You ran and ran around the house screaming and screaming. See where curiosity got you, big guy.

“What the hell, Hoz, I was like 5, 6, maybe even 4. I mean, Jesus Christ, when you’re that age it’s like who the fuck puts a hole there? Fucking terrifying.”

Ha. … Hey, remember that American Masters we caught once? If I ain’t mistaking, Philip Roth stands while wiping, too.

“You know, I think you’re right. Yeah. And you know what else? I think I remember reading somewhere how Nabokov did it, too.”

Hmm. I wonder what other—

[Hearing the code being punched into the key pad for the bathroom door cuts me short. The door opens and a hipster from the douchey marketing firm on the floor enters. … I want it back. … He goes straight into the stall I occupied seconds ago. … Buy them, buy them. … With great patience, having, after all, really nowhere in the world to get to, I grab a handful of paper towels, dry my hands as best as I can, then purposefully drop the balled, wet towels into the waist-high trashcan.]


This is wannabe John Hospodka’s bi-weekly instructional blog.

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Lone Wolf Poet: Episode 50

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Unrenewed Subscription to The New Criterion, Again

There were less public justifiers paralleled to
Ponderances that scribed a re-charactered Sin-
Clearly allegiance to a granularly-texted smarts

In where skeletal phrasings could not retaliate
Against the conscripted confines of inquiry
Until his outsider glance of modernity ran in-

To the post-privileged tenor of being held
Captive inside an unwalled voice bow-tied:
The tacky gratuity of imagined crossed lines.

This is wannabe John Hospodka’s bi-weekly instructional blog.

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Lone Wolf Poet: Episode 48

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Futility from a Height

My neurotic back is to the door. Uncharacteristically, the bar is empty. Even Bob is not present. He’s gone off to the back room to grab some coasters, some glasses or some-shit.

Sun sweeps into the silent bar, and then a sort of spatial shading creeps into that sun. Only one body is cut out to emanate such a sagacious, see-through shadow as this.  The shading touches me as an understated incitement to goose pimples: I chill.

The Reverend Any Major Dude is in da house, y’all.

The bar’s door shuts out the sun. … Ugh, there it is. Shit. There’s that annoying, tripping laughter of one Chalice asslick Sinclearly. … Ugh. Can’t he just stay outside for once and go get lost?

A Black Label is on the bar, before the stool next to mine. The Reverend appears in the mirror behind the bar. The Reverend’s long, oblique face, engulfed as it is now solely by the velvety fake light of the bar’s interior, is a vast, plushly vegetated plateau dripping with revelation. I stand, turn around and slap him ten and he slaps me ten right back. … Right on. …

He looks to the Black Label, reaches for it, hoists it, slams it.  I take my seat. I look up to him.

“I’ve got no real time for you today,” the Reverend shares, and gets his illogical presence all up in my grill, the thickening hair of his forehead, parted down the middle this day, tickles the tip of my nose as he bends down to speak to my face. I sneeze, and before I look back up to him I see his size 17 feet are flowing underneath my stool, the hand painted scenes on his sneakers are of streams robust with salmon run.

“God bless you. And thank you. I’m sorry, but I really have no time to spare for you at the moment. Commitments. You are not my only customer. You are not my only favorite branch of knowledge. But please feel what I am beginning to feel before I step back out into that fisticuffs-stirred air of Chicago wherein the vaporous trail of its Teachers Union bends over backwards to dodge the ricocheting bullets of Rauner’s very real stereotypical nob way of being pretensefully empathetic: your fight for your duality, for this numb-nuts here [he points a thumb over to Chalice whose face is buried into his arms that are crossed atop the bar – he is simply dying of laughter, laughing so hard that he is not making a sound], your fight for the no-namer in poetry and for poetry to get off its high horse, your fight in the name of poetry’s potential readership—the totality of your bickering at the American Literati is directly related to your fight to re-grasp your Catholic faith, to your hope that the Catholic Church will more absolutely become for and of the laity, and finally be an aesthetic extension of … hmm, what? … A moral rigor that finally embraces the loving psychotropic digressions of a Freethinker real-mindedness? … Ha! … Are you fighting a winning battle? It is said that a real Catholic goes to church; a real poet doesn’t hole up in a basement. … Know this, Hoz: you either need to reevaluate the ways of your being, or you need to concede that you are neither a poet nor a Catholic, that you are in truth what you are: a full-fledged wannabe. … And know this, Mr. Trip-Master One: futility ventures to unimaginable heights for its self-revelation. … Fly high, brother-man. Fly high.”

He raises his palms to waist-height. I slap him ten, and he slaps me ten right back. … Right on. … He turns around, and holds ten out for Chalice to slap. Chalice’s face is still buried into his arms that are crossed atop the bar. He has begun to emit hiccups of laughter, his spine heaves with each emission. The Reverend drops his hands, looks back to me and shrugs. I shrug back, then I spin around on my stool and begin to stare at myself in the mirror behind the bar.

A sort of spatial shading permeates the bar. Bob steps between me and my image, “Same way?” And as I give a nod, the bar’s door shuts out the sun.


This is wannabe John Hospodka’s bi-weekly instructional blog.

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Lone Wolf Poet: Episode 47

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“Affair Fear”
Memoir/This Poem/Another Poet

the reality of it is it’s the unreality of it.
an unusual sex triangle without the sex,
and with it actually being diamond-like.

there’s her and me, then there’s this she.
myself excluded, this she and her exist
equally befriended to the other’s where.

but here is just me, amplified in my Sin
-clearly way between a need and a want:
one hand firm in this poem’s; on the other

hand i’m beside myself, relentless jives
fetched at in all these mid-thoughts over
how equally obtuse and acute the heart

-beats will surely become once the reality
of this crush i’m stomaching in this like-
wise unreality sexes me back to the ring.

This is wannabe John Hospodka’s bi-weekly instructional blog.

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Lone Wolf Poet: Episode 46

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Acid Casualty
(or, Ordering at Skylark)

“Of course. Yeah, yeah. Sorry, I know you’re busy. Yeah, I’m ready to order, Bob; yeah I am. I will have a vodka martini. [Bob immediately spins away to go make the thing.] I would like my martini as if it were overturned by our government in a fit of book-banning rage. That’s to say, show absolute callousness: Shake it till you bruise it. Batter it. Make a goddamn victim of it, Bob. Make it dirty. Filthy. I want it nearly firm, to the point so you can’t see through the thing’s indignation. … Indignation for what? Indignation, Bob—indignation for its imminent role within my condition inside your establishment here where I’ve seen my common manners fail with poignant regularity. … Not even while squinting your eyes do I want to see through the goddamn thing. Make it impassable to the fucking eye. But no Vermouth, nooo sir, Boborino, I shall not take a fucking drop of that – my taste is too coy-sided to be infused by an opening up of anything. [Bob is interrupted in his making of the drink by another customer ordering a beer.] … However, I will ask this: I will ask that you take the Vermouth’s cap off and simply wave it thricely over the drink once it has been poured and calmed – I feel this pomposity legitimates the sneery constitution I will soon be gaining while empleasuring myself with those gulpy sips I will soon be pulling from that triangular glass you’re cubing right there in plain sight of this whole scene’s eyes. [Bob is back at his making of the martini. At the same time, he is describing to the other customer the after taste of the beer he just poured him.] And as for olives: indeed. I will need one. One olive, and one only, Bob. And don’t you dare pierce that salty oval. No, no, no. Spare it, sir; apply no wound. Whip the little devil into the cocktail with such vengefulness that it does not produce so much as a ripple, but does on the other hand produce a sound that resounds as the detonation that commences an Olympic 50 yard dash. … If you shall perfect this concoction for me on this day, Roberto, you will find that my cheap ass will not tip under-accordingly, but rather nearly decently.”

Chalice, dude, take it easy there cowboy. What the hell, man? You don’t drink martinis. Out to get blotto this evening? It’s Tuesday. It’s 5:35. The wife is on her way. … What, out to become the Muppet who ate Manhattan tonight?

“Fuck you, Hoz. Ate Manhattan? Didn’t you just hear me order a Martini? Ate Manhattan? [I know what he just ordered. I was simply using an expression. You know, I meant the island. He’s being an idiot.] … You have no idea where I’m coming from, Hoz. I had a horrific day. Horrific. … I began a poem. … Ugh! … I was knee deep in the fucking shit, sinking like a lead zeppelin inside that cubicle today. Like fucking ‘Nam in that cube. And all those freaks asking me questions and putting things in front of me to work on or file away. Fuck that!”

Um, those freaks are our coworkers; those things are our job. Maybe you should try actually doing our job someday. … Oh, but I get it, Chalice, I get it. Poor, poor, pitiful old tortured soul you. … Oh, by the way, what would you know about serving our country, much less experiencing the jungles of ‘Nam?

“Tortured? Damn straight. That’s what it’s about. I’m not afraid to say it. That’s what it’s always been about: torture. … You got ol’ prized Collins reading at some botanical garden with some mick poet; you got all those ones smiling away on some website for some forthcoming Brooklyn workshop. Poetry’s just so tweet-tweet sweet little birdies in bloomy trees, ain’t it? All these poetry readings and poetry slams and little non-profit prizes goo goo gaa gaaing on and on with all their life affirming bull—”

That’s the spirit. That’s how you win hearts – an audience, readers. Get in with the ‘in’ crowd. That’s it. Great American there, Chalice.

“Fuck you, Hoz. I serve my country. I serve my country by not being a school boy. That’s how I serve, and I’ve been serving for decades, dickhead. You can go straight to hell. … What, you think poetry is about touching hearts? … Ah-ha! You sort of do, don’t you, douchebag? Thinkin’ poetry’s just so empowering – Poetry! Poetry! Swish-boom-bah! … [Bob puts the drink before Chalice. The drink is as clear as Chicago tap water; inside the glass are three olives squeezed together on a pick.] Like the Good Doctor’s take on eating acid, that’s what poetry is—[Chalice takes a gulp of his drink.] Goddamn perfect, Bob! Perfect!—just like the Good Doctor’s take on eating acid: ‘Jesus, man! You don’t look for acid! Acid finds you when it thinks you’re ready.’”

[I do a heavy sigh, thinking, It’s sis-boom-bah, jagoff.]

Whatever, dude. You drain me. It’d be nice to be liked, appreciated, read. It’d be nice to bring the voice up out of the basement or outside of the cubicle every now and again. That’s all I think.

“Ha! Still petrified of the ol’ ‘cid, I see. … What was it? 1989? Edie Brickell & New Bohemians?”

You shut up now.

[Chalice slugs the martini, and Bob walks by and scoops up his empty glass.]

“HAHAHAHA. I guarantee, Hoz, you are the one person on this whole flat and minefielded planet who can say he was busted for being up in a tree while fried on acid at an Edie Brickell & New Bohemians show. HAHAHAHA—”

Shove it, Chalice.

[Fuck, it’s true. I was up in a tree, on acid, it was the 80s. … I ate some acid when Edie Brickell & New Bohemians came to play at our college. I actually ate a bunch. I had always been very skeptical of LSD because I had witnessed friends and acquaintances trip out on the shit. Acid always seemed to hunker down and be in there for too long of a time. Whether you wanted to keep on trucking or not, acid seemed to keep on zooming and zooming, rolling on and on for hours and hours. I had long found a sound friend in mushrooms: ‘shrooms could be controlled, manipulated on my end, I could maintain a rather speculative decorum on ‘shrooms, flirt with the gals like a Turtlenecked, Courvoisier sipping scholar, carry on a dialogue with the Reverend Any Major Dude, or at very least be cognitive enough to listen and learn from him about my inherent duality. I’ve always been able to come down from ‘shrooms whenever I’ve wanted to. But for whatever reason, on that particular day I decided to give acid a go, and with a handful dose at that. Crazy, I don’t really know why I decided to party-up then, at that point in time – I never cared for the band. Who know? But during the concert I was standing next to a tree. When I looked up into the tree it became immediately apparent to me that I should be up there in it. I’d be able to see the band over the something like 200 students who were in attendance out of the private school’s student body of just over a thousand. Once up in there I began to hear loud barking. I looked down and there were two campus police officers standing down there yelling up at me. Their teeth were all I made out: like dogs’ teeth when dogs are growl-snapping at you. I climbed down and the cops chastised me. They walked away, got a few yards away from me, and without any thought I climbed right back up into the tree. Again, barking; again, teeth. But this time when I climbed down I was cuffed, and put in a cell. (I would figure it out about a decade later: it was probably a liability thing I was violating.) In a jail cell for hours while on a handful of acid at the age of 19, 20 – I  tell you what folks, that scene got implanted and has me getting flashbacks till this very day—friends, acid does go zooming on forever. A bit of my character crumbled into 20th Century pre-Gizmobation-splintered selfies in that Five Colleges of Ohio town’s jail cell. I lost my shit. I heard them discuss at one point about getting me to the hospital. I sharted. I don’t have the constitution for that type of deep tissue mind-massage. I’m a wimp. And since the moment of my release from that cell back in ‘88, ‘89 – whenever – I have speculated, and I believe rightly so, that one more hit of acid would make me go all Oar-like on this world. So, that was it for me and lysergic acid diethylamide. One and fucking done.]


Jesus. You’re so tiring, Chalice. Just drop it, please. I’m spent; didn’t get shit done at work today with that fucking shit shooting through the brain all day. We’re going to be in for a shit storm tomorrow. And I don’t need any of your shit here. Not now. I just want a little peace; I need a drink. Fuck poetry; fuck you. I just want a cocktail.

[We fall silent. I catch Sinclearly’s eyes in the back bar’s mirror, and he holds my stare. His stare is condemning, challenging, but I don’t withdraw. I take up the challenge, in fact, and stare right back into his eyes, refusing to be the first to blink. … After a spell, the wife arrives and grabs the stool next to mine, kisses me on the cheek, calls me “My little drunk dialer,” then says, “Hi there, Bob. Wine, please. The pinot.” And I blink.]

… Yeah, Bob. Sorry, man. Just spacing out here. … Anyways, my bank’s arrived. So, hmm? Yeah, I’ll start me out with a Martini, please.

“Uh-oh, the Muppet who ate Manhattan,” Bob says with a wink before turning away from the two of us.


This is wannabe John Hospodka’s bi-weekly instructional blog.

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Lone Wolf Poet: Episode 45

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Good ‘n’ Lit

… I was seated at the bar, in the midst of a steady conversation with Chalice Sinclearly, not paying attention to what was playing over the speakers (Skylark, without TVs and with the decorum to play music at a level that invites conversation, is a true old school meeting place—a godsend); I was just looking forward upon my vanity stool. During the conversation, as I listened and responded to Chalice’s inquiries regarding a recent spat I’d had with my wife, I felt my upper lip beginning to snarl, and I became aware that my head was beginning to knock about – not in the motion of a “No,” not the motion of a “Yes,” but rather quite opposite of either of those. My head was being thrust by my neck in the emotion of a feisty cock. As I then felt my eyes beginning to squint, mellowing my stare and countenance into the natural – come by honestly – fulfillment of this ostentatious attitude overcoming me, I watched the exact same thing overtaking mi amigo. Suddenly, this collective sensation engulfing us stopped our conversation dead in its tracks, and taking over for our tongues and ears, it communicated between Chalice and myself, Goddamn, that’s gettin’ some bidness done right there, boy. That’s some fuckin’ rock ‘n’ roll right there.

It’s a song from the Rolling Stones at their best in the early ‘70s. I had heard this song in the past before the other night. Once? Twice? I can’t remember now. Without knowing the song’s name, and without it being on any studio album, it took me sometime the next day to hunt it down on the internet using many, many different search methods: “Jiving Sister Fanny.”

Now, to this fogey’s pruning mind, “Dead Flowers” is the best rock song ever. From the 1971 album Sticky Fingers, “Dead Flowers” is emblematic of a quintessential irreverence – it expresses a nearly elegant “Fuck You”—an emotion that as one who aspires to be of my truest friend’s, Chalice Sinclearly’s, nature, I hold very dear to my heart. … That said, Mick Jagger is not exactly the priss y’all in your “fetishizes the authentic” ways want to believe him to be. OK, he’s washed up (probably for a good spell now), but as a songwriter/lyricist he has proven to be extremely accomplished. I have always believed this, what with the likes of “Moonlight Mile,” “No Expectations,” “Gimme Shelter,” “Sway,” “Rocks Off,” “Tumbling Dice”—I’m all sixes and sevens and nines—“Far Away Eyes,” “Beast of Burden,” among others. I mean – c’mon nah. He ain’t too shabby.

However, the lyrics to “Jiving Sister Fanny” were never quite nailed down. This unfinished song was recorded during the band’s studio sessions at Olympic Sound Studios, London, for the album Let It Bleed (1969). It would not be a part of that album, but would later be released on the outtakes album Metamorphisis (1975). According to the website Songfacts: “Stones guitarist Mick Taylor, who had recently joined the band, wrote most of this track. It features Nicky Hopkins on electric piano. Lyrics to this song were never finished, as Mick Jagger just made them up as he sang.”

Certainly cool enough as is, I feel this fried-out rocker deserves some semblance of linearity. So, I’ve taken it upon myself to rework its lyrics – put them to my own use. Though this is an “instructional” column concerning the fruity art of poetry, I’ll not try to sell to you that I’ve transformed the original gibberish into a poem. It ain’t poetry by any means. The below is a simple exercise in positioning the Lone Wolf Poet – my main man “Sin” – into his proper context.

For Mary Karr – 
Jivin’ Sister Fanny, told her man from
Po’try mag’zine, uh, blah, blah, blah
He tore down the s’mission said she didn’t
Like the way “Sin” played, uh, blah, blah, blah
If you got a basement guy, get you down, a real no why
Tar from you down inside, ‘n’ core-feathered by the while
Ooh, child, you got “Sin” achin’ ‘long the broad Lit-way,
Uh, blah, blah, blah
Now, Jivin’ Sister Fanny got
The brain of a tidal bore, uh, blah, blah, blah
Well, she whopped his cheeky rep’toire
And she whopped his electric “Screw yuz,” uh, blah, blah, blah
Then she’s wadin’ in our style
Tell her to wait; ‘er waitin’ cure gad we’s on – the wadin’ wooed
By George oh watch her gait
Ooh, child, you got “Sin” achin’ ‘long the broad Lit-way


This is wannabe John Hospodka’s bi-weekly instructional blog.

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Lone Wolf Poet: Episode 44

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Total Sum of Less than Zero

That was fucked.

“Whatcha gonna do?”

I wouldn’t’ve let the jagoff get away with that shit, that’s for sure.

“Hoz, it was a dream.”

First off, the jagoff was from Boston. … Boston. Then the guy belit—

“See! Boston? Why would I ever dream of someone from Boston? Where does that shit come from? … I had no control. It was a dream.”

[Weird dream. … Sinclearly was with a large group of revelers at a rock show. The scene was good and raunchy. He knew a few of the folks he was with, some of our pushing-50 Motorhead-loving peeps, but others he did not know. As the show was going on he became more and more comfortable toking and joking around these strangers as it became quickly apparent to him that they were friends with the folks we know, maybe they were their coworkers, or maybe they were from their other orbits of friendships. … It was an outside venue; it was a pleasant night out. Even legal exhales materialized in the night air, but the crowd’s gyratory state took the chill out of the collective mind’s atmosphere. Chalice was even sweating a bit. … Damn, the music was good: jangly, rocking; the kind of boogying that brings you back to those nights when whiskey leaked from the flask down the crack of your ass and you couldn’t stop shaking it up out on the floor – the crowd never dancing for a fight, but never sweating over one coming neither. … The show ended, everyone was feeling zoned, right on. The group Chalice was a part of made it out of the venue and everyone began looking for cabs to grab (they were obviously in the city, the skyline visible), until one of his long-time friend’s friend surprised them all by pointing out the large helicopter he had lined up to fly everyone in the group to the after-show party on the other side of town, where the band they just saw was going to do a little private, acoustic thing, and there’d be more booze, more partying. I knew all of this because you just know these things in your dreams, right? … So Chalice climbs into the helicopter with everyone else. There was a bunch of them, so it got real crammed in there. Chalice was buzzing pretty good. Everyone got all sort of intertwined with one another before the helicopter lifted off. In the air, Chalice began feeling self-conscious. Our long-time Motorhead-loving friends were now hanging around people doing really cool things and making really big money at it. There was talk of working on movie sets, of being at Playboy Magazine, of advertising, of greenrooms on Broadway. It seemed like most of the strangers in the helicopter were in some artistic endeavor – sound designers, assistant directors, screenplay writers, editors, etc. And then there was old basemented, cubicle-dwelling, wannabe poet, self-publishing paranoid schizophrenic—old Chalice Sinclearly me. … So there’s this conversation going on and Sinclearly’s really feeling down on himself, and he glances up – he was on the helicopter’s floor – and this sleaze-ball looking dude – handsome, donning a few days stubble over his sculpted cheek bones; just very Mediterranean in appearance; every wife’s wet dream, really – total sleazeball—so this dude looks Sinclearly square in the eyes, and as a natural contributing and facilitating statement to the discussion at hand, says right at him, “I’m looking at the total sum of less than zero right here in front of my eyes.” … Ugh. And that fucking disgusting New England accent. … And cut.]

You should have dropped him.

“Easy, Hoz. I was like a pretzel in there, all tied up like I was on that floor. I couldn’t have thrown a punch if I wanted. … Anyhoo, let’s change the subject before you really say something we all regret about a large and historic region of American Culture.”

I know why you were dreaming of Boston.

“Pray tell, Mr. Know It All.”

You got revolution on the mind. … They might all now be Southie-wannabes cruisin’ The Hub for a wicked rippah, but it was the epicenter of our Revolution – our only all-out kill-the-rulers revolution. … Boy, you got some revolution on that there mind. Getting all heated up and politicized these days. … Seems like just yesterday when you looked upon blatantly political art as disgusting, as not being art at all but rather mere commentary. I know you don’t like the thought of being political in your work, but Chalice, listen man, it’s only natural that we’d start giving a shit about the greater world at this point in time: today; this hour of the Great Test of American Testes, when the world is becoming more and more unreal, unread, de-truthed, and so in turn our basemented cause is becoming a less and less meaningful, pertinent rebellion. Being political isn’t going to turn you into an academic-bound per-usual-Lefty. … I wouldn’t think. … I’d think it’d make you a man – a caring and thoughtful participant in the human race. It’s you climbing out of me; you getting my head unwrapped from around us. … A good thing. An American thing.

[The work by Chalice that is here under discussion:

Da Wall
A Perspective from Chicago
The Wall:
You can stone-out, go into pillow-mode and seep into concept
As each brick’s craftily laid – encircling as, too, amounting – as one’s,
An artist’s, memories schism into imagination and keep on discording
On until acidly mastered in the mortared lines and angles of a nooks
And crannies paranoia: A crazed mood of reclusive-longing patience
Wherein sound mind-wanting wails transmute inward to the cinema
That is the underfold of auditory effects essaying the outside reality
Amidst lyrics lapped with the madcap connects of an insider’s view:
“Mother did it need to be so high?”
Or, like that one wall:
You could have movie-starred with a monkey, then emerged beyond
Your witch hunter days into an era nationalized by amateurs icing machines
In a heated miracle on ice, wherein you’d scare non-Christians into un-blind-
Folding what’s ours; and confounding Putin’s mentors, this era, too, saw other
Non-Christians reclaim guerilla warfare as Freedom’s warfare (as our own
Muzzle-bearing Patriots did for our birth, but none since); despite your hostility
To the revolutionary imagination, you still – in an era still without the emoti-
Con – could preserve enough of some socio-moral core to word into history:
“Tear down this wall!”
But your wall:
You in your all-about-me belief use the anti-tremendous vocabulary
Of a playlot’s jagoff (the punk who we in our struggling Progressive decorum
Must unfortunately permit to breach us: the type of brat every parent, not just
His or her own, needs to smack down), Twatterly believing that in ratings
Lies a God-given entitlement to come between the legion on which we make
Our stand and the high-blue expanse of Hope’s great encompassing vision,
Like as if, jagoff, you can cut our imagination’s sighting of the Wicked Witch
On her floor sweeping ride, a middle finger raised, spelling us under her script:
“Surrender Russia”

~Begun on January 25, 2017. Let go of on April 25, 2017.]

“Whoa, whoa, whoa there, Mr. Rabble Rouser. … Let’s not get too carried away with pride or sentimentality here. And please, don’t you ever go trying to coax me up and out into conciliation from the maddening reservation of this basement. Ever. … Zap ‘em with your sirens, man! Zap ‘em with your sirens!* … All we should really be concentrating on today is stepping the fuck away from our Gizmobation, and figuring out where my next buzz is coming from.”


* American Photojournalist (Dennis Hopper) welcoming the boat in Apocalypse Now.


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