Poetry-Life

Lone Wolf Poet: Episode 46

essay cover chalice

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 into the thick of Mosul 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?

“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 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. 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? … A calling? … 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, idiot.]

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 ate some when Edie Brickell & New Bohemians came to play at our college. 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 double dose at that. 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 a liability thing I was violating.) In a jail cell for hours while on 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.]

“HAHAHAHA—”

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 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.

 

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

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Lone Wolf Poet: Episode 43

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“A Morning Stroll in Bridgeport, Chicago”
(Sunny, Light Breeze, 71 Degrees, Birds; Sadly Beautiful)

I dream the unlived Sin-
Clearly: he’s enmeshed in the low-
Tall piano jazz amounting with-
In Sunday window’s screened-in scene, in-
Where, at an inflowing ashen depth from the framed
Open pane, perhaps even seated out
Of this sidewalk-sight, below the framed water
Color of a bare bent back (gray and grayer
Strokes – 10? 9? 8?… More? – tinge the viewed
Atmosphere with a spine soft-arched down to its fray
Between hippy, nonchalant, rump cheeks,
A light bodied cascade of split-ends fallen
To the bold-lined platform of Chicago

Shoulders—
No neck;
Arms and thighs –
O! Imagine those calves!
Unseen but understood

To be tucked against her innie, into her breasts’
Stud buttons), where his eyes, in puckers, eye
The tweed perspective of the Hechtian inking a tea
Into taking a hit of moonshine in its stove-top coffee.

… I dream him, the unlived pluck of a harp
String over tall grasses tilted in the twirls of the Age
Of Chivalry’s zephyrs that reach into the shade
The trees give themselves once brought to the appeased
Enmoistment that is the summer’s ‘I’m cool with self,’
When leaves touch their own shadows to the shadowings
Of the undersunned sun-meant sides of the sunnier
Leaves before them, those even yet behind
Those that take the elegiac air-prods first-

Most and were always never
To have both sides coexistently
Shaded, but yet attain this due due
The plushing acrossments of sword-
Wielding-times’ blowings of wind.

Such vision strikes chords. – I dream of Sin-
Clearly, unlived, denied the romance of the days
When inking was the act of scoring shade into skin
Amidst the quivery barbs of a dead structure.
 

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

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Lone Wolf Poet: Episode 40

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That’s Using the Ol’ Noggin
(Backstory of Philosophy)

It’s been well over five years since Chalice Sinclearly last thought about plugging this bathtub Jacuzzi; this, even though he finds himself standing in here at some point each day, attempting to shower away his exhausting [Exhaustive?] sleep. He’s not some vulgar snoring sweat-machine between the sheets, that’s not really it at all; rather, imagine how you’ll find a soft-edged shard of an old porcelain mug out in your city garden when you’re out there weeding clover – imagine how the earth is always churning itself over itself and pushing things back up to its surface, mostly inconsequential things, but artifacts nonetheless—well, Sinclearly’s slumber, implanted as it is in the paranoiac nutrients of his daylight-fumblings for the proper impudence to practice when finagling diction out of the unspeakable, roils and toils his sense of dwindling amends up to its nightly surface where it comes to rest amidst his flesh like an armed severed arm of an old plastic army figure. … Chalice moans, searches for breath, drools in his sleep. … Anyhoo, the reason he’s come to use this Jacuzzi’s soothing jets of bubbles this early Saturday afternoon is because the ripening weight of the ever-boiling delinquency he lugs around with him upon his shoulders has caused his back to begin to incessantly ache, and he’s recently been pushing house and yard chores off in an attempt to give the muscles that encircle and fortify his touchy spine some time to regain their collective audacity. He’s in this Jacuzzi because he needs to stop being a wussie about his backbone if he’s to put an end to this tending towards hillbilly that’s becoming of everything in his and his wife’s immediate surroundings. …

So, here Chalice sits; and there’s Ol’ Boy Johnson bobbing amidst the roiling, unsoaped water, its weightless, squashy shaft just below the water even with being extended a full rockin’ inch or two from the twiggy seaweed that is his still colorful man-muff. The Ol’ Johnson bobs right there, joyously, it seems, and as he keeps his eyes on him Chalice can’t help but to start a light mantra in his head: “Go cowboy, go cowboy, go cowboy.” As this cheery echoing carries on, Chalice locates, right at the cut of the water, one of his more telling distinuishers: a line of taught skin from his foreskin is still attached to the ‘shroom-cap-undercurve of the Ol’ Johnson’s noggin. Since the time his consciousness became self-encounterable Chalice has always felt that this line of skin characterizes his essence: he is marked by the circumstance of someone else’s job not being wholly executed, which means, quite paradoxically, that he is a hair’s breadth away from being wholly mutilated—he’s been scarcely, and I do mean scarcely, spared. Though he’s certainly been of the age for quite some time now in which he’s been fully capable of taking matters into his own hands and making the decision to go somewhere to have the mutilation finished, Chalice has obviously never considered it to any committed, proactive degree. This, even though whenever he has a hard-on his distinguisher becomes an added source of internal stress and unusual mistrust, appearing as it does like a too-stretched rubber band that’s about to snap at any second. … Should you ever see Chalice’s wife with a fat lip … I’m just saying.

For the past few years Chalice has been going to see this guy for his yearly checkups. He’s a younger gentleman, younger looking than Chalice, anyways, but yet with millenniums – “millenniums” as in actual ages existed through—literally millenniums of enlightenment under his origin-belt; a petite but not frail gentleman of obvious Greek decent, with a voice that’s lower and more assured than that Allstate dude’s. He’s one of them who via an ambitious and pragmatic drive have positioned themselves amongst the everyman as disappointingly beneficial intimidators – you know, one of them entities whose wages can never be fully begrudged by any Lone Wolf Poet with a functioning soul and a fully formed empathy for the continuance of memories because those entities’ overbearing inquisitions of the everyman on behalf of the overburdening models of vigor and shape and chance drive, evolutionarily speaking, the Lone Wolf Poet’s differentiation between need and want towards a more upfront perspective. … Anyhoo, each year, right after Sinclearly looks both ways with a cough, when the Greek’s lifted Ol’ Johnson to give the ol’ boy and the nutsack he road in on a good look-see, the Greek’s never failed to notice Chalice’s distinguisher; and each year, with his lips in a frown over the shaved butt-crack of his chin, his forehead in a smile above the inflexibility of his Magic Marker-ed eyebrows and just below his plunged but straight-edged and sated hairline, and his spectacles perched at the highest point of his nose’s wrinkled bridge, right there before the stretched-smooth flesh emanating from his eye sockets (with each of his facial features being appropriated by yours and my stock reaction to a reactionary state of mind), the Greek’s had the same thing to say to Chalice: “Inneresting. … Yes, inneresting, and a mere nick from perfection.” At last year’s checkup Chalice finally blurted out: “Well, blow me, Doc. That’s the real me you’re holding right there, buddy boy.” And though a tense moment of pause ensued – Sinclearly looking down, the Greek looking up – the commonality of life’s lighter purposes was mutually and quite hurriedly realized between the two men, and so humor prevailed and they shared in a genuine laugh – Chalice’s distinguisher still right there in the Greek’s grasp, wouldn’t you know. …

“Go cowboy, go cowboy, go cowboy.”

 

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

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Lone Wolf Poet: Episode 39

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“Your Name is Above a Cash Register”

Taped; a dollar
Amount affixed to “Sin-

Clearly.” You owe. You need to
Amend for your shitty ways before we is

Eighty-

Sixed from every last game in town that’s ever been
Open for our everyday submissions of our everyday submission
To the verity of our very in the ever-

Present short-lived
Day. Sin

-Clearly, we can’t afford you
To be forsaking, collegiate. No matter how
Bashed we be, we is

Counting on you to have long accepted being
Charged with being the curator of the bar

-Keep’s due and due reward.

 

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

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Lone Wolf Poet: Episode 38

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Your Average Douchebags

Armed as it is with a barbed remonstration against complacency, the inquiry assaults imagination daily: will Chalice Sinclearly’s soul ever spinster away from this inclination of his to under-skin his own defenselessness to the notion of death? The confliction dawns within random moments of Chalice’s, positively sickening in its repetitive surprise, much like the emergences of open sores during a VHS porn’s over-muffed surge to climax: When will be my moment to cancel out – in a split second collapse with the life crushed out of me like a spider intentionally stepped on? What if it’s just a thing of utter absence, this thing of death? Absence. Holy hell, I am going to die! My God, there is no fucking choice! Chalice’s fear of death is unrelenting, often demanding that he forks from his spooning in the wee hours to pace the wife’s century-plus-old home with an anxiety that borders on what today’s MFA candidates can only suppose the brown acid hallucinations translated to for the sonnet-building underground of the SLA years.

Chalice understands there is a certain element amongst us who remain unthreatened by death: them who daytrip into diverse culture from their egocentric earmarks sprawled throughout the domain of high school massacres, and struggle to parallel park while keeping their cells to their ears, chatting-up fellow adulterers over how to remain emotionally vague – them who never once in their days, not even in the winter evenings after their suppers when they sneak to their backyard porches with pours of middling, shitty Scotch and with flakey stogies, possess the self-deprecating wherewithal to strive for the humility of purpose (rather than the conceit of success) in the endeavor to build an intellectual essence up over their families’ heads.

Well, such are your average douchebags. …

Them who understand nothing about their heritage, a generation or more already beyond the correct pronunciation of their last names, they can see no further back into history than their last brag about how many hours they work; them for whom the advertising world’s promises of sustained youth and endless health and perpetual wealth are tangible, “revolutionary” notions (remember things like Tiger Woods for American Express: “Boundaries are for golf, not life”); them who while seated across from husbands who keep their ball caps on backwards at the dinner table, announce to their pre-school offspring, “Me and this man here who has long ago been ousted from the cast in my masturbation mind-screens moved down here from Cleveland or Michigan or wherever it was to become Cubs fans, and that’s why we’re here today in this vastly overvalued home in the heart of ever-gentrifying Logan Square. We’re here to make the city Whiter and more anti-Union for a while, all while feeling like we’re brave, adventurous, liberal, since we’re now into our 30’s and still living, after a whole decade now, in this massively Brown and Black and mentally-ill populated city. But don’t worry, there is a ‘burb out there with our unhyphenated name on it, and just before we need to enroll you in the education system, the same education system this thickening man here and me got nothing out of but the complacency to accept the realization that our imaginations are doomed to be collectively mini-vanned, we’ll pull out there to where the American Dream is embodied in a videoed meeting between a school psychiatrist and a bed-wetter in which a discussion of asparagus verges on inappropriateness. And there’ll be so much heroin out there in suburbia for your teen years – we’ll never need this city again! We’ll never need this Illegals-packed city ever, ever, again! We’ll start going to church; we’ll start voting; we’ll still never, never, need newspapers or journalists—we got Facebook! We’ll be Friends: you and all your junkie high school chums and your mid-forties, hip, hopefully divorced, MILFy mom; all of us sharing our moods and distrusts in Posts of all-consuming-love-of-self. Now let’s eat this wonderful frozen Whole Foods thing before your empathy gets cold, which it will – O, thank God it will!”

Being unfearful of death: this is a notion that can easily be confused as being a formidable attribute, a strength. But what this notion actually transmutes into is the characteristic known as complacency. Complacency means being OK with the present – means living unmoved by the past, unmotivated by the future. Complacency is anti-Moment 101. To exist inside complacency means to exist in the constant act of surrendering. Complacency is the characteristic of those of a generation (any generation) who tender no ingredients, bestow no measurements. They are hollow. They harbor no imagination; whip up for our records no challenges from scratch: followers of recipes; they risk nothing. They are based in the cosmetic, not in the gutsy.

In this basemented reality wherein resides one Chalice Sinclearly there is the constant challenge of living under a constant fear of a surprise attack from his fear of death. He exists inside displeasure, meaning he exists in the constant act of persevering. And it is this devouring invasive awareness that drives his judgment, tempers his choices: it is the perception of this trembling existence that the Lone Wolf Poet searches for through his art; it is by the perception of this trembling existence that the Lone Wolf Poet catches whiffs of bad art, calls out the douchebags who pass them.

 

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

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Lone Wolf Poet: Episode 29

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“Truly Political (Against True Art)”

A prayer:
God bless me into Sin-
Clearly, fully, finally. Grant me
Another couple two three
Root canal rottings, front teeth
This time. Grant me a Meth Mouth
Type of look so I can be stereotyped-
Flush in my challenge to the socio-stereo-
Typical, so when they come flag-pumping
To find my basement door after I here
Criticize their being all anti-dramatic
Imagination while samely they’re going all chicken-
Hawk with the morality in the no draft era; after
I here exude unto their washboard-metalled chests
Their own dis-constitutional swinging-truck
-Nuts ways and means of noosely committeeing

Prayer—
When they come whisk-brooming
At my basement’s doorstep, I will answer,
By your grace, my only grasp on God,
In cut-off sleeves and saggy sweats and unclipped
Toe nails and level them with the presentational
Smile of the fact I am in fact of them and not
A bandwagoner transplanted from a distant O-
                                                     Hio or Kalama-
Zoo to the live theatre side of Madison St., where
I’m safe enoughly staged up from that which always,
Always—since before even the seed of Ingenuity her-
Self redacted her very experience in the name of trumping
Up an American hold on schooling—always bears the brunt
Of the newscasterly presumption of intern fact checkers:
Chicago’s South Side is thrust to a culture played
Out of amendments.

Let us pray:
One can only hope, by God, upon my appearance
At the basement door, between the whistly tensenesses
I voice over the bum dittying I minstrel them over as,
The view will in clear view be viewed:
Just because my thumb and pointer make believe
Doesn’t mean I Bang! Bang! you
Into miraculously-like dropping dead.

(Alas, I vote—
The only aspect that would in fact be the most real
Packer down here at the threshold is our lessening
Acts of bookish terrorism to quell the line
Between guts and brains, corroborate the one
Between fact and truth: Bang! Bang! 
“Who’s the dead one now, Dream?”
Criticism. …) Recompense me
My right to fully be Sin-
Clearly, and matched to all
Inbred scare here with one
Rotted out one; one
Upper, front upper.
One, my Man. One.

 

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

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